The Summer of No Regrets (22 page)

When I woke up, my head felt stuffed with straw. Somewhere I could hear a bird cal:
Chip, chip, chip, chip. Burbury,
burbury, burbury.
For a moment I was in the bunk room, Opa rustling around in the kitchen on the other side of the door. I opened my eyes. A flash of red and two cardinals alighted on a beech tree. I sat up as my location veered into focus.

Several little bugs had crawled off the sweet gum branches and onto me. Leaves were tangled in my hair. My stomach was tight. I scanned the curved ground for a tin of Nonni’s gingersnaps. Scattered sweet gum pods mixed with beech leaves around the knees of roots. A chickadee hopped between them: No tin. No jar of lemonade. No Nonni.

I ran my hand along the round place where I had buried the cougar toy. I thought I had cried everything out, but there was another, deeper sea inside me, still untapped.

I shook my head. I was ravenous. I rummaged in my pack and found a bottle of water and a packet of airplane snacks, which I devoured. There. Almost human.

I climbed the sloped ground and parted the curtain of leaves just a little. Nonni’s garden was gone! So was most of the roling lawn. Instead, a series of dirt islands dotted the yard with little shrubs sticking out of them. A soaker hose snaked its way through these, squirting haphazardly.

The house gazed at me surrealy. It was no longer white, but gray. Opa’s Dutch door was brown. Inside me a slumbering current stirred, dark and cold.

The door opened, and a man came out—pale, with red hair and a beer gut. He wore a bathrobe and no shoes. He made his and a beer gut. He wore a bathrobe and no shoes. He made his way down the walk and turned off the soaker hose. I puled some fern fronds and began stripping the leaves off. I remembered that the buyer was a vending machine salesman and lived alone. He was by himself rattling around in all those rooms.

My rooms.

I had to get into the house. Here behind the sweet gum branches I knew that the grove was not enough. Nonni was not here. But the house—she’d be there. Something of her would be lingering there. When we were twelve, Natalie and I had gone through a phase of reading real-life ghost stories. We’d known the locations of every haunted mansion, warehouse, or theater in Washington, though the idea of going to any of them was terrifying. But if I could see Nonni’s ghost—just to talk to her one last time—that wouldn’t be terrifying at al.

The beer-gut man stuck something in Nonni’s milk box.

Asking this squatter for permission to enter Cherrywood would be absurd. He went back into the house.

Before long the garage door opened and a white van came out. The lettering on the side said “Polzin Enterprises: Vending Solutions to Meet Every Need. Snacks, Soda, Candy, Coffee.” Behind the wheel I could see the red-haired man in a jacket and tie. The garage door descended as he drove away, and I had a sudden thought to scoot underneath it. I didn’t act fast enough before it hit the ground, sealing me out.

I covered my backpack in branches and approached the house cautiously. The mint Nonni had planted under the kitchen window was still here. I put a sprig my mouth, feeling the coolness spread across my tongue. I climbed the kitchen steps.

The Dutch door was locked. Through its window I could see a new oven and refrigerator—shiny silver invaders in Nonni’s kitchen. Gone was her spice-jar walpaper, replaced with stark white paint. The cupboards Opa had built had been ripped out, in favor of some steel-knobbed Plexiglas thing filed with stacks of black plates. Through the bedroom door I could see the bunk beds, the only thing still intact, with a bunch of houseplants filing the top bunk under a grow light. A Coke machine glowed against the wal. The undersea current in me rose.

Turning away, my foot hit the milk box. Inside was a note:

“Please stop delivery until Friday.” He was gone!

I made my way around the house: the porthole window of Opa’s study revealed a wide-screen TV, a wet bar, and a stationary bike. The living room window exposed leather couches strewn with laundry, the mantel stripped bare where Nonni’s Hummels used to sit. It was all changed—every room.

How could there be any of her left here?

I tried every door and window. Nothing would budge until I got to the screened-in porch, where the door opened easily. I stepped inside and smeled the warm bricks. I remembered the wonder of sitting on them in a great pool of soapy water when I was five, scrubbing for Nonni like I was Cinderela. No one had told me chores weren’t supposed to be fun.

It was one place the furniture had stayed: the glass-and-iron table with chairs, the chaise lounge, the wicker love seat. All had new cushions. I used to curl up with Nonni’s old books out here while she sewed and Opa read the newspaper. The sea in me surged. I took a deep breath. Not now; it couldn’t come now.

Off the porch two sets of French doors led into what used to be the dining room. I rattled the handles. Locked. Against the window three gray birds perched in gold cages. Parrots? The middle one ruffled its feathers and blinked at me. I turned just in time to see a woman come around the corner of the house and walk up the kitchen steps. It was Virginia Riley from next door. I ducked below the brick wal. “Chuck!” she caled out, peering in the window. “Are you home?” She knocked: one-two-three-four-five. “Chuck! I’m here about the trash can situation.” Knock-two-three-four-five. I stayed low. I wouldn’t have wanted to be caught by Virginia Riley even if I was supposed to wanted to be caught by Virginia Riley even if I was supposed to be here. After another series of knocks, I could see her writing a note, which she taped to the window half of the Dutch door.

(Who carries tape around with them?)

Once she was definitely gone, I began breathing again. The wall and floor cradled me, and outside the porch screen a junco began its circular tril. In my pocket the vine-patterned fabric patch Kalimar had torn was smooth, comforting. Inside that bunk bed my stash of Nonni scraps might still be there. The bed had been Dad’s; Aunt Julia might not have known about the secret panel when she purged the house of Nonni. The scraps would be proof that this was still Cherrywood, that Nonni and Opa had lived here, that I had been part of them, too.

Before I could move, a car puled into the driveway and a guy got out. He looked about Malory’s age, skinny with an angular face. He put a key in the kitchen lock and went inside the house.

I froze. If I tried to run, he’d see me. But if I stayed where I was, I’d be doomed anyway. I could hear him running water, padding from room to room. The steps came closer, and I knew there was only a wall between us. I could hear the birdcages opening and the rattle of pelets in the feeders. “He shoots—he scores!” said a voice too old to be the colege kid’s. “Time to party!” said another. “He shoots—he scores!” announced the first voice. The parrots, I realized.

Suddenly, I could see him coming toward the French doors.

As fast as I could, I slid under the wicker love seat. I had to flatten myself completely to do it, and I was afraid I’d knock the love seat over. I puled my feet under just in time. I could see his feet as he walked from plant to plant with what must have been a watering can. He got to the love seat and paused. Did he notice something unusual? I held my breath. Finaly, he turned and walked back into the house.

I puled myself out from under the love seat, scuttled to the screen door, and dashed for the woods. Colege Kid came down the kitchen steps just as I darted behind the sweet gum down the kitchen steps just as I darted behind the sweet gum trees.

He was met in the driveway by Virginia Riley, who was nothing if not persistent. I could hear her explaining something about “Chuck putting his can where mine has always been” and the kid nodding, reaching for his car door. Suddenly Virginia peered out in my direction. Her head moved from left to right, surveying. She kept stopping mid-arc. Did she see me?

Her conversation was cut short by a burst of rain. It flooded down, not like Pacific Northwest rain, which drips and drizzles, alowing one to dodge the drops. This was serious rain, and even under my canopy of trees, I was getting wet. Virginia put her hand on her head and tapped the colege kid. She pointed out into the woods. She began walking toward me. I yanked up my pack from the ground and ran, out of the trees, down the trail, back toward the creek. My hair was soaked, my jacket was soaked, and I hoped my pack would keep its water resistance.

I had not yet done what I needed to do. I was leaving empty-handed, running away unfinished. For now, I couldn’t risk going near the house. I’d need to figure out where to sleep, where to get some food. I was home, but I was not home at al.

I took the first bus that came because it was dry inside. It smeled of wet shoes and body odor. I managed to get a seat to myself and put my pack next to me. We passed the elementary school, the hospital, the Westfield Heritage Vilage, where I had loved to go with Opa. Once a boy got on who looked like Luke.

When he turned I could see he looked nothing like him at al. We passed a movie theater with a
Rocket
poster in the window.

Luke’s angry face stared out at me, daring me to come near. I shut my eyes. The bus roled on and on like a great ship. I dreamed I was faling overboard, into the sea below.

When I woke up the bus driver was standing over me—a large man with a speckled beard. “This is as far as I go,” he said.

“You’ll have to get off the bus.”

Outside it had stopped raining. The streets were wet. I was in a neighborhood. I walked past houses, a grade school, a church advertising “free lunch for our blessed poor.” Kids with skateboards and bals and iPods gave me a wide berth. A woman looked up from her garden and scowled, then went back to work. I wondered if I looked frightening with my hair awry and the big pack on my back. Did she think I was going to steal her china?

I found a diner where a grandmotherly woman, with a name tag reading “Sophia,” served me vegetable soup, along with several packets of crackers. She refiled my bowl twice, and I realized I probably looked like a street urchin. I left her a large tip and asked her if there was a place nearby with Wi-Fi, so I could look something up. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, honey, but there is a library. Go two blocks and turn left.”

The library, fortunately, was open. And it had Wi-Fi. As soon as I opened my blog, the anger hit me like a searchlight beam.

How hard would it have been for Luke to post, “RU OK?” Like a slave to some sick addiction I clicked over to Trentwatch. Why did I miss him so much? He had lied to me, betrayed me. And roses or not, he obviously had more important people to be with than me.

There were new photos: two grainy shots of him with Gwen in the garden of his ranch house. In one she was kissing his cheek.

the garden of his ranch house. In one she was kissing his cheek.

In another, he was feeding her something. She was giggling and her breasts were spiling out of her top. Stupid me for even thinking he could care about a boring backwoods freak who hung out in a tree house.

As soon the thought came to me I was even more furious.

Why couldn’t he care about me? I wasn’t giggling and jiggling and covered in makeup. I could even feed myself. I may not know any more French than I’d learned at Kwahnesum High School, but I had at least as much to offer as Gwendolyn Melier.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he’d said. What did he mean by that? That I should be okay sharing him with Gwen?

How could I believe anything he’d ever said? The last time I’d seen him he’d stood there calmly denying he was Trent. But I remembered how he’d traced my jaw with his fingertips, the resignation in his eyes as he’d walked away.

Schrödinger’s cat was the kind of thing Devon would have rattling around in his brain. Maybe Luke was secretly Devon’s most loyal friend. They had cooked this whole romance up together so that I could be utterly crushed and the lovelorn Devon could catch me on the rebound. But it hadn’t worked.

I leaned back in the library chair and squeezed my eyes shut.

Even my sily stories didn’t make me laugh today. Near me, in the children’s section, a librarian began reading
The
Owl
and
the
Pussycat
to a clump of preschoolers. Idly, I typed

“Schrödinger’s Cat Software” into Google.

The very first link was a company webpage—“Security Solutions for Here and Then…by Schrödinger’s Cat.” I sat up so noisily the librarian paused at “the land where the Bong-tree grows” and shook her head at me.

Hurriedly, I clicked to the site: up in the left-hand corner was the company name, along with its logo: a cat. What was familiar about that cat?

I reached into my pocket and puled out Luke’s note. The cat he’d drawn—a jagged black circle with triangle ears, slashes for he’d drawn—a jagged black circle with triangle ears, slashes for eyes, a dot nose, and no mouth—the same as the one on the screen. My breath caught in my throat.

The U.S. Headquarters was in Paris, Ilinois.
Paris?
I entered the address into Google Earth. I clicked “satelite” and moved the map closer and closer in. Not an office building, but a house.

Trees. A pond. Something that might have been a stable with a corral outside it. It was what Luke had described.

Was he trying to tell me he was in Ilinois? But he had to be in LA. Donna Reardon had said so. And there were pictures—

taken by fake paparazzi who couldn’t read a calendar? None of it made sense.

I put my head down on my arms. Every single thing in my life was in suspended animation: Natalie, Nonni, Luke. If I had even a remote chance of seeing Luke one more time, I had to take it. I couldn’t leave it all unfinished. I lifted my head. What did I have to lose?

I printed a map on the library printer and got a bus to the Greyhound station. It was nearly fifty dolars to buy a ticket, but I didn’t even think about it. After Sophia’s soup I wouldn’t need to eat for a while. And I wouldn’t be eating because I was saving the rest for cab fare.

I settled against the bus seat and let the highway fly by. I thought I was calm, but for some reason my inward sea was leaking silently out my eyes. It seemed a normal condition, as if I’d been crying for years. I passed a bandana over my face, but it just got wet again.

Kalimar and Felix romped through my imagination. Nonni and Opa sailed by together on Opa’s rider mower. I ran my finger over Luke’s words: “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.” I had buried him with his carvings in that hole in the grove. Why was I on my way to Ilinois?

It was three hours later when the cab driver puled up in front of the address I had given him. Once I paid him, I had four of the address I had given him. Once I paid him, I had four dolars and fourteen cents. A long driveway arced up to a rambling colonial whose roof was obscured by oak trees. To the right a horse barn was surrounded by a white rail fence, to the left a pond with weeping wilows drooping over it. Several other buildings dotted the property. A carriage house? Who knew? I felt like I was walking into a Jane Austen book. The sun was setting over the pond, and the sky was rosy orange.

At the door I hesitated. What was I thinking? What would I say? What if I had this completely and inescapably wrong? But every time I had stood on Luke’s doorstep, I had wussed out before knocking on the door. This time I would knock, even if I wussed out afterward. I could always run.

A man came to the door. He was tall and sandy haired and had blue, blue eyes. When he saw me he narrowed the opening of the door. “Yes?” he said.

My mouth went dry. “I’m looking for, um…Michael.”

“Who are you?” he said. He had a French accent.

My head felt light. I wondered if I would pass out. “Brigitta,” I managed.

He stood for a moment, staring at me. Then he opened the door wider. “Folow me,” he said.

The entryway was light and airy. A spiral staircase swept up to the left. A crystal chandelier hung down where the stairs curved. To the right was a sitting room with red velvet furniture and a fireplace.

“Michel-Luc!”
the man caled up the stairs.
“Viens ici!”
Michel-Luc? Michael Luke?

Then he was there on the landing, pounding down the stairs until he stood in front of me. “Brigitta!” He ran a hand through his hair. His voice sounded different. “I’m…oh, wow…Brigitta.” He threw his arms around me, and I hung on, crushed against his chest. I didn’t want him to let go.

He held me away from him, finaly, to get a look at me. “How did you get here?”

did you get here?”

That strange voice again. It was a British accent. He’d had it i n
Imlandria
and on
Letterman
. Trent and Luke crashed together in my brain.

“It’s a long story.”

His face was close to mine. His long lashes—Trent’s lashes, his mouth—Trent’s mouth. “The kittens!” I wanted to wail. But not to Trent Yves.

Luke’s dad cleared his throat.

“Oh,” said Luke. “Papa, this is Brigitta Schopenhauer, the girl I told you about. Brigitta, this is my dad, Valéry Boeglin.”

“Enchanté,”
said Valéry. His eyes took in my pack, my disheveled hair. “You are a long way from home.”

“Yes.” I stared at my feet. A longer way than I had even realized.

“You are not with your parents.”

“No.”

“We will have to call them, Brigitta. Right now we will have to call them.”

It was Malory who answered the phone. “Gita!” she said.

“Dear God, where are you?”

“Um, Ilinois.”

“Where? Are you okay? Has someone got you?”

I felt the blood drain out of my face. I’d never considered that they might think I was kidnapped. “No,” I said. “I came on my own.”

“Dad’s on his way to Indiana.”

“He is?”

“We traced you through your debit card. Only I was praying it was realy you who made plane reservations and not that you were…Oh, God, Brigitta! What were you thinking?”

“You were praying?”

“Are you kidding? I even looked up the Hail Mary. Where exactly are you?”

“Can I talk to Mom?”

“Mom’s out with the Shapiros and the Thompsons and Clyde Redd and Rainbow and Tarah. They found your bike in the woods, and they’re doing another search.”

“A search?”

From the stairs where he was sitting, Luke raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, a search. We’ve had the police out here. Everyone. I’d kill you if I wasn’t so glad to hear from you.” By the time I was done and had talked to Mom on her cell phone (she was sobbing) and Valéry had given them the address and the phone numbers and offered to send a driver to the Indianapolis airport, I was exhausted.

Luke stood and took a few steps toward me, but his dad steered him into the study and then showed me to a second-floor guest room.

Once he went back downstairs, I could hear raised voices in French. I strained for my name. Was I only causing him more problems?

The attached bathroom was enormous with steps going up to a sunken tub that looked out over the dark pasture and pond.

The trees looked like Japanese shadow puppets out there. I sank into the water and let myself float with my hair drifting out behind me. Over the tub a marble statue of a woman in Greek robes looked down at me. “What are you doing here?” she seemed to say.

When I was finished I put on a clean T-shirt and my spare pair of jeans. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to go to sleep. It was nearly 10:00, but my mind was racing. Dad would be here by morning. Police had been looking for me. And then there was Luke: as glad as he seemed to see me, he was still Trent—a stranger who had come out of a television set. And I didn’t even want to think about Gwen.

I trailed my hand along the window drape and the doors of an I trailed my hand along the window drape and the doors of an antique wardrobe. On the wall was a framed photo of a small Luke, maybe seven years old, sword fighting with Johnny Depp.

Who are you? I asked the picture.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a tapping sound from behind the drape. I heard it again. Cautiously, I approached the window and puled the drape back. Luke was perched in the branches of a sycamore just outside. He put his finger to his lips.