The Truth of Me (2 page)

“Hello?”

“It's Robbie.”

“What I meant was, will Ellie be all right with animals in the wild?” asks Maddy.

“Yes,” I say, hoping that somewhere in the house my mother is listening. My voice echoes in the kitchen.

“Yes,” I say firmly.

M
addy's house sits on a hill bordered by woods.

My father drives the half-hour trip there, my mother lecturing me about “keeping watch” over Maddy.

“If she does anything strange, you can call Henry,” says my mother.

Maddy always does strange things. And my parents are leaving me for two months while they go off to play. If they were really worried, they wouldn't leave me.
Would they?

I don't say that out loud.

Henry, the town doctor, lives four houses down the road from Maddy. Maddy and Henry are friends. Better friends than my parents know. Maddy and Henry eat dinner together at least three times a week. Usually Henry cooks. Maybe this would make Henry strange to my mother, too.

I decide not to mention that to my parents.

Maddy's house looks like the house in
Little Bear
, one of my favorite books when I was little. It is a cottage with whitewashed plaster walls, big, colorful braided rugs, lots of bookshelves of books, a fireplace, and overstuffed chairs. She has a big stove, but sometimes Maddy forgets to cook supper on time. Once we had doughnuts for dinner.

I never told my parents that either. My mother and father are always cooking dishes with Swiss chard and couscous and beans and spices that are strange to me: coriander, ginger, and cloves.

There are many things that I don't tell my parents. Many things I don't say out loud. That means there are many things rolling around inside my head.

We drive into Maddy's driveway.

The car stops.

“Here,” says my mother softly.

Ellie jumps out of the car first and runs to Maddy's front door. Ellie remembers the doughnuts.

Maddy comes out, tall and thin with short, spiky white hair. She wears jeans and boots. My parents don't get out of the car. My father leans out of the window to kiss my cheek, but he doesn't hug me.

Maddy hugs me, though, and waves goodbye to my mother and father and Mozart, who is living in two big suitcases in the backseat of the car. The printed music of Mozart, that is.

Another suitcase carries some Beethoven and Schubert and some modern music I call “wikkeldy pikkeldy” music.

“We'll call,” says my father.

“Don't worry, we'll have fun!” says Maddy.

“Bye, Robert!” calls my mother.

She doesn't look back when she calls to me. Her mind, I know, is already on the first concert. Then the next.

And the next.

And all the concerts after that.

“She's gone,” I say out loud.

“Yes,” says Maddy, understanding that I don't mean that my mother is just driving away in the car.

“She is,” repeats Maddy.

Even though it is the beginning of summer there is a small fire in the stone fireplace. Maddy likes a fire. Ellie likes it, too. She edges closer and closer, stretching out on the huge bluestone hearth.

“Which room, Robbie?” asks Maddy.

There are three bedrooms downstairs and a loft upstairs that I used to choose until I got Ellie. Ellie can't climb up the ladder, and she is too big to carry.

“That one.”

I point to the small room that looks over the hill going up to the woods outside. There is a high bed with a patchwork quilt.

“Can you get up there, Ellie?” I ask, patting the bed.

In a quick movement, making it look easy, Ellie leaps up onto the bed and turns around twice and lies down. She can see out of the window from the bed, and her ears stand up at something she sees.

I look out. Squirrels.

Maddy watches Ellie carefully. I know what she is thinking.

“She's a very good dog, Maddy,” I say.

Maddy smiles.

“I know she is, but she
is
a hound. Hounds are known for hunting.”

“She is well trained,” I tell Maddy. “And she's a mix. That mix is something special, and it is why I know she will be fine in the woods.” I take a breath. “With wild animals.”

“And what is the mix?” asks Maddy.

“Stuffed dog,” I say very seriously.

After a moment Maddy laughs for a long time.

“Okay, Robbie,” says Maddy. “I trust you. I trust Ellie.”

Maddy pats Ellie, and Ellie rolls over so Maddy can rub her stomach.

“I'll go pick lettuce in the garden,” says Maddy, going to the kitchen. “Come on out when you want. Henry's coming for dinner tonight.”

“Is Henry cooking?” I call to her.

“What do you think?” she calls back.

I stare at Ellie after Maddy leaves.

“Stuffed animal, remember,” I whisper to Ellie. “I made that up,” I add. “Maddy trusts you.”

Ellie looks at me with her dark eyes and tilts her head.

“Maddy trusts you,” I repeat, my voice sounding very serious in the little room.

I sound a little nervous, too.

I look out of the window and see Maddy in her fenced garden, picking lettuce leaves.

Why am I nervous?

Because Ellie may not be good with the wild animals of the woods?

Or because I'm afraid that there
are
wild-animal friends of Maddy's in the woods?

I sigh.

“Maybe it's easier at home with my mother and father,” I say to Ellie. “At least I always know what to expect.”

Ellie stares at me, her eyes big and steady and bright.

H
enry comes through the doorway carrying a black cast-iron pot by its looped handle. He has a stethoscope in his jacket pocket. He is tall, with speckled hair.

“Hello, Kiddo,” he says, setting the pot on the stove and turning on the gas burner.

I like Henry calling me “Kiddo.”

“Hi, Henry. Did you cook that?”

Henry peers at me.

“You don't think I'd let Maddy cook, do you?”

I smile.

“She heats up doughnuts very well,” I say.

Henry laughs.

I peer into the pot on the stove.

“Does this have coriander, ginger, and cloves in it?” I ask.

“No,” says Henry, as if he's used to this question.

That's the nice thing about Henry. Everything you say and every question you ask he considers serious enough to answer.

Maddy says that's because he's a doctor and he is used to stupid questions from his patients.

“Where's Maddy?”

“In the shower,” I say.

Henry takes the stethoscope out of his pocket and sits down at the kitchen table. He pats Ellie.

“Hello, Eleanor,” he says. He always calls Ellie Eleanor.

He looks closely at me.

“All right. What?” he says.

He knows. Henry always knows when someone wants to ask a question.

“My parents called you,” I say.

Henry nods.

“I heard them,” I say.

Henry nods again. He sighs.

“Kiddo, your parents . . . actually, your mother thinks things should be a certain way. Her way,” he says.

I think about my mother being upset when they had to cancel a concert because the second violinist died. I think about her being upset because wild-haired Marybeth is having a baby.

I
nod now. I'm turning into Henry.

“They worry about Maddy and her wild-animal stories,” I say. “They think it's strange.”

I'd like to say that I worry, too. But that's another thing I don't say out loud.

“We all have our truths, Kiddo,” says Henry. “Some are big truths. Most times they're small truths. But those stories are Maddy's truths. Your parents have different ones of their own.”

“Do you have truths of
your
own?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Henry. “I am, in my heart, a man with a very large sailboat. I sail around the world with my two dogs and visit people everywhere. I like the wind in my hair. I like the sun. I like the stars at night.”

I stare at Henry for a moment. For some reason, I don't know why—maybe because Henry has told me this very private thing—I feel like crying. Just so I don't cry, I ask Henry my very own stupid question.

“What kind of dogs?” I ask, my voice trembling a bit.

Henry doesn't laugh.

“Portuguese water dogs,” says Henry. He takes his wallet out of his pocket and shows me a picture.

“This is what they look like.”

I look at the picture of black, curly-haired dogs.

I decide to push a little more.

“And their names?”

“Are Luke and Lily,” he says quickly, expecting the question.

I sit back.

Henry looks at me with a small smile.

“Do you have small truths of your own, Kiddo?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“I think I'm too young,” I say.

“Oh, no. You can work on it while you're here,” says Henry. “You'll have your own small truth by summer's end.”

He reaches over to tap my hand. It's only a tap, but it's comforting.

“In the meantime, we won't worry about Maddy, will we?” he says in a soft voice.

“No,” I whisper.

“I think we both like Maddy the way she is,” says Henry.

“We do,” I say.

“You have a good heart, Kiddo. Want to hear it?”

Henry picks up his stethoscope and puts the earpieces in my ears. He holds the chest piece on my chest. It is quiet in the room. Even Ellie doesn't move. And then I hear the steady
thump, thump, thump
of something inside me.

Henry knows there are tears at the corners of my eyes, but he doesn't say so. He puts my hand over the chest piece so I can hold it there. He gets up to stir the pot on the stove.

And I sit, listening to the sound of my heart.

Listening for one small truth.

Listening to me
.

Ellie and I have gone to bed.

Henry's stew was normal.

Maddy's salad was almost normal.

I can hear Henry and Maddy talking softly in the kitchen. I like the sound of their talk even though I can't hear what they say.

Ellie turns over in the dark.

I yawn.

And I realize that I'm missing something.

What is it?

I hear the quiet.

I never hear soft voices in the other room at home. And then it comes to me. What I don't hear is the sound of music. What I don't hear is the faraway sound of my mother's sweet, sad violin, the solid sound of my father playing out a melody on the piano over and over, and the sudden silence when I know he is writing it down. All that music that comes out of the night.

I close my eyes.

It is kind of nice to miss something of my mother and father.

I quickly open my eyes, surprised.

I wonder if this is a small truth.

A small truth about me.