A Mango-Shaped Space (22 page)

Amy’s cheeks flush pink as she turns toward me. “I’m, uh, sorry about, well, you know,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I mutter, without really meaning it.

Billy wraps his arms around my leg as Mrs. Henkle pushes herself up from the couch. “Amy told me that letters and numbers have color for you,” she says to me. “And I realize you were trying to tell me about it a few weeks ago. Ever since Billy met you, this color thing is all he talks about.”

Billy nods happily, and I smile at him. Smiling is starting to feel less foreign.

“So what do you think I should do?” she asks, sounding helpless. “His kindergarten teacher is talking about putting him in a special class next year because of this.”

I glance at Amy, who looks away. “There’s nothing wrong with Billy,” I tell Mrs. Henkle. “I’ve met other people who have synesthesia — that’s what it’s called — and they’re totally fine.”

Billy is busy fidgeting with the lever that turns the chair into a recliner. I don’t know how much of this conversation he understands, but I think on some level he’s aware that this is a turning point for him.

Mrs. Henkle is still not convinced. “But isn’t there anything to treat this … this … disease?”

Zack steps forward before I can respond. His eyes are blazing. “My sister doesn’t have a disease. She has a gift.”

I gape at him gratefully as he steps back next to Amy, who has a new look of respect in her eyes. I don’t think many people stand up to her mother.

“What color is my name, Mia?” Billy asks gleefully, breaking the moment of silence.

“Your name is light brown like wood, with some sky blue sprinkled in,” I reply, kneeling next to him. “And it’s sort of mushy.”

“Like oatmeal?” he asks hopefully.

“Just like oatmeal.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, laughing and bouncing in his seat. “It’s bright pink and shiny like my granddaddy’s head!”

“Um, Mia,” my mother says. “Does this mean your colors are back?”

I stand up with a start. The words in my head are in color again, and I didn’t even notice it. I excuse myself and run upstairs to check out my alphabet poster. Good ol’ sunflower-yellow
a.
Shimmering green
j.
Robin’s-egg-blue
z.
They’re all back. The experience feels so familiar and so foreign at the same time. I think it’s because so much has changed. I have no idea how to be this new person. I head back downstairs.

“Thank you for your time,” Mrs. Henkle says to my mom and me as she hands Billy his jacket. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Amy is cheering at a school basketball game, so we have to go now.”

Zack looks stricken. “But Amy said she wanted to see my McDonald’s chart. It’ll only take a minute.”

“I’ll be right back, Mom,” Amy says. Zack beams as if he can’t believe his luck and leads her upstairs. I guess she isn’t all that bad. While they’re upstairs Mom writes out Jerry’s phone number at the university for Mrs. Henkle. Billy hugs me good-bye, and I promise him we’ll keep in touch. Amy comes back down and says, “You and your friends should come to one of the games sometime. They’re fun.”

“Maybe we will,” I say, closing the door behind her. Jenna might take some convincing, but she’d probably do it. I wonder if Roger likes sports? I offer to help my mother make breakfast, and she eagerly accepts.

“I’m proud of you, Mia,” my mother says, carefully pouring the pancake batter into a large glass bowl.

I toss some frozen blueberries into the mix. “Why?”

“That was a great thing you did, with Billy. You gave him the head start we weren’t able to give you.” She’s stirring the pancake mixture so fast that I’m sure it’s about to fly out of the bowl.

“Mom, don’t feel bad,” I tell her, steadying the bowl with my hand. “You and Dad didn’t know what was going on.”

She rests the spoon on a piece of paper towel. “That’s not entirely true.”

“Huh?” I drop the blueberry I was about to pop in my mouth.

My mother quickly scoops up the blueberry before it has a chance to stain the wooden countertop. She throws it in the sink and then starts scrubbing the counter without looking me in the eye. “The night you told us about your problems at school, I couldn’t sleep. Something was nagging at me. Finally, last week, it hit me.”

I wait expectantly for her to continue.

“You don’t remember Grams too well, do you?” she asks, finally looking straight at me.

I shake my head, wondering what Grams could have to do with anything. “I remember her dancing in the living room with Grandpa a lot. I remember she was always playing records on Dad’s old stereo.”

“Yes, she loved music,” my mother says. “Last week I was in the car, and one of her favorite old songs came on the radio. I suddenly remembered her telling me that she loved music so much because she could see the colors in the air all around her.”

“Are you serious?” I ask in disbelief.

“I thought she was just being imaginative. I didn’t know she meant it
literally.
Then one day I saw you dancing in the living room with her. You couldn’t have been more than two and a half years old, but the two of you were having a grand time. I heard her say, ‘Aren’t the colors beautiful?’ and you said, in your little-girl voice, ‘Yes, Grams, they’re bootiful.’ But I still didn’t think anything of it, Mia. I’m so sorry. I should have taken it more seriously.”

“I don’t remember that at all,” I say sadly. I wonder how different things would have been if Grams hadn’t died when I was so young. “And Dad never heard her mention anything when he was growing up?”

Mom shakes her head. “I asked him as soon as I recalled the incident. He said that his mother had always been very quiet. Apparently your grandpa did enough talking for both of them.”

I smile, remembering how Grandpa’s deep voice could be heard from every corner of the house. I bet my whole life would have been different if Grams had stuck around. As I watch my mother pour the batter onto the frying pan, it hits me that if Grandpa knew about Grams’s colors — which he
must
have after being married to her for forty years — then maybe he knew about mine too. I can’t believe I threw away his gift. I leave my mother to her pancake flipping, slip on my boots and coat, and head out the front door. I look up at my bedroom window and then position myself underneath it. Grandpa’s moon piece should have landed right around here, but the ground is so wet and muddy that I can’t find it. It must have disintegrated by now and become part of the grass. I finally give up the search, resigned to the fact that the gift is lost forever.

“Are you all right?” my dad asks as I kick off my boots.

“I just keep doing stupid things,” I tell him. “Things I wind up regretting.”

He takes off my coat and hangs it up. “Welcome to being human. It’s part of the package.”

“Not for me,” Zack announces as he bounds down the stairs in his socks and slides up to us. “I intend to overcome my humanness. I will become a god.”

“What kind of god will you be?” I ask.

Trying unsuccessfully to pat down his messy hair, he says, “I’m still working on that part. But I will make the world a better place. Somehow or other.”

“That sounds very noble, Zack,” Dad says.

“Oh, and I’ll wear a really awesome outfit,” Zack adds. “With a cape.”

“You’ll be a big hit next Halloween,” I tell him. “At least you can finally throw out those Spock ears.”

“Who?” Zack asks innocently.

“Exactly.”

“Looks like our family’s back to normal,” Dad says to Mom as we sit down for breakfast.

I drop my fork, and it clanks loudly against my plate. “How can you say that?” Everyone stops eating.

“Grandpa’s not here anymore. Mango’s not here anymore. How is this normal?”

“Mia,” Dad says calmly, “change
is
normal.”

“Then I don’t
want
to be normal.”

“Uh, Mia,” Zack says, “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

I’m so tired of my emotions flipping back and forth. I don’t think I’m handling change very well at all.

With his mouth full of pancakes, Dad asks, “Is it true that your colors are back? That must make you happy.”

I nod. “It does, it’s just that …” I don’t know how to tell them that while I’m very grateful, I still feel guilty. Like I don’t deserve something special.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Mom says, smacking the side of her head. “We’re invited to the Roths’ this evening for the first night of Hanukkah.”

“I have a date,” Beth announces.

“With Brent?” I ask, not really expecting a response.

She surprises me by saying yes.

Mom tells her she can meet her date afterward, and Beth pouts.

“I don’t really feel up to going,” I tell her.

“We’re all going,” my mother says firmly. “It will be good for us to do something as a family again.”

Dad puts down his glass. “But tonight’s my poker night, I can’t —”

“We’re all going,” my mother insists, using her nonnegotiable tone. “The whole neighborhood will be there. One more word out of any of you and we’re not getting a Christmas tree this year.”

Beth stands up and puts her plate in the sink. “Do you have any idea how many trees are cut down each year just so we can hang pretty lights on them?”

My mother pushes her plate to the side and lays her head down on the table. I know how she feels.

Six hours later we’re in the Roths’ living room watching their twin sons play a game with a wooden top called a dreidel. They always ask us to play, but we can never figure out the rules. Sometimes I think the boys switch places in the middle of the game just to mix us up. The doorbell rings, and Jenna and her dad come in, followed by an older couple who have recently moved in next door to the Roths.

Jenna and I go to the back of the room to talk. “I miss you,” she says. “It’s been forever since we’ve hung out together.”

“I miss you too,” I tell her and mean it.

“I’ve been working on a great PIC mission,” she whispers. “You know, when you feel up to it.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“Let’s just say it’ll be our biggest job ever.” She tries to wink, but it looks more like she’s got something in her eye.

The Roths always let each of the kids light a candle on the menorah, and when it’s my turn, I say a prayer in my head for Grams and Grandpa and Mango. I tell them I’m sorry our time together on this earth was so short and that I miss them. When Zack’s turn arrives he looks up at Mom for permission. He’s still banned from anything to do with fire. Mom nods her head slightly, and Zack lights his candle without burning anything. Afterward, Mrs. Roth busies herself by making sure the wax doesn’t drip all over the glass table, while everyone else gathers in the dining room for dessert. Out of the corner of my eye I see Zack sneak out of the room, unnoticed by everyone except me. A minute later he runs back in and frantically waves me over.

“What is it?” I hiss. “You can’t just go snooping around people’s houses.”

He drags me out of the room and down the hall. “Trust me, you’ll want to see this.”

“Anything that starts with you saying ‘trust me’ makes me instantly suspicious.”

“Look!” he says, and points into the den. A low wooden gate keeps us from entering. In the corner of the room, on top of a big pillow, is the Roths’ cat Twinkles. Curled up around her belly are five tiny kittens. “Look at that one by her leg,” he says, pointing to the smallest kitten.

I put my hand over my mouth.

“It looks just like Mango, doesn’t it?” he says. “When he was a baby.”

I nod, unable to take my eyes away from the tiny thing.

“I guess we know who the father was!” Zack says, laughing. “That Mango always was a lady’s man. Er, a lady’s cat. I mean, a lady cat’s cat, or no, I mean —”

“It’s okay, Zack. I get it. I wish Mango were around to see this.”

“Maybe he’s watching right now,” Zack says. “I bet he’s an angel cat.”

“So you found our kittens, eh?” Mr. Roth appears beside us and we jump. He doesn’t seem angry at all. “They’re not ready to leave their mother yet, but in about a month we’ll be looking for homes for them. Let us know if you’re interested.”

“We want one,” Zack says, his eyes shining. “The littlest one.”

I whirl around to face Zack. “What? No, we don’t. Sorry, Mr. Roth, just ignore him.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” Mr. Roth says, leaving us alone.

“Why’d you say that, Mia? I want him.”

“How can you think of replacing Mango already?”

“It’s Mango’s
son.
Or daughter. It’s not just any cat.”

“Zack, if Mango was the father, then they’re
all
his children. How could we just take
one?
”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admits. “Hmm …” he says, and walks slowly back to the living room, no doubt hatching some plan to get Mom and Dad to take all of them. That will never happen.

I glance behind me and then climb easily over the gate. Twinkles looks up at me warily and keeps an eye on me as I approach. I bend over to get a better look at the kittens. It’s uncanny how much the littlest one looks like Mango. My eyes cloud up, and I have to lean my head back for a few seconds to avoid letting the tears slip out. I reach out my hand and lightly pet his little head. He opens his squinty eyes and yawns. Then he lets out a surprisingly strong mustard-colored meow and settles back into his mother’s warmth. Who ever heard of a cat named Mustard? Impossible.

That night Dad knocks on my door as I’m about to switch off my lamp.

“Come in,” I say, leaning up in bed.

He walks in and sits on the edge of the bed. “I thought you’d want to have this.” He hands me Mango’s Winnie-the-Pooh blanket. I sit all the way up and rub the familiar material between my fingers. Some stray Mango fur is embedded in it. I never thought I’d see it again.

“But I thought you buried Mang … I mean, that Mango was bur … I mean … oh, I can’t even say the words.”

“I saved it for you. I thought you might want it back.”

I look at him gratefully and hold the blanket up to my nose. “It still smells like him.” A mixture of cat food, the outdoors, and litter.