A Mango-Shaped Space (3 page)

We had to bring him to the vet right away because of the wheeze. Mango threw up twice during the twenty-minute ride, and my mother was not happy. The vet told us that Mango was born with a deep rip in the lining of one lung and that it couldn’t be fixed. She said that if he lived another month, his body would probably compensate for it and he’d be okay.

That was a year ago. Mango still has the wheeze, but I still have Mango.

I should probably go downstairs and say hello to Beth. But I really want to go up to the cemetery to give Grandpa his present before dinner. I gently lift the painting off the easel and almost drop it when my father knocks on my door. I steady the painting and unlock the door.

“We’re going to take Beth to the drugstore,” he says, wiping his dirt-covered hands on his faded jeans. “Do you want to come?”

“I have to clean all this up,” I tell him, gesturing over my shoulder toward the easel and paints. For some reason I don’t want to tell him that the picture is a gift for Grandpa. He hasn’t mentioned what today is, and I don’t want to remind him.

“Can I see it?” He walks in and studies the painting intently.

“This is really something.” He sounds genuine, but it’s hard to tell with parents. “You have a great sense of color.”

If only he knew the half of it! “Thanks,” I reply.

“They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, you know. I can see Grandpa in those eyes.” My father knows important things, even if he isn’t “book smart” like my mother, who was a high school science teacher until Zack was born.

“It’s interesting how you did this,” he says, peering more closely at the painting. “You made Mango’s and Grandpa’s eyes the same shape.”

I smile to myself, pleased that he noticed. Just then, Beth yells up from downstairs, and my father pats me on the head as if I’m a child and turns to go.

“It’s gonna rain,” I warn him as he heads down the long hall, Mango at his heels.

He laughs and says there isn’t a cloud in the sky. But I hear him tell Beth to take an umbrella.

As soon as the front door slams shut, I grab the canvas, pull on my sneakers, and run out the back. Grandpa is buried in the small cemetery on the hill about a half-mile past our house, snuggled right up next to Grams, who died when I was three. They are my dad’s parents, but my mother was very close to them. Her own parents are still alive in Florida, but we don’t see them because they won’t fly. I think there’s more to the story, something to do with “marrying beneath one’s station” and the “dearth of culture in farm country,” whatever that means. Mom never talks about it.

Jenna’s mother is buried in the same cemetery, and I intend to stop by and pay my respects. I’m halfway to the cemetery with the still partially wet portrait held carefully away from my body when I notice Mango is following me. I wait for him to catch up, but he keeps getting distracted. There are a lot of things out here to catch a cat’s attention. The fields back up to acres of overgrown land, complete with a thriving ecosystem of creepy crawling things, various small animals, and, according to tales Grandpa used to tell, the souls of the dead who once farmed this land.

Once, Grandpa led Zack and me through the woods until we came across a huge piece of green foam that was half buried in the thick brush. Zack, who was only six at the time, announced that it was a piece of the moon that had fallen to Earth. Grandpa said surely that’s what it was, and he ripped off a chunk of it. I knew the foam was the inside of some rotting old couch cushion, but I played along. Grandpa made a little speech over that piece of cushion, holding it in front of him as if it were some priceless jewel. “As your guide on this trail,” he said, his voice deep and reverent, “it is my honor to hereby bestow upon you both a little piece of the moon.” He tore the chunk in half and handed each of us a piece about the size of an egg. It was squishy and moist, and the green color rubbed off on my fingers. I put it in a little box and hid it safely in the back of my desk drawer. I have no idea what Zack did with his.

I know Grandpa’s soul isn’t wandering the woods like the ghosts I sometimes think I glimpse between the trees. Part of his soul is right next to me, stored safe and sound inside Mango. I knew this as soon as I saw the little kitten sitting by Grandpa’s grave that day, looking up at me with Grandpa’s eyes. I firmly believe that people’s souls can splinter off when they die. Part of Grandpa is inside of Mango, part is in heaven dancing with Grams (who was a really good dancer), and only Grandpa himself knows where the rest of him is. This is just my own personal theory.

As we rise over the last ridge, I can see Grandpa’s grave clearly because the grass covering it is shorter than the rest. The headstones are glowing with the last of the sun, and I see a glint of something shiny resting on Grandpa’s. When I reach it, I discover it’s a bottle of my grandfather’s favorite brand of beer. Dad must have left it there along with the flowers on Grams’s headstone. I know he misses them a lot, even though he always says, “When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go.” God’s will and all that. We’re not a very religious family, but where death is concerned, it pays to be open-minded. I try not to think about death too much. I’m not good with endings. They make me too sad.

“Hi, Grandpa,” I whisper, laying the painting down on the grave. “I brought you a present.” Mango immediately walks over and sniffs the edge of the painting. Then he saunters right across it before I can grab him. Now I have to clean the paint off his paws, not to mention paint over the paw prints.

The air is heavy around us and blackish-purple clouds roll in faster than I had expected. When I was little, I used to run out into the rain and let the water run all over me. Then one day I saw lightning split a tree nearly in half. That pretty much took the joy out of prancing around in thunderstorms. Mango’s tail is sinking low, a sure sign that the storm is almost upon us.

I quickly fan out the flowers on Grams’s grave and tell Grandpa I miss him and that I hope he likes the painting. I’m about to kneel down to pick it up when the first drops of rain come out of nowhere and splatter right on it. Mango takes off for shelter in the trees, and I freeze while the wind whips up around me. The thunder fills the air with streaks of charcoal-black spirals, and for a split second I think they’re trying to pound me into the ground. I turn on my heel and run, leaving the painting with Grandpa.

Wild Child is on the move.

At the edge of the woods I call out for Mango. The woods are awfully dark now, and the rain is really coming down and it’s still thundering. What if lightning strikes a tree and it falls on him in the woods? Can he hear me calling him? I don’t know what to do. One more clap of thunder makes my mind up for me, and I start running toward home.

When I get back to the house, three things hit me at once. I realize I’m soaked clear through to the bone and am now without both my cat
and
my painting. Why didn’t I take my own advice and bring an umbrella? I try to make it upstairs before anyone sees me, but luck is not on my side tonight.

“What happened to
you?
” Beth asks as she follows Dad through the front door and folds up her umbrella. “You look terrible.”

“Good to see you too,” I say, shivering.

She leans in and gives me a hug. A real one, with affection and everything. She’s not wearing any makeup, and her hair is tied back in a ponytail instead of being hair-sprayed out to there. I don’t think I’ve seen her without lipstick on since she was twelve. No makeup, no hair spray, no new piercings, and on top of it a hug? It is all very mysterious and too un-Bethlike. Something’s up.

“Want to see what I brought back from California?” she asks, heading upstairs.

She is actually inviting me up to her room. I look at my father for some sign that he recognizes this odd behavior. He’s beaming, and I think those might be tears in his eyes. Dad has always been our more sensitive parent. He cries his way through the Olympics and Hallmark commercials. Zack takes after him. He’s the only one of us who will offer a dead beetle up to heaven. The rest of us figure bugs have got their own deal worked out.

I follow Beth upstairs and step tentatively into her room, afraid the real Beth will show up any minute and yell at me for trespassing. She rummages through one of her suitcases, pulls out a big plastic bag, and dumps the contents on the bed.

I move closer and my eyes widen. Multicolored candles of all sizes surround bags of tiny flowers and ground herbs, a ceramic goblet, and a tin bowl.

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” I ask, fingering the smooth goblet.

“Very funny,” she says, snatching the goblet from my hand. “I simply learned to get in touch with the power of nature this summer. Zack’s going to help me move my bed around later.”

“Move your bed? Why?”

“So my head will face north. It has something to do with the magnetic pull of the North Pole bringing you power while you sleep.” She says this as though it makes sense. “I’m sure Zack will help you move yours after.”

“But you’ve always said Zack’s superstitions are ridiculous,” I remind her as I move away from the bed. Away from the strange objects. Away from the stranger who calls herself my sister.

“I used to say that,” she admits, and begins placing the candles around her room. “But now I know there’s some truth in them.”

“What truth can be found in crossing your fingers until you see a dog?” I mutter, inching toward the door.

“Wait a second,” she says. “I’m going to dye my hair tonight, so can you stay out of the bathroom?”

Apparently Beth hasn’t changed that much after all. “What color this time?” I ask.

“If you must know,” she says, taking out her ponytail holder so her hair falls perfectly down her back, “it’s going to be red. I found out that redheads are closest to nature. You might want to consider —”

“Oh no.” I cut her off. “I’m close enough to nature as it is. The bathroom’s all yours.” I consider informing her that there’s hardly any red in nature and that maybe she should try green, but I figure, why start something?

“You’re dripping on my carpet,” she says. I quickly step out of the room, and she shuts the door behind me.

“Hey!” Beth reappears in the hall two seconds later. This time she’s waving her diary in the air. “Did you read this while I was gone?”

The old Beth was definitely back. I suddenly wish I
had
read it. I assure her I did not and run down the hall to my room before she can interrogate me further. I quickly throw off my wet clothes, put on some sweats, and creep down the stairs. The darkest clouds have passed, and only a light drizzle falls now. Just in case, I grab an umbrella and figure the back door is my best chance of escaping unseen. But as I round the corner to the kitchen, I run right into my mother. There are just too many people in this house!

“It’s getting dark, Mia,” she says, in that special tone that only mothers can achieve. “Where are you going?”

I hesitate. “To the cemetery?”

“You can go tomorrow,” she says, taking a bowl of salad out of the refrigerator and handing it to me. “Grandpa isn’t going anywhere.”

I try to argue but quickly get the mother glare that goes along with the mother tone. The glare and the tone together are unbeatable. I sigh and give up, grimly aware that the painting is probably completely ruined by now. I rest the salad bowl on the counter and turn to leave before I’m asked to set the table. The unmistakable sound of claws against a metal screen door stops me.

I open the kitchen door and Mango strolls in. He is barely wet. Staying dry in the pouring rain is one of those cat tricks I’ll never figure out. Instead of apologizing for running off, he heads straight for his food dish and waits for me to fill it.

“Please set the table when you’re done, Mia,” Mom says, stealing a glance my way. I know she’s watching to make sure I don’t spill any cat food. Even though I’m a pretty neat person, I’ll never be as neat as my mother. She even uses a fork and knife to eat pizza. It’s embarrassing. She and Dad are complete opposites that way. I wouldn’t exactly call him a slob, but sometimes he trails the outdoors inside with him and Mom has to follow behind him with a mop.

“If the storm passes, I hope to get in a little telescope time,” she adds, searching in the back of the cabinet for something. “Do you want to look at Cassiopeia with me? One of the stars in the system is going supernova. When it explodes it will be twenty times brighter than usual.”

“Maybe.” I have trouble getting excited about a star going supernova. It’s an astronomer’s way of saying
dying.
Talk about sad on a grand scale. But I know Mom misses being around all her science buddies, and she likes having company in the yard.

“It looks like I have to go to the store to get some spaghetti.” Mom slams the cabinet door in exasperation, causing a large brown ring to appear, which reminds me of Beth’s old hula hoop. When she was six she won $25 in a contest by hula-hooping longer than any other kid in town. Beth likes winning things.

“Why don’t we just have hamburgers?” I suggest as the circle fades away. “We have some in the freezer.”

“It’s Beth’s first night home,” Mom tells me, grabbing her keys from the hook by the door. “And she won’t eat hamburgers.”

“Huh? Since when?” I ask, following her down the hall.

“Since now, apparently,” Mom says, her voice strained. “She says she will no longer eat anything with a face. Or anything that once
had
a face.”

I’d never thought of meat that way. And I didn’t want to start now. I ask my mother to take me with her, figuring I can convince her to stop at the cemetery on the way home. As we drive to the supermarket she reminds me that I still need to get my notebooks and some new clothes for school.

“I still have a week,” I point out. I’m not a good shopper. I’d rather be outdoors than cooped up in a mall any day.

“Don’t wait till the last minute as usual,” she warns. “You’ve already outgrown a lot of your fall clothes from seventh grade. Once school starts you’ll be too busy to get anything.”