Bursting Bubbles (16 page)

Marigold and Bonnie glance at each other.

“Then she must be coming via the expressway,” mutters Bonnie. Traffic jams in Half Hollow being slightly less frequent than presidential motorcades.

They leave together, the janitor following to lock the door. Mrs Hawkle is not running up the steps or racing down the street towards them.

Bonnie Kupferberg sighs. “I texted her, but she hasn’t answered.” Sadie’s lost her phone and it hasn’t been replaced. “I guess there’s nothing to do but wait for her to show up.”

It’s been such a good afternoon that Marigold offers to stay with Sadie until her mother comes. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” says Marigold. “She must be on her way.”

“Probably.” Bonnie looks nervously from her to Sadie. “You sure you want to hang out here? I can do it.” God knows she’s done it plenty of times before. “I don’t live far.”

“We’ll be fine,” says Marigold. “We have stuff to talk about.”

This turns out to be a wish more than a statement of fact. As soon as they’re standing on the sidewalk the good mood of the afternoon disappears, and Sadie goes back inside her fully-armed, nuclear-powered tank of silence, standing with her arms wrapped around her and her eyes on the road.

Minutes pass, and then more minutes join them. Marigold hears the branches creak. It’s not a busy street, and every time a car comes around the corner Sadie starts. Which is the only time she’s seen to move.

“I’m sure your mom will be here soon,” says Marigold.

Sadie nods, once more rigid as the lamp post under which they stand.

“You have the new books I brought today, right?” This isn’t a question; it’s something to say. Marigold knows where the books are – she put them in Sadie’s backpack herself.

Sadie nods; her expression blank.

A few more cars and several more minutes go by. Sadie’s pale face is ghost-like in the gloom.

“So what would you be doing now if you were at home?” asks Marigold. Brightly.

This question receives one of Sadie Hawkle’s shifty looks.

“Would you be watching TV?” prompts Marigold.

Sadie yawns.

Yawns. Silence. Like a satellite, Sadie drifts out of reach.

“That isn’t a trick question. Sadie, I was just wondering.” Marigold leans down to make it easier for Sadie to see her without actually looking at her. “You know what I’d be doing? I’d either be doing my homework or talking to my friends.” Marigold winks. “Probably I’d be talking to my friends.”

Sadie’s head turns towards her. Slightly. “You don’t watch TV?”

“Oh, I watch TV. Everybody watches TV. But that would be later. After I do everything else.” Marigold readjusts her own backpack. “You have a favourite show? What do you like to watch?”

Now Sadie looks right at her. Marigold’s finally found something she’s happy to talk about.

“Cop shows,” says Sadie. “I really like cop shows.” Her favourite is one called
Justice for All
. “Because people who obey the law deserve justice, too,” explains Sadie.

Marigold says she’s heard of the show, but she’s never seen it.

“It’s really awesome,” Sadie assures her. “It’s like you’re right there. So sometimes you’re really scared and holding on to the couch. And sometimes you’re clapping. And the cop I like best is super smart.” She turns again, so now she’s looking right at Marigold. “I’m going to be a cop when I grow up,” she announces. “Just like on
Justice for All
, I’m going to find out who did the crime and I’m going to catch them and put them behind bars, where they belong.”

What a thought. Sadie doesn’t move fast enough to catch a cold.

“And probably I’ll get medals and have my picture in the paper,” she goes on. “It’ll be really awesome.”

“It sure will,” agrees Marigold. “That’d be a very cool job. Really interesting and exciting.”

Sadie nods. “And you’re doing good. That’s the best part.”

“That’s right. You’d be helping people. But wouldn’t you be afraid of getting hurt? I know I would be.”

“They teach you how to shoot,” says Sadie. “And I’m going to learn kung fu, too. You have to know stuff like that if you want to be a cop.”

“You know, my friend, Asher, he does kung fu. He’s been doing it for years.”

Sadie’s all eyes now. “Does he have a black belt?”

“I’m not sure.” She has no idea. “Probably. I know he’s really good.” Which is certain to be true. If Asher does something, he’s good at it. “He has a class every week.”

“Is he going to be a cop?” asks Sadie. “Is that what he wants to be, too?”

Marigold’s almost tempted to lie and say yes. “Not exactly but kind of. He wants to be a lawyer. Like his father. He’s a regular chip off the old block.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means he’s just like his dad.”

“It’s too bad he wants to be a lawyer.” Sadie seems genuinely saddened by Asher’s poor career choice. “But I guess that makes sense. ’Cause of his dad.” She raises her chin. “My dad’s a cop.”

This is the first time anyone has mentioned Sadie’s father. Ever. Marigold assumed that, although it stands to reason that she must have one, he is less involved in her life than the staff in the cafeteria. Probably doesn’t even know she exists.

“Really? I didn’t know that. That’s pretty cool. No wonder you want to be a cop.”

Sadie doesn’t grin, but a tiny light goes on behind her eyes. “He’s a detective. He’s a really good detective. But sometimes he gets yelled at because he does things his way.”

“He must be very smart if he’s a detective,” says Marigold.

“He is. He’s very smart. Everybody says so. Even when they’re yelling at him they say how smart he is. And he’s brave. He’s always saving people.”

This is the longest and most in-depth conversation she’s had with Sadie. Who says patience and tenacity don’t pay off?

“And where is your dad? Does he live around here?”

“Oh, no, not here.” Sadie sounds shocked that Marigold would think there are any very smart detectives in Half Hollow. “He’s in New York.”

“New York City?”

“Uh-huh. That’s where he works. They have billions of detectives there. But he doesn’t live in the city. You know, ’cause it’s really expensive. He lives in New Jersey.”

“Right, New Jersey. Well, that’s not too far from the city. Do you get to visit him much? Does your mom take you to see him? Or does he come out here?”

“No.” Sadie’s eyes are back on the road and her arms are folded around her again. “He’s way too busy to come here. But he emails me all the time on my mom’s computer. And he calls me. When he gets a chance. When he’s not solving cases and stuff like that.”

“It’s too bad you don’t get to see him, though,” ventures Marigold. “You must miss him.”

“Yeah. I do. ’Cause he’s really funny. He always makes me laugh. But I see him sometimes.” She kicks some leaves into the gutter. “I’m going to visit him at Christmas. I’m going to stay overnight. And we’re going to watch movies and make our own popcorn. He lets me stay up as late as I want.”

Marigold says that sounds like fun. “And what about your mom?” she asks. “Is she a cop, too?”

“Nooo.” It’s a what-planet-are-you-from sound. “She’s a waitress.”

“You know, I was just thinking. When I was your age I loved reading mystery stories.” This is, in fact, a classic example of someone tampering with the truth. Marigold has watched a few police shows on television and seen a movie or two, but she’s never actually read a crime novel. They’re too depressing. “Do you like mysteries?”

“With cops?”

“Or detectives who aren’t exactly cops. They’re stories where someone’s done a crime and the cop or the detective has to find out who and why.”

“They have those in books?”

How does she not know that? You’d think this child was being raised in a cave in the Rockies by wolves.

“They sure do. And there are some pretty good ones around.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “It’s fun to see if you can solve the mystery before the detective in the book does. I bet you’d be really good at it.”

It would be an exaggeration to say that Sadie looks excited, but she does look interested.

“They really have books like that?”

“Uh-huh. Tons of them.”

Sadie frowns. “But for grown-ups. Not for kids like me.”

“No, for kids, too.” Though not all of them can be like Sadie. “Maybe—” Marigold is about to say that maybe she could find a mystery for them to read together, but the sharp honking of a horn cuts her off. A car has stopped across the street. It’s an old car, and although it’s hard to be sure in the dark, one of the fenders seems to be a different colour to the rest of it.

“There’s my mom!” shouts Sadie.

Marigold can see that there is, indeed, a woman behind the wheel, but her face is in shadow. She doesn’t roll down the window to say
Hi
or
Thanks for standing in the cold with my child
. The horn bleats again. It sounds annoyed.

“I have to go,” says Sadie. “She’s waiting.”

And, before Marigold can stop her, she launches herself into the road.

At least she remembered to look both ways.

Marigold watches them pull away, waving. No one waves back.

It
is a peaceful afternoon in the parking lot of St Joan’s Nursing Centre. A few birds glide overhead; a couple bearing a bouquet of flowers walks towards the entrance; a squirrel scampers over the lawn.

Sitting in her car, Georgiana closes her eyes and breathes deeply.
Think
, she tells herself.
Think hard. When was the last time you had it?
She pictures her phone, metallic red and illuminated, its bank of icons shining. She tries to imagine herself holding it in her hand. Where is she? What does she do next? This is a trick she read about in a magazine article on finding things you’ve lost. Much to her surprise, it actually works. She remembers exactly. When she got into the car after school she checked to see if she had any messages, and then she put it in her bag. She can see herself open the bag and drop in the phone. So where is it?

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, it has to be in here somewhere.” Georgiana dumps the entire contents of her bag onto the passenger seat and starts rummaging through it. “It has to be!” she repeats. Make-up bag. Nail bag. Several pens (most of which don’t work). One unsharpened pencil. An assortment of hair clips and ties. A comb and a brush. Tissues. Her wallet. The business card from the store where she bought her father’s Christmas present. A clump of sales receipts. Sunglasses. Two pairs of tights. One pair of leggings. One pair of socks. Gum. Several empty wrappers. Half a roll of breath mints. A toothbrush. A tube of toothpaste. Keys. More keys. A small sewing kit. A jar of correction fluid. Three Maglites with dead batteries. A container of dental floss. Several memory sticks. Breath spray. A fork. A handful of sugar packets. A paperback she was going to read in the summer. An old travel mug. A plastic Bart Simpson on a skateboard with wheels that really turn. Quite a few necklaces and bracelets. Seven earrings (none of which match). Reward cards from the coffee bars she frequents. The take-out menu from her favourite Chinese restaurant. The headset her mother’s been looking for since September. But no cell phone. Resisting the urge to cry, Georgiana puts everything back by the handful, still searching, but it isn’t tucked into a tissue or caught in the toe of her tights. She pats the pockets of her jacket for the sixth time, but it still isn’t in any of them, either.

How will she get through the next hour and a half? After the Incident at Bargain World (as it has become known to Georgiana and her friends), she’s not planning to venture into the great unknown with Mrs Kilgour again in a hurry. She needs another episode like that about as much as she needs dandruff. Indeed, after the Incident at Bargain World, she’s assuming that not only will Mrs Kilgour not want to go out, but that she’ll be asleep. What’s Georgiana supposed to do if she doesn’t have her phone?

Pondering, as many great thinkers have, the unfairness of life, Georgiana gets out of the car.

Although some people might think it’s still a little early, St Joan’s is already decked out for Christmas. Not with boughs of holly, of course, but with tinsel garlands and paper chains donated by the nearby elementary school. There is a small artificial tree on the reception desk. Georgiana compliments Alice Einhorn on the elf hat she’s wearing and signs in.

All the doors along Mrs Kilgour’s corridor boast some holiday decoration, no matter how small; all except the door to 10a. It is as it always is, but, because every other door sparkles or shines, it looks worse. Georgiana stares at it for several seconds. Surrounded by all the tiny Santas, snowmen, reindeer, poinsettias, bells and wreaths that line the corridor, it looks sad and friendless. Like Mrs Kilgour herself. As far as Georgiana knows, no one ever calls her; no one but Georgiana ever visits – which is as sad as spending your birthday by yourself with not even a cupcake or a single card. Did Mrs Kilgour ever have a life? Did she never do anything but wait to grow old and die?

Georgiana sighs, raises her hand and knocks. Softly. And, to her surprise, Mrs Kilgour answers.

“Who is it?” she calls.

“It’s Abraham Lincoln,” Georgiana calls back.

“Then you’d better come in,” is the answer. “But make sure you’re not being followed by that actor.”

Georgiana opens the door, and stops as if she’s walked into a six-foot Christmas tree with a singing angel at its top. Though, needless to say, that isn’t what she sees.

What she sees is Mrs Kilgour, already in her chair and wearing an ancient pair of army fatigues, a bright green turtleneck, an orange duffel coat and a red beret. The antique camera bag she uses as a pocketbook is on her lap. If there’s one thing you can say about Mrs Kilgour besides the indisputable fact that she’s an old lady, it’s that she doesn’t dress like one.

Mrs Kilgour ready to roll does not fit in with how Georgiana saw the afternoon panning out. “Are we going somewhere?” Her smile is as hesitant as someone peering through the ogre’s window.