I, Emma Freke (6 page)

That afternoon the shop was busier than usual. First, a mom wanted to buy beads for a bunch of girls to make necklaces at her daughter's birthday party. Since they were inviting fifteen kids, they needed a ton and lots of variety. And the mom didn't seem to care about the cost. Then there were two old ladies who had recently taken a workshop from Donatella. They had an Aztec pattern that included matching bracelets. A few other regular customers had odds and ends to pick up. Then my mother's fishing “friend,” Kevin, rushed in just as I was about to close the store. He pushed the door shut against the strong wind, which was picking up again outside.

“Hey there,” he grunted. “I was in the other day?”

There was something I didn't like about this guy, but I couldn't figure out what it was exactly.

“Um. Donatella isn't around. I'm not sure when she'll be back.”

Not a minute later, that tall, bald businessman from the week before slipped in too, wearing the exact same black suit. I groaned to myself, convinced he had bad news. Now I'd never get to close up.

“Well, me and 'Tella are meeting up tonight at Seaweed Sam's for supper,” said Kevin. “Let her know I'll be late, got it?”

Seaweed Sam's was a run-down bar with no windows. I didn't know they actually served food.

“Sure, if I see her,” I replied.

I decided not to count the money in front of two virtual strangers. Instead, I closed all the blinds and reversed the O
PEN
sign.

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Kevin. “You're probably punching out the old time card and going home to wherever you live, huh?”

I glanced over at the man in the suit who I could tell was pretending to be interested in the beads. But I was sure he was about to inform me that our taxes were overdue or my mother had lost her retail license. I slid covers over the bead compartments, making it obvious that it was time for everyone to leave.

“Well I'm not going far,” I replied to Kevin as I watched the other guy. “Home for me is up the stairs.”

The man in the suit paused and twisted his head toward us.

“Wait!” said Kevin. “You live here too?” he asked, sounding confused. “Are you 'Tella's roommate?”

Roommate? I stopped what I was doing. I couldn't believe my ears.

“She's my
mother
?”

Kevin's jaw dropped just a little. Then he scratched his head and started to laugh nervously.

“Oh, I get it,” he whispered in a raspy voice. “On second thought, no message. But ah, thanks for the information.”

And as Kevin turned to leave, I noticed the man in the dark suit was already gone.

Later that night, I woke up and heard crying out in the Big Room. The television volume was way too loud. I crept out of bed and cracked the door open. Nonno was sound asleep in his old brown plaid recliner with Eggplant snoring on his lap. The couch faced the TV, and I could just see the back of Donatella's head over the puffy cushion. Everything shook as she blew her nose extra hard. She was watching some old movie.

I tiptoed over and sat in the rocking chair close to the sofa. Donatella tried smiling at me, but she couldn't hide that she had been sobbing. Long black streaks of mascara tears flowed down her cheeks as all her makeup merged together and formed little rivers.

“The movie,” she said as she blew again into a hankie. “It's a sad one.”

I glanced at the television. The show didn't seem sad. It was one of those old-fashioned martial arts films starring that guy who now pretends to be a politician.

Donatella and I never talked about our emotions. We just steered clear of each other when we weren't feeling so great. Usually, when she was in one of these moods, she locked herself in her bedroom and didn't come out until she was fully recovered. Occasionally, when she was having a really bad bout, it could last as long as three days.

“The store was busy this afternoon,” I said to cheer her up.

“Was it?” she replied, sighing loudly.

“I think we made over three hundred dollars.”

She sniffed and blew.

“Did you put it in the safe?”

“Yep,” I replied.

Just then gunfire erupted on the television set. It woke up Nonno who thought someone was shooting at us.

“
Mia spada
!” he yelled, practically pushing Eggplant off his lap.

“Simmer down!” Donatella hollered back. “You don't need your sword, Nonno. It's a movie! Just go to bed, will ya!”

Mumbling in Italian, my grandfather rubbed his face and then rubbed the dog's face before lowering her to the ground. He carefully folded in his recliner, picked up his cane, and hoisted himself up like he weighed a thousand pounds. Finally, the two of them shuffled off to the loft. The whole procedure took about five minutes.

My mother stood and gathered up her things.

“I guess we should get some shut-eye too, Emma.”

That's when I remembered to tell her about Kevin's visit.

“Oh by the way, your friend stopped in the shop today just as I was closing.”

Donatella twisted around. “Which friend?”

“That Kevin person.”

“He did? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because he said you were meeting for dinner and that he didn't need to leave a message.”

She crossed her arms.

“Then why did he stop in if he didn't need to leave a message? Was he buying beads?”

All at once, Donatella sounded super annoyed. That's when I realized I shouldn't have brought it up.

“Well, at first he was going to leave a message that he would be late for dinner. But then he decided not to leave that message and left.”

“But that doesn't make any sense,” she snapped, “
plus
he stood me up!”

“Well, don't get mad at me—he's creepy anyway!”

My hands began to tremble. This is why I never had these kinds of conversations with my mother. In the end, I always felt like everything was somehow my fault.

“
Emma
. You MUST have said something to change his mind.”

She stomped over to the TV and turned it off.

“All I said was that I lived upstairs and I wasn't sure if I'd see you before dinner.”

“You mean you told him you were
my daughter
?”

“Not exactly—but I'm sure he figured it out.”

“No wonder!” she cried over and over again, banging her forehead with her fist.

“No wonder what?”

But she didn't answer me. Instead, my forty-seven-year-old mother burst into tears like a blubbering baby. She ran across the floor and slammed her bedroom door behind her.

And she didn't come out—at least when I was around— for three full days.

Which Subjects are
Off-Limits with Donatella

Between working the store in the morning, tutoring in the mid afternoon, then working the store again until it closed at 6:00
P.M.
—not to mention doing all the cooking and cleaning—I was busier than most grown-ups. As soon as it became obvious that my mother wasn't coming out of her room for those three days, I decided it was up to me to keep things together until she got better. Especially since everything was obviously my fault. Nonno didn't even seem to notice Donatella was missing as long as he got dinner at night. As for the shop, I taped a sign to the door when I left for the library: “Back at 3
P.M.
”

“Think about it from
his
point of view—,” said Penelope. A new shipment of African beads had arrived, which I had saved for her to open. She took a penknife out of her pocket and carefully sliced the edges of the box as she spoke.

“—this guy, Kevin, thinks he's dating a woman with out any baggage. Next thing he knows, not only does she have a kid, but he's guessing this kid is like twenty years old, which would make Donatella something like sixty or seventy. And I bet all along she's been telling him she's only thirty!”

I was sweeping the floor and hunting for any beads that may have popped out of their cubbies.

“But her other dates always knew that I was her daughter.”

“And did
they
last?” asked Penelope in a squeaky kid voice (contrasting with her grown-up advice). “Donatella is realizing she has
got
to change her strategy if she wants a man. She's no spring chicken anymore. And no offense, Emma, but you're not helping her image at all.”

I swept the dust out the front door, but most of it was blown back in by the wind.

“Do you really think that's what this is all about?”

Penelope pried open the carton carefully and lifted out the small interior boxes.

“Believe me, it happens all the time.”

I could never figure out how Penelope knew so much about life. She seemed to soak up street smarts like a dry sponge.

“How do you know it happens all the time?” I asked.

“When Cynthia is napping in the afternoon, I sometimes turn on those talk shows. Man, there are a lot of people out there lying and misrepresenting themselves.”

I knew that even if that was true, I couldn't help it that I was Donatella's unlucky kid and that I appeared a whole generation older than I actually was. Why did I get punished for everything?

Then Penelope said quietly, “Emma? I've been meaning to ask you something—”

But then she stopped herself and whistled long and sweetly.

“Look at these
beeeeeauuuties
!”

Inside the first small white box were polished clay beads painted in glossy, vibrant colors. And every one of these beautiful beads was decorated with a different miniature bird. Even the holes, which tunneled through the beads, were outlined in wonderful shades of red.

“Can you imagine being able to make something so pretty?” she wondered aloud.

We sat down and looked through all the small cartons. Each design was as equally amazing as the one before it.

When we were done sorting, Penelope stuck her whole head in the shipping box.

“And it all smells so
good
!” she cried from inside the box.

I had to giggle.

“What's it smell like?”

She lifted her head, grinning blissfully.

“Africa.”

The third and final day of Donatella's self-exile was a Friday. I was sitting at the big table at the library finishing an English essay—“Symbolism of the Wheel in
Tuck Everlasting
by Natalie Babbitt”—wondering if I should tell Stevie about my strange week. She was over in the stacks helping a woman find choices for her book club to read.

The group of teenagers was nowhere in sight today. They seemed to come a few times a week, but the days varied. By now I knew they weren't on a field trip since they visited the library so often, but they were always accompanied by the same teacher. I had studied them enough to know there were five boys and three girls in the group. I guessed they were around thirteen to sixteen years old. But who was I to guess someone's age?

I had been thinking a lot lately about that nuthouse for kids where Penelope's Gray Mom, Cynthia, used to work. In fact, I had searched it on a library computer, and the only thing I came up with was a school over in the next county for children (five to twelve) with “moderate to severe neurological and spectrum disorders.” First of all, I didn't have either of those things as far as I knew. Plus I was now twelve, almost too old for the age range. And finally, it said nothing about kids who were disturbed or nutty.

Still, there was a link on the website to a facility for “semi-functioning adults.” Was that what I was? A semi-adult?

For a few days, I had been convinced that I had skipped over childhood straight into the world of grown-ups. But now I was doubting my own theory. It was true that adults were easier for me to talk to. They weren't rude and mean like most kids. But even though I didn't get along with people my age, I realized I had even less in common with grown-ups. They were just so clueless. Except Stevie. But I had a feeling she was one of those people, like Penelope, who everyone felt comfortable around. No matter what their ages.

I was no longer mad at Stevie. After all, she had only been doing her job when she called the school to check on me. For all she knew, I could have been a runaway or a juvenile delinquent. Truthfully, in the last few days, I had grown to like her a lot. She had so many cool interests, like kayaking and antiquing and weaving. In fact, when I told her about our shop, she said she would stop in to buy some beads for her textiles.

On some level, I felt like Stevie and I were related. She seemed to truly understand me. We even sat the same way with our legs crossed tightly so that one ankle wrapped around the other. And then there was our mutual height as well as the whole awkward name thing we both shared.