Jubilee (10 page)

I
tiptoed to the window without making a sound. It was late. The moon shone down on the garden; but the road was dark and still. I opened my bedroom door. The light in Aunt Cora's room was out.

I thought again about what I'd bring with me. I couldn't carry much, and there wouldn't be room in the hose closet on the ferry for much more than me.

I shrugged into my jacket and tucked my cartoon pad in my pocket. I had more than enough money to pay for the ferry.

I could take one thing to read, a paperback. I ran my finger along the row of books on the shelf and took the story of a pioneer girl.

I listened: Aunt Cora slept. I tiptoed down the hall and opened the front door without a sound. Dog padded along right behind me.

Dog!

How could I have forgotten!

I sank down next to him and felt the soft fur on his back, his velvet ears. I leaned close so he could give my face a quick kiss.

How could I leave him?

But I couldn't take him with me.

The ferry horn blasted; the last one would leave in thirty minutes.

Aunt Cora would take care of him, but it wouldn't be the same. Dog needed a kid who loved him, who would run with him and curl up with him at night. A kid who would love him the way I did!

I pictured a big house with a rickety fence all around it.

Mason's house.

Mason loved Dog. And Dog would love Mason.

They'd be happy together at the pond. They'd search the seawater for a leatherback turtle.

I dropped a kiss on top of Dog's head and put a note for Mason in Dog's collar. “I love you,” I whispered. I made myself stand up.

I went back and added quickly to the note I'd written to Aunt Cora. I had to tell her where he was.

Dog followed me as I ran to Mason's house. I opened the gate and pointed, until Dog realized I wanted him to go into their yard.

And that's what he did. When I shut the gate, his head went down, his tail waved from left to right, an unhappy wave. He made a sound deep in his throat. I stood there for a moment, crying. Dog and I belonged together.

He cried too as I ran to the ferry, my hands over my ears.

If only Mason would hear him and come outside.

I bought my ferry ticket. Luckily, I didn't know the ticket person. I was the last one through the gate, hurrying up the gangplank and inside.

My hand up, half hiding my face, I went along the aisle so no one would recognize me, or wonder why a girl would be on the ferry by herself this late.

I tucked myself into the hose closet on the main deck as the ferry gave a warning blast and set off onto open water.

The air was close; it smelled like kerosene, or engine fuel. It was sickening. I tried to take small breaths as I scrunched up on top of a coil of heavy rope.

I closed my eyes, thinking of Dog and Mason together, and Aunt Cora, who wouldn't see my note until morning. Ms. Quirk. Gideon, who wanted to be my father and didn't know I wanted it too. I'd forgotten his cartoon. Sophie, who'd be glad I was gone.

I felt the warm tears on my cheeks.

I pictured my mother, who missed me, and who would hold out her arms.

It seemed forever until the ferry bumped to a stop.

I hurried off before the captain could see me. Outside, I took deep breaths of the cold sea air, and stood in the shadows of the parking lot. Car doors began to open and shut, one pulling out after another.

I waited, trying to get my bearings. And like magic, I saw the sign under the light:
Smith Street.

It was a good omen.

I began to walk. I was tired and cold, but I was almost there.

I took a guess and went to my right, where houses were attached to each other, but it was hard to see the numbers in the darkness.

I walked for blocks before I realized I was farther away from where I should probably be, and turned back.

Only a few houses had lights, and even the streetlights overhead seemed dim. I shivered as I retraced my steps. I was alone in the street, alone in that strange place. How strange it felt without Dog at my side, without the familiar sounds of the island.

At the crossroads, I went the other way. I peered at the numbers: 420, 418, and there it was: 416. I looked up at the brick house that was almost the color of my hair. No lights glowed in any windows, upstairs or down.

I swallowed, and was suddenly uneasy about waking her. Should I curl up somewhere and wait until morning?

But then I saw a pinprick of light above the bell on the door.

I made myself go up the narrow front path and press that bell. I waited to hear footsteps, but it was quiet.

I put my hand against the wooden door, staring at the lion knocker. How could I rap that knocker and make a noise that would wake everyone in the houses around me?

What could I do?

I was ready to sink down, my head against the door, and close my eyes. Imagine if she found me there, sleeping, in the morning.

But then—footsteps.

Coming down the stairs?

Down the hall?

I squeezed my hands together to stop their shaking.

I'd pictured this so many times: my mother opening the door and seeing me.

This was the time I was going to speak.

The door opened and a woman peered out. Her hair was thick and red like mine, but much straighter. She was taller than Aunt Cora, younger, thinner. She hesitated, lips trembling.

I opened my mouth.

I tried to say
Judith.

I tried to say
Mother,
but I didn't make a sound.

I didn't have to, though.

She opened the door wider, and put out her hands to touch my shoulders.

S
he pulled me into the hall, hands still grasping my shoulders. We stared at each other in the dim light.

Her question-mark face was gone; it would never come back. Her real face was familiar, with blue-gray eyes like Aunt Cora's. Freckles like mine.

She snapped on lights as we went down the hall and into the kitchen. “I knew you were coming,” she said. “Judith? Is that what they call you?”

I nodded. What would I call her?

She shook her head. “I'll have to get used to that. I've called you Jay all these years.” She waved me into a chair. “Like a blue jay, the bird, you know?”

Jay. Not my name. Not my name at all.

It was almost as if we were strangers. We
were
strangers.

She brushed back her hair. “Cora called me a few minutes ago to tell me you were coming. She wanted me to watch out for you. She asked me to call when you arrived.”

Her fingers went to her hair again. “I would have met you at the ferry, if I'd known sooner.”

It didn't matter. I had done it. I was sitting in my mother's kitchen.

My mother, the stranger.

Aunt Cora had awakened; she knew I was gone. I felt a sharp pain in my chest. Did she think I didn't love her?

My mother—Amber, I'd call her in my mind—picked up the phone. I heard Aunt Cora's voice as Amber told her I was there.

She spoke for just a moment. “She looks fine, don't worry.” When she put down the phone, she said, “Cora said to tell you it was all right, that she understands.”

Why did I have this pain? It wasn't exactly all right; it didn't feel the way I'd imagined it. Strange.

She opened the refrigerator. “Not much in here. We'll shop tomorrow.” She pulled out a container of orange juice and poured two glasses. “I'm a mess in the kitchen.”

I watched her move around, wearing a purple bathrobe that was soft as fur, a button missing on top. She opened a box of cookies and slid them onto a plate.

“You'll have to stay alone for a while tomorrow. I have to work. But we'll settle you in and talk about all this in the morning.”

I didn't try to answer. I knew words weren't coming. I took a sip of juice and a bite of a cookie. Suddenly I was tired. Bone-tired, Aunt Cora would have said. Bushed, Gideon would have said. And Dog would have yawned, his jaws opened wide.

I yawned now too, quickly covering my mouth.

“Of course,” Amber said. “Upstairs. The extra bedroom is a little cluttered.” She smiled. “Not a little, a lot. But we'll manage. Jay—Judith, we'll manage. Step by step, we'll get it together.”

I finished the juice and she went up ahead of me to a room at the end of the hall. It was small. It might have been cozy, but I was too tired to think about it as she said good night.

She turned back from the door, and reached out. She ran her hand over my hair, which was so much like hers, and gave me a quick hug. I watched as she padded down the hall to her bedroom.

She hadn't told me why she'd left, what had been so wrong.

But maybe tomorrow.

I tossed my jacket over the end of the bed, toed out of my sneakers, and pulled the quilt up to burrow underneath it. I stretched out my feet, feeling something missing.

Dog wasn't curled up at the bottom of the bed, resting on my feet, keeping them warm.

Oh, Dog. Suppose he was still outside all this time, with no one to be with him? If only Mason knew he was there. If only he'd taken him in. Dog would be on his bed now, warm and safe. But I couldn't be sure of it.

What about my mother? Amber, who looked like Aunt Cora, whose hair was almost like mine? How did I feel about her? I just didn't know.

I must have slept; I dreamed, but not of Aunt Cora or Gideon, not even of Mason and Dog. I dreamed of a bale of turtles playing and afterward sunning themselves on a lacy log.

Early in the morning, I slipped out of bed and knelt below the window. In the distance the water was gray with small whitecaps, and the ferry, like a toy, was halfway across.

The island rose up, almost hidden, but green and lovely. Not my island anymore. Suppose I never saw it again, or Aunt Cora and Gideon? Suppose I never saw Dog? I bit down hard on my lip.

I heard footsteps going down the stairs. Amber was awake. I found the bathroom and ran warm water over my face and brushed my teeth with my finger. And then I was ready to go downstairs…

To see my mother.