Nest (15 page)

“Do Rachel and I get our own key?” I ask Dad.

“Is there a soda machine?” Rachel asks.

“And an inside pool? Can we go swimming later?”

Dad looks at us and smiles a tired smile.

“They haven’t stayed in many motels,” Dad says to the pimple man. “It’s a big treat.”

Rachel turns red and shakes her head, like Dad’s just given away her deepest, darkest secret.

The man says to us, “Are you visiting relatives for the holiday?”

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Rachel says.

“She isn’t a relative,” I whisper to Rachel. “She’s our
mom
.”

“That’s a relative, Chirp,” Rachel whispers, and rolls her eyes, like I have no brain between my ears.

“I
know
that, Rachel,” I whisper, “but when people say
relatives
, they mean like grandparents or aunts and uncles or—”

“Girls,” the man interrupts, “if it’s okay with your father, I hereby present you with your very own copy
of the room key. Don’t lose it.” He smiles and hands Rachel a gold key with a plastic tag on it that says 228.

“Can we find the room and open the door ourselves?” I ask Dad.

“Just this once your pack mule will deliver your personal belongings,” Dad says. “Have at it, girls,” and he heads off to the car to schlep our stuff.

We run upstairs. There are so many doors. I know that the room numbers go in order, with evens on one side of the hall and odds on the other, but I want to see if I can find our room by intuition, like a fortune-teller. I close my eyes, just in case I can feel something, a vibration maybe, when Rachel yells, “Here it is, Chirp!” She’s standing in front of the second-to-last room at the end of the hallway.

Rachel puts the key in the lock.

“One. Two. Three!” We push open the door together. The room is perfect. It has two perfect beds with orange flowered bedspreads. It has two perfect water glasses in two perfect wax-paper bags to keep the glasses sanitary. In the bathroom, there are perfect white bath towels and perfect white hand towels and perfect white washcloths and perfect white soap.

“I love this place.”

“It’s perfect,” Rachel says.

“A TV!” I turn the dial, and we watch the spot of light spread out on the screen and then change into black-and-white static.

“Check the channels,” Rachel says.

I turn the dial and keep count. “Seven.”

“That’s two more than we get at home,” she says.

“We’ll watch in bed,” I say. “We’ll rot our brains!”

“Perfect,” she says, laughing.

Rachel opens and closes every drawer in the dresser. I turn the fan from low to medium to high. She pulls back the orange bedspread to see what kind of blankets there are. I open the drawer in the nightstand.

“Hey,” I say, “someone forgot their book.”

“It’s a Bible,” Rachel says. “A Christian Bible. They put them in every hotel room.”

“Who does?”

“The Christians.”

“Why?”

“So all of us will see the light, I guess,” she says.

“The holy light of Cheez Whiz,” I say.

“That’s right,” she says, giggling. “Hallelujah.” Rachel starts tickling me under my arms. I squirm away and the Bible drops on the floor with a loud thump. I rush and pick it up and dust it off, even though it’s not dusty. I don’t believe in the Christian Bible, but still it makes me nervous to drop it on the ground. I put it back in the drawer.

“Let’s open up the curtains,” Rachel says. We each take a plastic rod and push back the heavy green curtains. We stand at the window together and look out at the parking lot.

“There’s Dad,” I say. He’s got my knapsack over one shoulder, and he’s carrying Rachel’s pink suitcase in one hand and a canvas duffel bag in the other. He’s walking slowly past car after car, the only person out there. He stops and shifts my knapsack to his other shoulder. Then he just stands and does nothing.

“Wow,” Rachel says, “he looks so …” She doesn’t finish, but I know what she’s thinking. Seeing Dad so alone gives me rocks in my chest. We watch Dad walk until he’s close enough to the building that we can’t see him anymore.

“I bet he really misses Mom,” I say. “I bet it’s really weird for him to be without her.”

Rachel nods.

“Maybe we shouldn’t hosey a bed. Maybe we should let Dad choose his bed first,” I say.

“Yeah, I guess,” Rachel says. She looks really sad, and I think maybe she feels guilty that she’s been so mean to Dad. “I wonder if Mom’s been able to sleep in the hospital,” she says quietly. “She was so, so tired when she left.”

“I bet she’s been sleeping fine, but probably last night she was too excited about seeing us to sleep,” I say. “I bet she can’t wait to see us. I bet she’s plotzing.”

Rachel smiles, because that’s Mom’s word, left over from her childhood. She says it when she really, really needs to pee and one of us is in the bathroom, or when she’s dying for the first bite of her Fudgsicle
in the summer and the wrapper is sticky and she can’t get it off, or when Rach and I are taking too long with all our talky explanations before we just show her our new dance move. Suddenly I remember so many things about Mom all at once, like how she wraps her arms around me and sniffs the top of my head and smells like lavender and lemons and calls me Snap Pea, and I’m plotzing, plotzing, plotzing to see her, too.

When Dad opens the door, I see him standing there with all our bags, and suddenly there are tears in my throat.

“Honey?” he says.

I just shake my head, because I don’t have any words.

“She’s okay, Dad,” Rachel says. “She just really needs to see Mom.”

Dad looks at me. I nod.

“So what are we waiting for?” Dad says. Rachel helps me clip my new purple barrettes into my hair, Dad brushes his teeth, Rachel grabs her lime-green poncho that Mom knit her for her birthday, and we hurry out the door.

Downstairs in the restaurant, Dad says we can order anything we want from the menu, since this is Thanksgiving, but he recommends that we make
up our minds soon so we can get to Mom before next Thanksgiving.

I decide to order grilled cheese, because I’m afraid if I order the turkey it will make me too homesick for our usual Thanksgiving, with Dad sharpening the knife and standing at the head of the table and all of us excited because it smells so good and Mom saying not to forget the dark meat because that’s the best part and finally the platter piled up high and passed around with the bowls of mashed potatoes and stuffing and cranberry sauce and peas and salad.

“I was thinking of the Thanksgiving special,” Rachel says, “but the turkey doesn’t really look like turkey.” She looks over at the plate of a skinny man in a jean jacket, sitting alone, reading the newspaper. The turkey looks like white bologna and is covered with gloppy brown sauce.

“You might want to steer clear of the turkey,” Dad says, “but I bet the mashed potatoes will be good. We can get a side of mashed potatoes.”

“Nah, I don’t really feel like mashed potatoes,” Rachel says, just because Dad’s suggested them. Rachel always feels like mashed potatoes.

“Can we order clam strips for Mom? She loves clam strips. We can surprise her,” I say.

Dad shakes his head. “Mom is having her Thanksgiving meal at the hospital. She’ll have already eaten by the time we get there.”

“But what if the turkey looks like
that
?” I ask, pointing to the man’s plate. “What if it tastes like bologna? Mom hates bologna.”

“Honey,” Dad says, “we can’t bring Mom clam strips. First of all, they’re fried and they’ll be all cold and greasy by the time we get there. Second of all, it’s important that Mom participate as fully as possible in the program at McLean, and her therapist said that she needs to have her Thanksgiving meal with the other patients.”

“But, Dad—” My voice is tight and squeaky. “Mom hates bologna. She says she’d rather eat pink rubber bands. She says—” My throat hurts. I can’t think of what else Mom says.

Rachel puts her hand on my leg under the table. She pats my leg. She calms me down.

When the waitress comes over, Dad says, “What the heck. I’ll have a grilled-in-butter frankfort,” which is just HoJo’s fancy way of saying hot dog. Rachel orders macaroni and cheese. I order clam strips.

“I think I’ll give them a try,” I say.

Rachel smiles just a little. She knows I have a plan.

“Beverages?” the waitress says. She’s wearing an orange uniform the color of a Creamsicle.

“Chocolate milk shakes all around?” Dad says. We never get milk shakes. He must be feeling sorry for us.

When the food comes, we clink our milk shake glasses.

“L’chaim,”
Dad says.

“L’chaim,”
we say.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Dad says. “Even though this is a tough time, there’s still a lot to be thankful for.”

What I’m thankful for is that Dad is busy putting mustard on his grilled-in-butter frankfort, so that when I slip two clam strips off my plate and wrap them in my napkin and stick it into my pants pocket, he doesn’t even notice.

I’m carrying the lemon meringue pie into a brick building that has a café in the middle of it. The lady at the desk in the Admissions Building told us that a mental health specialist is walking Mom from her room in South Belknap over to the café and by the time we get there, she’ll be waiting for us.

“Slow down, honey,” Dad says, because my legs keep going faster and faster. They want to be running. They want to be doing attitude leaps on the shiny linoleum floor until they land me right in front of Mommy, who’ll laugh and cry and take the pie and say
Wow, my girls, lemon meringue! My favorite!
and
Oh, my sweet chickens!
and then she’ll wrap her arms around me first, even before Dad, and sniff the top of my head and whisper in my ear that she couldn’t wait even one more second to see me. She’ll say
What beautiful new barrettes!
and her hair will be twisted up in her dancer bun and maybe she’ll be wearing
her cashmere sweater the color of dried sea lavender that she saves for special occasions.

“Be careful with the pie,” Rachel says, but she doesn’t need to worry. I’m holding it tight.

There’s a lady in a bright pink dress, and she’s walking in the same direction we are. She might be a nutbar, but I don’t know how to tell. She looks regular, with matching pink shoes and curly brown hair.

“Mmmm,” she says, “that pie looks delicious.”

“It’s for our mom,” I say. “She’s waiting for us.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll love it,” the lady says, smiling.

“I also brought her—” But then I remember that the clam strips are a secret. “Nothing,” I say, but the lady’s already passed us and turned down another hallway.

There’s a snack bar in a big, open space, and people are sitting around laughing and talking. It’s not dark and gloomy. It’s not gray, like I expected. I look around at all of the people. Where’s Mom? A man in a cowboy hat and a red-checked shirt waves like he wants us to come over. I shake my head. I don’t feel friendly. Mr. Cowboy waves again. Where’s Mom? I want Mom. Then Dad points and smiles and I’m running past the people and through a doorway into a small room in the back.

Mom doesn’t jump up from her chair to hug me. She doesn’t laugh and cry and reach out for the pie.

“Hi, Chirp,” she says in a quiet, sad voice. She
opens up her arms. Dad takes the pie and sticks it on a table, and I bend down to hug her. She smells like bleach. Her hand rubs my back, like windshield wipers swiping side to side.

“Rachel,” Mom says, so I stand up and Rachel takes my place. She gives Mom a hug. I watch Mom’s hand rub back and forth, back and forth, on Rachel’s poncho.

“You must be Sy.” There’s a woman with blond hair sitting next to Mom, and she stands up and shakes Dad’s hand. “I’m Marcy. I’m the mental health specialist working with Hannah.”

Dad says hello, but he’s looking at Mom.

“Sweetheart,” he says. He smiles and leans in to give Mom a kiss, but she turns her head away and Marcy says, very quietly, “I think Hannah would prefer if you gave her just a little space at first. This is a lot for her.”

Dad nods and pulls up a chair next to Mom. He looks at the paintings on the walls, of ships in the ocean. He looks at the floor. He clears his throat.

Marcy looks at Mom.

“So, girls,” Mom finally says, “how was the drive?” She already sounds worn out, and we just got here. She has purple circles under her eyes. Her eyelids are pink and puffy, like she got bitten by mosquitoes, but there aren’t any mosquitoes in Massachusetts in November.

“Fine,” we say at the same time.

“We’re staying at the HoJo’s tonight,” I say.

“Oh,” Mom says. “That’s nice.” She takes a quick peek over at Marcy, who smiles at her.

I want Marcy to go away. If Marcy wasn’t here, then Mommy would remember who we are and how much she loves us. She’d notice the pie on the table and say
Let’s dive in
, and the four of us would eat it right out of the dish and get white meringue on our faces and laugh.

“So how was your Thanksgiving, Mom?” Rachel asks.

“Fine,” Mom says. “It was just fine.”

She isn’t wearing her cashmere sweater. She’s wearing a blue cotton turtleneck with greasy stains on it and brown corduroy pants.

“Chirp, why don’t you tell Mom about your play?” Dad says.

Marcy bobs her head up and down like a sandpiper. I wonder if she’s going to sit here the whole time or if she has other people’s Thanksgiving visits to mess up.

“Well,” I say, “I was the turkey. Joey was supposed to be the turkey, but he was absent. I got to dance.”

“That’s nice, honey,” Mom says. She licks her lips like they’re chapped. There’s white gunk in the corners of her mouth.

“She did a great job,” Dad says.

“I bet,” Mom says, but she doesn’t look at Dad.

“Rachel aced her last math test. She had a perfect score,” Dad says.

“Good job, honey,” Mom says, and stretches her lips into a smile, but her eyes aren’t smiling along.

We’re all quiet. I can hear people laughing in the other room. Mom runs her hand through her hair, which isn’t in a dancer bun. Her hair is down. Mom’s hair is never down. And it’s scraggly. If my hair looked like hers, she’d tell me to go brush it and pull it back into a ponytail.