Nest (22 page)

“She who seeks shall find.”

Joey just won’t stop. And the smell’s getting worse. I want to stand up and walk away before I start crying, but I don’t have permission, and the last thing Mom and Dad need now is to have me sent to Mrs. Mitchell’s office again. Last night while I was brushing my teeth, I heard Mom say to Dad, “I guess we wasted our money putting me up at McLean’s. I’m just a hint of who I was, and I don’t have a clue how I’m going to get better. I’m in worse shape than you realize. Much worse.” And Dad said, “Sweetheart,
you’ve gone through periods of depression before and always pulled through. You’ll start to feel …” But Mom wasn’t listening to him. She just kept saying, “Much worse. Much worse. Much worse.”

“She who seeks shall find,” Joey whispers again.

I lift my head up. He’s smiling at me, but like an enemy, not a friend.

“I’m sorry, Joey. I didn’t know that my mom was coming—”

“Heads down,” Miss Gallagher says.

I put my head back down and raise my hand, but she’s back to correcting papers and doesn’t notice me.

“Foiled again,” Joey whispers.

“Joey, please. Just leave me alone.”

“Mercy upon you,” he whispers. “In your desk.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I reach my hand into the opening in my desk. I feel around and find my pencil box, my headband, my social studies book. My hand keeps roaming around like a hermit crab. At the very back of my desk, there’s something crinkly. I pinch it and slowly drag it forward so I can see. A wax-paper bag. I push it open with my finger, and the smell clobbers me. At the bottom of the bag, something gray and green and slimy.

“Under the circumstances, I can no longer accept your generosity,” Joey whispers.

The clam strip. He’s giving it back to me, which means he’s definitely made up his mind not to be my friend.

“H
OW
’
S
THIS
, M
OM
?”

She’s sitting on the back porch steps, watching me.

I already know that I’m doing a good job clearing the wet leaves away from the purple crocuses that are blooming in the garden. This year Mom didn’t rush out as soon as she saw the first bulbs poking their green noses up through the ground. She didn’t get down on her knees on a folded-up towel, like she always does, and say
I’ve got to give these babies a little elbow room
.

“Mom?”

She looks like a kid in her puffy green down jacket with her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Am I doing this right?” I ask.

She nods.

“These purple ones are so pretty,” I say. “And aren’t
there still some yellow crocuses out here somewhere?” I put my hand above my eyes like I’m a sea captain, trying to spot land. I look all around the ocean of my muddy yard. I try to make it seem fun so that maybe, maybe, Mom will cheer up and be a sea captain, too. But she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t stop hugging her knees.

“You can supervise me,” I say. “Maybe you should show me what to do, since you’re the one who knows how to garden. Maybe I’m not doing such a good job.”

Mom shakes her head.

“Maybe I need your help,” I tell her. Dad says it’s important for us to encourage Mom to feel useful. It’s not easy for her to cope with the reality that not only does she have multiple sclerosis but she fell apart after the diagnosis and had to live on a psych ward for more than three months. Dad says picking up those pieces is no easy feat, no easy feat at all.

My fingers are freezing. I go and sit next to Mom and stick both of my hands in her jacket pocket.

“Chirp,” she says, like she wants to prove that she still knows who I am.

“So what new stuff are you going to plant in the garden, Mom?” I ask.

“Plant?” Mom says. She looks out at the yard and shrugs.

“How about if we make a list? Marcy said it was good for you to make lists and cross things off. When
you first got home, you made lists.” I stand up to go get some paper and a pencil. I want Mom thinking
violets, daffodils, tulips
, bright colors flashing in her brain.

“Thinking about spring tires me out, Chirp,” Mom says.

“But in May we can pick lilacs!” I say. “We love picking lilacs.”

Mom reaches for my hand. “Just sit with me, honey.”

I sit back down.

I need to stay patient with Mom, especially since her new psychiatrist just told her that he thinks her depression is chronic, which means it will never completely go away. She’s been depressed at different times in her life and will probably always struggle with it. That’s news she needed like a hole in the head just two weeks after getting home.

Three black-capped chickadees play follow-the-leader around the rhododendron bush. I can’t tell if Mom’s watching them.

“You don’t have to pick lilacs,” I say. “You can just keep me company when I pick them.”

Mom puts her arm around me and squeezes tight. When I look at her face, tears are streaming down.

“Listen, Chirpie,” she says, brushing the tears away like they’re pesty no-see-ums. “I need to tell you something important, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You’re a really special girl. A beautiful, strong, special, special girl. You know that, right?” She’s gripping my arm.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good,” she says. “It’s important.” She lets go of my arm. She rests her hand on my knee. “When I was a girl, my mother loved to tell me what was wrong with me. I made no sense to her at all.” Mom stares out at nothing.
“Luftmensch.”

“Luftmensch?”

“It’s a Yiddish word. It means a dreamer. From my mother, the worst thing a person could be.”

“But didn’t she like some things about you?”

Mom doesn’t answer for a long time. Finally she says, “My hair. My mother liked my hair.”

Wind whips across the yard. The grass shivers.

I touch Mom’s hair, but she doesn’t look at me.

“She didn’t love me,” Mom says quietly. “That’s just the simple, hard truth.”

A crow screeches, and all three chickadees take off into the air at the exact same time.

“Wow!” I say.

Please, Mom. Please, Mom. Notice
.

“Wow,” Mom says, with a little smile.

We watch the chickadees until they disappear into the trees.

“Lilacs are my favorite flower,” Mom says.

“I love them,” I say.

“Me too,” she says.

“They smell so good.”

“Like sweetness and light, Chirpie.”

I put my hand in Mom’s pocket. She reaches in and holds my hand. It’s sweetness and light, our hands together in her warm pocket.

“Krispies, Chirp,” Rachel says, even though the cereal box is practically touching Dad’s arm. Dad hands Rachel the box, but she won’t take it. She waits until he puts it down on the table. Dad nods
You’re welcome
as if Rachel said
Thank you
. I guess Dad’s plan is to act like she’s nice to him, even though she’s pretty much stopped talking to him since we found out that Mom forgot about the lemon meringue pie.

“So, do you girls have anything special happening in school today?” Dad asks.

“Dad!” He knows that I have my red-throated loon report. He was my audience last night and the night before, because Mom went to bed right after supper, since she’s still so blue.

“Oh, right,” Dad says. “You’ll do a terrific job with your presentation. I’m sure you’ll nail all of the leaps.”

“Not to make you nervous or anything,” Rachel mutters into her Krispies.

She turns everything Dad says into something else.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, extra cheery so he doesn’t feel bad.

“Of course,” he says, getting up from the table. As he walks behind Rachel, he reaches out his hand. He lets it hover above her shoulder like a bird about to land, but then he keeps walking.

I hear him in his office, talking on the phone.

“Hi, Clara. She’s still sleeping. I’m feeling a bit concerned. Maybe you could stop by again today and—

“Lunch? That would be great.

“Just so she won’t be alone for very long. It’s been an awfully tough transition for her.

“And can you stay until the girls get home from school?

“Great.

“Yes, Annie said she’d come again tomorrow.

“Thanks. Yes. Thanks. Of course. Hannah will find her way through this. I appreciate it.”

“Okay, girls,” Dad says at the front door. “Have a good day. Don’t forget to clear the breakfast dishes, and make sure you don’t slam the front door when you leave so you don’t wake up Mom.”

“We will. We won’t,” I say. “See you tonight.”

“Adios, amigo,” Rachel says as soon as Dad closes the front door. She pulls her big silver hoop earrings out of the pocket of her bell-bottoms and puts them
on. She’s wearing her red bandana blouse, and it’s so cool.

“Maybe you could help me make one like it?” I say, touching her angel-wing sleeve.

“Sure, Chirpie,” she says. “It’s pretty easy. You just sew a bunch of bandanas together. You’ll look far-out. Just like a full-fledged teenager.”

“We started ‘hygiene’ in school. Sean asked Miss Gallagher if she was going to teach us about ‘doing it,’ and Lori and Debbie couldn’t believe that Dawn didn’t know what it was.”

Rach laughs. She shakes her head. “You already know the important stuff. Your amazing big sister has told you the basics.”

“I know. And Mom’s given me a few talks about—”

“Men-” Rachel pops up from her chair and grabs it before it tips over and wakes Mom. She sticks her arms up in the air like she’s a cheerleader.

“-stroo-” I pop up, too.

“-aaaay-” Rachel waves her pretend pom-poms.

“-shun.” I clap my hands, but quietly.

Milk is dribbling out of our mouths, we’re laughing so hard.

“I can’t stand the way that word sounds,” Rachel says.

“It’s so incredibly gross,” I say.

“Why can’t Mom just say
period
? A normal word, like
comma
or
question mark
.”

“When mine comes, I’m going to tell her I got my comma.”

“Good idea, Chirp,” Rachel says.

Rachel grabs her bowl and glass and starts walking to the sink, but then she turns around and sits down next to me.

“So, what do you think about Mom?” she says.

“She told me that spring coming makes her tired.”

“She’s always loved spring. I really don’t want her to go back to the hospital.”

“Did Dad tell you that she’s going to?”

“No, I’m just kind of worried about it.”

“Maybe Clara will make her feel better. I heard Dad talking on the phone. She’s coming for lunch again, so Mom won’t be alone today. Mom really likes Clara. Maybe she can help.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“And Annie’s coming over again tomorrow.”

We clear the table together. Even though Rachel usually leaves for school ten minutes before me and three tardies in junior high means detention, she waits while I grab an index card from the telephone table and draw a dancer with curly hair. I write,
To Mom, Feel better, xoxo, your Leaping Loon
, and put it by her place at the table. Then Rachel and I head out the door and close it,
shhhhhh
, behind us.