Odessa Again (19 page)

In the second scenario she’d shove Sofia out of the way and go back the three hours on her own, back to preparing for a sleepover at which she would not reveal the secrets of the attic.

Odessa chose option number two.

Despite what Dad had said, and Mom had said, and even Ms. Banville had said about how words rather than fists (or scissors) are the way out of conflict, Odessa gave Sofia a huge shove. Strong enough to knock her off her toe-crossing feet.

And then Odessa jumped.

Alone.

2 Hours

Odessa tried using words. If words really were the way out of conflict, then words should have helped her. Words should have been able to get her old life back.

But words weren’t enough. Words were failing her. They didn’t help with Sofia and they wouldn’t help with Mom and Dad.

She couldn’t just come out and tell Mom that Dad still loved her. Mom wouldn’t believe her. And Dad wouldn’t remember saying it, because Odessa had gone back and never asked for scissors, and she’d never taken the dress from the closet and Dad had never stared at her red-faced and disappointed. But Odessa knew. That was what mattered. And now all she had to do was confirm what she suspected: that Mom still loved Dad too.

She called another family meeting.

She couldn’t just call a meeting to ask if they still loved each other, so instead she talked about math camp. She loved repeating her conversation with Theo—how
he’d
asked
her.
She’d told Mrs. Grisham and she’d told Uncle Milo and Meredith and she’d already told Mom and Dad and she’d even told Oliver, but still, she so enjoyed reliving it.

Mom and Dad sat and stared.

“This is about math camp? Really?” They exchanged a look.

“You said we make all the big decisions together. As a family. Because we’re still a family. Right?”

“Yes,” Dad said. “We’re still a family. But I’m not sure going to math camp qualifies as a big decision.”

“It’s big to me,” Odessa offered lamely.

“Far be it from either of us to stand in between our daughter and math. Of course you can go to math camp.” Mom reached over and mussed Odessa’s hair as if she were a child. Still, it was better than smelling her head. “Now hurry up and get out of here so you can have your dinner with your father and get home in time for bed.”

It was a Wednesday. Dinner-with-Dad night.

“Why don’t you come?” Odessa asked.

“Oh, no, honey.” Mom didn’t even look at Dad. “This isn’t my night. This is Dad’s night.”

“Dad, you don’t mind if she comes, do you?” Odessa could feel Oliver’s eyes on her. She could feel his wonder and awe.

Odessa
the
Brave.

“Um, well, no, I guess I don’t mind.”

What followed was an awkward exchange where Mom kept saying no, she couldn’t, and Odessa kept saying of course she could, and Dad kept mumbling something about how it was okay by him, and then Odessa used the most powerful word she knew, the long, drawn-out
pleeeeeeaaaaaaaase?

That was how they all wound up at Pizzicato for dinner together, the same place where Dad had told Odessa and Oliver that he was
re
marrying Jennifer, on the night before they moved into their new house with Mom.

But this night was the opposite of that night. This night was
jovial.
They laughed and ate too much pizza and drank too much sparkling lemonade, and afterward as they walked back to Dad’s car Odessa took each of her parents by the hand. If she hadn’t been in the fourth grade and about to embark on a major relationship with a boy with buzzed hair, she might have jumped and let her parents swing her back and forth, back and forth, like she had when she was younger.

In the car Mom sat up front and Dad reached across her and took his minty tummy tablets from the glove compartment. Odessa inhaled their smell. Everything felt perfect. Once they reached home it would become clear that this was how it should always be, the four of them together.

But Dad dropped them off and drove away with a few short honks and a wave.

She’d have to do more.

*

The next weekend at Dad’s, Odessa tried reminding him of all the ways Jennifer was not Mom. Jennifer was nice and pretty and she smelled good, but she belonged in someone else’s family.

Mom belonged; Jennifer did not.

“Remember our family trip to Mexico?” Odessa put the emphasis on the word
family.

“Of course,” Dad said.

“That was the best.”

And then:

“Remember that necklace you gave Mom for her birthday a few years ago?”

“Yes, I remember,” Dad answered.

“That was one beautiful necklace.” This time she put the emphasis on
beautiful.

Odessa loved words. Even when you used the obvious ones, you could add so much meaning by just leaning on them a little.

But words had their limits. Dad reached over and gave Odessa’s arm a squeeze. The squeeze was harder than the kind you give when you want to say I love you. This squeeze said:
Lay
off
the
Mom
stories
in
front
of
Jennifer.

Nothing seemed to be working, but Odessa didn’t lose faith. She knew what she had to do.

Stop the wedding.

She’d seen enough TV and movies to know that there was always a moment, an opportunity for someone in the audience to stand up and say:
I
object!

And this was what she’d have to do. She’d have to make Dad see, in that moment before he said vows he didn’t really believe in, that he was
re
marrying the wrong person. She would stand up and she would grab her mother by the hand and she would shout:
I
object!

Or
I
protest!

Something like that.

The problem, however, was this: Mom wasn’t invited to the wedding, and Odessa’s gesture was going to be a lot less grand without Mom there as a visual aid.

Odessa paced around her attic floor, squeezing the owl figurine in her fist. She talked to the boards as if they could listen.

Help
me. You are here for a reason. I have this power for a reason. How can you help me stop this wedding? How can you help me realize my GMOOP?

Going back two hours couldn’t change everything. It couldn’t make Odessa live in her old house or make Mom and Dad still be married to each other or make Oliver less of a toad or make Odessa taller with pale blue eyes. It couldn’t make Sofia trustworthy, or Milo want to be with her more than with Meredith, or make Mrs. Grisham’s husband still alive so she wouldn’t be alone. And it couldn’t make Mom appear at Dad’s wedding so that Odessa could shout
I
object,
and he’d see her and realize that he was making a big, fat mistake.

The attic could do none of that. She could only go back and fix something about her day that had gone in a way she didn’t like.

And what she didn’t like about the day that was rapidly approaching was that Dad was going to stand up and promise to love and cherish
Jennifer.

She sat. And she thought. And she grabbed hold of her dictionary. And she thumbed through its fresh-smelling pages and all the purple words that couldn’t help her. Jennifer had given her this dictionary. Jennifer was nice and thoughtful; someone else would want to marry her someday. Odessa felt
compunction—
she wanted Jennifer to be happy, she didn’t want to ruin her wedding, her moment of triumph, but … Dad belonged to Mom.

She picked up her journal and a pen, but she couldn’t get beyond the blank page. She stared at the phone, but there was nobody to call.

So she went to see Mrs. Grisham. Sofia was her best friend. Claire was her bus friend. Mrs. Grisham was her old friend.

It had been a while since she’d knocked on her door. Because Mrs. Grisham watched them after school, Odessa didn’t have occasion to go to Mrs. Grisham’s house, but this Sunday, one week before the wedding, that was what she did.

They sat together in the familiar parlor with the owl figurines.

Odessa stared at her shoes.

Mrs. Grisham let her stare. She didn’t ask her what was wrong or why she was there or even if she wanted a cookie. She let her sit there silently, with all the eyes of those owls on her, while she figured out what she wanted to say.

“I don’t know how to fix things.”

Mrs. Grisham waited.

“I thought I could go back and fix things,” Odessa continued. “That I could make changes, the kind of changes that matter, and I made a promise to my brother, and I have this power, this special power, and I kind of feel like you gave it to me, like you trusted me with the attic, you told me that I’d love living there, and I do love living there, but … I’m failing.” Odessa’s words got caught in her throat. “I can’t change the big things. The Things That Really Matter,” she croaked.

A long silence followed, during which Odessa swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall. She was in fourth grade. She wasn’t a baby. She didn’t want to cry.

“You’ve probably made more changes than you realize,” Mrs. Grisham said.

“But I need to do more. It’s not enough.”

“So do more.”

“But my powers … the attic, the magic, this power to go back …”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Grisham. “Power comes from you. Not from magic.”

“But I …”

“Nonsense.”

Odessa wasn’t used to Mrs. Grisham speaking to her this way. Rudely. Curtly. Dismissively. Plenty of adults spoke to kids this way—sometimes Sofia spoke to her this way—but never Mrs. Grisham.

Odessa went home deflated. She lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She turned onto her side and caught sight of the door with no handle.