Sway (5 page)

O
n the nights when Dad tucks me in, he usually gives me air hugs, because his callousy hands tend to catch on my satin jammies. But that night, I knew Mom and her creamy skin would make for my first snagless tuck-in in months. As she searched around my bedroom for the perfect spot to store our airbrushed tank top, I felt a mix of tired and excited that was like Z's and exclamation points floating all around me. My words crouched down and waited to pounce on the first opportunity to steer the conversation all the way to Florida, to convince Mom to invite me to be her rescue assistant sooner rather than later. I'd decided that the indirect approach was best, because blurting my plans out might very well get the same reaction Dad had gotten. His total strikeout had left me feeling way too
buh-gert
to blurt.

Mom draped the shirt across the back of my homework chair and began a little tour of all the sames and differents in my room.

“You guys have added some more of these,” Mom said, perusing the collection of pipe-cleaner rescue scenes on my bookshelf. There was still plenty of space left for three or four sculptures of people I would rescue someday. Maybe even more if they were small orphans.

“Do you think I would like Florida?” I asked.

Mom came and sat on the edge of my bed with the smallest of the pipe-cleaner girls still in her hand.

“Florida is an amazing place, Cass,” she said. “The wind and the waves can change their course on a whim, you know? One day busting a house to bits, and the very next, gently depositing a perfect sand dollar on the shore.”

Mom sounded just like the narrator on a nature show, and for a moment while she spoke, I was sure I heard the whooshing sound of actual ocean waves in the background. Until I realized it was just my dad's feet shuffling as he paced up and down the hallway outside my bedroom.

“Cass, I'm truly sorry about all that weirdness at the party today,” Mom said in a hush when she heard him. “I'm just not real keen on the idea of us all living in that RV…What does your dad call that thing?”

“The Roast.”

“Yeah, well, I'm just not big on the thought of us sleeping, bathing, eating, and meat-selling in The Roast for months on end.”

“And rescuing,” I said. “Remember? All of us together?”

Mom puffed out a big sigh and took me by the hand.

“Please don't think me insensitive, Cass, but that's just the thing I wouldn't expect you to understand,” she said. “It would be mighty hard to do storm rescue while traveling the way your dad is suggesting.”

She rose to her feet and looked out my window at The Roast. Even from under its cover, the ugliness shone through somehow.

“Who knows, but that beast could blow right over, in the wrong circumstances,” she said, turning to me with a serious look. “What I mean is that dependable, fast transportation is an absolute must at the scene of a disaster.”

“Like your car?” I said.

“The Rabbit has proved trustworthy in times of need,” said Mom. “The problem is, it's not really a family road trip kind of vehicle.”

“But it'll hold two people,” I said.

Me, Mom. One, two.
Things were suddenly not looking good for Dad.

“True,” Mom said, glancing out the window once more at the ramshackle motor home. Her agreement was sweet music to me.

“It sounds like your dad is dead set on us roaming about in that old thing,” she said. “But that sure would be a rickety kind of together, Cass.”

“That's okay,” I told her. “I'm not really big on Dad's idea either.”

After all, Dad would be okay if both his girls went to Florida. He might very well be nervous enough to smear butter on everything but the toast, but he could learn how to play solitary Scrabble or something. I just needed to convince Mom that I was qualified to work alongside her.

“There's an orphan in my class at school,” I said. “I showed her how to open her locker once.”

I didn't feel the need to mention that she was really a former orphan and that I opened her locker accidentally, thinking it was mine.

“How sweet, Cass,” Mom said as she sat on the bed next to me and pushed the hair from my eyes. “You've definitely got your mother's compassion. Which I must say, can be a blessing and a curse.”

Having your mom's same chin or eyes or nose is one thing, but having her gift for helping people has to be even better, even if she did just happen to call it a curse.

“But how could helping people ever be bad?” I asked.

Standing the curly pipe-cleaner girl on my dresser, Mom drew in a slow deep breath. “I can tell you this, baby. It's only a curse when you're not strong enough to stand back up when you've fallen.”

“Like if the wind knocks you down?” I said.

“Like that,” she said.

“I'm good at holding on,” I said.

Mom put her arm around me and gave me a squeeze. “Know what, Cass? Then someday you are going to be a real hero indeed.”

“Soon?” I said.

“Maybe so.” She smiled.

My heart took that as enough of an invitation to Florida to settle my gut, even though my mind knew we were only halfway there.

“You know what else?” she said. “I bet they'll even make a statue in your honor.”

“For real?” I said. “Will they make a statue of you too?”

“Aw hon, I sure enough doubt that,” Mom said.

“Yeah they will, Mom,” I said. “I bet they will. They'll make a big one of you with writing at the bottom and everything.”

Mom lay down beside me and put her head on the pillow next to mine.

“You think so, huh?” she said, staring up at my bumpy ceiling. “And just what exactly do you think my inscription would say?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe your name and when you were born and—”

“Oh! I've got a name for it!” Mom interrupted. “How do you feel about Toodi Bleu
Skies
?”

I felt great about Toodi Bleu Skies. It was like Toodi Bleu Skies drifted above us in airplane smoke letters.

“So what would my inscription say?” I asked.

“Hmmm, let's see,” she began, and then her voice got squeaky with inspiration. “How about this one?” She made her hands into a rectangle-shaped plaque above us. “Castanea Dentata…She's off-the-chart SMART…with compassion in her heart!”

Mom propped herself on an elbow to see my reaction and almost rolled off the bed. Honestly, I thought her idea was a little hokey, but who really cares what the inscription says when you have a statue of yourself? A monument so famous, some kid might even try to finger-string it someday.

“It's perfect,” I said, and with a puff of satisfaction, Mom situated herself back into her sitting spot while I fumbled under the bed for my little pile of string. Placing the tangly nest next to her, I asked, “Will you show me how to do the Eiffel Tower?”

“Sure I will,” she said. “If I can even remember how.”

She shook the tangles out and began stringing, mumbling the steps to the tune of “Frère Jacques.”

“Hang a left loop. Hang a right loop,” she sang.

An enormous stringy-mom-hands shadow filled the whole wall in front of my bed.

“Pick up left. Pick up right.”

I watched carefully, trying to memorize as she went.

“Reach the thumb over and pick up the far string.”

Then she paused mid-pickup.

“I've been wondering,” she said.

If your dad will let me take you to Florida
is how I wanted to finish her sentence for her. But instead Mom said, “When are you planning to show me that Book of In-Betweens?”

Quick as a whip and thrilled by her request, I dangled off the edge of the bed and grabbed the binder from the floor. Then I hoisted myself back up just as quick, stood the binder on its spine in the middle of my bedspread, and let it fall open.

“Read some to me,” Mom said, getting desperately tangled in string.

And so I began, telling her about a handful of highlights and lowlights from the months she was gone. Like how on February 12th, I filled a whole roll of toilet paper full of drawings and Dad made us roll it back up and use it so we wouldn't waste the paper. Or how on May 3rd, Dad put bleach in with all our brown thrift-store towels and made them look like giraffe skin. After reading a few more yesterdays, I opened to today's page, the one I'd worked on half the night before, decorating it edge to edge with swirls and stars and just one word…a big “fun” in parentheses right in the middle.

“You do have a knack for that gorgeous scribbling,” Mom said, her thumbs knotted to the point of turning purple. “But my dear, you mustn't ever put
fun
in parentheses.”

“It's
noodling
,” I said, flipping to the next week's pages, swallowing hard, and saying, “And all these blank pages are for the SMART stuff we'll do in Flor—”

And just when I was about to share my plans to fill up future blank pages with all things girly and heroic, Dad knocked at the door and poked his head right in, unaware that there was half of Florida hovering in the air. If there were ever a statue created in honor of my dad, it would be made out of mud and meat, and the inscription would have to say, “In Honor of Mr. Ground Beef.”

“Toodi, we need to talk,” he said, stuffing our fun right back into its parentheses. “Is now a good time?”

No way, no how, not now, I thought.

“I suppose it's as good a time as any,” Mom said.

“Hold that SMART thought, Cass,” she whispered close, tossing the half-Eiffel in a lump onto my bed. “It sounds like your dad's gotten himself in a knot too.”

Following him into the hall, Mom sent me a finger-kiss over her shoulder. “Good night, Castanea,” she said as she glided away into the next room.

“Good night, Toodi Bleu Skies,” I said, clutching my ball of string, which wasn't any more French than it had been ten minutes ago, and maybe even a little more snagged.

And just like Mom said, I did indeed hold that SMART thought. In fact, had I known how very long I would be holding that thought in my head, I might have held it a little looser, so it wouldn't leave such an ache in my brain.

I
have this thing I call my front-and-back-of-forever prayer. Usually I begin with asking for good things for my whole family, from the beginning of the past to the end of the future, as I picture each person passing by me like a big parade in my head. First come the ones dressed in animal skins chewing on bones, then the surly-looking pioneer ones with long skirts and almost-as-long beards. And finally, the ones who will have their silver boots shined by robots someday.

If I'm not asleep before then, I invite all of my family's friends, and if I'm not asleep before then, I bring in the families of the people my mom helps and all of their friends. Together, they all gather and mingle at the foot of a magnificent Castanea dentata tree, one that's as wide as it is tall and reaching out toward each of them at once.

On the nights I can get through the entire frontand-back-of-forever prayer, I figure it covers just about the whole world. But that night, right about the time I imagined Toodi and Cass drifting by with Douglas lagging behind, my forever was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of arguing in the backyard. From the other side of The Roast, two voices floated through my window, which was still open from Syd's morning dive. I moved closer to the opening, to aim an ear in my parents' direction.

“Toodi, what exactly happened on this last trip?” My dad said, with each word coming out as the same note. I thought it was really weird of him to ask, since Mom had just spent all day telling us all about that very thing.

“And what's with this Florida nonsense you dumped on us today?” he said right after, like he didn't even really want an answer to the first question.

“What does one thing have to do with the other?” Mom said. “And I'd hardly call helping kids nonsense, Douglas.”

“Okay, well then, what's with you dropkicking my surprise across the yard?” he said, followed by what sounded like a kick to the side of The Roast. “I mean, I know this thing is nothing fancy, but I don't recall you being so fancy either. Up until today, that is.”

“Douglas, keep it down,” Mom said. “Cass is going to hear you.”

“No she won't,” snapped Dad. “And you know why? Because I guarantee you that little girl is sound asleep, plum exhausted from the thrill of having her family back together. I just wish I could say her mom felt the same way.”

Dad paused, I thought surely to spit out an apology for being so cross.

“Toodi, I guess what I want to know is, what all of a sudden is so unpleasant about me, you, and Cass venturing out as a team like we always wanted?”

Because she's just taking
me
, I thought. The Rabbit only holds two people. I wondered how Mom would break that news to him. I hoped she planned to be gentle. I also hoped that Dad hadn't dented The Roast, since he might be wanting to sell it soon.

“You see, that's the problem, Douglas,” Mom said. “Maybe it's not about the
we
.” She said
we
like it was a cuss word. “Maybe
we
are not what they need.”

“Well, who exactly do you mean by
they
?” Dad said
they
like it was an even cussier word.

“Douglas.” Mom mixed his name in with a sigh. “There's just no easy way for me to say this.”

“Well then, say it the hard way.”

“We won't be taking this motor home to Florida. We won't be sleeping in this thing, eating in this thing, or selling meat in this thing.” Mom spilled it in one-breath, like Syd doing the Belch of Allegiance, and she wasn't half as gentle as I'd hoped.

“The deal is…” she began.

And then, behind that wall of motor home, the gap between words was unbearably long and deafeningly quiet. Every eyebrow-tug I made was loud in comparison.
Say it, say it, say it
, went my pulse.

“The deal is, I'm going alone,” Mom finally said. “Just me. Not we.”

It was her worst rhyme ever.

But…I thought.

“But…” my dad said.

“That's the plan.” Mom trampled our
but
s. “Me, alone, in Florida.”

“You alone, huh?” said Dad, the energy draining from his voice. “This isn't about orphans at all, is it, Toodi?”

With that, this sickly stillness washed over everything, and I couldn't tell if it came from outside or within me. It was like this thing I'd heard about called “the calm before the storm,” when the sky gets eerie-green and even the crickets have an intermission. From the midst of that terrible calm, I heard my mom let out a little sob.

“I hoped we could avoid this conversation for a couple of weeks,” she said, all hushed and blubbery. I waited for her crying to be muffled by my dad offering his shoulder to her, but it stayed very much unmuffled.

“I hoped we could avoid this conversation for a whole lifetime,” said Dad, sounding like he could use a shoulder himself.

“So go ahead,” he said. “Tell me his name.”

“Douglas, don't.…” said Mom.

“The least you can do is tell me his name.” Dad said it like his back teeth were pressed together.

“Ken,” she finally answered, and for such a tiny word, it sure was heavy. Just saying it made my mom cry even harder. While she did, I desperately searched all my memories for a Ken, but couldn't find one. Could Ken be the guy who ran the orphanage? Was there a Kenneth, Missouri? Couldn't there, oh please, couldn't there have somewhere been a Hurricane Kenneth?

And then there came a storm so fast and scary, like when a wall of rain overtakes you on the playground. The green sky cracked right in two as a tornado of awful words whipped up beyond The Roast. A twister of whispers with words like
cheat
and
how
and
betrayal
and
lies
all spun up with ones like
intentions
and
loss
and
needs
and
boring
. But no shred of a
sorry
or a
stay
. It was more vicious than raccoons fighting over garbage, and it gave me a bellyache worse than bad mayonnaise ever could.

As the storm raged on, I heard my mom say, “What about Cass?” sobbing my name into three syllables. “What do we tell her?”

My dad answered with the terrible words, “Toodi, maybe
we
are not what she needs.…It sounds to me like there is no more
we
.”

Hearing that, I figured I had a choice to make, and quick. I could pull out enough eyebrow hairs to grant an army of wishes. I could crawl into the bathtub and drag a mattress over myself until it all blew over. Or I could run right out there and perform my first-ever storm rescue. Before I knew it, I'd jerked a fistful of blank pages from my journal and was headed for the door, planning first to tell them both to
Can it!
and then to tell Mom all the amazing things she and I could fill those pages with. Things that had nothing to do with anyone named Ken.

I dashed outside so fast I didn't even notice the abandoned cell phone that sat there waiting for revenge. Tripping over the phone and skinning my hands and knees on the gravel, I watched the blank pages swirl in the gust stirred up from my mom's car as it squealed out of the driveway. Her taillights shrank away to nothing at the end of our street, and my dad just sat like a lump on the front bumper of The Roast.

“Where's she going?” I said. “What did you say to her?”

While Dad perched there noiseless with his head bowed, Toodi Bleu Skies took off for the ocean, without even one piddly wave to spare for me.