Wherever You Go
Authors: Heather Davis
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Family, #Multigenerational, #Health & Daily Living, #Diseases; Illnesses & Injuries, #Love & Romance, #Social Issues, #Death & Dying, #Depression & Mental Illness, #Suicide
Copyright © 2011 by Heather Davis
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from
this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
Harcourt is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
Text set in Garamond
Book design by Susanna Vagt
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Davis, Heather, 1970-
Wherever you go / Heather Davis.
p. cm.
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Holly Mullen, overwhelmed with responsibility
at home, grieving over her boyfriend Rob's tragic death, and confused by the sudden
attention of his best friend, Jason, is further upset when her Alzheimer's-stricken
Papa Aldo claims to be having conversations with Rob's ghost.
ISBN 978-0-547-50151-2
[1. Caregivers—Fiction. 2. Family life—Washington (State)—Seattle—Fiction. 3.
Ghosts—Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Single-parent families—
Fiction. 6. Alzheimer's disease—Fiction. 7. Seattle (Wash.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.D28845Whe 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2011009595
Manufactured in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500320675
For teens everywhere who are caring for their family members,
when their only job should be growing up.
Chapter OneAnd for my grandpa, Darrell Lee, who showed me the
meaning of true love every morning when he crossed
the parking lot of the care facility to sit with
my grandmother, Anna Ruth.
You've been by her side for six months, but she hasn't noticed you. Still, you slip into her mother's sixth-floor apartment and keep her company while she eats her kid sister's sugary cereal in the dark kitchen. And you're there with her as she gets books from her locker in Hallway C. Sometimes her gaze wanders to the picture of you taped below the vents. You're on her mind in the seconds before she slams the door shut.
You pacify yourself with the thought that all this is for a reason. That one day she'll sense your presence. Feel you watching over her. That she'll see you. Finally.
At this very moment, Holly sits on a bench beneath a sea of windows in the Downtown Seattle library—so close you could almost reach out and touch her, smell the sweet scent of her hair. You've been spending moments of this otherwise meandering afternoon watching her turn pages of the Toni Morrison book she's reading for school. It's almost like really being there. Almost like being together.
Underneath the chatter of two girls near the copy machine and the whirring hum of the escalator, you can hear the beating of her heart. It's as loud as if you were sitting on Holly's bed, holding her in your arms like you used to. Absently, she tucks a stray strand of her light brown bangs behind an ear and turns another page.
You wish your sense of touch was still active, so that you could run your fingers through her soft hair. If only. The closeness is maddening. You're so full of the desire to be seen, you must be freaking glowing.
I'm here.
You try to reach her with mental tricks, with all your powers of concentration, with all your love distilled into a single thought.
See me.
Holly raises her head, and for an instant, just a nanosecond, your heart swells with hope. She glances around as if someone had called her name, but then the moment passes and she slips back into her page turning. You're alone, again.
It's bluish late afternoon outside as the spring rain begins to pound against the wall of windows.
I'm here,
you whisper into her ear again—even if she's not listening.
I'm still here.
***
"Holly, I brought home pizza," Mom called from the living room.
I closed the door behind me, grateful to be home out of the downpour. The bus ride had seemed longer that night, the damp passengers smelling like wet hair and wool, the warmth of a Northwest spring not helping matters at all.
I abandoned my backpack full of books beneath the hallway table. As I hung my jacket on the rack, a pink raincoat printed with dancing kitties fell to the floor. Typical of this place—there were too many coats and not enough pegs. I jammed the slicker back on the rack and followed the smell of dinner.
My family was sitting on the worn brown couch, eating from paper plates. Some tired sitcom was on, the laugh track blaring as the stupid dad character tripped over a bucket of paint.
"I was going to make spaghetti tonight," I said.
"Honey, take a night off. Enjoy the pizza." Mom gave me a tired smile as she abandoned a piece of doughy crust on her plate. She was wearing her uniform for the evening shift at the grocery store: a green polo shirt and khaki slacks. Her hair hung in a perfect ponytail, the kind my wavy hair never made.
"It's my favorite—pepp-e-roni," chimed in my sister, Lena. She had red sauce smeared around her lips and a string of cheese draped on the front of her tee, which for her was pretty neat eating.
"'Kay. Pizza's great, thanks," I said, plopping down onto the couch.
Mom sank back into the cushions as I took a slice from the greasy box and put it on a napkin. "So, how are you?" she asked. "Everything go all right this afternoon?"
"Fine," I mumbled, biting into the pizza. The cheeighza. These was slightly cold and chewy, but it still tasted pretty good.
"Hmm." Her lips pressed together, and I could tell she was thinking hard.
I set down my pizza and reached for a cola from the six-pack on the coffee table. "I think I'm probably done with them. It's not—"
"What does the counselor say?"
Right, the counselor—Dr. Martinson, or something like that. I could hardly remember the woman's name, since for over a month now I'd been going to the library on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, instead of the community center. "She doesn't really say anything, Mom." I cracked the cola open and took a big swig.
"Well, counselors in those kinds of groups are more about listening. They're there to encourage you to talk about your grief, to let you get it all out."
"It's out."
Mom's eyes were fixed on mine. "What are you doing, quitting the group?"
I didn't want to tell her the truth, so I just ignored her and chewed my slice.
"That's a conversation for another day, I guess." Mom set her plate of crusts on the coffee table, and clicked mute on the TV remote.
Lena emitted a nine-year-old's growl. "Hey! I was watching that."
"I know, honey. I want to discuss something with you two."
Discuss
was one of my mom's favorite words, but it really didn't mean "discuss." We didn't discuss much of anything in this family. When Mom decided something, it happened.
"I really want to watch my show. It's getting to the good part," Lena whined.
"This will only take a moment," Mom said, patting my sister's dark hair. "And this affects Holiday more than you."
Holiday.
It was never good news when Mom used my whole name. I'd gone by Holly since I was in second grade and realized that holiday wasn't a normal name, it was a day off.
"Mom, I told you I don't want to talk about the group."
"This is not about that." She turned toward me, her eyes serious. "Your Uncle Frank called me today. He's really worried about Grandpa Aldo. It's kind of sudden, but Frank and I think that, well, maybe Grandpa could come live with us for a while."
Lena smiled widely. "He always gives me butterscotch candies."
"What do you think?" Mom was focused on me, waiting for my reaction.
But I was running through the scenario in my head. Lena and I were going to have t wang to ho cram into one room if Grandpa Aldo moved in. Though it had three bedrooms, our apartment was on the small side: tiny living room, kitchen, one bath. It was going to feel smaller.
"Holiday, he's alone in that apartment he moved to after Grandma died, and he's starting to need more help. He can't move down to Tacoma with Uncle Frank, because there's not enough room. And Grandpa's insurance isn't enough to pay for in-home care, and I can't..." Mom's voice got really quiet. "I can't put my father in a nursing home. We couldn't afford it, anyway."
I knew it was true that we didn't have the money, because I helped Mom write out the bills and balance her checkbook each month. We were barely making it as it was.
"I don't get it," Lena said, chewing thoughtfully on a stray piece of pepperoni. "Is he sick?"
"Yes, honey. He's starting to forget things. He can't live alone anymore. It's too dangerous."
"Is he gonna get better?" asked Lena.
"No, baby. They don't think so."
"I'm sorry." I put my arm around my mom. She seemed small, hunched there on the couch. Her lips were quivering like she was on the verge of losing it.
"Don't cry, Mom." Lena patted Mom on the knee and then turned back toward the silent sitcom.
Mom sniffed loudly, trying to pull it all together. "Geez, that was a downer. Sorry, girls." She sat up straighter on the couch and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. "I'd be counting on you," she said, turning to me. "With the hours I'm working, you'd be home with Lena and Grandpa a lot."
I shrugged. It wasn't like I could say no.
"I know it's been hard for you lately, after Rob," Mom said. "I wouldn't ask you to help with this if I had another choice."
"Well, I'm sure we'll make it work." I put on a smile, for my mom's sake.
"I hoped that's what you'd say." She stood up from the couch, brushing crumbs from her lap onto the rug, which needed to be vacuumed anyway. "I've got to get going, kiddos. Lena, you be good."
My sister barely looked away from the muted TV, but she grunted in the affirmative. Mom brushed kisses across both our foreheads and then took off for work.
The so-called discussion was over, but I finished it in my head.
Sure, Mom—I'll take it on. I'll take care of Aldo. I'll take care of Lena and you. Everything will be just fine.
Jason Markham couldn't help noticing her. Holly, with shiny, light brown hair and the brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen.
Rob's Holly.
He saw her across the chem lab from him every morning during second period. Noticed her eating lunch with sa lunch her friend Marisa every day. Sometimes saw her catching the city bus after school was out, a faraway expression on her face. Several times, he'd meant to say something, had actually walked up to talk to her and then chickened out or had sensed her turning away as he approached. This was different from just talking to some random girl. What he wanted to say, what he had to say, was something hard. Something that had been tumbling around in his mind for months.
Now here she was, sitting on a metal bench at the park with an old guy in a gray cap and a little girl, who was moving the handles of her beat-up scooter, making the tassels swirl in the light breeze. Holly had her nose in a book, and the sun was making her squint. He wondered why she hadn't brought shades with her on such a sunny Saturday.