Almost There and Almost Not, page 10
Naomi nodded to Salma, and without them having to say any words to each other, Salma knew what her mama meant and dragged me back to the EMPLOYEES ONLY room and showed me this big brick of clay—big enough for a dozen pots and hard as a frozen meatloaf.
“There’s a whole bunch of senior ladies coming in a half hour,” Salma said. “I’m supposed to soften this up for them.”
And then she showed me how to do that.
How to drop the clay on the table
and pound it down with your fists
and fold it over
and pound it again
and again
and again.
Turns out, I’m real good at softening clay bricks.
Good enough that when Naomi came into the EMPLOYEES ONLY room and saw what I’d done, she said that thing again about me working there someday and how I could stay and help with the senior ladies if I wanted.
“I can’t,” I said, “I have to go.” Took a couple of steps toward the door then, too, but Salma stopped me.
“You can’t go without your pot,” she said.
I told her it was okay, I didn’t need that pot anymore.
Truth was, I didn’t feel like smashing things anymore.
I didn’t feel like anything.
“I don’t have room in my boxes for it,” I told her. “I don’t know what I’d do with it.”
But Salma’d tucked around a corner shelf and was already heading back to me. She was holding this big, lumpy cocoon-looking thing—a swaddle of newspaper and tape. “We were going to mail it to you,” Salma said. “Mom wrapped it up so it wouldn’t break.”
And then she set the swaddled-up pot in my arms, gentle as if it were a living thing.
It was heavier than it looked.
More solid, too.
For half a second I feared I’d drop it, which right then was the last thing I wanted.
I was not going to smash that pot.
I was not going to leave it behind, either.
I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but feeling the weight of this thing I’d made in my arms, I knew for sure I wasn’t going to leave it behind.
“Open it,” Salma said. “It came out great. You should see it.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see it.
It wasn’t.
It’s just, Naomi’d gone to all the trouble of swaddling it and taping it, and it was protected, is all.
“I’ll see it later,” I said.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” Salma said. Sounded like she meant it.
“You will always be welcome,” Naomi said. She meant it too, I could tell. Even if I was dumb or troublesome or set to detonate, Naomi was saying I was welcome.
And then, for a second, I thought she was going to hug me, but turned out she was meaning to pat the pot in my arms instead. Still, Naomi looked at me straight on, in that mom way I’d seen her look at Salma.
“Take care,” she said.
I still don’t know if she meant for me to take care of me or for me to take care of the pot, but right then, with that pot all swaddled and hugged up safe, I couldn’t help remembering what Salma said about things we make having a little bit of us mixed up in them, and it felt like maybe there wasn’t much difference.
42
When I got back to Aunt Monica’s, the Garden Goddesses truck was gone.
I opened the house door real careful and went straight to the guest room and set the swaddled pot gentle on the guest room bed, between a pillow and one of Kate Ruby’s tampon boxes. Thought about opening it to look inside, but then, just like that, Elsie was there.
“Your aunt’s out back,” she told me. “She’s been talking on that telephone thing of hers all afternoon, but I didn’t get near enough to hear a word, I swear.”
You might find it hard to believe, but ever since Salma handed me that swaddle, I’d almost forgotten about Aunt Isabelle telling Aunt Monica all those things about me.
“You think she’s still talking to Aunt Isabelle?” I asked.
“I told you I didn’t listen.” Elsie sounded a little miffed. “I keep my promises, you know.”
I told her I believed her.
“Okay,” Elsie said. She fiddled with her apron then. Fussed with her hair a little, too. “But… well… I didn’t hear a word, but I did kind of hear the way she was talking. You know how if you listen at a hotel door, you can’t really hear what people are saying, but you can tell if they’re happy or angry or wishing they were someplace else?”
I’ve never even been inside a hotel, but I’d heard enough through the walls at my dad’s to understand. I nodded. “Did she sound angry?” I asked.
“She sounded like she was making plans.”
I didn’t say anything after that. What was there worth saying? I was pretty sure Elsie knew as well as I did that Aunt Monica was making plans to send me back to Isabelle’s. Probably helping Isabelle figure out where to send me after that.
“Your dad didn’t tell you he was going to a… what’d she say? Center?” Elsie said when the quiet got to be too much.
“I think Aunt Isabelle meant a rehab center or something like that,” I said. “And no, he didn’t.”
Elsie nodded. “Is he mean when he drinks? Your dad?”
I told her he wasn’t. That he was a good dad and a kind dad, but he wasn’t always a right-there-when-you-needed-him sort.
“You miss him?” she asked.
“I do,” I said. “A lot. You miss your dad?”
“Not a lick. Don’t miss anybody back home, except Oakley.”
I remembered Eleanor mentioning somebody named Oakley before. “Was he a friend at school?” I asked.
Elsie laughed. “Oakley was my dog. Best dog you ever met, too. Sweet and soft and smart as smart.”
I know you figured it out already.
Truth is, I had too. I just hadn’t wanted to.
I can believe a lot of dumb things if I want to, is what I’m saying.
Like an aunt might not read my letters if I asked her not to,
or a dad might be going to Alaska just to do some fishing,
or rainbows might mean I belonged in a place,
or an almost-there dog might show up among the garden flowers just to be with me.
“He could sit and stay and roll over and play dead,” Elsie went on. “He’d shake and bark on command, and he could jump through hoops, too, like it was nothing.”
She said it like she could still see him doing those things. Like she was still with him. Like being there with him was the only real thing in her world, and I swear, for a minute, she was solid as you or me. “I could have stayed with that pup all day, every day, if it weren’t for needing to hide him from my pa,” she said. “Every time I left to do chores or go to school, I felt bad about it, but I promised Oakley I’d be back, and sure enough, next day I’d find him there, waiting. I’ll tell you what, California, I’d go back home in an instant if I could see Oakley again. It’s the one thing I feel sort of bad about.”
Elsie had a truly sad look on her face that I hadn’t seen before. Not even when she was Eleanor. “It wasn’t your fault that you had to leave,” I told her.
Elsie said a curse word then, which I know her Eleanor self wouldn’t have approved of. “I didn’t even know I was leaving. Pa told me to chase Oakley off, but I hadn’t done it yet, and when he called me to the wagon, I told Oakley, ‘Stay,’ and promised I’d come right back, but I didn’t. I got in Pa’s wagon and he drove me here, and you know the rest.”
I did.
I knew more of the rest than she did.
“I never did have time to tell him what a good dog he was or to say good-bye or thank you,” Elsie said. “Wish I could have said thank you. Seems only—”
“Proper,” we said at the same time.
“If I’d known it was going to be the last time I’d see him,” Elsie said, “I’d have said something different, you know?”
I did know.
“What would you have said?” I asked her. “If you had the chance?”
“I’d have said he was the best dog ever. I’d have said I loved him. I’d have told him to go on and have fun and meet some other kid who could feed him and play with him and teach him new tricks.”
I nodded.
“I’d have told him that the best days I ever had were right there in our yard, just me and him, and that I’d never forget him and… this is going to sound selfish,” Elsie said.
I didn’t say anything then, but I looked at her straight on, like Naomi and Salma had looked at me, so she’d know I wasn’t judging her or anything.
“I’d have told him I hoped he’d have a good life but that he wouldn’t forget me either.”
“He didn’t,” I said.
“How do you know?” Elsie asked, and not in an argument way, more like she hoped I knew something truer than she did.
Now it was my turn for feeling selfish.
I could have told her right then about Dog being in the yard.
I could have said I knew he hadn’t forgotten her. That ever since I got here—maybe even before that—he’d been out in the backyard waiting just for her. That he was probably waiting just for her right then.
I could have.
Except doing so, I feared, would dust her.
And dusting her one more time, I was coming to feel, might be dusting her for the last time too.
43
You ever fall asleep without knowing it?
Like have you ever been in the backseat on a long car ride with the windows rolled down and the world rushing by and your mom in the front seat humming that song about California girls and you’re humming too, and then, just like that, it’s dark outside and the air is still, and you’re waking up in your own driveway?
And have you ever pretended you were still asleep just so your mom would lift you up out of that car and carry you inside and snug you up in your bed, all the time whispering how if you were awake, she’d tell you how sweet you are and how smart and how good, and humming that same song over and over again?
And you ever wake up the next morning, still in your clothes, still hearing that song, but wondering anyway if every last thing you remember was just some dream you wished into dreaming?
Anyway, I must have fallen asleep even before supper, because next thing I knew, Aunt Monica was tapping on the guest room door and light was coming weak in through the window and it was morning. The pink flower quilt had been laid overtop of me, and Ms. Kate Ruby’s tampon boxes had been moved to the desk, but the swaddled pot was still in my arms, and I was hugging it tight like a little kid does a stuffed animal friend.
“California?” Aunt Monica said through the door, almost whispering, almost not. “California? There are bagels on the counter for your breakfast. Bradley’s going to take me to the doctor’s, but as soon as this is off”—I imagined her doing that game show wave around her cast—“I’ll be back, and then we can go downtown for our day, okay?”
I believe I said okay. Hard to tell.
“I have a couple of other errands while we’re down there,” she said. “And… well, there are some things we should talk about.”
I probably said okay about that, too, even though it wasn’t.
“Can you be ready to go when I get back?”
I told her I could be ready to go.
That much I’m sure about.
44
Dear Bella,
Maybe it seems strange that I’m writing to you, given the kind of trouble it’s gotten me into, but I figure with my hormones and my girl things and everything else, I’ve got trouble built in anyway. Mostly, though, I don’t want Aunt Isabelle being the one putting an end to things instead of me, and seeing as I’m probably going to have to go back there any day now, or to some other aunt’s or stranger’s or who knows where, I’m not sure my future holds any kind of privacy at all for saying what I need to.
Plus, I’m down to my last few sheets of gray-lined paper. Nearly out of ink, too.
So this is a good-bye letter. See, all those times before—like when my mom died and my dad left and even when Aunt Isabelle dropped me off here—I didn’t know enough to say a proper good-bye. This time I want it to be different, though. This time I know what’s coming and I have a chance to say what needs saying first.
There’s no such thing as a good-bye letter in Proper Letters for Proper Ladies, by the way, but there is a whole section about the close, which is that part of a regular letter where you put an end to things, writing “Sincerely” or “Gratefully” or “Affectionately,” but never, Eleanor says, “Warmly yours,” which is vulgar and sounds like you’re just begging an excuse to take off your wrap.
If you’re writing to somebody important, like the President, you can say “Your most obedient servant” at the end, or “Yours faithfully” or “Yours very truly” or “Believe me.” Doesn’t tell how to say good-bye to somebody important who is not like the President. I looked.
Anyway, I know you’re not real or anything, but when I wrote to you all those times before, it felt like you were real and like you were listening and almost like, sometimes, I could imagine you writing me back, telling me what I should do about things.
Like right now I can imagine you writing me back, saying how if I have only a little bit of paper left, maybe I should be brave and write to someone real—
* * *
Dear Ms. Kate Ruby,
Thank you for the tampons and pads and for the very nice letter. I’m not sure I would like to work at a tampon company, no offense, but if I ever change my mind, it is good to know who to talk to about career opportunities. I hope you and your team keep working on those ideas, especially the one about having boys watch the movies.
Sincerely,
California Poppy
* * *
Dear Miss Tenzing,
I have been reading a book called Proper Letters for Proper Ladies that says failing to thank someone properly for a kindness tells a lot more about a person than the clothes they wear or their addresses they keep. My address keeps changing and some of my clothes are too small, but I know you never did judge me, and I want to thank you for that and for seeing the eleven in me, and the smart in me, and maybe even the thank-you-writing person in me.
I know on the last day of school I wasn’t so nice. I saw you saying good-bye and giving out hugs to all the other kids, and right then I did want a hug and I didn’t want to say good-bye and I couldn’t figure out how to get one without the other, I guess. Anyway, thank you for everything, and if ever I do see you again, I will say good-bye properly, and if you want to hug me then, that would be okay.
Sincerely,
California Poppy
* * *
Dear Salma,
Thank you for teaching me how to make a coil pot and how to put glaze on it and how to help with birthday parties. I wish I could go to Abbot Middle School with you and look over the heads of people for you, and if you needed the Heimlich, I hope you know I would give it to you before Franklin Furwort had a chance. Thank you for saying you are my friend, and for taking more than five seconds to make it true.
You’re smart, so probably you already know this, but people don’t always get to choose whether they leave or stay in a place, but just because they have to leave where you are doesn’t mean they wouldn’t rather be with you.
Believe me,
California Poppy
* * *
Dear Aunt Monica,
By the time you get this letter, I’ll be living somewhere else, I figure. I hope we had a nice in-person good-bye, but sometimes I’m not so good about saying out loud what I should or shouldn’t, so it seems like putting it on paper is best.
This is not a thank-you note, by the way. This is a full and proper thank-you letter, and even though it might not be as long as it should be, seeing as I have only one piece of paper left, I want you to know that I understand the breadth of your generosity and how truly blessed I’ve been.
You have a nice, safe house, and the guest room lots of times felt like it was my very own. I liked making mushroom-meatloaf noodles with you, and I liked working on IMPORTANT—FAMILY with you and being a part of your purpose. Thank you for letting me stay with you while you had your cast on. I hope it doesn’t sound mean, but I wish you could have your cast on a lot longer. Forever, maybe.
Yours faithfully,
California Poppy
PS—In Proper Letters for Proper Ladies, Eleanor says don’t bother writing an apology letter if you can’t take responsibility for your actions and if you aren’t truly sorry. Which is why this is not an apology letter.
I packed up my boxes this morning, and when I did, I put a copy of Proper Letters for Proper Ladies inside, which I guess is like stealing. I take responsibility for that. But I’m not truly sorry. It’s just that somebody I know says that every time you make something, you put some of yourself in it, and I can’t help feeling like there’s a little bit of Eleanor in this book, which might sound dumb to you but I don’t think it is. Anyway, as you might have noticed, I’m not so good at saying good-bye, and I’m not ready for saying a complete good-bye to Eleanor just yet.
45
Bradley pulled up into the driveway, dropped Aunt Monica off, and then backed up fast like he was afraid she’d break her arm again if he stayed too long.
Aunt Monica waved her cast-free hand. Her arm was pale and wrinkled and scrawny-looking, and for a second I thought she was going to tell me she’d be needing me to stay put for a while longer until she got back up to full strength, but then she said, “Are you ready to go?”
“Almost,” I said.
I found Elsie on the back porch, sitting on the swing, eyes closed. The sky was starting to cloud, but the sun was strong enough to shine her face up, and even though she was a whole lot younger than she had been the first time I met her, she looked just as worn out. You’re going to think I’m rude, but I didn’t say anything for a bit. Just stood there watching her, hoping later I’d remember what she looked like composed this way.
