Nest (21 page)

“Two hundred degrees,” Mom says, walking into
the front hall from the living room. She’s got lines in her forehead like she’s trying hard to figure something out.

“I can’t tell you how good it felt, driving home, to know that when I opened the door, you’d be here,” Dad says quietly to Mom, standing close and handing her the roses.

“Oh,” Mom says, “thank you, Sy.” She holds the roses in her arms like they’re someone else’s baby with a dirty diaper.

“They’re pretty,” Rachel says.

“Wow,” I say.

Mom just stands there.

“They’re really, really pretty,” I say.

Mom stares at the roses, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Here,” Dad says, lifting the roses out of Mom’s arms and giving them to Rachel, “go and put these in water for your mother.”

“No!” Mom says, way too loud. “I need to take care of things myself!” She snatches the roses back from Rachel, who flinches like she’s just been creamed by a snowball. Mom hurries to the kitchen, holding the roses out in front of her, like she’s worried someone’s going to steal them back.

“Dad?” Rachel says in a small scared voice.

“Just give her a little time,” Dad says. “Mom needs some time to settle back in.”

I’m still holding the pizza box. I’m supposed to put
it in the oven at 200 degrees. “Oh, honey,” Dad says. “It’s fine. You can go into the kitchen.”

I do my heel-toe Pocahontas walk so I won’t bother Mom. I don’t leap and I don’t sing and I don’t whistle. I just carry the pizza right to the oven, stick it in, and turn the temperature to 200 degrees.

Mom’s got two vases out, the bumpy orange glass one and the white ceramic one. “Hmmm,” she says, “I wonder which vase they’ll look best in.” She smiles at the vases. She smiles at the roses. She smiles at me, as if nothing just happened.

“To having Mom home,” Dad says, lifting his wineglass.

We all clink.

Dad smiles. Mom smiles. Rachel smiles. I smile.

“Great pizza,” Mom says.

“Really great,” Rachel says.

“There’s plenty,” Dad says.

“Good,” Mom says.

“Great,” Rachel says.

I pile my pepperoni up in a stack. I like to save it for last.

“So?” Mom says.

“Well,” Rachel says. She’s staring at her plate.

“Really good pizza,” Dad says.

“Delicious,” Mom says.

If we put music on, it would feel more like a pizza party. If we put music on, I could listen to it and not have to figure out what the right thing is to say to Mom at our second dinner together in 106 days.

“Okay,” Mom says.

We’re all very busy chewing and swallowing. Mom’s smiling at her plate. Rachel’s smiling at her plate. Dad must be jiggling his foot, because if you watch really closely, you can see the table shake.

“Okay,” Mom finally says, “catch me up. I want to know everything.”

Last night we just talked about stuffed clams and how tired Mom was.

“Well,” Rachel says, “I don’t really know. Everything’s fine, I guess.”

“Tell me about school,” Mom says. “How are your teachers?”

“Okay,” Rachel says.

“Just okay?” Mom asks.

“Fine, they’re fine,” Rachel says. She’s running her hands through her hair, and no one tells her to stop, even though she’s probably getting pizza juice in it.

“Tell Mom about what Mr. Henderson said,” Dad says.

“Mr. Henderson?” Rachel says.

“About your math ability,” Dad says.

“That was, like, forever ago, Dad,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t even remember.”

Mom looks at her plate. Her face is red. “I’m so sorry, honey,” she says. “I was gone too long, and I’m—”

“Oh, wait,” Rachel says, “I just remembered.” She’s red, too, because she didn’t really not remember, she was just giving Dad a hard time, and now she’s made Mom feel bad for being gone. “He said I have a great sense of numbers and a head for the big concepts.”

“Wow,” Mom says. “That’s terrific.”

“Isn’t it?” Dad says.

Mom nods. She turns to me.

I don’t want to talk about Miss Gallagher.

“Mom,” I say, thinking fast, “did they have a party for you?”

“A party?” Mom looks confused.

“To say good-bye and good luck. You know, with treats and stuff.”

“No, honey, there wasn’t a party,” Mom says.

“C’mon, Chirp,” Rachel says, all whispery-mad. “Maybe Mom doesn’t want to talk about—”

“No,” Dad interrupts in a strong voice. “It’s very important that you girls feel like you can ask Mom about her experience away.”

“Yes, you can ask me anything,” Mom says quietly. She looks at Dad, like she’s a little girl. He nods and smiles at her like
Good job
.

“I’m cool,” Rachel says.

“No questions at all?” Dad asks.

“No questions at all,” Rachel says. She’s holding on
to the table with both hands, like maybe she might just float up to the ceiling and drift out of the room on invisible air currents like a red-tailed hawk.

Mom looks at me. “I know
you
have questions, Chirpie.” She smiles a tired smile. “Ask away.”

“It’s good to have questions,” Dad says.

They’re waiting. I’m supposed to have questions. I close my eyes and remember the pink lady and the long hallway with shining floors and the café filled with nutbars.

“Were you and the cowboy friends?” I ask.

Mom smiles. Dad smiles, too. “No, not friends,” Mom says, “but friendly enough.”

“Did he always wear that hat?” I ask.

“I think he probably slept in it,” Mom says.

Everyone laughs, even Rachel.

“What else?” Mom asks.

“Did you like the pie?” I ask.

“Pie?”

“The lemon meringue pie,” I say.

“That we made for you,” Rachel says.

“For Thanksgiving,” I say.

“You made me a pie?” Mom is teasing us.

“Mom,” I say, giggling, “just tell us if you liked the pie.”

Mom looks at me. She keeps her serious face on.

I stare back at her. I wait for her to start laughing and tell us that it was the best pie she ever tasted in her whole life and she licked the pie dish when no
one was looking and didn’t share any with anyone, not even one crumb with Marcy.

“It’s okay, Hannah,” Dad says.

“Oh, my God,” Mom says. She covers her face with her hands.

Rachel glares at Dad. Her hand is in a fist.

Mom’s shaking her head.

She doesn’t remember. Mom doesn’t remember us giving her the pie.

“Some memory loss isn’t uncommon after all Mom has been through,” Dad says.

“I’m so sorry, girls,” Mom says. Now she’s crying.

“It’s okay, Mom,” I say, but it’s not. My mouth feels gross, like I’ve been swallowing marsh water. All through dinner I’ve been waiting to eat my pepperoni, but now I wish we had a dog so I could drop the pepperoni under the table and watch him chomp it down and whisper to him
Good fella, that’s a good boy
.

“Today is our first lesson in our new unit on health and hygiene,” Miss Gallagher says. “Next year you’ll be learning more, but it’s time for you to have an introduction to this topic now.” Miss Gallagher looks like she’s trying not to do the fifty-yard dash right out of the classroom. She’s pink and twitchy and keeps twirling a clump of her thin, straight hair around her
finger. “Can anyone tell me what
hygiene
means?” She gives us a smile, as if it might trick us into not noticing how wigged-out she is.

“It’s what you say to your friend Jean when you see her,” Lisa B. says. “Hi, Jean!” she says to Debbie, waving her hand and giggling her head off.

“Hi, Jean!” Debbie says, waving back. She’s laughing even harder than Lisa B.

“Girls!” Miss Gallagher says.

“Hi, Gene!” Joey says, waving to Sean.

“Hi, Gene!” Sean says, waving to Joey.

“Boys!” Miss Gallagher says. She takes a deep breath. She closes her eyes for just a second. When she opens them, she says, “Let’s see,” in her sugary voice, looking around the classroom. “Claire, will you please look up the word
hygiene
in the dictionary?”

We all whisper, “Hi, Jean!” as Claire walks by our desks on her way to the bookshelf, but Miss Gallagher pretends that she can’t hear us. While Claire is looking up the definition, Sean raises his hand.

“Yes, Sean.”

“Isn’t this when you teach us about—”

“Stop it, Sean,” Lori says. “You’re so disgusting.”

“—doing it?” Sean says, cracking up.

“Doing what?” Dawn asks.

“Oh, my gosh. She isn’t serious, is she?” Lori whispers to Debbie, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Claire, please read us the definition,” Miss Gallagher says, as if nothing is going on.

“Hygiene: conditions or practices conducive to health,”
Claire reads.

“So,” Miss Gallagher explains, “hygiene is what you do to take good care of your body. Does anyone have any examples?”

Joey starts humming the tune to
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout, your body turns to ghastly green and pus comes out like thick whipped cream
.

“Gross!” Lori and Debbie say at the same time, but they’re giggling.

“And I forgot my spoooooon,” Joey sings under his breath.

“Joey, enough!” Miss Gallagher says. “Let’s try this again,” she says. “Who can tell me one practice of good hygiene?”

Sean raises his hand. Miss Gallagher pretends she doesn’t see him. She looks around at all of us, hoping one of us has an answer. No other hands go up.

“Okay, Sean,” she says quietly. She’s staring at the clock above the blackboard as if she wishes she could fast-forward it to three o’clock.

“One practice of good hygiene is not to eat your booger snots,” he says.

“Or anyone else’s,” Tommy whispers.

“Gross!” Debbie says. “That’s so unbelievably disgusting.”

“Enough!” Miss Gallagher
whump
s her hand down
on her hip, and her stomach jiggles under her tight red jersey.

“Ooh! Ooh!” Joey’s raising his hand, waving it around. “I have something important to add.”

“Joey,” Miss Gallagher says in a mean voice to shut him up.

“No, really,” Joey says. “It’s about snot, I mean
mucus
, and hygiene.” Joey isn’t fooling around. He wants to tell everyone what he already told me about how snot keeps germs from entering your body.

“One more word and you’re all going to put your heads down on the desks,” Miss Gallagher says. “If you’re going to behave like kindergarteners, I’m going to treat you like kindergartners.”

“But it’s about germs and—”

“Okay,” Miss Gallagher says. “Thanks to Joey it’s now officially nap time. Heads down on the desks like you’re in kindergarten. I had hoped that you could behave like sixth graders, but obviously you can’t.”

“There’s a fungus among us,” Joey mumbles, which is funny, but Miss Gallagher doesn’t think so, and she smacks her attendance book down on her desk really hard to prove it.

Actually, this doesn’t feel like punishment. My arms on the desk make a little nest for my face, and it’s snuggy warm when I breathe. I’m wearing my purple Danskin shirt, and it’s smooth and soft against my cheek. Gulls just lay their eggs right on
rocks or the bare ground. Woodpeckers make their nests in rotten tree trunks or limbs. Kingfishers dig nests into the sand.

“Hey, Chirp,” Joey whispers.

It’s the first time he’s said my name since Mom came home.

“Hey,” I whisper back.

“Nice move, bowels,” he says.

“What?”

“It’s your fault.”

Miss Gallagher stands up from her desk. “I’m
not
hearing any talking during nap time, am I?”

I don’t trust Joey not to get me into trouble, so I try closing my eyes. What I see behind my eyelids is mostly fuzzy gray with blurry bits of white, like stars poking their light through a hazy night sky. Eagles, hawks, and owls have three eyelids. An upper lid. A lower lid. And a third lid called a nictitating membrane that’s like a thin skin they can pull over their eyeballs so the wind and the sun don’t bug them when they fly.

“Hey, stinky,” Joey whispers.

I don’t open my eyes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hear him.

“I gave it back,” he whispers.

I know I should ignore him.

“Gave what back?”

“Figure it out.”

Miss Gallagher is walking around the classroom. I
can hear her heels
plick plick
on the floor. When the sound stops, I open my eyes.

Joey’s staring at me. He won’t stop staring. I close my eyes again, but I can still feel him, like a water pistol aimed right at my face.

“Cut it out,” I whisper.

“You stinker,” he whispers. “She who dealt ’em …”

Something smells bad, but I know I’m just imagining it. I bury my face in my sleeve and try to imagine that my purple shirt smells like damson plum jam. Mom likes damson plum jam even better than marmalade.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Joey says.

He’s freaking me out. I need to get away from him, but I don’t know if we’re allowed to go to the girls’ room during nap time. I raise my hand. Miss Gallagher is correcting papers at her desk and doesn’t see me.