Family Storms (19 page)

Toward the end of the summer, Dr. Milan finally took off the cast, and I felt like a prisoner who had been unchained. But I was walking with a limp. The doctor said I would for a while, if not forever. Still, I was so happy not to have something attached to my body that I almost didn't care. Suddenly, the world seemed bright again, and hope dared show its face on my horizon. How I wished Mama would have lived to see my recuperation.

On the way back from Dr. Milan's office, I told Mrs. March that I had finally decided what to have written on my mother's tombstone. From the way she reacted, I had the feeling she thought I had completely forgotten about it.

“Oh, you have? Why, that's very nice, Sasha. What have you decided?”

“Under her name and the dates of her birth and death, I want to write ‘who showed her daughter a little bit of heaven.'”

I could see she didn't fully understand. How could I want to write something like that after being on the streets for nearly a year before her death?

“I don't know if it can be done,” I added, “but I'd like to see her calligraphy of the word
heaven
right under that.”

“Oh. Oh, yes,” she said, now realizing why I wanted that. “That work she has on that bar's wall. How clever. Well, we'll just find someone who can get it done for us. Do you think that calligraphy is still on the bar wall?”

“I don't know. I saw it only once when she took me there to see it.”

“Of course. How stupid of me to ask. How would you know, after all? I'll make some calls when we get home,” she said. “But right now, I thought I'd have Grover drive us to your new school so you can see it. It won't be long before you'll be attending. Mrs. Kepler says you're ready for day one right now.”

I sat back, nervous and excited. I used to love school. Before Mama and I ended up on the streets, it was a wonderful escape from the dreariness of the life we were living. Even when my girlfriends stopped including me in things, I still enjoyed being in my classes. The girls I used to consider my closest friends had still talked to me. They just didn't suggest anything that would bring us together after school, and then, when they learned that Mama and I had lost our apartment and were living in a hotel room, they had even stopped talking to me unless I spoke to them, and even then, they would answer quickly and look to get away. It was as if they thought what was happening to me and Mama was as infectious as some terrible disease. In the end, I almost didn't mind not attending school.

When we made a turn and Mrs. March said, “Here we are,” I thought she was mistaken. All I saw were beautiful green lawns, trees, and bushes, but then the building just at the top of a small incline appeared. Right at the bottom was the sign, “Pacifica Junior-Senior High School.”

“Turn in, please, Grover,” she told him, and we started up the driveway. It wasn't like any school building I had seen, and it looked very new. Everything around
it sparkled. Our building at my old school had graffiti smeared on some of the walls, and almost as quickly as it was removed, it reappeared. The windows never looked as clear and as clean as the ones in this building. The frames here looked freshly painted.

The building had two floors, and as we drew closer, I realized it was in an L shape. Off to the right, I could see the ball fields. One had goals for field hockey or soccer, and the other was a baseball field. There was a parking lot on the left with only a half-dozen cars in it.

“The school has a very nice cafeteria and tables outside if you want to eat your lunch outdoors,” Mrs. March began. “At the rear to the left is the gymnasium, and right next to that is the theater.”

“Theater?”

“Well, it's a really small theater, but it's equipped with the most up-to-date sound system. I should tell you now that Donald's … our company … built this school.”

“He builds schools, too?”

“Just this one,” she said, laughing. “It was almost done as a favor. A group of well-to-do people, including two state senators, decided to establish it about twelve years ago and practically begged Donald to take charge of construction. So, if you hear Kiera tell people that it's her school, that's what she means. Actually,” she added after a moment's thought, “I think she believes it really is her school.”

“How many students go to it?”

“I think it's just less than three hundred now. It's only for grades seven to twelve. There's a sort of sister elementary school that both Alena and Kiera attended. I'm sure
you'll love it here. The classes aren't very big, so you'll get lots of personal attention.”

Grover stopped, and I gazed out at it all.

“It looks better than any school I've ever seen,” I said.

“The principal is a very nice woman named Dr. Steiner. She has a doctorate in education and has been the principal since the school was established. You're in Mr. Hoffman's homeroom class, and he's your math teacher, as well. I made sure you were in that homeroom. Your homeroom teacher is your personal adviser, too, and he's one of the best teachers in the school. So you can see, I'm getting everything set up perfectly for you. Doesn't it look wonderful?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought you'd be impressed. Grover, you can take us home now,” she said, and he started back down the driveway.

“Will Kiera go to school with me?” I asked.

“We'll see. That's something Donald has yet to decide. Seniors are permitted to drive to school. There's a parking lot for them.” After a long moment, she added, “Her court hearing has yet to happen. Donald's lawyer has successfully delayed it, which is a legal tactic, but as I tell him, you can postpone and postpone, but inevitably you have to face the music. But let's not talk about any of that, Sasha. It only brings back terrible memories and pain for you.”

I sat back and was quiet. Her saying not to talk about it didn't do any good. It was like unringing a bell. It couldn't be done. I had been wondering for months what was going to happen to Kiera. How could what had happened be
completely swept under the table? Were rich people that powerful?

Perhaps to cheer me up further, Mrs. March delivered on her promise to get me whatever I needed to do calligraphy. She even bought me a beautifully illustrated book about it, and I saw some of the words Mama had copied. I had told her exactly what I needed, and it was all set up in the sitting room. I began to work almost immediately. I wanted to do a copy of Mama's “heaven.”

“Don't make me sorry I got you all this,” Mrs. March told me two days after I began work. I had done little of anything else. “You can't shut yourself away all day, you know.”

She was right, of course. Now that I was free of my cast and did not have to depend on a crutch, Dr. Milan wanted me to take daily exercise. Mrs. March had a physical therapist come to the house to work with me every other day. “We've got to get your muscles strong again so you won't have any problem getting around in school,” she said. The therapist, Sheila Toby, was very impressed with the Marches' indoor pool and, after some initial days of stretching exercises, decided we would do all of our work in the water.

One afternoon, Mr. March suddenly appeared to watch us. He was there for quite a while but said nothing. Later, when I was going up to my suite, he appeared in the hallway. I realized that this was the first time since I had come to his house that he and I were alone.

“You seem to be doing very well,” he began. “I'm sure you feel stronger every day.”

“Yes, I do.”

I waited, expecting him to say,
Okay, since you're better and stronger, you don't have to live here anymore, and this idea of your going to Kiera's school is not really a good one,
but he didn't say that.

“I happened to glance in at the calligraphy you're doing,” he continued, walking along with me toward my suite. “It's pretty impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“What do you want to know?”

“I'm not that familiar with it. Jordan bought something once, as I said, but I must admit, I didn't pay much attention to the explanation the salesman gave us at the gallery. I gather you told her exactly what you needed. What is needed?”

“I work with an ink brush, ink, a special type of paper, and an inkstone. Together, they are known as the Four Treasures of the Study.”

“Really?” He smiled. “Go on. Tell me more.”

We reached my doorway.

“The paper is weighed down with paperweights. Anything can be a paperweight, but my mother used to have wooden blocks that had pictorial designs on them, too. They had been her mother's.”

“What happened to them?”

“I don't know. One day, they were gone and she used rocks we found on the beach instead. I think she might have sold them.”

He nodded. “Go on in,” he told me, and then he
followed me in and went to my desk. “So, what is this ink-stone?” he asked.

“You have to rub the ink stick on it with water to make the paint.”

“Your mother did all this while you were homeless?”

“Yes. For her, it was more like … more like …”

“Therapy, relaxation?”

“No, I think something religious,” I said, and his eyes widened and brightened.

“And for you?”

“The same,” I said.

He smiled. He picked up the brush and studied it a moment.

“It has to be held a special way,” I said.

“Show me.”

I did.

“See, it's held vertically with the thumb and the middle finger. My mother told me you should be able to put an egg in your palm if you're holding it correctly.”

He laughed and then tried it. I adjusted his fingers so that his ring finger and pinkie touched the bottom of the brush handle.

“This is hard,” he said. “Must take a lot of practice.”

“Yes. You start by practicing the Chinese character
yong
to master the eight basic strokes.”

“And what does
yong
mean?”

“Forever,”
I said.

“Now, what does the one you're working on represent?”

“It means
mother
,” I said.

“I know you must really miss her.”

“Yes.”

He nodded, keeping his eyes on my calligraphy. “Well,” he said, “your art teacher should be happily surprised once he learns what you can do. He'll probably have you teach the class.”

“Oh, I couldn't do that,” I said.

“Sure you could. Let me see this when it's finished,” he told me, and started to turn to leave. He stopped, and I looked at the doorway.

Kiera was standing there. From the look on her face, I knew she must have been there for a while and heard what we had been saying.

“What's up?” he asked her.

“Nothing,” she said sharply, and hurried away.

He hesitated, and then he walked out.

Not long before our accident, after Mama and I had spent most of our day on Venice Beach's boardwalk selling her calligraphy and my lanyards, she had paused while we were getting our things together and just sat there staring at people.

“What's wrong, Mama?” I had asked. “Are you feeling sick again?”

“No, no,” she had said. She'd smiled at me, and for a moment, I saw through her bloated face and tired eyes and saw the smile on her face years ago when she was beautiful and energetic. Nothing made me happier. I could go all the rest of the day without food and still feel content because I saw this smile.

“Then what, Mama?”

“I was just thinking how when they look at the calligraphy, they change.”

“Who changes?”

“The people, the ones who pass by. It isn't until they're looking at the calligraphy that they suddenly see us as people. They look at both of us then, Sasha. Did you notice that?”

Now that she had said it, I realized it was true, and I nodded.

“Why is that, Mama?”

“The calligraphy, like anything beautiful, reminds us all about what we share as people. That's what your grandmother once told me,” she had said. “But it wasn't until just now, today, that I realized what she meant.”

She had smiled again and then continued gathering her things.

I looked down at my unfinished work and nodded, thinking about Mr. March, his softer tone of voice, his curiosity, and his smile.

“Now I understand, too, Mama,” I whispered.

It was truly as if she had reached from beyond the grave to speak to me through my own calligraphy. It filled my heart with warmth and gave me the strength even to face the jealous face of Kiera March.

Someday, I thought—no, vowed—I wouldn't hate her as much as I pitied her.

But I knew that the journey to that place would be a long one and over a road full of many traps and dangers. I just didn't know how soon it would all really begin.

15
Judgment