Finding Grace (4 page)

Chapter Ten

We walk along our street, past two more apartment buildings and some tall, narrow houses, to the park at the end of the block. It's not a real park, just a big square of grass, one city block long on each side. There are some trees in the middle, a play area with swings, a teeter-totter, and a roundabout.

It's not a great day to go to a park. It's damp and chilly, and even though it's June, it doesn't feel like summer. The park is empty except for two girls in puffy jackets. I've never seen them before. They look about my age and they're sitting on the ends of the teeter-totter. One girl is perched in the air and the other has her feet resting on the ground. They're not going up and down, they're just talking, and the girl in the air is swinging her legs back and forth.

Mom and I sit on a bench. I'm wearing a T-shirt and pedal pushers and I'm freezing. Beside me, Mom twists her hands together. She's only wearing a sleeveless dress and one of Granny's thin cardigans, but Mom never feels cold.

The girl in the air glances over at us. She has short black hair and a thin, pointy face. She leans forward and whispers something to the other girl, who has long blonde hair, almost to her waist.

I feel my cheeks turn red. I'm positive she said something about us. “Let's go home,” I say.

“We just got here,” Mom says.

She has this weird thing about parks. She likes to go and just sit in them. And she drags me along. I've probably been to Stanley Park more than a hundred times. We go to lots of smaller parks too, scattered all over Vancouver.

Mom especially likes parks with playgrounds. I swear she knows where every playground in Vancouver is. When I was little, I loved it. She has a big map of Vancouver, and she would spread it out on the table and pick a park to go to. We would pack a snack of cookies and juice and walk or take the bus. We went every Saturday. I would play on the swings and the jungle gym and scream, “Look at me! Look at me!”

“I see you,” she'd say.

When I got a little bit older, though, I realized that Mom wasn't just watching me. She was watching all the kids who came to the playground.

I don't play on the equipment anymore. I usually take a book along, but Mom still stares at the other kids.

It's creepy. It's like she's looking for someone, but I haven't the foggiest idea who. Why does she
do
this?

Now she's watching the girls on the teeter-totter. I pray that they don't notice, but they do. The girl with the pointy face calls out, “Only monkeys stare!”

I am suddenly spitting mad at Mom. I stand up.

“Where are you going?”

“Home. I'm not going to spy on people with you anymore. It's sick.”

I march off. When I look back, the girls have moved farther away from Mom, to the swings, and they lean their heads close together and burst out laughing. Mom is still sitting on the bench and she's still staring.

Doesn't she get how crazy she looks?

Dear Grace,

These are the things I want if Mom gets any life insurance:

1. The entire series of
   Famous Five
   books by Enid Blyton
   
2. A transistor radio
   
3. Roller skates
   
4. A bicycle
   
5. A trip to Disneyland. Miss Noonan told us about Disneyland. They're building it right now and it won't be open until July 1955. More than a year! But I don't mind waiting. It's going to be the coolest place on earth!!!
   

Your best friend,

Hope

P.S. Three more days 'til my birthday.

Chapter Eleven

Mom and I spend two more days searching for the life insurance policy. The first day we look in all the obvious places. The next day, we look in some not so obvious places, like under the towels in the cupboard in the bathroom, and behind the boxes of cereal in the kitchen.

We forget about eating dinner until almost nine o'clock, and then I make peanut butter sandwiches for both of us. Mom eats the middle, but leaves the crusts. She kisses me good night and disappears into her bedroom. I pull out the living-room couch into a bed, get settled, and open my book, but I fall asleep before I get to the bottom of the page. The next thing I know, I look at my watch and it's past midnight, and I have to go to the bathroom desperately.

The door to Granny's bedroom is partly open and the light is on. On my way back from the bathroom, I peek inside. Mom is sitting on the edge of Granny's bed. She's holding a big brown envelope. The floor is covered with heaps of clothes, shoes, hatboxes, and bags.

“Mom? What are you doing? It's the middle of the night.”

Her eyes are wide, staring. “Oh – you scared me. I decided to take everything out of Granny's closet. In case we missed something.”

I look at the brown envelope. “You found it!”

She looks me straight in the eye without blinking. “No, I didn't. There are just some of Granny's old letters in here. Nothing important.” But she's shaking. There are beads of sweat above her lip and she's as white as a ghost. Something is wrong and I feel scared.

“Are you sick?”

“Of course not. Go back to bed, Hope. Please.”

“But – ”

She closes her eyes. “Please,” she whispers.

I go to bed, but I can't get to sleep.

That thing where Mom looked me straight in the eye without blinking? I do that too – when I tell a lie.

So Mom was lying.

What did she find in that envelope that she doesn't want me to see?

I wiggle around on the couch, trying to find a spot where the metal bits don't jab me. I toss and turn. I can't shut my brain off. I roll over on my stomach, and these are some of the crazy thoughts leaping around in my head like jumping beans:

Will nasty Barbara Porter be in my class next year?

Is it against the law to throw Granny's ashes off the Empire State Building?

Can you be a war hero if you die of food poisoning?

I flip onto my back and kick at the sheet twisted around my ankles.

Will Mom remember that it's my birthday tomorrow?

What's in that big brown envelope?

Chapter Twelve

I sleep in, and for once Mom is up before me. She's in the kitchen making blueberry pancakes, which I didn't even know she knew how to make. On the table there are four small identical oblong presents wrapped in old wrinkled Christmas paper. Not big enough to be roller skates or a radio. Anyway, I know what they are. I can tell by the shape. Books.

“Happy birthday, eleven-year-old,” Mom says.

I burst into noisy sobs. She drops her spoon and sweeps me into her arms. “What ever is the matter?”

“I don't know,” I blubber into her nightie.

How can I tell her that she scared me last night? And that I thought we were going to be rich and now we're not? And that for once I hoped I might get a surprise for my birthday? It makes me look like a horrible person.

I sniff and wipe my eyes and say, “Can I open my presents before I eat?”

“Why not?”

Four Nancy Drew books –
The Secret of the Wooden Lady, The Clue of the Black Keys, The Mystery at the Ski Jump,
and
The Clue of the Velvet Mask
– and they're brand-new!

“Perfect, Mom.” I really mean it.

I prop the books up around me while I eat my pancakes. “Can we go out for dinner?”

She doesn't say anything.

Cripes. Now I feel guilty because she's spent a lot of money on all these books.

“I thought I'd cook us a steak for a treat,” she says finally. “I picked one up yesterday.”

“Great,” I say, but I don't think I fooled her.

“But I don't think I can cope with a cake.” She pushes her hair off her face. She looks wiped and there's a smear of blueberry on her nose. “I'm not really a baker and store-bought ones cost…”

Mom's voice trails off. It was always Granny who made my cake. Every year was different. My favorite one had a little swimming pool, made out of a tin-foil bowl and blue Jell-O, right in the middle of the cake! I don't want a cake anyway, not without Granny to watch me blow out my candles.

I rinse my syrupy plate under the tap, but Mom says, “Get away from here. No dishes for the birthday girl.”

She reaches for her purse and gives me twenty-five cents for public swimming at the community center.

I'd like enough money for a pop and fries after my swim, but I don't ask.

• • • • •

Mom and I leave the apartment together after lunch. She has an interview at the Hudson's Bay store downtown to be an elevator operator.

I try to keep my mouth shut, but I can't help it. “Don't you think you should dress up a bit more?”

She's wearing an old gray skirt and a white blouse, and she's put on her cherry lipstick but no other makeup. An elevator operator should look glamorous. I remember when she went for the store clerk interview and Granny said she looked like a million dollars.

Mom sighs. “Oh, what's the use? I'm not going to get the job anyway.”

As we wait at the bus stop, I say in this goofy singsong voice, “Fourth floor, ladies lingerie…fifth floor, men's shoes.” All I get out of her is a tiny smile.

Mom catches the bus right before mine. I climb onto number 12, which will take me to the community center in the neighborhood where we were living last summer. There's probably a pool closer to our apartment, but I'm used to this one. Granny paid for me to take swimming lessons and I practically lived there the whole month of August, zipping through the Red Cross levels.

Granny said that I'm a fish and that I came by it honestly. When Mom was a teenager, she swam all the way across Cultus Lake and raised a hundred dollars. She gave every penny of it to the Salvation Army. Granny said no one could beat Mom in swimming. I've never been to Cultus Lake and Mom doesn't ever swim anymore, but we have a newspaper article all about it, so I know it's true.

The pool is outside, surrounded by a chain-link fence. The lifeguard is my swimming teacher from last summer. His name is Joe and he looks like a lifeguard should – shaggy blond hair and a tan, even though we've only had a few sunny days all month.

He remembers me. “Hi, Hope,” he says. “How come you aren't in school?”

“It's my birthday.” I don't want to explain anymore. I especially don't want to talk about Granny. He gives me a thumbs-up.

The pool is empty. I swim laps up and down, up and down.

Joe climbs down off his lifeguard chair and teaches me how to do a tuck turn at the end of each lap. I'm grinning underwater. I love the power of pushing off the wall with my feet and surging forward like a seal. Joe yells, “Way to go, kid!” each time I come to the surface.

When I'm totally exhausted, I float on my back and think about the big brown envelope. What was in it? Why did Mom look so upset?

The sky is full of dark gray clouds and a few raindrops plop into my eyes. My feet bump into the ladder and I pull myself onto the bottom rung. The clock on the wall reads three-thirty. School's over.

Kids start pouring in, and Joe scrambles back up on his chair. I spot two of the popular girls from my old school, dipping their toes in at the steps and screeching that it's cold. They're wearing great bathing suits, one lime green and one bright yellow. I feel stupid in my suit, which is last year's plain navy, and too small. I climb up the ladder, say good-bye to Joe, and flee to the changing room before the girls can see me.

It's raining cats and dogs when I leave the community center. By the time I get home, I'm soaked. The first thing I see when I unlock the apartment door is Mom's purse on the little hall table. There's a note beside it in her handwriting.

Job was already taken by the time I got there. Just my luck!!! Wake me up no later than 6.

xoxox Mom

I have a hot shower and wash all the chlorine out of my hair. I shampoo and rinse three times because I've heard that too much chlorine can turn your hair green. Then I curl up in Granny's recliner in the living room with
The Clue of the Velvet Mask
.

At six o'clock, I open Mom's bedroom door a crack and peer at her. Her skirt, blouse, and stockings are draped over a chair and she's wearing a pale pink slip. She's lying on her side on her bed, one arm draped across her face, and snoring ever so gently.

I head to the kitchen and inspect the fridge. The steak is sitting on a plate, but I haven't the foggiest idea how to cook it. I pour myself a bowl of cornflakes and take it into the living room.

I pull out the couch and make it into my bed. Then I prop myself up with my cornflakes and I read right to the very last page of my book. It's midnight when I turn out the light. I can't stop yawning. As Granny would say, I'm so tired I could sleep on a clothesline.

My first day of being eleven is over.

Chapter Thirteen

I go to the pool every day for the rest of the week. Joe gives me free pointers and I can feel my strokes getting stronger.

On Friday, he says to me, “I'm starting a swim team this summer. How about joining? You're good enough.”

Swim teams must cost money and Mom has already told me she can't afford lessons this year. The twenty-five cents a day is all she can manage and I don't even know how long that's going to last. But it's way too embarrassing to tell Joe that. So I just shrug and say, “I'll think about it.”

On the way out, I squeeze through a bunch of kids who are lined up to pay to come in. They're noisier than usual and the boys are pushing and shoving each other. I suddenly remember that today is the last day of school and it's now summer holidays. Cripes! Now I won't have the pool and Joe to myself anymore.

I get off the bus a few blocks before my stop because I feel like walking. The sun is finally out. It's warm and the air smells like flowers and mown grass. I love summer.

Then I get opposite the park and spot Mom.

She's perched on her usual bench, staring at a bunch of girls who are sitting cross-legged in a circle on the grass. They're all girls from my school.

That nasty Barbara Porter is right in the middle, waving her arms around as she tells a story.

Any minute, they're going to look up and see this crazy woman watching them.

What if they figure out she's my mother?

I break into a run. I don't breathe normally again until I am safely inside our apartment.

I dump my wet towel and bathing suit in the bathroom sink. I rinse my hair in the shower and then go into the living room and plunk down in Granny's recliner.

I tilt Granny's chair back and remember how I had to beg for turns to sit in it. Granny hated the way I would make the chair crash back and forth, like a ship in the sea.

I gaze around the room. It looks exactly like it did when Granny was alive: cluttered with ornaments and lace doilies and spindly tables. When I was little and we visited Granny, Mom was always afraid I would break something. Every Sunday, Granny lifted down all her Royal Doulton china figurines from the tall cabinet in the corner of the living room. She set them on the dining room table and dusted each one with a soft cloth. When I turned seven, she said I was old enough to help.

As we dusted, Granny told me the story of when she got each one. I fell in love with them. The Balloon Man with his bundle of colorful balloons, The Shepherd with a tiny lamb, Suzette holding up her flowered pink dress. Granny saved up from her pension checks and bought a new one each year.

They haven't been dusted for weeks. Granny would feel terrible. I find the dusting cloth and then I take the figurines out of the cabinet and put them on the dining room table, one at a time. I have to get a chair to stand on to reach Shy Anne and The Lady of the Fan,
who are on the top shelf.

The chair is wobbly and I'm teetering a bit and I can feel Granny's sharp eyes on me.

That's when I spot it.

A long, white envelope, leaning against the back of the cabinet behind Shy Anne.

I slide it out with my fingers.

On the front, in Granny's handwriting, are the words
Sun Life Insurance Policy.

Dear Grace,

I found the life insurance policy!!!!

Five thousand dollars!!!!

We're RICH RICH RICH!!!!

Mom was at the park but as soon as she got home she phoned Granny's lawyer, Mr. Pinn. He was just leaving work for the weekend, but he said he'd call her on Saturday since it was so important.

Then we got all dressed up and went to Jake's Steakhouse to celebrate.

“Five thousand dollars,” Mom sighed. “That'll keep the wolves from the door.”

That's what Granny used to say every time her old age pension check came in the mail.

For a few minutes, a cloud slid over everything. I could tell Mom was remembering too.

It's just too darn awful that getting the life insurance means that Granny had to die. But Mom says that Granny would want us to be happy.

Your best friend,

Hope

• • • • •

Dear Grace,

Mr. Pinn took Mom to a fancy restaurant for lunch today. She wore her sunflower dress. He told her it will probably take a month to get the money. He's going to contact Sun Life Insurance right away. He told Mom she should invest most of it (investing means that the money will grow even more!!), but Mom says we will spend some of it on treats.

I get to join the swim team!

Your best friend,

Hope

P.S. Guess what happened this afternoon. The doorbell rang and it was a boy from the florist shop with an enormous bouquet of pink flowers!! Mom says they're carnations and that Mr. Pinn sent them because he feels bad about Granny. No one has EVER sent us flowers before!

P.P.S. I wonder if eleven is too old to keep writing to an imaginary friend.

Oh heck! Who cares?