Out of the Box (12 page)

“Think she will?”

“No.” I don't tell her that it hurts to think of Mom on a psychologist's couch. Mom always says that psychologists are for people who don't have family and friends to talk to. If I'd listened properly, instead of getting so caught up in my own world, maybe it wouldn't have come to this.

“So is that why you've been avoiding me?” she asks. “Because you were upset about your parents?”

I shake my head and admit that I didn't want to hang out with Michael and Steve. “They'd just think I'm weird. Guys always do, and then you'd have to choose, and I didn't want to be dropped.”

“That's the most ridiculous excuse I've ever heard, Ellie. You don't just ditch someone for something they
might
do.”

“I didn't ditch you,” I say.

“Hard to tell.”

“Look, I'm sorry, okay? I can't be perfect all the time.” The words—ones that Mom always uses and that I hate—make me squirm.

Sarah tosses her stick into the lake and gets up.

“If you ever feel like hanging out instead of feeling sorry for yourself, let me know.” She heads back down the path, leaving an emptiness far bigger than the one I'd had when I came to the stone bridge in the first place.

Jeanette is waiting for me in the living room. “I made some tea. Chamomile. For the nerves.” She brings me a steaming mug and hands me a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. “These are for your soul. Did your walk help?”

“Next question,” I say.

She hands me the plate. “Eat. Very few things don't improve with chocolate.” I obey, and she tells me she's asked my mother to leave the next call up to me.

The cookie turns to dust in my mouth. “Oh great. Thanks, Jeanette.”

“No problem,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Someone's got to stand up for you, Ellie.”

I shake my head. “I don't know how you can talk to her the way you do.”

“Why not?” She grabs a cookie. “It's a valuable skill to learn, being respectful but firm. And don't forget, she's my little sister—I've had a lot of experience talking to her.”

I blow on my tea. “Hate to say this, but I'm not sure how respectful it is if everything you say makes her fall apart.”

“Ellie,” she says, “right now, anything anyone says will upset her, so we might as well say what we think. She needs professional help. You can't hold yourself responsible for fixing her. Or your father either, for that matter.”

We go around and around the same issues for another twenty minutes or so before I tell her I'm going to bed.

The chocolate has done nothing for my soul, and the chamomile hasn't helped either. I stare at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time my parents were both happy. What comes up instead is the picture Facundo talked about, of his father playing the bandoneón and his mother clapping behind him. I imagine them, Andrés with his eyes closed and a little smile on his face, and Caterina grinning. I hope Facundo can hold that image in his mind rather than imagining their faces as they were killed.

I'd like to ask Facundo how he manages to smile, how he can know what he knows about his parents and his life and still find moments of happiness. I want to ask him why my mother, who has a home, work she loves and a daughter who gets straight A's, can be miserable.

Christmastime, I suddenly remember. Right after my violin recital, my parents looked at me like I'd won the Nobel Prize, and they didn't stop grinning all evening.

I close my eyes, clinging to that image, but more recent memories blur it within seconds.

T
WENTY-
T
WO

I
sail home from my bandoneón lesson on my old bike, humming the piece that Frank played for me. It's by a Finnish composer. Who knew that tango was wildly popular in Finland, of all places?

I bump up onto the sidewalk and ride through the tiny park at the end of Jeanette's cul-de-sac. As I swing off my seat in front of my aunt's house, I spot Sarah next door, reading on the steps. I say hi, and she raises her hand in greeting but doesn't look up.

I have to apologize, especially if I plan on staying here. I still haven't decided one way or another, but the more I play my bandoneón, or sit in Jeanette's garden, or ride my bike, the more I want to stay. I'll definitely have to learn to cook in self-defense, but how hard can it be? Besides, I'd like to do something to earn my keep.

I wheel my bike through the gate at the side of the house and lock it up.

“Ellie?” Jeanette is at the front door. “Is that you?”

“Yup. I'm back.”

“That's good,” she says, “because your mother's here.”

She's sitting in the kitchen, reading a magazine. Her face is red and tear-streaked, but worried rather than angry. Worry is okay. I can deal with worry. I smile big and fling my arms around her.

She hugs me back, but her face remains tense. “You're looking well.”

I look down at my faded blue shorts and the old black T-shirt. My legs and arms are tanned, but other than that, nothing about me has changed—on the outside anyway.

“I'm doing great,” I say, hoping she'll add
now that
you're here
on her own.

She closes her magazine and pushes it away. “Please sit down.”

I drop into the chair opposite her. Jeanette remains standing, but grips the back of the chair beside me and offers us tea or juice. Mom shakes her head, her face so serious that for a split second I wonder if Dad's been hit by a truck or something. Jeanette doesn't look grief-stricken though. She looks mad.

“I think it would be best for everyone if you come home,” Mom says.

I stare at her. “Now? In the middle of the summer?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Mom looks from me to Jeanette. Her lower lip quivers dangerously, and she closes her eyes. “I don't want Jeanette turning you against me,” she whispers.

The words are like ice water down my neck, but it's what's left unsaid—
I don't want her to take you
away
—that makes my stomach turn. All my life, Mom has talked about how Jeanette saved her from their alcoholic father and crazy mother. Now she's glaring at my aunt as if she were a kidnapper.

My mother is being totally irrational, and I know I should get up now and go around the table to where she's sitting. I should put my arms around her, whisper that she's mistaken, and hold her close while she cries. She'll break down and tell us about her problems with Dad, the stresses at work, and her worries about me. I'll prop her up, talk to her gently, and eventually convince her that no one could ever turn me against the mother who's done everything for me. She'll nod, eyes shut as she regains control of her breathing, and finally she'll smile and say thank you. She'll stay for a few days and return home alone, leaving me to enjoy the rest of my summer.

I fold my arms across my chest. “Jeanette is not turning me against you,” I say. “Just because I want to spend the rest of the summer here, like we planned, doesn't mean I don't love you.”

Mom's eyes fly open. She stares at me, scrunches her eyes shut again and takes a few deep breaths. “I. Want. You. Home.”

I cast a pleading look at Jeanette.

“Believe me,” Jeanette says, “I've spent the past hour talking to her, but she won't budge. I can't keep you here without her consent.”

I close my eyes and try to breathe. “When are we going?”

Mom looks at her watch. “We're still on time for the five o'clock ferry.”

“You're kidding,” I say. “I'm not leaving just like that! I have friends to say goodbye to.”

Mom looks startled. She's spent so much time harping on me to socialize more, and now she seems unable to believe I have friends. “Don't forget Ellie's dentist appointment tomorrow,” Jeanette puts in. Good old Jeanette. She's knows how to hit where it counts. Mom is obviously flustered, and Jeanette goes for the jugular. “You know we'll have to pay in full if we cancel now anyway, and it'll take a few weeks to get her another one at home.”

Mom glares at her sister. “Fine,” she says through clenched teeth. “But this time tomorrow, we're leaving.” She gets up and leaves the room, and I watch her go.

I tell myself everything will be okay. My parents love me, feed me, keep a roof over my head and give me all the stuff they never had as kids. At my age, Mom had escaped from her abusive parents, was living with Jeanette and babysitting to help make ends meet. Who knows what my dad was living through? I really have nothing to complain about.

Jeanette reaches out and places a hand on my arm. “I'm sorry, Ellie.”

I meet her eyes, willing myself not to cry.

“You're not a bad person for not wanting to deal with this,” she says. “You know that, don't you?”

I nod because I don't trust myself to speak.

“I love you, Ellie,” Jeanette says, and I hug her like I'm never going to see her again.

Supper is tense—the kind of tension I'm used to at home but that never happens at Jeanette's house. She and Alison always worked things out before eating together. Mom doesn't care about stuff like that.

Later, Jeanette goes out to weed her garden, and I follow her. As soon as I do, Mom comes out too, saying nothing but sitting within earshot, like a prison warden.

My aunt and I weed silently for a while. I try again to remember my violin recital, when my parents were smiling and life was something to be celebrated. I want to hang on to that image, but I'm not sure I can.

Halfway through the second row of carrots, I make a decision.

“I'm going to make a phone call,” I say, wiping the dirt from my knees.

Jeanette nods. Mom looks up from her magazine but does not smile. I walk past her into the house.

T
WENTY
-T
HREE

“A
ll the way downtown, all by yourself?” Mom asks. “Mom, I'm thirteen,” I say. “I have to go out into the world on my own sometime.” Telling her I've been doing it all summer—and on a bicycle, no less—will only make matters worse.