Restoring Harmony (5 page)

8

AS SOON AS THE DOORS OPENED, PEOPLE PUSHED and shoved, and I rode a wave of smelly bodies up into the train car.

“Move,” a woman shouted from behind me, pressing on my pack and sending me staggering forward into a guy with shaggy dreadlocks. All the seats were instantly taken, so I grabbed a ring hanging from a bar to steady myself, my hot feet throbbing, my backpack pulling at my shoulders, and Jewels in my other hand.

The doors shut, and the train slid forward. I saw a map above me of the route, but instead of helping, it confused me more. The city of Gresham had six stations. How did I know which one was mine?

The train stopped every few minutes to let people off and after about half an hour, I found a seat. From the wide windows I could see an old highway on one side, rutted with potholes and so overgrown that saplings had struggled through the cracks. A few people walked along it, and I saw a couple of carts and horses, and more cyclists than we have on our entire island.

There was also a group of boys, dressed in black and white, riding together. I noticed them not just because of their unusual clothing, but because they wore bike helmets. Nobody had helmets on our island because the whole point was to feel the wind in your hair.

I studied the map trying to figure out how long it would take to ride to the end, but nothing seemed to be to scale. I was so absorbed in my worries that the train’s doors had shut behind two burly men in gray uniforms before I even noticed them.

“Fares, please!” they shouted.

All around me there was the rustle of people getting their wallets out. I clutched my visitor pass, heart thumping. I should’ve known this wouldn’t work. When the inspector got to me, he held out a meaty hand. He wore two gold rings, one wedding and one pinkie, and his palm looked soft and pink. He’d never held a pitchfork in that hand, that was for sure. I showed him the lavender pass.

“This is for tomorrow,” he said. He sounded really happy that he’d caught someone. “Do you have one for today?”

“Oh, that’s the wrong one?” I asked, feigning innocence. “I have today’s in here somewhere.” I dug through my pack like I was looking for it. “I, ummm . . . I must’ve lost it. It’s orange, right?”

“If you don’t have the correct pass, then we’ll be stepping off at the next stop. There’s a fine, you know,” he said gleefully.

He took a handheld computer out of his back pocket and began to type something into it.

“I’m from Canada,” I said. “I didn’t know . . . I mean . . . I don’t have any money to pay-”

“If you can’t pay the fine, you’ll get free accommodation for the night,” his partner said. He had crumbs in his beard, and some of them flew off when he laughed.

It wasn’t funny to me, though. This was just great. I really had thought the ticket lady had only been trying to scare me with the threat of jail.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“Ummm, Mol-”

“Hello, sir,” I heard a voice say behind me. I turned in my seat and saw the guy who helped me find the MAX office. “I hate to interrupt,” he said, “but I don’t think you checked my fare.”

He held out an open brown leather wallet, showing off his pass and a photo ID. Then he nodded at me. “You don’t want to give her a citation. She’s my guest.”

I saw a shadow cross the fare inspector’s face as he looked at the guy’s wallet. He tugged at his beard. “Oh, right,” he said. “She’s your guest. No problem.”

The first inspector quickly stuffed his computer back in his pocket. “Okay. Sorry about that.”

They hurried down the aisle, calling, “Fares, please!”

“What just happened?” I asked the guy.

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“But they were going to give me a ticket.”

“The transit company has an arrangement with my employer,” he said. “Our guests don’t have to pay.”

“Ummm . . . well . . . thanks.”

“No problem.”

I scooted over into the seat by the window and he sat next to me. I was grateful, but curious too. Why had the inspectors looked . . . almost scared of him? I’d definitely seen their fear. Still, he was kind of cute in that boy-next-door way, so I decided not to worry about it too much.

“I tried to buy a pass for today,” I explained so he wouldn’t think badly of me. “But they were sold out. I kind of had to sneak on.”

“You’re bold. I like that,” he said.

I smiled. If he only knew about how I’d gotten into the country, he’d probably be highly impressed. One thing about him that I noticed as we sat there was that he didn’t really look at me. His blue eyes never stopped scanning his surroundings, which made me even more nervous.

“I was just wondering,” I said, “I’ve got the address where I’m going, but I don’t know how to find the house.”

I handed him the paper, and he examined it. “I’m not really sure. Anyone know where Creekside Way is in Gresham?” he called out.

“It’s that housing development out past Burnside,” someone answered.

“Oh, yeah. The ritzy one that’s not so ritzy anymore.”

There was a general agreement. “Get off at the last stop, then,” he said. “That’s my stop too. You’ll have to walk about two and half miles. Will your slippers hold up?”

“My slippers probably will, but I’m not so sure about my feet.”

“Can anyone draw her a map?” he asked.

A man in faded blue jeans and no shirt drew a rough sketch of my grandpa’s neighborhood on the piece of paper for me. “That’s about right,” he said. “I think so anyway.”

At the last stop, we stepped off the train and the evening air blew hot in my face, reminding me of the woodstove in winter. I stood around while the guy unlocked a bike from a rack, hoping he’d say something more, but then I saw he was just going to leave, so I blurted out, “My name’s Molly.”

“Nice to meet you, Molly,” he said. He rode off with a quick wave, and I was more disappointed than I should’ve been because it wasn’t like I was ever going to see him again.

Just over thirty hours after Poppy put me on the plane, I was finally getting close enough to my destination to believe I might actually make it. I checked the map and headed down a paved road, cracked from weeds pushing through. Three-story apartment buildings lined the street on either side, and residents sat around on cement porches. A couple of darkly tanned boys kicked a deflated basketball past me, and two little girls played with a jump rope on a scrap of grass.

I limped along for about ten minutes until I came to a wide road, which intersected the one I was on at an angle. Across the street I saw an old building with a faded Fred Meyer sign on top. That was my landmark, and I crossed the empty street to a parking lot that was now an outdoor market.

Men and women were dismantling tents and canopies, loading boxes into carts attached to bicycles or horses, and generally laughing and shouting while they closed for the day. I skirted the market and found the road that ran behind it and climbed a long, winding hill that normally would’ve been a breeze but was no picnic in a pair of slippers. A few houses were set back off the road, the lawns overgrown, garbage piled in the yards. Occasionally people passed by on foot, or a person on a bike dragged a cart up the hill, but no one seemed to notice or care about me.

Big rustly maples lined the street, and the branches hung heavily overhead, nearly touching in the middle, forming a dark green tunnel. The map told me to turn at the top of the hill onto a side street. There weren’t any big trees on this road, and the last of the evening sunshine poured down on me. I stared in amazement. Giant houses stood in neat rows, so close together they were practically on top of each other. They were built of wood or brick, and all looked alike. Wide driveways led up to two- and three-car garages, and cracked pathways wound through the weeds to massive, carved front doors.

The streets were deserted, but I could hear people calling to each other, their voices floating on the summer air. I had an eerie feeling, like people were watching me and then ducking into the shadows of their doorways quicker than I could turn and see them. I tried to shake off the feeling of being out in the open, being vulnerable, being observed.

I made my way through the neighborhood checking the weathered green street signs on the corners. Some of them were missing, but there were enough to keep me on track. I found Creekside Way and turned down it. These houses were even larger, and all of them had low stone walls in front of them. Halfway down the short street, I found the house. I stared at the building, fear looming up inside me. It was a massive soulless place, and all the ground-floor windows were boarded up.

Could Grandpa still be living here, or had he gone away after my grandmother died? I tried brushing off my clothes, but travel had made me dusty, and it didn’t help much. With each step towards the front door, my heart thundered in my chest and the pain in my feet shot up through my legs. What would I do if I’d come all this way and he was gone? The little money that Jane had collected for me wouldn’t get me back home, and my mother needed my grandpa. He had to be here. I raised my hand, tightening my fingers into a fist, and knocked.

Nothing happened.

I tried again in case he hadn’t heard. A moment later, the door creaked open, but instead of my grandfather, a woman answered. I stumbled backwards, thinking I was seeing the ghost of my mother. The woman’s face was lined and creased, and her gray hair was frizzy and out of control just like Mom’s. Her big doe eyes stared out at me. I clutched Jewels to my chest and staggered backwards down the two porch steps.

A voice boomed from inside the house. “Katharine? Where are you?”

Katharine?
Had the voice inside really called out for Katharine? It wasn’t a ghost! The woman was my grandmother. She hadn’t died after all. She’d been
discharged
from the hospital just like we’d tried to tell my mother. All these months of worry and she was standing right there, very much alive!

“Grandma? It’s me. Molly McClure. Your granddaughter.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Brianna’s daughter,” I tried.

I thought I saw a tiny flicker in her eyes and then they returned to dull staring.

“Can I come in?”

“Katharine? Why do you have the door open? Who’s there?” demanded a man’s voice from inside. “We don’t want any! Go away!”

A skinny hand pulled my grandmother back into the house and slammed the door shut. I heard a bolt slide into place.

9

I STARED AT THE CLOSED DOOR IN SHOCK FOR A second and then knocked again. I thought for sure Grandma would tell him it was me, but the door stayed firmly closed. This could not be happening. I set Jewels and my pack on the steps and banged on the door.

“It’s me! Molly McClure!”

No answer. Tears of frustration and anger dripped down my face as I pounded so hard my hands began to feel bruised. “Fine!” I shouted. “Be that way!”

But I hadn’t come that far to give up. Especially now that I knew Grandma was okay.

I unzipped my pack and pulled things out, flinging them all over the porch. The Solar Fone was in there somewhere, and I’d been saving my one call for something really important. This was it. I found the phone in the bottom and pulled it out of its case.

“Call home,” I told it.

I knew my family would be on the porch, enjoying the evening air while sitting in rocking chairs, probably listening to Dad play the fiddle. I hoped that they would hear the phone. Of course, I should’ve known they’d be waiting for it.

“Molly?” Dad’s voice asked after half a ring, the connection crackly.

“Grandma is alive!” I said. “She seems okay.” That was what they were waiting to hear, and I had to get it out before the phone died. I could hear my family’s cries of joy as my dad relayed the message.

“How are you?” he asked. “Everything go okay?”

“No! Everything did not go okay. I’m on their porch-” The phone chirped, signaling that it was about to die.

“What?” Dad said. “You’re fading-”

And then the stupid Solar Fone beeped twice, and the miles between me and home became insurmountable. I threw the useless piece of crap onto the cement porch and heard it crack open.

I had slept on a train last night, and tonight I wanted a bed. I pounded on the front door again and when no one came, I decided to try to get in another way. Every house had at least one back door. I walked out onto the dry, overgrown lawn, and it crunched under my feet. The front yard just had the low stone wall, but the back was enclosed in a high cedar fence, and the only gate was padlocked shut. I gave it a kick just because I was mad and was instantly sorry because all I had on were the slippers. I collapsed onto the grass, massaging my big toe, tears leaking down my cheeks.

The last of the sunset deepened into blue twilight as I sat there, crying into my hands. What could I do? How could I prove to them that I was their granddaughter so that they’d open the door and listen to what I had to say?

I limped back to the porch and saw Jewels sitting there, her case looking like a black lump in the fading light. Music. That’s what I needed. I would block out my problems by playing Jewels. I sat on a step and took her out of her case. Once I was in tune, I did a few scales to loosen my hands. The sun was gone now, but I could play Jewels in the dark even better than Jane could knit. It was starting to get cold, though, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before my fingers would be clumsy on the strings.

I shook out my left hand to get the blood flowing and then launched into “Stony Point
,
” hoping something fast would keep me warm. The bow dashed over the strings, dancing in my hand. I tapped my sore feet in spite of the pain. It only took a minute for me to get lost in the music.

I was plowing my way through a really difficult French-Canadian tune, taking my frustration out on the strings, when I thought I heard the creak of the door behind me. Swaying my body with the music, I turned slightly and saw out of the corner of my eye that I was right.

Someone was there, listening. Was it my grandma? Did my grandfather know she was there? I pretended not to notice and kept going, wishing I was playing something I knew better. I rushed through to the end and dove into the “Peekaboo Waltz.” That one I could play both in the dark and in my sleep. Maybe the comforting notes of a waltz would draw Grandma out on the porch.

I pushed myself painfully to my feet, still playing, and turned towards the open door, smiling. My grandmother stood there, holding a candle, wax dripping dangerously close to her fingers. Her mouth hung slightly ajar, and her eyes glittered in the flickering light. I noticed her foot was tapping ever so slightly as I started the tune again. I was on my third time through it when my grandpa stepped out of the shadows and into the doorway.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he asked.

“I’m Molly,” I said, still playing, but softer. “Molly McClure.”

“Bri’s daughter?” he asked.

I nodded in time to the music. “Yes.”

“Breee,” said Grandma.

Grandpa noticed the dripping wax and took the candle from her. “Where is she?” he asked. He held the candle up and peered out into the yard like maybe I’d hidden Mom in the bushes.

“She’s in Canada,” I explained. “I came by myself.”

I finished the tune and put Jewels under my arm. It was hard to believe this was my grandfather because he was the only person in my family that didn’t look anything like us. His face was pinched, his body slight; gold-framed glasses perched on his thin nose. In the dim light I could see a halo of gray hair circling his mostly bald head.

“You are Jack Buckley, aren’t you?” I asked, just to be sure.

“Yes . . . yes . . . of course I am,” he said.

“Come,” Grandma said. She reached out and started pulling me inside.

“Wait a minute,” Grandpa said. “How do we know she’s actually Molly?”

I really needed to sit down, so I set Jewels in her case and started picking up all the things I’d thrown out of my backpack.

“Why would I lie?” I asked.

“Why, indeed? Who wouldn’t want to live in this big house?” he asked. “Practically everyone in the whole neighborhood is a filthy squatter these days.” He glared at me over his glasses.

“What’s a squatter?” I asked, stuffing the remains of the Solar Fone into the pack.

“Homeless people who move into abandoned houses,” he explained.

“Oh. Well, I’m definitely not homeless.”

“Hmmm . . . Well, I think you should prove that you’re Molly.”

“How?” I asked. I swatted at the mosquitoes that were swarming around me, biting my bare legs.

“Do you know ‘Brianna’s Reel’?” Grandpa asked.

I smiled. “Like the back of my hand!” I tucked Jewels under my chin and began the tune Grandpa had written for my mother on the piano when she was a little girl. Mom played the piano too, and she’d taught me the melody when I was about six years old.

When I was done, Grandma said, “Breeee. Come now.” She took my arm again in her thin, bony hand. Grandpa stared at me hard, considering. Then he shrugged and picked up my pack. I stuck Jewels in her case, snapped it closed, and followed them inside.

The single candle didn’t allow me to see much more than shadows.

“This way,” Grandpa said, leading me to a staircase. “Katharine, you stay down here. I don’t want you on the stairs.”

“Okay,” she said.

“We don’t have electricity,” Grandpa told me, “and I can’t spare the candle, so you might as well get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”

I wanted to tell him everything right then, talk him into leaving as soon as possible so we could get home to Mom, but I was also completely exhausted, and the relief of getting here overrode any desire except sleep.

He deposited me into a room at the top of the stairs, showed me the bed and where the washroom was, and then said good night. I collapsed onto a mattress big enough for both me and Katie to sleep in without ever touching each other, so unlike our tiny double bed at home. Part One of my mission was complete, but I had a feeling the hard part was still ahead.