Sara Lost and Found (18 page)

The phone rings, and I jump up. Maybe it's Mrs. Craig calling to say I can talk to Anna. I closely watch Mrs. Chandler's face when she answers it.

“She's right here,” she says, and my heart takes wing. “Do you want to talk to her?”

I jump up from the table, but it isn't me she hands the phone to, it's Lexie.

“Sorry, sweetie. It's Mrs. Anderson,” Mrs. Chandler says as she sits back down at the table.

I sink against the back of my chair and push the plate with my half-eaten funny faces away.

Lexie cups her hand over the phone. “Can you come over tomorrow?” she asks me before hanging up.

I look at Mrs. Chandler, who nods. “It's fine with me, Sara. Do you want to go to Lexie's tomorrow?”

I miss Sneaker, so I nod. “I guess.”

“She said yes, Mom,” Lexie practically shouts into the phone. “Okay, I'm on my way. Bye. Love you too.”

“Miss Penny's cat had more kittens,” Lexie says to us after she hangs up the phone. “Mom says they're all coming into our yard, searching for food.”

“Who's Miss Penny?” I ask.

“She lives in the house on the other side of us. She won't fix her cat, and so it keeps having kittens. This is her cat's third litter.”

“Someone should call Animal Control. They'd get her to get that cat fixed,” Mrs. Chandler says while wrapping up the leftover fruit.

“Dad says they'll become fielders and keep the mouse population down,” Lexie adds.

“Not too many fields left around here,” Mrs. Chandler says, wiping the table. “Not that I'm against mouse control! Still, it's cats that are overrunning the neighborhood these days, not mice.”

“It's a catastrophe,” Lexie says, and they both start laughing.

I don't get what's so funny, so I just sit there.

“What's a cat's trophy?” I ask when Mrs. Chandler comes back into the kitchen.

She frowns slightly, then smiles. “A catastrophe? A catastrophe is a disaster,” she answers.

I know all about disasters. Mama taking off. Disaster. Daddy getting put in jail. Disaster. Anna being taken to the special center. Disaster. And none of it is funny, so why were they laughing?

“Lexie was using a play on words,” Mrs. Chandler explains, brushing my hair away from my face. “Catastrophe is spelled C-A-T-A-S-T-R-O-P-H-E. Since it starts with the word ‘cat,' it's a funny play on words.” She looks at me, eyebrows raised, like she's asking if I understand, so I nod.

“You really like Lexie, don't you?” I ask, emphasizing Lexie's name.

Mrs. Chandler smiles. “Yes, I do like Lexie. She's got a lot of spirit.”

“What about me? Do I have spirit?”

“You have a lot of spirit, Sara.”

I feel better knowing she likes me, too.

“I have to start on dinner. Want to help?” She waits for me to answer.

“Sure!”

“Be sure to wash your hands before we start.”

Mrs. Chandler has a thing about washing hands. “Okay,” I say on my way to the bathroom. “Then I'll sing you a song.”

“By heart?”

“No, with my mouth,” I shout over the running water, and shake my head at the thought. Who sings a song from their heart?

I HIDE MAMA'S LETTER IN
a box stashed in my closet, along with other treasures I find around the neighborhood. Rocks. Feathers. Strings. Buttons. Then, every night before going to sleep, I grab Mama's letter, try to sound out some words, and then put it back in the box to keep it safe.

There's not a day or night that I don't look at it. And not a day or night passes that I don't worry about Anna. And barely a moment passes that I'm not glued to the radio, listening for Daddy's songs.

“I never thought I'd be a fan of country music,” Mr. Chandler says one morning, slipping in behind me and reaching to turn the volume down on the radio. “But I can see why you like it, Sara.”

“Daddy can make his guitar sound like someone singing,” I tell him. “You don't even need words to know what it says. Bet you can't play guitar.” I look at him closely, but his face doesn't give anything away.

“Nope. Can't play guitar. Can't sing. Have two left feet when it comes to dancing, but I can juggle. Does that count?”

“I guess.” I never saw anyone juggle before.

He smiles and picks up a glass apple from Mrs. Chandler's fake-fruit bowl, and looks around for two more things to juggle.

“I wouldn't be tossing Mrs. Chandler's apple in the air,” I warn, looking to see if she's around. She isn't. “It'll break if you drop it, and Mrs. Chandler seems pretty attached to it. She was dusting it earlier and looking at it like she'd never seen an apple before.”

He reaches down and picks up a couple of Kevin's rubber balls from a box on the chair.

“She is attached to it,” he agrees, and just like that he starts to juggle the apple with the two rubber balls. “Don't worry. I'll be careful. Know what I learned about juggling?” he asks. His voice jiggles when he talks.

“That you shouldn't talk while throwing a glass ball in the air?” I answer.

He laughs, never missing a beat or a ball. The balls make a soft
ffftt-ffftt
sound as they hit his hands. The glass apple makes a higher, more breakable sound.

“I learned that life is like juggling.”

Yeah. Juggling from one house to another,
I think but don't say.

“I learned that to juggle work and money”—I gasp as he catches the glass apple in the bend of his elbow while still juggling the two remaining balls—“takes a good head and a keen eye for detail, but family—”

I suck in air and hold my breath, throwing my hands to my ears and pressing hard against them. He flips the apple in the air and catches it, holding it up in one hand while juggling the two rubber balls with the other. I let go of my ears.

“Family is like glass,” he says, never taking his eye off the apple. “A family is strong, but fragile. Something to protect and defend. Something to care for and take care of.”

He catches all the balls and slowly puts the glass one back in the bowl, and then he leans down to look at me. “In this family, every member takes really good care of the others. And that includes how we feel about you. We think you are like a crystal ball that has come into our lives for a reason, and we will do anything and everything that it takes to protect you.”

A hot tear falls on my arm. Others build up on the rims of my eyes, waiting their turn to fall. Mrs. Chandler walks in and just looks at us.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything's great,” Mr. Chandler says, dropping the rubber balls into a box on the chair. “We were just talking about family.”

“Can I call Anna?” I blurt.

Mrs. Chandler's lips just slightly curl up, raising my hopes. “Actually, I talked with Mrs. Craig today, Sara, and Anna had a little setback, so no, you can't call her yet. But she did have one bit of good news that she asked me to share with you, and that's that Anna put Abby back together by herself today.”

“She did? That's great. That has to have earned her some points. Not many, maybe, but some, don't you think? It has to tell them that Anna might be getting better.” They let me ramble without interrupting. “Were all the parts in the right places?” I look up at Mrs. Chandler.

“Not quite, but close. One step at a time, Sara. One step at a time,” she answers.

That afternoon we go to see Dr. Kitanovski again. She really likes my drawing of Daddy.

“Who is this beside your papa?” she asks, pointing to a smaller shape.

“It's a shadow,” I explain.

“And who is this shadow that stands all by itself by your papa?” she asks.

I look again and see that she's right. Daddy and his shadow don't touch.

When I look again, I see me.

I didn't know a person could hold so much crying inside, and when I let it all out, it is like water rushing from a broken faucet. Sometimes I can't breathe, I cry so hard, and Dr. Kitanovski rocks me, saying strange words. She never asks me to stop or be quiet. She just lets the river of tears flow.

When I finally stop, she reaches over and grabs the white stone. “Did you think more about the white stone?” she asks.

“Kind of,” I lie. “It's not rough like the others. It's smooth. Clean.”

She sets the white stone down, and grabs the other two. “So, if this is how you see yourself, and this is how others see you, what might the white one be?”

I thought about Ben, and how no matter what I do, he never judges me.
Maybe the white stone is non-judging, but what's that in a person?

“A non-judger?” I finally spout, rapidly running out of ideas.

She smiles a faraway smile, like something I said has triggered a thought. “A non-judger. I like that, Sara. Now picture this non-judger. What does that non-judger look like?”

“A tree,” I blurt.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “A tree! Interesting. Why a tree?”

“I can be anything around a tree and it doesn't judge me. It just sits there and listens. It doesn't answer back, yell, make fun of me, cry, laugh . . . and it doesn't run away. It just sits and sways and stays,” I add.

Her smile deepens. “Your non-judging tree I like.” She hands me the white stone. “Keep this to remind you of it. And if you can't find a tree to sit under, talk to the stone and tell it your worries. See if you don't feel better.”

“Are you sure?” I take the stone in my hand. It feels cool, and when I slip it into my pocket, it clinks against Ben's penny.

“I am sure.”

*  *  *

September proves to be another month of getting used to things, including a new school where I feel lost without Anna, a new house, and the Chandler house rules: shoes off when entering, put one toy away before taking out another, wash your hands, no elbows on the table when eating, no talking with food in your mouth, say “please” and “thank you.”

Every afternoon before supper, Kevin and I have to “take a walk on the wild side” and pick up after ourselves. And something else new is coming up: My first birthday without Anna is just around the corner.

“Sara,” Mrs. Chandler says one morning while pouring herself a second cup of coffee. “Now that you are settled, we need to do something about your not being able to read very well.”

I stop midgulp, letting a pool of orange juice just sit in my mouth.
She knows?
That means that the school will know soon, then the kids in my class. Faking it has become an art. I have everyone fooled. It's easy to become invisible in school. Sit in the back row and keep quiet. Get someone else to answer for me. Now what?

“Ben Silverman called. He's volunteering at the library, teaching kids and adults how to read. I was wondering if you wanted to go work with him.”

“Ben? Really?” Suddenly everything looks better.

“Shall I take that as a yes?”

I nod, eager to see Ben again.

“The first class is at two o'clock this afternoon. Think you can get your chores done in time to go?”

It isn't going to take hours to clean my room. The closet will fit most of it. I nod.

By one thirty, she gathers her purse and keys. Hesitating at the door, she looks back, like she's forgotten something. “Nobody mentioned anything about bringing books. Of course, it's at the library, so I guess they have plenty to choose from. Still, if there's anything you want to take to read, better grab it now or forever hold your pizza.”

I grin, not at her joke, but because there is something I want to take. I shake my head because I have it in my pocket, and I close the door behind us. If only Anna could come too. Then Ben could teach us both to read.

The library is full of muffled voices, shoes padding against the floor, and books being shuffled from shelves to tables. It has a smell like no other building. A dusty, leathery-book kind of smell. It's probably the cushy chairs I'm smelling. Whatever it is, I like it.

Mrs. Chandler and I wind our way through stacks of books to the back room. “I'll be waiting right here, or nearby. When you're done, just look around. You'll see me.”

“Don't you want to come in and meet Ben?”

“We've already met—foster-parenting classes,” she explains with a little wave of her hand. She then disappears behind a row of books.

I open the door and grin.

Ben stretches his arms wide. Never has a hug felt so good. I plaster my face against his shirt. He smells like laundry soap. A scruff of whiskers scratches my cheek when he kisses me. His whiskers smell like bacon. I breathe in a deep whiff of him and hold my breath, not wanting to let go.

“You don't mind that I called Mrs. Chandler and asked if she couldn't convince you to join the program?” His brown eyes sparkle.

“Me? Mind?” I can't stop grinning at him.