Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (4 page)

 

Jocelyn looks puzzled.

Wow—your mom was a student?

 

Yeah.            They were supposed to live

happily ever after.

But there wasn't any ever after.

 

Jocelyn's grown-up mask slips a bit

and she looks like she wishes

she didn't know so much

about me

 

or that she knew

what to say

now.

 

If this were a TV show counseling session

now would be the perfect chance

to say, Our time is up.

 

But she doesn't have the

counselor's skill yet

of ending a conversation.

 

Jocelyn pets my stuffed kitty

pulls at the neck of her sweater

and smiles at me

shyly.

 

 

 

Beneath the fairy tale book

is a white baby blanket

decorated with pastel balloons.

I wrap a satin frayed edge

around my wrist

and climb into bed,

too tired to move back to the couch.

 

Jocelyn eyes the blanket

and I can tell she's curious

 

but this is something

I will keep to myself.

 

My eyes close

the comfort of the silky edging

touching my skin.

 

The blanket has been used as

a belt, a kerchief

a veil, an apron

while Mom and I acted out fairy tales.

 

Used as a token, a flag

a banner, a snowfall

while Mom read poetry to me

and I dreamed of performing the words.

 

The blanket was here with me

through it all.

 

It's still here.

But Mom is not.

 

 

 

I must be delirious

because when I wake up Saturday

I think I can do it.

Be in the play tonight.

 

I go to the bathroom and open

the drawer that was my mom's.

 

It's still full of her stuff.

Not like her side of the closet

that only has clanging hangers

since Mrs. Whittier

called my grandparents

to come and help Dad let go

last year.

 

I rattle through her makeup

and find what I think I need

for the stage.

I shower and do my hair

then play with eyeliner, mascara

powder, blush.

 

Dad knocks on the door.

Everything all right in there?

 

I unlatch the door

and let it swing slowly open.

 

Dad glances in

then freezes.

 

He looks like he's seen a ghost.

 

 

 

His face scares me

so I look in the mirror

to see what he sees.

 

And I almost see her.

Eyes defined, cheekbones sculpted.

If I squint, the messy makeup

smooths out

makes me look older.

 

So much more like my mom

than ever before.

 

I turn back to Dad

and his eyes change like he

recognizes me again.

He shakes his head.

Sorry about the play.

You know you can't go, right?

He makes the dorky sad puppy face

that used to make me smile.

 

I tell him Yes

and close the door.

 

Then I watch myself in the mirror

as the tears start falling

 

and I learn too soon

what happens to makeup

when you cry.

 

 

 

Grandma and Grandpa call

three hours before the play starts.

In my mind

I can see them

leaning toward the speakerphone.

Grandpa listening with his good ear.

Grandma doing most of the talking.

Hi, Honey—just wanted to wish you luck

before your big performance.

Wish we could be there!

They live in the hills of Pennsylvania

on the other side of the country.

Too far away to sense

my impending heartbreak.

 

Thanks—but I'm too sick to do it.

I try to keep the catch out of my voice.

 

Oh, Honey,
Grandma says.
Oh, I'm so sorry.

What are you sick with?

 

A stupid virus.

I tell them all my symptoms

and they both make sympathetic noises.

Grandma tells me how sorry they are

and they hope I get better soon

and she asks to talk to Dad.

 

I can tell by Dad's responses

he feels awkward with them.

His own parents do service work overseas

so Mom's parents are the ones

Mrs. Whittier called last year.

 

I listened from my room

when they had their face-to-face chat.

The words I heard from Dad were

Intrusive.

Handling it.

I need more time.

 

The words I heard from them were

Counseling.

Grieving too long.

Not good for Sara.

 

Now Dad says,
Yes, yes.

I'm taking good care of her.

I will.

 

He hangs up and turns to me.

They send you their love.

 

Somehow             even that small phrase

sends a tear

down my cheek.

 

 

 

I try and keep a low profile

the rest of the day.

Dad is not comfortable with tears

and I don't feel like

dealing with him

not dealing with me.

 

Now                out there in the world

the play is going on

without me.

 

A Kelli-Wendy

is following my Peter Pan

through the night air.

 

Not me.

 

I lie on the couch

like an old sub sandwich

forgotten and soggy.

 

My daisy quilt is damp with tears

and used tissues.

 

Even the cards

Dad's artsy students made me

are wet from weeping,

the homemade paper wilting,

the inked letters running.

 

I'm a mess not just because

I'm painfully sick

and missing the play. . . .

 

There on the TV screen

a sun-bright woman

gently lays her arm

across the shoulders

of her daughter.

 

My heart wails

and I wonder if she can hear me

from heaven . . .

wonder if she knows

what I'm going through.

 

It's no use.

I can't stop crying.

 

Dad comes in with some apple juice

sees my tears

and stops

 

totally clueless

 

about what to do.

 

 

 

I feel a sob coming up from my chest

but it startle-stops

when our doorbell rings.

 

No one is there when Dad answers—

only a little white kitten

who darts into our house

like a paper airplane.

 

Dad chases it around madly

and they look so funny

I quit crying

and start laughing.

 

Dad stares at me for a moment

surprised and relieved

and when he finally catches the kitten

he puts it into my arms and says,

Serendipity, Sara.

Someone's brought you a blessing

for a visit.

 

The little fluffball licks my nose

and suddenly

nothing else matters.

 

All I care about now

is making this visit

last forever.