The Hidden Summer (19 page)

On August 1, I climb back over the fence. I climb the stairs to our apartment as slowly as possible, and I close the door quietly behind me. Mom steps out of the kitchen and holds out her arms, waiting for me to come to her. She looks neither happy nor sad to see me. I don’t know what I feel—it’s not happiness or sadness. Those words are too simple.

“Hi, Mom,” I say.

BACK HOME

The apartment is, well, the apartment. Mom is Mom.

My first night back, I’m sitting alone at the kitchen table. Gloria and Maureen and Jakobe are still out there, and so is Marvin. Both Marvins. Even though I’m staring at a beige wall and not a window, I imagine the shadow of my dinosaur, and, maybe, somewhere along Red Mountain, the light from a bedside table where my old stepdad is reading himself to sleep. I imagine Memama and Grandpops’s apartment, with all the little glass statues sparkling. I think of Adam across town, and I wonder if Alexia is working at the gas station tonight.

I think about what Adam said, about how family are the people who stick with you, drool or no drool. The ones who you don’t have to try with. Maybe you get two families—the one you’re born with and the one you make yourself. The one you choose. Maybe your family can stretch in front of you like a golden spiderweb, going on and on and on.

Maybe you have to help it along, though. Something as fragile as a spiderweb can break if you’re not careful.

Mom and Lionel are out doing the grocery shopping, so there’s no one home to ask me where I’m going when I slip through the front door and make my way down the stairs. I smooth my hair and tuck in my T-shirt as I walk to Lydia’s house—it can’t hurt. I knock on the door and wait. Then I knock a second time. I could ring the doorbell, but I think that’s more obnoxious somehow. More disruptive. I don’t want to make Lydia’s mother mad before she even gets to the door.

Finally I hear the dead bolt turn, and the door swings open to show me Lydia’s mom. She’s drying her hands with a dish towel. Her nails are shiny and red.

“Hi, Mrs. McAllister,” I say, since she doesn’t say anything.

“Hello, Nell,” she says, politely but coolly. “I think Lydia explained to you that I’d rather she not see you anymore. I know that can’t have been pleasant to hear, and I’m sorry. But I did mean it. I think it’ll be best for both of you to have a little space from each other.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I understand. But could I talk to you for a minute, please? I’d just like to try to apologize for my mother.”

I can see she didn’t expect that. She twists the dish towel in her hands.

“Sweetie,” she says, “I think your mother is capable of apologizing for herself. If she had any interest in doing that.”

I want to be very careful about this next part. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I came home, every time I look across the yard and see Lydia’s house. If I can do this right, there’s a chance that I could get back life with Lydia the way it used to be. But first I have to make her mom listen.

“Mrs. McAllister, I know my mom should be the one apologizing to you,” I say. “She’s the one who messed up. But you’re punishing me for it. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me one chance to try to fix it. That seems fair. I think. Just one minute to talk to you.”

For a second, I think she’ll slam the door. If I had to guess, I’d say she thinks my little speech was: a) true, and b) annoying. But she stands back and lets me in.

“I don’t mean to be unkind to you, Nell,” she says. “You’re a nice girl. But I do believe that your mom is a bad influence, and I don’t want Lydia around her. And it would be nice for both of you to make new friends.”

“I am sorry for whatever my mom did or said,” I say. “I’m extremely sorry. And that’s part of what I wanted to say to you. And I totally agree with you about making new friends. I’ve made some new ones, and they’re great. But they’re not the same as Lydia. Please think about letting me and Lydia still be friends. I’ll take out your trash for a year or give Saban baths or any other punishment you like. Just don’t make me stay away from Lydia.”

She shakes her head. “Nell . . .”

I interrupt her, because I need to say a little more. Not to argue with her—arguing will get me nowhere. I have no strategy, no devious plan—all I’m doing is asking her to give me a chance. And then it’s up to her.

“I know my mother hurt your feelings,” I say. “But I’m not my mother. It wasn’t easy for me to come over here and knock on your door and say all this. I only did it because nobody in the world means more to me than Lydia. That ought to matter. It ought to count for more than my mother. Please.”

I watch her face very carefully—her lipstick is perfect, and each eyelash is curled—and I can tell that she’s considering what I said. And she’s feeling something, although I can’t tell what. Frustration? Discomfort? Guilt? Sympathy? I hope it’s sympathy. But I don’t say anything else. I keep looking at her, even though it would be much easier to look away, because I’m hoping she can see how much I mean what I’m saying.

“I don’t want Lydia to come over to your apartment,” she says finally.

“Okay,” I say, hoping.

“But you’re right,” she says. “You’re not your mother. And it was very mature of you to come over here and have this conversation. I appreciate that. You’re welcome to come back over here. Just like always.”

I hug her. Really tight, and I probably wrinkle her perfect shirt. I’ve never hugged Mrs. McAllister before, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She pats my head, and I feel the damp dish towel brush against my neck.

“You want to go up to her room now?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I can’t stay long because Mom and Lionel will be back anytime, and they’ll wonder where I went. But I stay long enough to bounce a little on Lydia’s squishy bed and roll around on her furry carpet. We throw a ball for Saban and try to make him bring it back to us. It’s stupid, but I almost get choked up while we’re playing fetch. When I had Lodema, losing Lydia’s house didn’t seem quite as important. But as I let Saban lick my face, and I see the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, all I can think about is how much I need this. Lydia’s room feels more like home to me than my own bedroom. No one yells at me, I never feel like I should lock the door, and, let’s face it, she has much cooler stuff than I do.

I can’t let my spiderweb shrink down to the size of my own apartment—it has to keep spreading. The wider it reaches, the stronger it gets.

“I’m glad you’re my family,” I say to Lydia.

“I’m glad, too,” she says, spinning around in her zebra chair. “It’s nice to have you sitting here in my room again.”

When I get back the apartment building, I see Lionel’s car, and I rush up the stairs. But apparently no one was too worried about me. The apartment is completely still and quiet when I open the door. There’s a thin beam of light from the lamp to the sofa, and it falls on Mom’s kneecap. She’s asleep. I guess Lionel is asleep by himself in their bed. I tiptoe toward the couch and study Mom’s face. I’m not sure I’ve noticed the lines around her eyes before. She’s frowning as she dreams. I pull the blanket from the arm of the sofa and spread it over her. Her bare feet are pale and small and somehow sad. I tuck them under the blanket.

Then I walk to my room and lay my hands on the cool glass of the window. No stars tonight. Just the lights of the city. They stretch out as far as I can see, and they make this apartment seem small and unimportant. The lights flicker and flash like a secret code. I don’t know what it means, but I know it’s a message. I know it’s for me, and I know one day I’ll decipher it. It makes me think of fences, of a whole world full of fences, and of choosing when you climb over and when you come back. Sometimes you climb and sometimes you wait. For now I watch the lights, and I wonder what comes next.