Waiting for Normal (18 page)
“Makes me remember being young again,” she told me one night as she took a bite of my special tomato soup on toast. “And there’s not much on this planet that does that for this old girl anymore. You’re my hero, Cookie.”
Sometimes Elliot stayed around for dinner and he and Soula got into salad wars. Elliot made the salad and Soula refused to eat it.
“The darker the greens the higher the vitamin C,” he said. He slid the bowl under her nose and she swatted at him.
“Get that away from me, you fool!” she said. She turned her head away. “My ancestors didn’t fight their way to the top of the food chain to look down and see me eating leaves!”
“Oh come on, Crab Cake. Afraid you might get healthy?” He shook the salad tongs at her.
“Look at me, Elliot!” Soula snapped. “Do I look like I’m about to get healthy?”
“Maybe you should try!” he shouted back.
I kept eating through their fight and wondering if everything would be okay. Poor Elliot. His face was red for half an hour. He didn’t eat much—just pushed the food around on his plate. I made sure I ate lots of salad.
Later he brought Soula a Twinkies cake from out front and said he was sorry. “You should eat whatever you want,” he said. Soula eyed him for a moment.
“Are you still gonna have that party for me after the last chemo?” She tapped a slipper covered foot out in front of her and stuck out her bottom lip.
“Of course,” Elliot told her.
“With a chocolate cake as big as a boulder?” she pleaded.
“Oh, that’s disgusting,” he said. Then he grinned at me and rolled his eyes.
A folded corn tortilla sizzled in the pan on the back of the stove and an oily haze hung in the trailer. I smelled meat and beans with chili powder.
“Hope you’re hungry!” Mommers whooped as I walked in the door.
“I already ate tonight,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“Well”—she grinned and brought her hands together in a loud clap—“you’re gonna eat again! It’s Fiesta Night!” She made big, sweeping loops in the air with one finger. She turned the tortilla with a fork, picked up a knife and split a green pepper in two. A mound of chopped onions and another of grated cheese were piled in bowls near her elbow. “Stir that pot of slop, will you?”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked. I pushed a spoon into the meat and beans and stirred.
“Who needs an occasion? It’s a fiesta!” she repeated. I banged the spoon on the side of the pot to clean it. “You can’t have too many leftovers,” Mommers went on.
Well, she was right about that, I thought, as I twirled the spoon in my fingers. The refrigerator would be full of this stuff until—well, until she came back again.
All or nothing
. That was Mommers.
“Get me that head of iceberg from the fridge, huh?” she said. I did. When I handed it over, she put the blade of her knife up through the still wrapped head of lettuce and stared at it for a second. She peeled back the plastic. “Oh! Oh! My long lost love!” she spoke to the pale green head. She puckered her lips and made loud kissing noises. “How could you stay away so long? I have waited”—kiss—“and waited for your return!” Kiss! Kiss! She went on and on. I don’t know why I didn’t laugh. It was funny enough. Instead, I picked up a sponge.
“Addie, you poop.” Mommers dropped her lettuce puppet on the table. “What’s the matter with you?”
I shook my head.
“What?”
“You,” I said. I stood at the sink turning the faucet off and on over the sponge for no reason. “I know what you’re doing,” I said. “You’re
trailer
stuffing
.”
“Trailer stuffing?”
“You’re filling the place up with food.” I swiped at the counter with the sponge. “You’re gonna leave again.”
Mommers froze for a second. “Well, I can’t be here all the time! I have a job, ya know? Are you really mad at me? I can’t believe this!”
“You’re gone
all
the time,” I said. I mashed the meat tray into the garbage and pushed it down hard twice. “We’re gonna get caught again,” I mumbled.
“Caught? No, no we are
not
.” Mommers took a deep breath. “This isn’t the same as …as before. Besides, you’re
twelve
now! And look at you! Now listen, I’m here doing all this cooking and
you
are spoiling Fiesta Night, Addison. Come on. Get happy!” She went on chopping and frying. Then, without looking at me, she said, “And when I’m not here, you just …just …take
real
good care of yourself. Give me a little more time. Everything will work out fine.”
I waited a couple of seconds. “Did you tell Pete?”
“I’ll tell him about the baby when he needs to know,” she said flatly.
“I didn’t mean that,” I said. “I meant did you tell him about me?”
She didn’t answer.
I managed to eat one taco. Mommers ate three. While she settled in front of the TV with a diet soda, I cleaned up the kitchen. It seemed to take forever. The oil had splattered and she had set the meat and bean spoon down on the counter in about a dozen different places. There were puddles of slop everywhere. The more I cleaned, the madder I got. Mommers sat glued to
Jeanette
. I began to think it was better when I had the trailer to myself. At least then I only had to clean up my own mess. I scraped the meat and beans into a plastic bowl and stored it in the fridge. I scrubbed the pan in the sink and dried my hands.
“Finally,” I said. Then I turned and saw the tortilla pan at the back of the stove and the onion bowl that I had missed on the table. I let a little growl out between my teeth.
“Hey, I’ll get the rest,” Mommers called to me.
“Oh,” I said. “Really? That’d be nice. I’m going to do my homework.”
In the morning, I found Mommers asleep in front of the TV. She had not moved since the night before. She had not done the last of the dishes. I went to her and shook her by the shoulder. “Don’t you have to be at work soon?” I asked. She grumbled and rolled away from me. “Mommers,” I said again. “You were gonna finish the kitchen. Remember?”
I took my shower and left for school.
“
H
i, Elliot,” I said as I entered the minimart. My backpack caught on the closing door and “ pulled me backward.
Elliot laughed and raised a hand. “Hi, Addie.”
I looked at the empty lawn chair. Soula was usually right there when I came in from school. “Where is she?” I asked.
“Napping. It’s not a great day,” Elliot said, curling his lip.
“Oh. Poor Soula,” I said.
“Yeah, only don’t let her catch you saying that,” he warned me. He put his finger to his lips. “No pity parties.”
“Right. Hey, Elliot?” I kept my voice low. “Isn’t it time for the last chemo?”
“Past time.” He nodded. “Way past. But they’re holding off. She needs a break.”
“Oh, that’s good!” I said. I grabbed the broom and started sweeping my way past the dairy case. “Soula probably wants a break. She told me the chemo is the cure but the cure is a killer.”
“Guess that’s true,” said Elliot.
I hung around awhile. I unpacked a box of chips and filled the coffee cup dispenser. Elliot took inventory in the candy aisle, marking off an order form he had on a clipboard.
“What’s this week’s winner?” I asked.
“Hershey’s plain,” he replied. Same as usual. “Not much changes around here.” He made a big sigh and ran his hand over his short hair. “Then again, maybe that’s a good thing.” I have to admit, I thought he was being a bit dramatic.
“Aw, come on, Elliot. It’s just chocolate,” I said. “Hey, let’s change something. Let’s change the radio station!”
He gave me a silly grin. I got up on a stool and turned the tuning dial until I got a country and western station. We pushed back a cardboard display for disposable cameras and made a dance floor. Elliot was so good at leading that he made
me,
the clod, look like a pro. When I sat out, exhausted and sweaty, he danced the broom instead and just as easily too. From my milk crate stage, I sang with a twang into my ice scraper microphone. “One minute yo’re beatin’ all the odds, and the next, they’re beatin’ you!”
Soula never showed that afternoon. I left her a note to say hello and told her I’d be by tomorrow in case she had missed me. I shouldered my backpack and headed out.
“Hey, kiddo,” Elliot said. He laughed when I pretended to be squooshed in the closing door. “Thanks for hanging around.”
“Sure!” I said. I squeezed out the door and made a big circular wave with my arm from the other side.
I hopped the river of water that came streaming across the road from Soula’s melting avalanche. I sniffed the air. Five o’clock on the corner had a sort of gassy smell about it, what with everyone coming and going. Elliot would be anchored to the register soon with everyone fueling up. The air was warmer than it had been in months. March was here. Spring was coming. I wondered how long before the tar would bubble up in place of all the slush and melting snow. I remembered popping the bubbles with Katie and Brynna back in September. I caught a sorry breath in my chest, along with a cloud of exhaust from an eighteen wheeler.
I coughed my way into the trailer and closed the door quickly.
“Whoa! You don’t need any of that stink filling up your little lungs, Pic,” I said. I checked the stove just like I had for four nights running. Mommers had still not been back, or if she had been, she still hadn’t done her share of the Fiesta Night cleanup. The taco pan was still on the back of the stove and I left it there. I scrubbed the saucepan I’d made my chicken noodle soup in (I was sick of beans after four nights in a row) and the knife I spread peanut butter onto my toast with. I rinsed the suds from my bowl, glanced at the pan full of oil and thought about cleaning it.
“Nope,” I said. “Not gonna.” I wiped up all around it. Then I turned on the radio, found the station Elliot and I had had so much fun with and kicked back. “From now on, Pic, I clean up after me and you. I’m changing my life!” I threw my head back and howled with the music.
I
woke up way before the alarm the next morning. I was sure I had heard Mommers come in, but when I checked her room it was empty. I looked at the clock. It was just a little after five. I had hours before I needed to leave for school. I dug into the cupboard and pulled out a packet of cocoa mix—the
last
packet.
“Well, Piccolo, I got me one last cocoa and plenty of time to drink it,” I said, still enjoying a Western twang. I flicked on the burner to start my kettle and went in for a quick shower.
When I came padding out in my bare feet and bathrobe a few minutes later I heard a strange sound—a mix of crackle and wind. Not right. The air smelled like burned tacos. I whipped around to see a black haze rising from the fry pan on the stove. There was a loud pop and it burst into flames. I reached for the handle. Too hot! I dropped the pan. The flames spilled and leaped. I grabbed the fire extinguisher. What had Dwight said? I pulled the pin and aimed. A watery spray hit the fire.
No foam! There should be foam!
The flames climbed the back wall and crept along the ceiling overhead. I let the extinguisher drop.
I ran to my bunk, grabbed Piccolo’s cage and opened the trailer door. I turned and saw the fire swallow the Tibetan paper shade and the valentine hearts. The bulb shattered and I slammed the door.
I must have set Pic’s cage down. I really don’t remember that part. And I don’t know how a person has enough sense to get out of a burning trailer but not get away from it. I just know that I stood there on the step swearing and beating my palms on the metal door until they stung with pounding heat.
A big soft arm wrapped me around the chest. “Come away, Cookie,” Soula breathed. “Hurry now! Hurry!” She dragged me off the steps. “Your momma’s not home, is she?”
“No. Wait! Piccolo!” I screamed. “Where’s Piccolo!”
“Right here!” Soula said. She held the cage up by the handle for me to see. “Come on, now!”
By the time we crossed Freeman’s Bridge Road, Soula was leaning on me instead of pulling me. Pic’s cage bumped against her big side as she heaved her heft into the parking lot.
“Oh, Soula!” I choked. I looked over my shoulder at the trailer. “It’s my fault! I was so stupid!”
“No, no, Cookie. Are you hurt?” Soula asked. I looked at my hands. My palms were red. “No,” I said.
We heard breaking glass and turned to see flames in the front picture window. Seconds later, the glass in my bunk space blew out. The walls turned black and folded in. My little square window frame glowed, red hot.
I heard the sirens up on Nott Street. Hose No. 6, I thought. Soula was still heaving every breath into her chest. Her eyes were wide. She set the hamster cage down with a thunk in front of her and leaned on it. The wires bent under her weight. I had never seen her so far from the store, so far from a place to sit down.
“Soula! Wait here!” I yelled. I ran up ahead and went into the minimart. I dragged her lawn chair out to her. She fell into it.
“I’m sorry, Soula!” I squatted down beside her and patted her arm. “You okay, Soula?”
She said, “I just need a minute. It’s good you’re safe, Little Cookie. You and your little hamster are safe.” She stopped to breathe, then said, “Elliot and his fancy dial phone. Thank goodness!” Soula let out a sigh. “All I had to do was punch that button the second I saw the smoke.” She closed her eyes, leaned back and smiled. I stooped beside her, rested my chin on her big arm and watched the fire trucks come down the hill.
Two trucks pulled right up in front of the trailer. Another pulled into the Empty Acre right beside the minimart. Within seconds, the firemen tore the door off the trailer. Two guys went in with masks over their heads.
“There’s no one inside!” I hollered.
“It’s okay, Cookie. They’ve got to do their job,” Soula told me.
“Oh, Soula, what if one of them gets hurt …and all ’cause of me?”
“Don’t think about it, Cookie. They’ll come out.”
Soula was right. What a relief to see them both appearing out of the smoke and giving an all clear signal to the others.
