Sway Page 6

  “Listen, baby, there are things so hard to explain…like how some people need rescuing more than others,” she said with sobs filling in the gaps between the words. “But Cass, you can make a difference, and you will make a difference. Will you remember that? And someday I will visit your statue, okay?”

  With all the figuring I could muster, I couldn’t make much sense of the things she said. They sounded more like pieces of a late-night TV movie you hear when you’re half asleep than a Mom thinking about coming home.

  “But when—” I said, when a big schlak! came from the kitchen, followed by the sound of batteries rolling across the linoleum.

  “What, Cass?” she said.

  “When are you coming back?” I said, super loud. “And what do you mean I’ll make a difference?”

  “Cass, you talking to me?” Dad hollered through the wall.

  “No!” I yelled back.

  “What?” he said.

  “No! Sir!”

  “Cass, I’m so sorry, baby, but I have to go,” Mom said, her voice trailing off.

  Dad came stomping down the hall. Syd finally shooed.

  “I love you,” she said. And when she hung up, there was total silence. No alarm, no Syd, no breathing. Just silence.

  Dad opened my bedroom door to find me pressing the phone to my face, like maybe I could smell her through it.

  “Was that your mom?”

  “Yeah, and she said you wouldn’t let her talk to me.”

  Dad didn’t even offer an excuse.

  “Did she say where she was calling from?” he asked.

  “How come?” I said. “Do you want to go get her?”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she loves…us.”

  “Really? Was that it?”

  “And that this is just an in-between.” I took the liberty of filling in a few of the blanks for Mom. Dad rubbed his face hard.

  “So are we going to?” I asked.

  “Going to what?”

  “Go find her.”

  Dad reached down and took the phone from my grip, like I was a baby who’d gotten hold of a chocolate bar and now he was going to go hide it from me.

  “Try to get some sleep, Cass. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Soon as Dad’s footsteps faded, I ran to the open window and looked for Syd, but he was gone. I stood there alone and gazed at the part of the night that wasn’t hidden by a big nasty RV, and I tried again and again to begin my front-and-back-of-forever prayer, but not one person would show up for the parade in my head.

  The first Monday morning of summer break brought the smell of scorched coffee under my bedroom door. I went to the kitchen to find the coffeemaker turned on, but nothing but a circle of burned blackness in the bottom of the pot. Through the window above the sink, I could see my dad stepping high over the dew-soaked weeds of the backyard.

  I poured myself a bowl of cereal, wedged my fingers into the sugar bowl trying to get at the last few clumps, and then searched the drawer for a spoon that hadn’t been chewed up by the garbage disposal. The only smooth one I found was too big to fit in the sugar bowl, but I did catch a glimpse of my upside-down self reflected in it, and my upside-down self said to me, So, why in the world aren’t you finding that cell phone and calling your mom? I also happened to notice that upside-down me looked about as puffy-eyed and ugly as right-side-up me was feeling.

  I ran straight to Dad’s bedroom and stood on a flipped-over laundry basket to search the shelf at the top of his closet, his one-and-only place for hiding things my whole life. Sure enough, among dusty papers and an old hunting knife, the phone sat right there, so I snatched it and ran to my own closet. Taking my first real breath of the day, I put the phone up to my ear and pressed MOM one more time. I don’t know what in the world I’d planned on saying, but the voice on the other end sure enough decided for me when it said, “Your prepaid minute balance has expired. Please purchase a refill.” I immediately pictured Dad calling dumb things like dial-a-joke over and over again just to let the minutes leak out of the phone, and it made my heart feel tight like a sunburn.

  On the way out of the closet, I got poked in the foot by the corner of the pink plastic beauty box. Peeking out from underneath a layer of mangy Beanie Babies, the box offered no help for my heart, but at least maybe a fix for my eyes. I nestled back into the closet floor in a dusty strip of sunlight and carefully unfolded the box’s levels, one by one, until I found a big jar labeled Goin’ Undercover. The stuff inside was probably too tan for my skin, but I spread it on good and thick under both eyes, all the while thinking about what Mom might say, like, If sad is what you feel, use this to conceal! And when I was done, my eyes did look sort of okay in the little beauty box lid mirror. Okay for a darkish closet, that is.

  “Cass! I need your help!” my dad yelled. Dad never rhymed, not even by accident.

  I closed up the beauty box, the cell phone still inside, and headed outside to find Dad trying to yank the blue cover off The Roast. He was already in a sweat.

  “I thought I could do it in one grab,” he said, pulling off his T-shirt to wipe his face. The contrast between Dad’s tan arms and his white chest made him look like he was wearing another shirt underneath. His curly brown hair was fluffed out like he’d run his fingers through it a million times. Even his beard was all mussed up.

  “Want a sip?” Dad grabbed a bottle of Yoo-hoo from off a lawn chair and twisted it open.

  It made me even madder at him that he would drink something as cheerful-sounding as Yoo-hoo on such a sad day.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  As he gave it a guzzle, the morning sun lit up the gray-brown flecks in his eyes.

  “You mind helping me uncover this thing?” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “But…why?”

  “So we can clean it up,” he said. “Now, you take that corner, and I’ll get this one.”

  As I reluctantly grabbed a handful of cover while trying to avoid blotches of mildew and bird blech, the thought crossed my mind to be glad that Dad might very well be planning to sell the beast; but it crossed my mind real fast, because my mind was a busy street full of other bigger thoughts. Like how I could figure out a way to talk to Mom again. To steal her back away from Ken and the not-really orphans. How when she waved good-bye to them, her little Cass silhouette charm would ting in the Florida sunshine. Then she’d come make things right with Dad, and press the unpause button on all my plans.

  And until that day, how in the world was Aunt Jo’s storm cellar going to hold all the bads in my head, including the one that was about to jump out of my mouth.

  “Did you let the minutes run out on purpose?”

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  An angry itch spread beyond my ears and into my whole face.

  “Why’d you have to hide the phone from me? Why won’t you let me talk to Mom?”

  Dad dropped his corner to the ground.

  “Two words,” he said. “Surplus suffering.”

  “What?”

  “It’s kind of like that time you wanted to play storm rescue and put on a whole box of Band-Aids at once,” he explained.

  “But you told me no.”

  “Exactly, because I knew they’d pull all the fuzz out of your arms and make you hurt more than what a Dad should ever allow his daughter to go through.”

  He picked up his corner again.

  “And frankly, Cass, you talking to your mom right now is what I would call surplus suffering.”

  Dad crumpled the blue plastic in his fists and said, “Now pull!”

  We both grunted and snorted as we yank-yank-yanked the cover into a pile, sending a puff of shower-curtain smell all around us. Then Dad grabbed the half-empty Yoo-hoo bottle, held it by the tip, and waved it in the air, saying, “It’s no sparkling grape juice, but fit for a christening such as this.”

  “Christening?” I said.

  “You know, like sending a ship off on its first journey,”
he said, and smacked The Roast three solid times before the Yoo-hoo bottle shattered against it, spattering the side with watery chocolate.

  “What journey?”

  The lift in his voice sure didn’t sound like he was talking about a journey to the junkyard.

  “Didn’t I promise I’d get you out of this terribleness?” Dad said, tossing the jagged Yoo-hoo neck toward the garbage and missing, landing it in the grass. “Well, three days from now, we’ll be blasting off, Casstronaut. Just you, me, and The Roast,” he announced, trying to hug an arm around my shoulder. But I backed away just out of reach.

  “You. Me. The Roast. Three days?” I stammered.

  “Yep,” he said. “I figure if I work nonstop, that’ll be plenty of time to get her ready to travel.”

  “Travel where?” I said. “To Florida?”

  “Not to Florida,” Dad said abrubtly. “Maybe everywhere but there.”

  “But what about Mom?” I asked.

  Dad looked like I’d just licked my fingers and pinched out his flame with a tsssss. “Your mom’s already made her own travel arrangements.”

  “I know,” I said. “But what if she changes her mind?”

  Dad knelt in front of me. “Look, Cass, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one. I know I’m feeling my way around in the dark right now, but I figure an adventure together might just bring some much-needed inspiration into our lives. I’ve saved us up a little money, and who knows? Maybe I’ve a bit of excitement tucked up my sleeve too. Maybe you’ll find that your dad’s not a total bore after all.”

  Yeah, and bologna potpie might be delicious, I thought. “But what if I made other plans?” I said.

  “Well, one thing I do know for sure is that you and I are going on this trip regardless,” he said. “And we’re going to have us some fun, even if it takes us weeks.”

  “Did you say a week?”

  “Nope. I said week-suh.”

  One thing I knew for sure was there wasn’t enough goo in that beauty box to conceal the disappointment on my face.

  “Come on and help me shine this baby up,” he said. Perhaps not enough goo in the world.

  I spent the rest of the morning scrubbing bug guts off The Roast and imagining what it was going to be like to spend weeks trapped in a RV with my dad instead of waiting at home for Mom. What if I spent the whole summer living in that box, missing her miserably, having to be a meatseller’s assistant to the man who refused to even try and get her back?

  As I stooped to pry one last gluey moth wing from a taillight, Syd wandered up behind us.

  “Looking good, Uncle Douglas!” he said, giving the motor home a slow fwoooeeet-fwoo whistle. “Wish I could buy this thing. I’d totally live in it.”

  “Sorry, Syd. She’s not for sale,” said my dad.

  “How come you’re home so early?” I asked Syd, sounding only a tenth as happy to see him as I felt.

  “Because I asked my English teacher if vegetarians had to speak Fig Latin instead of Pig Latin,” he explained.

  “And then the whole class talked Pig Latin and wouldn’t quit. I told her I was eally-ray orry-say, but I still got sent home.

  “Yikes!” said Syd when he saw my eyes. “What’s up with your face? You got peanut butter smeared on there?”

  “Butt a stump, Syd.”

  I must have looked all sorts of miserable.

  “Whoa. Are you okay?” he mouthed.

  “No!” I mouthed back, motioning him over to the storm cellar. While my dad admired the transformation The Roast had undergone, from dull-stained beige to shiny-stained beige, Syd and I raced to the shelter, where we sat on the edge and swung our legs down into the opening.

  “Why’s he still working on that thing?” asked Syd.

  “Because he’s taking me on a trip.”

  “A trip? To where?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Wherever they need steaks other than Florida, I guess.”

  “For how long?”

  “Could be weeks, Dad says.”

  “So why are you so ajorly-may ummed-bay?” Syd sounded confused. “You’ve always wanted to see new places, right?”

  “Yeah, but I wanted to see them in a Mom way, all heroic and exciting and stuff,” I told him. “Not all funky and junky like that.”

  We looked back over our shoulders just in time to see my dad trying to re-aim The Roast’s cross-eyed headlights.

  “I kind of see your point,” said Syd.

  “And not just that,” I said, “but Dad’s been talking about Mom like she just poofed into the air, and now he wants us to go spend every moment together pretending there was nothing we could do to stop her from going.”

  When Dad turned and made his way toward Uncle Clay’s porch, Syd and I bypassed the steps and leapt all the way down into the dim shelter, where the family’s fortune-size worries filled jars all around us. Syd pulled the doors shut over us and tugged a dangling lightbulb on.

  “Did you tell him you don’t want to go?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but he said we’re leaving in three days no matter what.”

  I drew circles on the dusty floor with my finger.

  “How’re you going to work on your big wall doodling in that crusty RV?” he said.

  “Noodling,” I said, rubbing the circles gone. “And don’t worry. There’s not going to be anything permanent worth drawing in my future anyway.”

  Syd and I both looked to the lightbulb and watched till it quit its swinging.

  “So what did Aunt Toodi say to you on the phone?” he said.

  His question put a lump in my throat the size of a hush puppy.

  “That this is only an in-between,” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I need to find a way to tell my mom to c-o-m-e b-a-c-k other than dropping eight Scrabble letters into an envelope.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It means that I just need to talk to her again. To convince her to come on back.”

  “Yeah right,” said Syd. “You couldn’t convince a wad of gum to stick to your shoe. Besides, I’d be mad too if I were Uncle Douglas. My mom said Aunt Toodi really did a number on you guys.”

  “Well, she didn’t mean to,” I said. “She’s just gotten a little carried away with her job is all. And she’s going to come back when those kids get their own new mom and don’t need her anymore.”

  “Whatevs,” he said. “Do you really believe that?”

  I hated the way I had to pause to check if I did believe that.

  “It’s not about what I believe, Syd. It’s about what I know. She’s my mom, and I know my mom loves me too much to stay gone.”

  Syd picked at a callus on his palm. I wanted to shake him by the shoulders.

  “Besides, there’s an end to every rescue, you know.”

  I was beginning to think I needed to airbrush There’s an end to every rescue on the back of the tank top. Folks around here sure needed some reminding.

  Uncle Clay’s wheelchair made squeaks above the cellar as he rolled out to greet my dad. I scooted close and looked Syd right in the face.

  “Syd, it is crucial that I be home when she comes back,” I said. “If I’m not here, she just might leave again.”

  “All right, all right,” said Syd, his big knobby giraffe knees bumping my little ones as we both sat crisscross on the shelter floor. “Then what we need to do is come up with a rategy-stay.”

  “A what?”

  “A strategy. For getting you out of this trip,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is think up a good excuse for you not to go.”

  From above, there came some garbly mumbling. I could have sworn Uncle Clay said the word strategy too.

  “They must have heard us,” whispered Syd. “Keep it down.”

  I studied the shelves, trying to read just one of the folded messages inside a jar, while Syd worked up a thinking sweat. The lightbulb over his head made him look like a shadowy mad s
cientist. I could tell what he was thinking. What would Fearless Fenwick do? And boy, was I ever right.

  “I’ve got it!” he said, packing a yell into a whisper. “How do you feel about Fake Tetanus?”

  “Fake Tetanus?”

  All I knew about tetanus was that Mean Maritucker Mentz down the street got it once from stepping on a nail and couldn’t shake a fist or call anyone a dweemus for a whole week because of her twitchy arms and her lockjaw.

  “It’s easy,” he said. “All you need is a fake injury and some ketchup for blood.”

  “Syd, I’ll try to put this in a way you’ll appreciate,” I said. “That idea is totally ridic. Besides, didn’t Maritucker have to get a shot for her tetanus?”

  “Yeah. I think she did.”

  “And didn’t she say the needle was big as a toilet paper tube?” I said.

  Syd just stood there and burped. After that, we spent practically the whole day ping-ponging plans, writing each and every one down, and then crossing the stupid ones out.

  Hide in the storm cellar for a month

  Volunteer to go to summer school

  Fake leprosy (Syd’s idea, of course.)

  Catch a bus to Wherever, Florida

  When Aunt Jo opened the cellar door to hand us down a tray of sandwiches, Syd crumpled up the evidence of our scheming and tossed it over his shoulder.

  “Take what you want and pass it back up,” she said. “I gotta feed the menfolk too.”

  On the corner of the tray was a little manicure kit.

  “What’s that doing on there?” asked Syd.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Aunt Jo said. “Uncle Douglas said they needed it.”

  While Syd picked potato chips from his back teeth, I stood on the ladder to take one more look at The Roast. The late afternoon sun sent a gleam of inspiration right into my eyes.

  “I’ve got an idea!” I said, thinking about Mom’s flat tire and how Dad should have left it that way.

  “What?” Syd squeezed in beside me on the ladder.

  “There’s no spare tire on the back of The Roast,” I said.

  “What?”

  I pointed Syd’s head toward a big chunk of broken Yoo-hoo bottle in our backyard.