It smells like cows. Like grass and rain and mud all pressed together in a heap. Still, I breathe deep and fill my lungs. Then I sit at the picnic table where we always used to eat enchiladas from the food truck. But I don’t think about enchiladas, because then I would have to think about Dad, and I’m trying to think about cows.
“Cows, cows, cows,” I whisper.
I pull the hood of my jacket up over my face just as Grammy walks out the door. She sniffles as she sits next to me, so close that I almost fall off the bench.
“That’s not my Tony.”
“Yes it is.”
“But what happened to him? His hair, that beard … his eyes. He looks hollow and lost.” She stares at me as if I’m the grown-up and she’s the kid.
“It’s the depression,” I say. “One day the sadness came, and it never left.”
“My poor Tony.”
Then Dad walks out of the store.
I pull my hood even further over my face so he won’t see me, won’t recognize me. But I should know better. He hasn’t seen me for five months and nineteen days, and even before he left he didn’t really see me. He just walked around with that lost look. All this time, I’ve only wanted Dad back. But now that I know he’s still sad, still scruffy and empty, I want to hide. I don’t want him to look at me and not see me.
But I’ve spent over five months wondering where he is. So when Dad gets to the street and turns right, I stand up and start walking.
“What are you doing?” asks Grammy.
“I’m following him.”
Grammy nods and comes with me. We don’t run. We stay far back like spies.
He turns onto another street. “I just want to see where he’s going,” I say.
But I want to see other things, too. Like if Dad has a new family, or if he’s by himself. If he still stays in his bedroom all day, or if he’s out doing all the fun things we used to do together. If he misses us. If he wishes he were home.
We turn down the same street as Dad, trailing him past a long row of bushes right to the end of the road, where he enters a huge, brown apartment building.
As we walk up to the list of names and apartment numbers outside the doors, a lady with a screaming baby rushes past us.
“There he is,” says Grammy. “Apartment 304.”
I can’t help looking around me and wrinkling my nose. How could Dad leave our house to live in this gross apartment building with weeds growing in the cracks of the sidewalk and stinky ashtrays out front?
“Well, we know where he lives,” says Grammy. “So now we can …” She looks at me and waits for me to finish the sentence, to give her a plan.
“Go home,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
There’s a quiet space where the wind blows between us and carries away all the words I wish I’d said instead.
“My poor Tony.”
“At least now we can mail your letter.”
Grammy doesn’t hear me. She’s staring at the ugly building. Finally, she says, “Do you think he needs me?”
I nod. “And me. And Mom.”
“And magic,” she whispers.
“And magic. Can we give him some?”
“Yes. If you love someone you can always give them magic. And you always should. We never give up on people we love. I know that better than most.”
We go back to the store, hop on the bus, and then walk as fast as we can from my school to home. The closer we get, though, the further Grammy disappears. She keeps saying things like, “Now where are we? Where are we going? This doesn’t look familiar.”
“Almost there, Grammy,” I whisper, holding her hand.
Mom pulls into the driveway just as we’re walking up the front steps. I don’t have time to hide the plastic grocery bag. I’m trying everything I can to get Grammy to go inside.
“No, where are you taking me? This isn’t my house.”
Mom gets out of the car. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?” Then she sees the grocery bag. “Did you go to the store?”
“Grammy, this is where you live now,” I say. “I’ll show you your bed and all your things.”
Grammy shakes her head and pulls her hand away. “No. No.”
“Did you go to the store with her?” Mom asks again.
“We were safe,” I say. “I know how to get there.”
Mom walks up to the door. “It’s not you I’m worried about, Katydid.”
“Don’t call me Katydid!”
“Excuse me?” She says it in that voice that wants to see if I’m brave enough to say it again.
I’m not.
Mom turns away from me. She puts a hand on Grammy’s back and rubs in circles. “Pat, let’s go inside and make some hot tea. Then you can go home.”
“Okay,” she whimpers.
Mom leads her into the kitchen like a little kid. As she puts the teapot on the stove she says, “You’re lucky she didn’t do this to you at the store. Or on the bus. What if you couldn’t get her here?”
I let those questions float right out the screen door without bothering to catch them or answer.
Grammy shifts in her chair and hums nervously.
“I’m coming, Pat,” Mom says before turning to me. “So what’s in the bag?”
I hand it off to her.
“Bubblegum?” Mom pulls out one of the packages. “You know how I feel about bubblegum.”
“It’s for Sofia.”
“Sofia? Why?”
“I’m making her a necklace out of the wrappers. So we’ll stop fighting and be best friends again. Just like we used to be.”
Mom sighs. “Oh, Katydid.”
“What?” I grab the bag and the gum back from Mom so she’s standing in the kitchen with her hands out in front of her but nothing in them. They hang there for a minute before she slowly places them on my shoulders.
“Do you know the hardest part about running Mayor Gerton’s campaigns?”
I groan. “Not again.”
Mom puts her finger to her lips. “No. Listen.” She bends down so she’s looking me straight in the eyes, so she knows what she’s about to say will really go in. “You can give the voters all the information in the world. And you can even drive them to the polls. But in the end, you can’t force them to vote for your candidate.”
I push her hands off my shoulders. “What does that even mean?”
“It means …” Mom takes a step back and waves her hand in the air. “Wouldn’t you rather make this necklace for Jane?”
“Jane?” Her name echoes off the kitchen cabinets and bounces around inside my brain. I look into my bag at the bright colors of gum and the orange notebook. A rainbow in a grocery bag.
“Yes, Jane. She sent you a text today.”
“Liz?” Grammy says like it’s a question. “Liz?”
Mom hands me the phone and hurries to Grammy. I find her text messages. Under the number I recognize as Jane’s it says, Hi Mrs. Mitchell, this is Jane. Kate’s partner on a project at school. I’m sending these texts for her. OK?
The next text reads, Kate, do you feel ready for our presentation tomorrow? Maybe we should get together tonight and make sure we’re good to go. The switch from singing to karate has me nervous.
I quickly text back. Can’t. Too busy. And I’ve got the karate down. Don’t worry.
Then, before Mom comes back, I flick down to find the last message I sent Dad. Merry Christmas. It still says it’s unread.
When Mom finishes helping Grammy, I hand the phone back. She reads what I texted Jane, sighs, and pulls the box of herbal tea from the cupboard. “Don’t you think you’d like to get out of this house for a little? Play with someone?”
“Play?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Hang out. You know, with somebody other than Sofia. Maybe it’s time to, I don’t know, try new things.”
“I don’t want to try new things.”
Mom takes a tea bag from the box and places it in Grammy’s mug. “Katydid, sometimes friends grow apart. And that’s okay. It’s part of growing up. I know it hurts. I remember when—”
“It’s just been a few misunderstandings, Mom,” I say, stopping her from trying to talk about our feelings. “And, you know, Marisa and the play. It’s not … nothing is changing.” It comes out louder than it should.
“Things are always changing, honey.”
I stomp my foot. “Not this!”
I run to my room, drop the grocery bag on the floor, and walk over to my guitar. I pull the polishing rag out and sit down on my bed, running it over and over the dark wood until it shines.
“There,” I whisper. “Soon.” Because it’s real now. Dad, Sofia, the magic. It’s all real. And it’s all happening.
Dear Dad,
Have you ever wanted anything so much you could actually see it? The first few days after you left I swore I saw headlights pulling into our driveway every night because I wanted to see them so bad. And now that I know the magic is real, now that I know it works, I can see Sofia sitting in my bedroom talking about school and homework and everything.
And I can see you too. Driving up, walking in, coming home.
Love,
Kate