From the outside, our house looks a bit like a prison. An eight-foot fence barricades the property, and there are iron bars over the basement windows. When the house was broken into, the thieves got in through the basement. If the city would allow it, I’m sure Mom would put barbed wire at the top of the fence.
“It’s me,” I call when I unlock the front door and tap in the security code for the alarm. I am so used to announcing myself, I do it even when nobody is home. “Mom? Dad?”
I expect my parents to be waiting, eager to hear about my first day at forensics camp. But nobody answers. I kick off my sandals. There is still no sign of Mom or Dad, and I can’t help feeling a little lonesome.
Dad’s car is in the driveway, so he must be back from work. Maybe they went for a walk. Mom’s boss is so happy with her sales numbers, he agreed to let her work from home three days a week. The only problem with the new arrangement is that she isn’t getting as much exercise now that she isn’t walking to her office as often. Which is why she’s been badgering Dad to join her for walks on her at-home days.
I leave my backpack on the floor and head for the kitchen, where I open the fridge. How can a fridge be so full and yet have nothing in it that I feel like eating? Cheese? Red grapes? Greek yogurt? Nah. I’m in the mood for chocolate pudding or tortilla chips dunked in salsa. But ever since Dad was diagnosed with high blood pressure, Mom’s been shopping strictly according to the Heart and Stroke Foundation guidelines. There’s a Canada’s Food Guide poster on the fridge door. I grab a pen from the counter and write SALSA in the vegetable area.
That’s when I hear the music. It’s thin and reedy-sounding, like it’s coming from a snake charmer’s flute. Definitely not the soft rock my parents usually listen to. For a moment, I stand in the kitchen and listen. I am trying to decide whether I like or hate the sound. I think I am closer to hating it.
I follow the music downstairs to the den. The air smells sweet and sort of powdery. What is going on down there?
“Mom? Dad?”
They do not answer.
My parents are sitting across from each other on the rug, an ivory candle in a brass candleholder between them. Their legs are folded under them; their hands rest in their laps.
“Tabitha!” Mom says, popping up from the rug. “You startled me!”
The powdery smell is coming from a cone of incense burning on the mantel.
I could apologize, but I don’t. I haven’t done anything wrong. “What are you guys doing?” I ask.
Mom has gotten back into position. She takes a deep breath in, then exhales loudly. “Your father wanted us to try meditating.”
“It’s harder than it looks,” Dad says, getting up to give me a hug. He is still wearing his work clothes, and his shirt feels stiff against my face. “Tell us all about forensics camp,” he says into my hair.
I stay by the door. I am afraid that if I walk into the den, my parents will try to make me meditate too. “It was cool. We learned how to do forensic photography and dust for fingerprints. Tomorrow we’re getting a case to solve. Hey, Dad, did you know there was something called forensic accounting?”
“I’ve heard of it. But they certainly didn’t offer that sort of thing when I was at university. If they did, I’d have signed up,” Dad says.
Mom lets her hands hover by her sides, thumbs and index fingers touching.
“How did Mason like forensics camp?” Dad asks. He sits back down across from Mom and does the same weird thing with his fingers.
“I guess he liked it. If you don’t mind my asking—why are you guys doing that thing with your fingers?”
“It’s called the Gyan Mudra,” Dad says. “Your mother and I just watched a DVD about meditation, and we learned how to do it.”
“The Gyan Mudra is supposed to generate wisdom and calmness,” my mom adds.
Calmness? That explains it. Meditating must be Dad’s latest scheme to help Mom chill out. And, knowing Mom, she’s probably hoping that meditation will help reduce Dad’s blood pressure. It is probably not a good time to point out that so far the Gyan Mudra does not seem to be working.
“Maybe you’d like to try meditating sometime too. We could all stand to mellow out a bit,” Dad says. “Meditating could be a family activity.”
I take two steps back. “Going to the beach is a family activity. Skiing is a family activity. Meditating is not a family activity. I think I’ll go up to my room and read. That’s my way of mellowing out.”
For people who are supposed to be meditating, my mom and dad are talking an awful lot. I hear them as I go upstairs. “I don’t know where Tabitha gets that harshness,” my dad is saying. “Neither of us is harsh.”
“Maybe the forensics camp wasn’t the best idea after all. Maybe it’s dredging stuff up for her from—” Mom drops her voice, which is how I know she must be talking about the break-in. Though the subject comes up a lot when she talks to clients, she avoids it when I’m around. I think she is afraid it might upset me. Which it kind of does, but less and less as time goes on.
“The meditating might help,” my dad says.
“I don’t think I like meditating,” Mom says. “It makes me anxious.”
My dad laughs. Not a happy laugh. A worn-out laugh. “We have to give it a try, Lila. You need to learn to relax—not only for yourself, but for me and Tabitha. We need you—even if we don’t always show it.”
I stop on the stairs and think about what my dad just said. I know I can be harsh—and the part about needing my mom feels true too. But that only makes me mad. I hate feeling needy. Maybe that’s why I try not to show it.
Needy. Wasn’t that the word Mason used to describe the Chihuahua on the poster? Rexford. The dog who went missing. I remember Rexford’s small sad eyes. Am I really like that?
And then I get a brilliant idea. I take the stairs back down to the basement two at a time and throw open the door to the den. Dad has turned off the flute music and blown out the candle. He is scooping up the ashes from the incense burner.
“You know what might help us all relax—even more than meditation? A dog!”
Dad rubs his eyes the way he does when he is waking up in the morning. “Dogs shed,” he says. “And drool and scratch the floors. You know how fussy I am about the house.”
“What if I’d clean up after it?” I say.
“And who’d walk the dog?” Dad asks.
“Uh, me, I guess. And if you and Mom wanted to, it would be a great way to get some more exercise.”
“Tabitha is right about the exercise,” Mom says. “And a dog would be company for her, but who’d look after the dog if we’re out of town?”
Luckily, I have an answer for that too. “We could ask the Johnsons. I bet Mason would love to look after a dog.”
And then I have a brilliant idea. I borrow Mom’s number-one sales technique—fear. “I wasn’t thinking so much about a companion. I was thinking we could get a guard dog. For protection.”
They do not say no. With my parents, that just might mean the answer is yes.