I thought we were making progress,” Mom said. Their bedroom door was cracked open, and I could see Mom sitting up as Dad pulled a sweatshirt over his head and then sat back down on his side of the bed.
I leaned against the wall surrounded by framed family pictures that told our ages by our teeth. Matt without teeth and then Matt with teeth and then Matt with braces. My biggest smile sported two missing top teeth. Most of the pictures had bluish-gray backgrounds and were taken at school. All except Joel’s pictures. There was one of him barely able to hold his head up, another holding his favorite monkey. When we first came home last summer, Mom took down Joel’s pictures. But a faded outline of each frame, a silhouette, remained on the wall, making the absence greater, and she put them back up.
“I thought last night was different,” Mom said, her knees up to her chest, her arms cradling her legs. “That whole thing with Abby. Even though it brought back …”
“I can’t think about it. That’s something I don’t want to relive.”
“But then we’re back to nothing. We’re stuck again.”
There was a long silence. No response. “You’re in the basement every day,” Mom continued, as if explaining her point.
“While you’re at Patti’s,” Dad countered, looking at her then turning away.
“I have to do something, and we need the money. At least I’m not trying to avoid anything or anyone.”
“Are you sure you’re not going to Patti’s to avoid thinking about him?” Dad said.
“Him?” Mom asked. “Him? He has a name,” she corrected over his shoulder. “And maybe I am. But just because I’m trying not to think about Joel doesn’t mean I don’t remember Joel each day.”
Dad jumped up and grabbed a tennis shoe from under his side of the bed.
“Running again?” Mom asked. She picked up the shoe’s partner from a pile of clothes, but when Dad reached for it, she pulled away. “Where do you go, anyway?” she asked. “Can you tell me that?” Dad responded by snatching the shoe and sitting down to put it on. That he wouldn’t even answer Mom made my stomach hurt. Mom shook her head and closed her eyes. “I don’t understand you anymore, John.” Her voice was not angry, but full of sadness.
I stepped back from the door and headed down the hall before Dad left the room. After last night, we weren’t going to church. This would be a good day to be at Miss Patti’s. Maybe we were all running. And maybe there was really nothing that could bring us back.
“Morning, Abby,” Dad said as he passed my room, as if everything was all right when it was so very wrong.
That afternoon I left Rita’s early. I had a plan. As I looked up and down the street, I could see which houses had their television sets on by the lights flickering from their windows, calling me home with the hope that maybe tonight our family would sprawl across vinyl beanbag chairs and shag carpet and share an evening brought to us by NBC. I had forty-five minutes before Tinkerbell lit the castle to convince them.
Every Sunday evening, as the Baptists convened at Calvary Chapel, I said a very quick thank-you that God had called Dad to presbytery. For if I had been fully dipped like the Baptists who go to church all morning and night, I would have missed congregating with my family for an evening of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and The Wonderful World of Disney. On those Sunday evenings I felt that all was well with the world—or at least the Magic Kingdom, if it was indeed a real place and not just something magical coming out of our black-and-white Zenith. After all, when you’re from Ohio, California seems like a huge leap of faith.
I opened the door to find Dad in the kitchen laying out bread and butter for grilled cheese sandwiches. Mom came down the staircase with a stack of bills in her hand.
“You want to watch Wild Kingdom?” I asked. “It’s about to start.” I liked Marlin Perkins and thought it was a nice warm-up to Disney.
“I have to finish this, Abby. But maybe Matt? Where is he, anyway?”
“Dad?” I asked, hoping he might want to join me. I knew he’d say no, but I’d make him say it.
“You know what, Abby? I think I will,” he said, much to my surprise. “Let me finish this and I’ll be there.”
“Jiffy Pop?” I suggested.
“Dinner first,” he said as the butter sizzled in the pan.
“It’s not an easy year with the taxes,” Mom began. “Patti’s trying to help me.”
“Do we owe?” Dad asked, immediately concerned. He buttered the bread and set each slice in the hot fry pan.
“Actually, I can’t tell. I’m not far enough along.”
The doorbell rang, and when I saw Uncle Troy I thought the more the merrier, but when he and Dad left for the living room, I knew I was running out of time. We were going to miss the animals, but we could still watch Disney if the discussion was short.
Fifteen minutes later, Dad came back to the kitchen and his very melted cheese sandwiches. Dad explained to Mom that since the interim minister was local and had a house nearby, he didn’t need the parsonage. But the church would begin a search for a new pastor, and when he was selected, we would need to move. In the meantime, they thought it best not to rent out the house, under the circumstances.
“Under the circumstances?” Mom asked. “You mean like pitying us? Or do you mean because they don’t want bad renters?”
“They can’t pay two salaries, but they’re extending the housing through August.” Dad set a sandwich on each plate. “They hope to have a new minister by then.”
“I don’t want one,” I said, pushing the sandwich plate back. It was quarter till and we had to hurry.
Dad found the popcorn and pulled out a pot, pouring a thin line of vegetable oil into it. He wasn’t making Jiffy Pop.
“So, are you glad about this extension?” Mom asked. “Because I’m not.”
What was she thinking? An extension was good; I didn’t want to move.
“I’m afraid this extension means we’re still in limbo,” Mom said. The oil began to sizzle, followed by a few lone pops before Dad clamped the lid shut and the percussive rattle followed. Dad shook the pot as tiny explosions released the sweet smell of popped corn. Dad focused on listening and shaking, listening and shaking. But Mom wanted an answer.
“At least you know you have doubts, and you question how to live out your faith. Maybe that takes the most faith,” she suggested. Dad didn’t respond, so she continued. “There are a lot of people who are searching; maybe you’re the person to point them in the right direction.”
“If I only knew what that was,” Dad answered. “I’m not exactly a beacon of light.”
“Then, by the strength of God, step back into that pulpit and preach something that might start making sense to somebody, somewhere. If it doesn’t work, hell, we’ll just move to Washington State and you can take over the farm.” Was that a challenge or a threat? Or was she daring Dad to say something? Anything. Just like she did that morning. Dad grimaced, perhaps at the thought of farming. Or perhaps at Mom’s uncharacteristic vocabulary.
“Mom, you really shouldn’t swear,” Matt chided as he came in the back door and headed for the refrigerator.
“Dad made grilled cheese.” I pointed to the remaining plate.
“You’re serious. Farming?” Dad asked. “You’d be a farmer’s wife?”
“Depends on who’s the farmer.” Mom smiled playfully. Dad didn’t.
“Dad, farming? No wonder everybody’s upset,” Matt added, taking out a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. I hoped Matt wasn’t going to spread it on his grilled cheese.
“Or if you’d rather be a clock doc, then let’s move to Chicago and find some masterpieces to work on,” Mom suggested.
“I’m not moving,” Matt interrupted.
“I don’t know that we have to move—” Dad began.
“Of course we have to move,” Mom interrupted. “Somebody has to move, or move on, or move out.“
The conversation that began with simple suggestions and teasing took a sudden turn. Matt and I needed to leave, now, but instead I found myself glued to the table even though I wanted to be glued to the TV. But if I stayed, at least I would know exactly what they said, and then maybe they wouldn’t say all of it. Maybe I could keep something bad from happening. Matt turned his back, opened the bread box, and pulled out a loaf of Wonder Bread. He was working in slow motion, as if he, too, needed an excuse to hear the rest of the argument. Matt stuck his knife into the peanut butter, slid it out, and licked off a thick glob.
The popping increased, and Dad shook the pot harder, until it slowed and then stopped, and he took off the lid, releasing a cloud of steam. A few kernels escaped the pot. Something smelled slightly burnt.
“I’ve been waiting for change, but nothing happens. Now I don’t even know what I’m waiting for anymore,” Mom said. “You don’t have to know how to put the whole puzzle back together right now; just start with a few pieces.” I imagined our annual Thanksgiving puzzle. It was as if we’d lost the box-top picture.
Matt picked up his grilled cheese and his peanut butter sandwich, grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter, and headed out the screen door, which slapped appropriately. Dad and Mom didn’t even seem to notice. Mom just stared at Dad.
“All I know is that you’re taking your time while your family is falling apart.” And then she took a deep breath and said quietly, and too calmly, “Maybe we need some time apart to figure out where we’re headed. A little distance. A separation of sorts.”
Distance? A separation of sorts? Estrangement? Where was the mom who said divorce wasn’t in our vocabulary? Where was the dad who once ordered me to unpack my knapsack and take off my coat and boots, because McAndrewses never joked about running away? Mom had her boots on and her bags packed, but I wasn’t sure where she was going.
Dad took down only one popcorn bowl, filled it, and planted it in front of me. It was five minutes to seven and our show was about to begin.
“Go on ahead, Abby. I’ll be there in a minute.”
When I stepped out, their volume increased.
“Your answer is to just keep busy. Stay distant,” Dad said.
“I’m distant?” Mom sounded appalled.
“Quit a job, get a job, stay away. There are plenty of ways to avoid facing what happened,” Dad said.
“Facing what happened?” Mom repeated. “Just say it out loud. ‘Joel died.’ No more euphemisms, no more hiding the truth or hiding away,” she said. “I’m not the one holed up with clocks in the basement,” she said. “I can’t play with time, but I’m living in the present and have some hope for the future. It’s time to move forward.”
Dad walked out but he didn’t come join me in the living room; instead he headed for the front door. “You’re not there for us, John,” Mom called out after him. “Somebody has to move on, even if you call it running away.” The front door clicked shut, but Mom finished her thought. “You’ve got to figure out what you need to do, but I need to go on.”
Mom disappeared upstairs and I watched television alone, but it wasn’t NBC.
The next day marked the beginning of a new month. While I was at school, Mom moved into one of Miss Patti’s extra bedrooms, but I didn’t know about it until dinnertime, when Miss Patti took out her tuna casserole, set two plates on the table, then held out two more, awaiting Mom’s response.
“Abby, I’m staying here tonight,” Mom said. Something was different. Working late at Miss Patti’s wasn’t unusual, but tonight Mom seemed strange and awkward. “It’s tax time and we’ve got a deadline and Miss Patti needs me more often.” Mom’s explanation came too easily, as if rehearsed. And besides, she usually went home to eat with Dad and Matt. What would they do now? “You can go eat with Dad and Matt, or you can stay here with us. I’m sleeping upstairs.”
I wanted to believe this was just a sleepover so that I could run next door, grab a sleeping bag, say “hey” to Dad and Matt, then return for a fun evening with Rita. Four plates at Miss Patti’s, two plates at home—that is, if Matt stayed. Matt might not be there that night. Or maybe Dad wouldn’t eat. Or maybe I needed to make it even, three at home, three at Miss Patti’s. I couldn’t decide.
“You’re welcome to stay with me tonight,” Mom offered.
I frowned. How generous. Miss Patti set one more plate down and held out the last one. Which plate, which house? Was this an ultimatum, or was I supposed to be thankful for the invite? My face grew warm, and I felt angry I had to make a choice that felt significant. What happened to “Some things you can never leave behind; you have to work through them”?
“I don’t know,” I said at last and slipped from my seat. Rita followed me out and took my hand. Not knowing what to do, I headed back home. If I didn’t pretend this was only for one night, then I would have to admit something was very wrong.
Rita sat on our back porch while I went into our kitchen. Two cans of unopened Campbell’s tomato soup stood on the counter. A strip of light escaped through the crack at the bottom of the door to the basement. Dad was working, but I didn’t see Matt. I wanted to go downstairs, but I didn’t know what to say and I felt guilty for eating at Miss Patti’s and for what I was about to do. Quietly, I slipped upstairs to my room and opened my drawer. I hesitated, then finally picked out a nightgown and pants and a shirt and one pair of underwear. This was only for one night.
When I came back down, I paused at the top of the stairs, opened the door, and threw my clothes behind it.
“Hey, Dad,” I said as I headed down. I tried to read his face like he read the faces of his clocks. His eyes looked tired, but he smiled at me.
“Hey, Bee,” he said. I came beside him and he folded me into his arms. “You doing okay?” he asked, then corrected himself. “No, I guess that’s a silly question.”
“Daddy?” I began, my face muffled against his shoulder. “Maybe you could …” And then I couldn’t think of anything to say. I hadn’t really figured out a way to fix this. I really needed to think about it. “I love you,” I said at last.
“I love you, too, Bee,” Dad said, and he took in a quick breath. He didn’t want to cry and I didn’t want to see him cry. I wanted to make him feel better, but I should have known that wasn’t possible.
That night, I went to bed alone in the room that wasn’t mine, while Mom worked downstairs with Miss Patti. I heard the chairs roll across the hardwood floors and the wind whistle in the attic above. A few minutes later, the door opened.
“Abby, are you awake?” Mom asked in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll come to bed now.”
“It’s cold in here, Momma.”
“I know. We’re at the end of the hall. We have to remember to keep the door open during the day.”
Their guest room was perhaps the most nicely furnished room in Miss Patti’s house. Rita said it was her grandmother’s furniture, and that we were the first guests to use it.
This was where Rita played our telephone game. She had a tin can at her house and I had one at mine. My telephone hung from the window of Mom and Dad’s bedroom. We strung yarn across and talked to each other on chilly fall afternoons or warm spring Saturday mornings, having more fun than we could have had with a real telephone.
But today the phone line would not have worked. The language spoken between the houses was foreign, and I was no interpreter.
Mom’s nightgown slid over her thin body. In the moonlight, I could see her silhouette and I knew that even if she weren’t my mom, I would think she was beautiful. She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffed it gently, and then leaned back as she massaged her head. I imagined what that felt like. She put cream on her face by the moonlight illuminating the dressing table. I wondered what she saw in the mirror. Did she know she was pretty? Mom tiptoed to the bed and tucked her slippers beneath it. She peeled back her side of the crisp cotton covers and slid in next to me, spooning her body with mine.
“Now you’ll be warm,” she murmured in my ear as she stroked my hair. I felt her heartbeat and soft, rhythmic breath against my neck. I closed my eyes and tried to make our breathing one, but we were too different.
“How many people have you lost?” With my back to her, I could ask that question.
“I know lots of people who have died,” she answered.
“But did you really know them?”
“Some …” Her voice drifted.
“Does it ever get easier?”
“No. And I suppose that’s a good thing,” she said. “If it got easier, it would mean I loved less.”
“What was it like when Poppa died?”
Mom’s breathing changed, slowed. And then she sighed.
“Different,” she said at last. “Poppa was older. I was more prepared. But it was still sad.”
I remembered when Joel was a baby, Mom left for Poppa’s funeral. She took Joel with her and was gone for three days. When she came back, it took her a long time to smile.
“What about your mom?”
“You’re sure curious tonight,” Mom teased, tickling my side. I grabbed her hand and put it on my arm. I loved the gentle caress of her fingers.
“I was just a baby. I didn’t know she died,” she answered.
“So that one didn’t hurt.”
“It hurt. But in a different way. Everybody always had a mom except me. I always missed her even though I didn’t know her. I had to imagine what she was like. I had to pretend things about her.” Mom rolled to her back and I copied her. She folded her hands across her waist and I did the same. We stared at the ceiling.
“I always wondered what it would be like to have a mom,” she said at last. Mom bent her face to her shoulder to dry her eye. “And then when Matt was born, I realized how much I had missed,” she said softly. I could see the other tears sliding down her porcelain face. I touched her cheek and traced the liquid trail with one finger and then the next finger, until I had touched away most of her tears and my fingers were damp. “It hurts no matter what. It just plain hurts to lose someone.”
“I wonder what your dad felt like,” I offered cautiously. “I’ll bet he missed your mom.”
“This isn’t what I wanted, Abby,” she said.
I thought about my dad and wondered if Mom thought about him, too. I leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. Mom reached out and pulled me close, and that was the beginning of our first sleepover.