If Only Read online

  “Oh, no!”

  I’ll have to use it as a pencil holder or something.

  The next few days, I don’t do much of anything other than walk the dog, listen to music, and open holiday cards from happy families. Practicing the flute has no appeal, it’s too cold to ride a bike, indoor soccer practice is canceled until mid-January, Joci’s having fun in Florida, and Clare is visiting her friends in Connecticut, where she used to live.

  Eliana calls with her usual offer.

  “Do you want to go bowling tomorrow?”

  “No, thanks, we’re really busy.”

  Not. But bowling sounds worse than doing nothing.

  At least Beth hasn’t called, trying to get me to eat Caesar salad at her club.

  Deborah and her kids are in New Orleans, so even she isn’t stopping by. Dad has been around every minute of every day.

  The phone rings. After a few minutes, Dad tells me to get on the phone. I try to get him to tell me who it is, but he just hands me the phone.

  “Hi, Corinna. It’s Grandma and Bapa.”

  “Oh, hi. Thanks for your Christmas card.”

  “We sent you a package. Didn’t it get there yet?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll ask Dad.”

  “How’s the weather there?”

  “Cold.”

  “You should have come to Arizona. Here it’s sunny and hot every day.”

  After they moved from Allentown to Phoenix, we didn’t visit them very often. Mom didn’t seem that close to them. I think we all felt closer to Aunt Jennifer. Mom and Aunt Jennifer were always talking on the phone. With Grandma and Bapa, phone calls are always about the weather. Hot, cold, rainy, dry. Oh, and windy. Can’t forget about windy. What’s up with that?

  I can’t think of anything to say to them. They end the awkwardness for me by wishing me and Dad a Happy New Year.

  The sound of the front door shutting wakes me up. I wonder where Dad’s going. When I get downstairs, I see a note on the kitchen table telling me he went to the post office to pick up the package of presents from Grandma and Bapa, so I run back upstairs to my parents’ bedroom. I want to finish looking in the nooks and crannies of Mom’s closet. Maybe I’ll pick out some clothes.

  Hanging on a hook at the very back of her closet is a huge canvas flowered duffel bag I’ve never seen before. At the very bottom is a red cloth notebook with blue and yellow stripes. And it looks like a journal! Two seconds after I find it, I hear Dad pull into the driveway, so I quickly put it back and go into the hall bathroom, where I try to catch my breath. Mom had a journal? What did she write about? Dad calls through the door to say he’s home and asks if I want to go swimming at the Y before it gets crowded.

  “I was just going to take a shower, but I guess I can take one after the pool.”

  Dad looks ridiculous in his huge goggles, so I’m glad I don’t recognize anyone at the pool. No one recognizes me, either, which is a bonus. During my boring laps of freestyle and breaststroke, I remember Dad’s story about me being an early swimmer and how I swallowed a lot of water because I was smiling so much with my mouth open.

  I take a real shower when we get back, to get rid of that chlorine smell. After choosing one of my many lotions to counteract my lizardy dry skin, I can’t stop thinking about the notebook. I’m dying to know what’s inside, but I also feel guilty about even finding it. To get my mind off all that, I force myself to go back to sorting boxes of photos. It’s one of those projects that could take forever.

  I come across a picture of Mom standing next to some guy I don’t recognize. It’s definitely not my dad. It’s so weird to think about her having other boyfriends besides him, but maybe it’s not a boyfriend. Maybe he’s some random dude. She looks kind of happy for it to be a random dude, though. The question is, should I ask my dad? Maybe he was some secret boyfriend. Maybe he was her math tutor. I know she had a math tutor in college just to help her pass. Maybe he was a musician in the college orchestra. Maybe he’s a prince who went to college with her and she almost married. Then she would have been a princess, and I would have been, too, like in that movie, The Prince and Me. Maybe he was enchanted by her viola playing and fell madly in love with her, despite the king and queen’s instructions not to date an American girl. I guess the point is that there are some things I’ll never know about my mom because she’s not here to tell me.

  While I’m busy making a pile of photos to ask Dad about, I’m sitting in one position for so long that my leg falls asleep. I hobble and hop around and do a lot of moaning as I try to wake it up. Dad is reading in his chair and doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Hey, Dad, can you tell me about some of these pictures?”

  “Sure, show me what you’ve got.”

  First we go through the ones of me and Mom at Glen Echo Park when I was little. Dad tells me how much I loved the slides and swings, but I apparently never wanted to stay on the fancy carousel ride.

  Then we get to the ones from my fourth birthday party, and he starts laughing. “You kept trying to hand out the goody bags before the end of the party. Mom and I didn’t know if it meant that you were ready for the guests to go home or if you were just so excited about giving them to your friends.”

  I guess I wasn’t so easy to figure out sometimes. That’s still true, especially since Mom’s cancer. I’m such a crazy mixed-up bowl of feelings.

  The doorbell rings. It’s Mrs. Simmons. She has nerve, that lady. Even though she shows up with a plate of cute little snowman cookies, I still think she’s evil and nosy. She pushes past me and looks around the living room. Then she starts asking about Mom’s clothes.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do with them?”

  “No,” Dad replies quietly.

  “Well, have you gone through them yet?”

  “Not yet,” Dad says, sounding awfully chill.

  Waving her veiny hands in the air, she informs us that it’s definitely time that we get rid of them. At this point, I’m at the kitchen table trying to look like I’m reading the newspaper. She goes on and on, and Dad is trying to get rid of her.

  “Isn’t it depressing to see them every time you open the closet?” she asks.

  Dad replies, “We haven’t had time.”

  But she doesn’t get the hint. “I know you will be relieved to have it done,” she continues, oblivious. “Why don’t you let me help you?”

  I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve learned that the wishy-washy approach doesn’t work with people like her. I grip the seat of my chair for strength before booming, “Can’t you see that we don’t want to?”

  Dad’s eyebrows jump up to the top of his forehead and he quickly puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Corinna, that’s not a very nice way to talk to Mrs. Simmons.”

  “Well, she doesn’t get it. Since when is she an expert on when it’s the right time to give away a dead person’s clothes?”

  “Well, Corinna,” she begins, “my mother died a long time ago, and I remember how helpful it was when people offered to sort through and donate things to charity.”

  “Well, maybe you were ready.” I cross my arms over my chest. “But we’re —”

  Dad interrupts my rant. “Mrs. Simmons, thank you, but Corinna and I are just fine. We’ll do it when we’re ready.”

  Who does she think she is, telling us what to do, when to do it, and how to do it? She’s not even close to us! I’ll bet she was hoping she could have Mom’s good coat or something.

  As soon as she leaves, I crank up my music on the iPod speakers Dad gave me for Christmas. The loud music helps drown out my anger.

  That reminds me. The other day, I heard my dad telling someone over the phone that I’ve been spending a lot of time in my room and that I was playing a lot of sad music. Like he hasn’t? I wish I knew what the other person said, because then my dad said, “Yeah, we’re kind of going through the motions of life, doing our best.”

  Motions. It’s more like slow mot
ion, with Dad around all the time. I mean all the time. He has only been going out for short dog walks, which has made further investigations into the secret life of Sophie Burdette almost impossible. Even if I had the chance, though, I do wonder if I really want to read what’s in that book. What if it’s filled with details that daughters don’t want to even think about?

  My music therapy helped a little bit, but I’m still angry about Mrs. Simmons, so I decide to go for a long walk. Between Dad and me, Maki sure is getting a lot of exercise.

  I’m all bundled up in my coat, hat, and gloves, and my nose is running all over the place as I walk around the block, looking at the neighborhood houses all lit up for the holidays. They’re no longer just houses or scenery. Each one of them is a story.

  I start thinking about who lives in the gray house, the yellow house, the tan house. I watch them going about their business, turning on their holiday lights, setting out the trash. Life as usual. In our house, life is not “as usual.” We didn’t put up our decorations. Our house is permanently changed. Our house is filled with sadness, not holiday cheer. Our house is missing someone. Our house is the one with the mom who died, the one with the girl who lives alone with her dad. I don’t know if it makes people feel sorry for me or makes them feel lucky that they are not me. Or both. Maybe some people don’t even notice. A recycling-bin detective would, though. No more cans of Ensure. No more empty bottles of Mom’s favorite shampoo or Mango Tangos.

  New Year

  We didn’t exactly ring in the New Year last night. Dad got really mad at me about my messy room. It was kind of shocking, because he never gets mad at me, especially about things like that. He’s just not a yeller. But last night, he walked into my room and started yelling about the dirty clothes on the floor and my unmade bed. I reminded him that it’s my room and I can keep it the way I want. Then he started telling me I have to practice my flute. He’s only done that once before. That was always Mom’s job. The last part of our fight was when he announced that his parents, Gigi and Pop Pop, had decided to come visit us for New Year’s since they haven’t seen us since Thanksgiving and we didn’t make the trip to see them for Christmas. I’m not looking forward to it, to say the least.

  I spend the morning writing in my journal and making my New Year’s resolution, which is to start a conversation with Alex about something no later than January thirty-first.

  Dad calls up the stairs to remind me that Gigi and Pop Pop are arriving in a few short hours. I still haven’t cleaned my room, and I’m not going to. I get up and slam the door.

  Two hours later, I’m still in my pajamas when I hear the doorbell ring. Maki starts barking like crazy. “Oh, wonderful,” I say out loud to my stuffed animals surrounding me on my bed. I know that’s not a very nice thing to say about your grandparents, but today, it’s the truth. Hearing their footsteps on the stairs, I hold my breath.

  “Corinna, we’re here,” Gigi sings in her Southern Maryland accent.

  I don’t move.

  In barges Gigi. She takes one look at me and tells me to cheer up because it’s a new year. Her hair is wild looking, and she has on a huge green down coat. She looks like a green Godzilla.

  “Cheer up?”

  “Well, you can’t just sit there all day. Happy New Year! Get dressed, come down, and help me unload the car. We brought you some goodies.”

  I still don’t move and feel like I might start crying.

  “Honey, we’re only here for two days. I don’t want you to spend them in your room. Let’s have some fun!”

  “But I don’t really feel like having fun right now,” I tell her.

  “Well, it’s not going to help you feel better if you stay sulking all the time.”

  “I’m not sulking. I’m having some peace and quiet. There’s a big difference.”

  “Well, when you’re done with your peace and quiet, honey, I’d love to see you downstairs. Your Pop Pop is waiting for you. And it’s a new year!”

  Yeah, it’s a new year on the calendar. But not in my heart. I just want her to leave me alone. She’s almost as bad as Mrs. Simmons! Gigi never ever stops talking. It used to get on my mom’s nerves, too. Mom would go off and practice her viola even more often when my dad’s parents were around.

  After two long days of hearing about Great-Aunt Gladys and second-cousin-twice-removed Walter’s boring lives, Gigi and Pop Pop leave to go back to Annapolis. I think Dad is also glad when they finally drive off in their old-fogie-mobile. I’m hoping it will be a long time before I have to listen to their yammering again. Sometimes, actually being alone feels better than the alone feeling you get around other people who don’t have a clue and are being totally annoying.

  We begin our recovery from their visit with a trip to the grocery store. Before we leave the house, Dad announces, “Okay, enough canned chili and cereal. Let’s make a list of things to cook.”

  A list? Dad’s making a shopping list?

  “I need help thinking of things,” he says, as he sits down with a paper and pen.

  I’m shocked. “That sounds great. I was wondering when you would finally get sick of that stuff.”

  “My taste buds must have gone into hibernation.”

  “No, really?” I’m glad to see the smile on his face.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  I notice that our grocery store doesn’t feel quite as much like a Red Alert: Danger Zone. Yes, I’m still reminded of Mom when I pass by her coffee yogurt, but it’s kind of a nice reminder of something she loved. I ask Dad if we should get some of Mom’s yogurt and to my surprise, he says yes.

  Neither of us eats it, though.

  It’s a relief to get back to school after “vacation” and to see friends, even if I still feel so different from them most of the time. I’m super-glad to see Joci and Clare, not to mention Alex, but I still need to sort out some stuff with Joci. It’s hard to let down my guard with her. What’s a best friend for if she can’t keep a secret?

  I’m also glad to return to survival sewing and Ms. Carey. I have an idea for my final project that I thought of on one of my cold walks with Maki. Who would have thought this soccer girl would like sewing and even have daydreams about it? I guess I got some strong creativity genes from Mom.

  Some kids choose to make stuffed animals, aprons, locker organizers, or plain old pillows as their final sewing project. Not me. I have a different plan that involves Mom’s clothes. I’m just glad that evil Mrs. Simmons didn’t succeed in forcing us to give them away.

  I decide not to ask my dad if I can cut up some of Mom’s clothes because I’m worried he’d say no or maybe try to take over and choose for me. I want it to be my project. It does seem kind of wasteful to cut up perfectly good clothes that we could donate to the poor, but I plan to transform them. The first thing I cut is a flowery silk scarf. It’s a good thing my scissor skills have improved since kindergarten. My teacher back then gave me a U for unsatisfactory scissor skills. Actually cutting the fabric is incredibly hard, but not because I’m holding the scissors wrong. Slicing through her clothes . . . it’s almost like cutting a person’s skin.

  Choosing which clothes to use is tough. Things she loved? Things she wore on special occasions? Her blue flannel bathrobe or the flowered nightgown she wore when she was sick? Favorite clothes that she gave to me? Some Japanese napkins or place mats? Things that are soft like her skin? Things that are green like her eyes?

  Ms. Carey has started playing music during class, once she knew that no one was about to sew their fingers together and everyone was moving along on their projects. Wouldn’t you know, she likes the Dixie Chicks. When I hear one of their songs, my entire stomach, chest, and back tighten up. The Dixie Chicks were my mom’s favorite group and she used to sing along really loudly in the car. Annoyingly loud, sometimes. I used to whine, “Mooooooooooom.”

  “Without you, I’m not okay, and without you, I’ve lost my way . . .”

  Talk about having your throat close. Tho
se words zing right through me. Music can actually feel dangerous when you’re in a public place like school and you don’t want to cry. Eliana brings me back to reality when she practically yells, “Dude, dude, dude, could you please pass me the scissors?”

  Group

  It’s lunchtime on January fourth, and I slowly walk down to Ms. DuBoise’s office. There are five of us here for the first grief group meeting, all seventh and eighth graders: me, Max, Chris, Robert, and Yasmine. It’s incredibly uncomfortable for the first fifteen minutes. Ms. D. explains that we’re all here because we have something in common: Someone very close to us died. She tells us we’ll have eight meetings to share our stories and learn about grief, and then she asks us to go around in a circle and say who died and how. Some of us say it like we’re reading a recipe. “My name is one cup of sugar and my two cups of flour died.” Chris gets really choked up when he says his dad died from diabetes three months ago, and that makes me choke up. I had no idea these kids existed.

  “My mom died in August . . . from cancer,” I manage to push past the huge blockage in my air supply.

  Some of the stories are really shocking. Yasmine’s father was in the U.S. Marines and got blown up in Afghanistan about eight months ago. Max’s dad died by suicide. Robert’s stepfather died in a car accident when someone ran a red light. Yikes. I want to know more about all of them, but especially the suicide.

  Ms. D. seems okay, even if she does smell like she’s wearing a gallon of perfume. She doesn’t try to lecture us or make us do anything too weird, which is also a relief. Clare isn’t in the group, maybe because her dad died three years ago. I stupidly didn’t ask her if Ms. D. had told her about it. I guess I was trying to block the whole idea out of my mind. Ms. D. explains that we have to respect one another’s privacy, which means that we can’t talk about what people said outside of the group. My first thought is that it will be really hard not to talk about it with Clare.