365 days revealed, p.34
365 Days Revealed, page 34
“What the heck are they doing here?” snapped Cherry. “Who invited them?!”
“I did,” said Jay. “If this is supposed to be a meeting of the Locals, then all the Locals get to come.”
Amelie suddenly looked up and saw Jude.
Breaking into a big smile, she raced across the clearing. “Jude!” A moment later, she had her arms around the bigger girl, happily hugging her. “I missed you.”
Meanwhile, Frank came up to me and shook my hand. “Any news on Brandon?”
I shook my head. “Nothing…so, you remember?”
He nodded. “Thought you might, too. Sorry, I didn’t ask sooner.”
“And Peyton?”
Frank shook his head. “Doesn’t remember a thing.”
That surprised me. “Then, what’s she doing here?”
I didn’t mean to sound abrupt, but Peyton must have caught the tone in my voice, because she threw a dismissive wave in my direction.
“Don’t worry about it, freak,” she told me. “I’m not even listening.” Then, she sat down on a rock and pulled out a bottle of blue nail polish. Bending over, she began to apply the polish to her toenails.
I looked up at Frank, confused. He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to Peyton that she doesn’t necessarily believe. It just matters to her that she is here to support me and Amelie.”
Amelie came running over and high-fived Frank. “Because we remember!” she crowed.
“We remember,” seconded Frank.
“Freaks,” muttered, Peyton—over by her rock.
* * * *
“Once Yanni showed me those ads,” reported Porter, “I started doing my own research and I came across this.”
He turned his tablet, so the rest of us could see.
“The website wasn’t too difficult to find,” he explained. “I just plugged in “Do you remember?” and it eventually came up in the listings.”
“What is that?” asked Cherry, leaning in closer. “It’s just a line of numbers.”
“A big honking line of numbers,” said Jude.
“Yeah, but look up on the tab for the page. It’s called “Do you remember?”
“I don’t understand,” I admitted. “What are all the numbers about?”
Porter shrugged. “We don’t know, yet. At first, Jay and I thought they might be latitude and longitude, but there are too many numbers.”
“Could it be the number for a secret bank account?” asked Kieran, hopefully.
“Yeah, that would make sense,” said Jude. “Someone putting a secret bank account number on the web.”
“It is weird,” I acknowledged.
“Whatever it is, Jay and I think it’s for people like us. If we can decode it, it’s probably some sort of message.”
“I don’t know,” said Cherry. “It all seems pretty weak.”
“Show them the other one,” urged Jay.
“What other one?” I asked.
Porter pulled up another website. It was similar to the first—a line of numbers across the middle of the screen, with the words “Do you remember?” in one corner.
“Are the numbers the same as the first screen?”
“All the same except for two of them. These four here are different. On the first site the numbers in this sequence were 11. On this site it’s 07. But everything else is exactly the same.”
“Very weird,” murmured Jude.
“I’m working on some substitution ciphers,” explained Jay. “Porter and I are thinking that maybe it’s some kind of code—like this number means A and that number means B, that kind of thing.”
“Hon, did you want to come and look at this?” Frank called over to Peyton.
“No, thank you,” she called back, politely.
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked.
Frank grinned. “Peyton always ignores things she doesn’t quite get. It’s her way of coping.”
“Now, show them the third site,” Jay ordered Porter. “This one is the best.”
We all watched as Porter went into his favorites and pulled up a third website. “This one is exactly the same as the first two, except there’s only one different number in this one—6.”
“But still no proof that this has anything to do with our situation.” I said.
“True,” said Porter. “But this site also has an extra page.”
He clicked on a tab and his tablet’s screen filled with writing.
“What is that?” I asked, leaning closer.
“It’s a poem!” cried Jay. “A poem about remembering.”
“Are you kidding me?!” Cherry leaned forward—reading. “There are those of us who live in the curves of time.”
“Curvature of space and time,” said Jay, proudly. “Just like Porter and I told you guys.”
“We are not dreamers…we are not mad…what we are is lucky,” continued Cherry.
“Here comes my favorite part,” Jay grinned.
“And when we’re really lucky,” read Cherry.
Jay finished it for her. “We remember!”
Porter handed the tablet to me. “Now, if that isn’t the proof that you’re looking for, I don’t know what is.”
“Son of a gun,” I whispered, amazed
* * * *
“It’s like a big secret,” Amelie was telling Peyton.
We were preparing to leave and Amelie had brought her big sister over to look at the site on Porter’s tablet.
“All I see is a blank screen except for a line of numbers across it,” Peyton complained.
“That’s the big secret!” Amelie told her—excited. “Jay thinks that it’s maybe a secret message and we just need to figure out the code.
“Uh-huh.” Peyton picked at a piece of lint on her jacket. “Neat.”
“What’s really neat is the poem? Can you show Peyton the poem?” Amelie asked Porter.
“Sure.” Porter clicked through to the next site. “Here it is.”
Peyton glanced at it, then went back to picking lint off of her jacket.
“It’s about remembering just like we do…and about living in the curves of time,” Amelie explained. “Jay and Porter say that’s what we probably do…live in the curves of time.”
“Well, you do,” said Peyton. “I live in Agoura Hills.”
Amelie continued, caught up in her excitement. “It’s a really good poem, too. Like I think somebody who remembered just like we do wrote it.”
Peyton yawned. “Ms. Capadouca wrote it.”
* * * *
Everybody had frozen; all heads turned toward Peyton.
She was now examining the shine on her fingernails, buffing them to a higher gloss on the hem of her shirt.
“Um, Peyton,” asked Jay. “Can we ask you something?”
Peyton looked up at us and sighed. “I sat in Ms. Capadouca’s stupid office for long enough. The poem is in a frame near the window. She told me she wrote it when she was a teenager. She said it was her lucky poem about space and time and curves…whatever the hell that means.”
Jay gasped. “Ohmigod! I remember that poem now. I mean, I didn’t read it, but I do remember Ms. C telling me about a lucky poem. She didn’t say that she wrote it, though.”
“Well, if you’d actually picked it up and looked at it,” said Peyton, “you would have seen her name on it.” Then, she aimed a shiny fingernail in Frank’s direction. “You and the rat owe me Chinese food for this.”
“Whatever you want, Peyton.” Frank came over and kissed the top of her head.
She waved him away. “You’re still a freak.”
“Freak you’re eventually going to marry.”
Peyton just sniffed—but I noticed that the corner of her lips turned up slightly—almost the beginning of a smile.
JAY
“So, if Ms. Capadouca wrote the poem,” said Jacob. “Then, it’s a good bet that she created the web sites.”
If was the first day of school, and he, Jude, and I were on our way to our Guidance Counselor’s office.
“At least, we’ll finally figure out what all those numbers were,” I said. “Because Porter and I still haven’t been able to decode them.”
“How many codes did you try?”
“Too many,” I snapped. “Like it was so irritating. Nothing seems to make any sense.”
“You know what would be really ironic,” said Jude. “If it’s all just like this big joke. Just a bunch of random numbers that some dude put together to drive weirdos like you and Porter crazy.”
I harrumphed. “It means something. You’ll see.”
We reached Ms. Capadouca’s office and stopped. The door was open and we could see inside to where her husband was piling books into a cardboard box.
“Hello.” I rapped on the edge of the door. “Is Ms. Capadouca here?”
The husband looked up, surprised—and my heart dropped. From the sad look on his face and the tears in his eyes, I just knew that something horrible had happened.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly said. “We can…uh…come back later.”
“No, it’s okay.” He waved us into the room. “I guess nobody’s told you kids, yet. My wife, your Ms. Capadouca—she passed away three weeks ago. It was an accident…a drunken driver.”
“Oh no!” I was shocked. “I’m so sorry…we didn’t know.”
“She didn’t want any of you to know…when it happened…because it was summer. That was my wife,” he sniffed. “Even dying in the hospital, Lila still wanted to make sure that you kids had a good holiday.”
Unable to help myself, I began to cry. “I’m sorry…so sorry. …she was a good counselor…she was a nice lady.”
“Yes, she was,” her husband agreed.
“Well, uh…I guess we should go.” Jacob, Jude, and I started backing up—wanting nothing more than to get away from such tragic circumstances.
“Oh wait,” called Mr. Capadouca, just before we reached the door. “Are you Jay by any chance?”
I nodded.
He pulled a manila envelope from the bottom of a pile and handed it to me. “She wanted you to have this. She said you’d know what to do with it.”
Carefully, I unsealed the envelope’s flap and looked inside.
“Oh my,” was all I could say.
* * * *
“But why would she leave you the poem?” asked Jude. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
We were sitting on a large wooden patio over near the football field, trying to figure everything out.
“Read it to us again,” Jacob suggested.
I sighed. “There are those of us who live in the curves of time…We are not dreamers, we are not mad…What we are is lucky…And when we’re really lucky…We remember.”
“And that’s it? There’s nothing on the back or anything?”
“You already had me check,” I complained. “There’s nothing.”
“Maybe we should go back and question the husband,” Jude suggested. “He’s gotta know more than he’s telling.”
“The poor man just lost his wife to a drunken driver,” said Jacob. “We are not going back and bothering him. He told us he didn’t know what it meant. We just have to take him at his word.”
I turned the poem over in my hands again.
“Well, maybe the combination of letters can be used to decode the line of numbers from the website or something,” I said. “I’ll talk to Porter about it when I see him after school.”
“You guys heading over to the library?” Jude asked.
“Yeah, we’ll work on the poem for a bit there, before I have to go home and make supper.”
“Are you going to the memorial on the weekend?”
“Of course…aren’t you?”
Jude shrugged. “I didn’t really know her.”
“If this poem she wrote is real,” I said, “then Ms. Capadouca was one of us.”
“Whatever,” sighed Jude. “All right, sure…I’ll be there.”
“Are you going?” I asked Jacob.
He nodded. “Kaylee will probably go, too. I know that she really liked Ms. C.”
Beside him, Jude kicked at a rock, sending it flying.
“Fracking drunken drivers!” she grunted. “This summer sucks!”
* * * *
Ms. Capadouca’s memorial was held in the Performance Center. Kids filled the seats, as well as, many of their parents.
I was surprised to see my own mother in the back row. She was seated between Kaylee’s mom and Ms. Jenni. The Patriotic woman was on the other side of Mrs. Michelson, while a small, pale woman of about thirty, sat beside Ms. Jenni.
Buttercup.
“Look.” I nudged Kaylee. She was seated between me and Jacob, trying hard not to cry as photos of Ms. Capadouca moved across a screen up onstage. “Your mom is here.”
She turned to look and Mrs. Michelson lifted a hand in greeting. Kaylee nodded, then touching a tissue to her moist eyes, turned back and placed her head on Jacob’s shoulder.
Up on the stage, meanwhile, Mr. Capadouca had moved into position in front of a dais, leaning over to speak into a microphone.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “My wife would have loved to see so many young faces in the audience. We never did have our own biological children but—as Lila would always tell me—hers was a life filled with her kids.”
He continued on, speaking of Ms. Capadouca’s love for teaching…and for the outdoors…and for travel.
At one point, I turned and looked back to where my mother was sitting with the other women from our townhouse complex.
“Jacob,” I whispered. “Look in the back. Your mother is sitting with Kaylee’s and my mother.”
Jacob spun around, staring. “I didn’t know that she knew Ms. Capadouca.”
Onstage, Mr. Capadouca prepared to read a poem that his wife had written many years ago. “It’s a short piece, but her favorite—something she wrote about space and time and luck.” And he began to read.
There are those of us who live in the curves of time
We are not dreamers
We are not mad
What we are is lucky
And when we’re really lucky
We remember.
JACOB
I saw you, mom…in the back of the audience…with Kaylee’s mom and with Mrs. Sitipala and Ms. Jenni. There were other women there, but I don’t know their names, but I could tell that they were with you.
That you were all together.
Do you want to know how I knew?
Because when Mr. Capadouca read out his wife’s poem, all of you women—you all did the same thing.
When Mr. C got to the end of the poem—to the very last line.
You said it with him…all of you.
And I saw you.
So—I know.
Kieran and I aren’t the only ones in our family who remember, are we?
KAYLEE’S JOURNAL
I’m kind of worn out, so I don’t think I’ll be writing too much today.
We had the memorial for Ms. Capadouca this afternoon and it was so sad. Her husband was there and he showed photos from their life together. And he talked about all the dreams she had and the lives she never had a chance to lead.
At the very end, he read a poem that she had written. It was short, but it was very pretty.
There was food set up in the cafeteria afterward, but I didn’t feel like going.
My headache is back and it is just killing me today.
So, I came home instead.
My plan—write a few words and then brush my teeth and go to bed.
And feel sad…poor Ms. Capadouca…how very short your life had been.
SEPTEMBER
JACOB
When my mother came into the house and saw us all sitting in the living room, waiting for her—she didn’t seem surprised.
If anything, she looked pleased.
“Give me a moment, will you?” she told us. “I’m going to go and make myself some tea, then I’ll come and join you.”
With the exception of Kaylee—who was with her mother—we were all there. Seated throughout the living room on chairs, the couch—on pillows on the floor; there was Kieran, Cammie and Jay and Porter. Jude and Cherry were there, as well as Yanni. And even Frank and Peyton had come, bringing young Amelie with them.
As my mother’s tea water was coming to a boil in the kitchen, she came out to look around at us.
“Did Jacob offer you all refreshments? Did you want something to drink, to eat? What can I get you?” she asked.
It was such a homey moment, that it disarmed everybody. We had come intending on forcing my mother to speak; what we hadn’t expected was that my mother would not only be willing to talk—but that she would take care of us with food and drink—in some ways to entertain as much as to educate us.
In the end, when my mother finally sat down to talk—with her tea and a cookie on a plate on her lap—we also had been supplied with soda and milk and big plates of cookies.
“Well,” said my mother, looking at me. “That was very smart of you to wait until Rhys was out with his father. I’m assuming that Rhys still doesn’t remember?”
I shook my head. “And Dad…does he know?”
This time, it was my mother who shook her head. “No, no…he has no clue, I’m afraid.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?” I asked. “That you’re one of those who remembers…like us.”
She smiled. “You know, it’s interesting to hear how different generations describe what we do. For some people, it’s time travelers…for other people, it’s timeliers.”
At that, Kieran and Yanni looked at each other and gasped—their mouths falling open in surprise.
My mother grinned at them. “Two fans of “Calcutta Timeliers”, I see. Well, yes…it is true, the creator of the comic book is one of us. In fact, I met her a couple of years ago. She is a very fascinating woman.”
