First light, p.5
Almost There and Almost Not, page 5
“When a young lady is ready for society—when she steps away from childhood and into the world of adults—it is proper for her parents to introduce that fact formally. In this case, via a ball,” said Eleanor.
“Did you go to a ball to say you weren’t a child anymore?” I asked.
Eleanor snorted, which I have to say did not seem like a proper-lady sort of response.
“I traveled in different circles at the time,” said Eleanor.
“Well, there aren’t many balls in my circle either,” I told her, though truth is, I wasn’t sure I’d ever had a circle. And right now all I had was an old aunt and two ghosts, which is more of a rectangle, if you think about it.
“Nonetheless, it is prudent to prepare for such things—to be ready for any possibility. Go on, now, sit straight. Shoulders back.” She tried pulling on my shoulders and flickered a little when she couldn’t catch a grip.
“I’m trying to write,” I told her, but mostly I was trying to cover up my writing page so Eleanor wouldn’t see what I’d said about her. Or about my dad.
“ ‘Dear Aunt Isabelle,’ ” she read anyway. “Oh, not her again.”
“That’s private,” I said. I’ll admit it, Eleanor was making me mad with her snooping and telling me what to do. If Miss Tenzing had been there, I’d have used the detonation signal for sure.
“I do not know why you persist in writing to that woman,” Eleanor went on. “She has not written a single word in reply. In fact, I would not be surprised to learn that she has not even read your letters.”
Hadn’t read my letters? Of course Aunt Isabelle’d read them. Of course she had. Who wouldn’t read letters sent right to them? If anyone sent a letter to me, I’d read it a hundred times over. “What would you know about it?” I said. “You think you know everything, but you don’t.”
Eleanor looked at me like the Official Meeting lady had, like I was stupid and foolish and someone to feel sorry about.
“You don’t,” I said again. “You don’t know you’re going to write books and your husband’s going to die in 1915 and your boys are going to run off and marry western girls,” I said. “You don’t even know you’re a ghost!”
Eleanor had just enough time to clutch her pearls before she dusted. Pfff.
You’re going to think I felt sorry then, but I didn’t. It was kind of an accident, and also it served her right for what she’d said. And besides, dusting didn’t seem like it was all that bad for her. She’d come back this time not worrying about Fletcher dying, hadn’t she? And she’d looked younger, too. I’d noticed that. She’d looked younger and maybe even a little less see-through, which had to be a good thing.
Shoot, if I could dust off every time I felt angry or sad or worried, I’d do it. Come back maybe to before my dad brought me to Aunt Isabelle’s and convince him we should stay in Kentucky or that I should go with him wherever he went. Or maybe I’d dust back and back and back to before the Official Meeting, before people started sleeping on Dad’s couch, before my mom crashed her car and I could tell her I was sorry me and Dad were making her crazy and we’d be quiet and she wouldn’t need to go stay with a friend for a while and sort things out. I’d just sit with her at the kitchen counter, letting her paint my fingernails whatever color she liked for as long as she liked doing it.
Anyway, I didn’t feel like writing anymore, so I put my letter in the envelope I’d addressed and walked it outside to the mailbox with the others. Aunt Isabelle had to be reading my letters. I mean, I was reading all the letters Dog fetched, and they weren’t even addressed to me.
Good old Dog. Soon as I thought of him, seemed he was there, gasping and barking and tearing circles of joy for seeing me in Aunt Monica’s front yard. Was hard staying mad after that.
“Hey, Dog,” I said. “Hello, fella.” Dog spun twice and barked, which probably wasn’t so easy to do, seeing as he had another paper in his mouth.
“Here, Dog,” I said, holding out my hand. Dog kept spinning and barking, he was so excited. “Dog,” I said. “Dog, settle down. Sit.” And just like that, Dog sat.
“Well, how about that?” I said. “That’s very impressive. Nice trick.” I took the letter from his mouth and put it in my pocket to read later. Dog watched me the whole time, quivering like he wanted to run, but I’d said “sit,” so he was sitting.
“What else can you do?” I asked him. “Can you shake?”
Dog raised a paw, and even though I couldn’t really grab it, I set my hand under it, letting the almost-thereness of him tickle my palm.
“Good dog,” I said. And then I tried “lie down” and “roll over” and “sit pretty,” and Dog did all of it, every trick, and I couldn’t help thinking how if there were any talent shows around, Dog and I would take first prize. If the judges could actually see him.
“You’re a talent,” I told Dog anyway, and his stub tail wagged so proud it shook the whole of him. I wanted to hug him, so he’d know I was proud too, but the best I could do was circle my arms in the air around him, which I figured wouldn’t be all that satisfying, but then—zip!—Dog surprised me all over again, leaping up and through the circle I’d made. He landed like a feather and barked and pranced, so glad he’d finally had the chance to show me his best trick.
“Wanna do it again?” I asked. I angled my arms so the ring of them would be more straight up and down. Dog backed up a few steps. Tilted his head like he was calculating angles, and then—zip!—he was through and tearing around the yard and circling back for another leap. Again and again he raced and leaped, whooshing through my arms, wisping the hair right out of my eyes. He was magnificent, Dog was. Only word for it. Bright and happy and light as air. Lighter maybe.
I could have stood there all night, holding my arms out, feeling Dog rush through them, but like ghost ladies, seems passed-on dogs can get worn out too. Eventually he flopped himself onto the grass, panting. I flopped too, lying flat, looking up at the sky, just listening to Dog’s hhuh-hhuh-hhuh breath. Feeling it tickling my arm.
“You don’t care if my feet get wide, do you, Dog?” I asked. I didn’t expect an answer, but when Dog crept closer and rested his almost-there chin on my belly, I felt like I had one. We lay like that in the grass for a long while, me trying to match my breath to his so I wouldn’t jostle him too much and make him run off again. After a time Dog stopped panting and started breathing regular, and then slower and deeper until he was sleeping.
You ever have a dog fall asleep on you like that? It’s a good feeling. It’s like somebody chose you and thinks staying there with you is the best and most important thing in the whole wide world.
Gives you a feeling that impossible things are possible.
“Dog?” I whispered. He didn’t stir, which was good. “Dog, I was wondering something. I was wondering where you go when you’re not here with me. Do you maybe go to some other place where other passed-on dogs are? Or people? Do you ever go where passed-on people are?” I asked. Dog was sleeping still, but he was listening. I was sure of it. “Dog,” I said, “if ever you’re in one of those passed-on places and you see my mom, will you tell her I said hello?”
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking even if Dog did go to someplace with passed-on people, how was he supposed to tell my mom from any other passed-on mom around? I’ll admit I don’t have an answer—but I don’t have an answer for a lot of what’s happening around me, passed-on or otherwise. I guess I just figured that if Dog had this many surprise tricks in him, maybe he had a few more. Anyway, like I said, just then, lying in the grass with a sleeping dog almost there beside me, it felt like things were possible in a way they hadn’t been before.
16
Dear Aunt Isabelle,
I talked to someone about you, and she does not think you are reading my letters. She says that if you were, you would write back.
You mentioned when we were driving here that meatloaf ingredients were expensive, so I’m enclosing an extra stamp from the book Aunt Monica gave me, just in case you can’t afford one.
If you are reading this, please write back. You don’t have to say much. You can even write back and tell me to stop writing you. That would be okay. Just, please write back.
Sincerely,
California Poppy
* * *
Dear Aunt Isabelle,
Maybe you need a reason to write back. Okay. Here’s a good one: The person who told me that you are probably not reading my letters is the ghost of Eleanor Fontaine. How about that?
Now are you going to write back?
Probably not.
Probably now you are going to call Aunt Monica and tell her that I am a liar and difficult and you both should ship me to Alaska, whether it is salmon season or not.
Sincerely,
California
* * *
Dear Aunt Isabelle,
Maybe you read my letter and were a little surprised about the ghost lady, but not entirely convinced to ship me to Alaska just yet, so let me tell you something else. I’ve also met a ghost dog.
Now what do you think?
Sincerely,
California
* * *
Dear Aunt Isabelle,
I hope that the judges of the Minneapolis Meatloaf Cook-Off are searching for the driest, blandest, chewiest meatloaf of all time, because then you are sure to win the prize.
So there,
California
* * *
Dear Aunt Isabelle,
I give up.
California
17
“I was correct,” said Eleanor.
“You were not,” I said, even though she was.
“She has not written back,” said Eleanor.
“She called,” I lied. “You weren’t here then. You were…” I wanted to say “dusted,” but I held my tongue. “You were out,” I said instead.
“But you have ceased writing to her,” said Eleanor.
“Have not,” I said, even though I had.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, which had me noticing her face. She looked even younger than before, not so creased up around the eyes and mouth. Still older than Miss Tenzing, I thought, but not by much.
“It is rude to stare,” said Eleanor.
“I’m not staring,” I told her.
“And you could stand to smile a little more.”
“You could stand to live a little more,” I said.
“So I have been told,” said Eleanor.
18
Dear Aunt Isabelle,
See how I made that A in “Aunt”? That is modern copperplate style. This is a C. That C is the best thing about my name. In calligraphy C is always pretty, if you take care with it.
The reason I know about modern copperplate style is because of Miss Tenzing. She was my teacher last year. She taught me calligraphy and sometimes ate lunch with me and a lot of times asked me questions about stuff, which you have to be careful about answering, even with a really nice teacher, because it was not answering a question right that got me and Dad to have an Official Meeting in the first place, and even though everybody was all kind voices and smiles while I was in the room, when Dad came out after the private just-him-and-the-official-lady part, I could tell he didn’t feel so good about whatever had happened.
He didn’t tell me about it, though. He said I might look grown up, but I wasn’t, and some things are for grown-ups to decide and some things are just for parents to decide and maybe we should get milkshakes with our hamburgers that day. He let me decide what flavor, too, which was chocolate.
And how’s that for a detail you’ll never care about because you’ll never know because I’ve stopped mailing these letters? I like chocolate shakes. And I do not like meatloaf.
Sincerely,
California
19
The whole time I am writing to Aunt Isabelle, I have to keep looking over my shoulder for Eleanor, who is forever popping into the guest room to remind me about manners and posture and being prepared for suitors. She stays clear of me when I’m in Aunt Monica’s study, though.
You might have figured this out already, but I am just coming to understand that each time Eleanor recomposes herself, she keeps a passable memory of who I am and what’s going on in my life—like she remembers about Aunt Isabelle and about my dad being gone and about barefoot being my preference to shoes—but she never does remember that Aunt Monica is planning a biography or any of the details about her own future life, even if we’ve talked about it together. Still, I think she remembers just enough about IMPORTANT—FAMILY in the study that it spooks her, and whenever I go in there to help Aunt Monica with her purpose, Eleanor flickers a little and then says she has a ladies’ club meeting to attend or is in need of conferring with her cook.
I’ve been thinking that’s why she wasn’t around this morning, when I planned on showing Aunt Monica the letters Dog had brought. I had them tucked into a big envelope I’d found in one of the guest room drawers, and I was all ready to give them to her, but when I walked into the study, Aunt Monica was kneeling on the floor, trying to reach something under her desk, which, if you have the kind of bent-arm cast Aunt Monica does, isn’t easy to do.
“Oh, California,” she said. “Can you turn on the computer for me? The power strip is tucked way back.…”
I set the envelope on one of the sofa pillows and helped Aunt Monica get to her feet. Then I folded myself under her desk to where I could reach what she wanted me to. The computer hummed on and beeped and made a growling sound, which reminded me of how Dog never has growled at me, not even the one time I accidentally walked through him.
There is a fan inside the computer, I guess, and it whirred on, sending dust—the regular house kind—everywhere, including up Aunt Monica’s nose, making her sneeze and sneeze and sneeze all over again.
I sneezed a couple of times too, but it seemed like it was worse for Aunt Monica. “Asthma,” she said. “Not too bad, but dust can get to me. I haven’t kept up with the housekeeping since…” She started the game show wave around her cast but quit halfway for another bout of sneezing. “To the kitchen,” she said, covering her nose with her good hand and leading our escape.
Aunt Monica has a phone, but using it is hard with her hand casted, especially when she’s also trying to cover her sneezing, so I dialed the numbers for her.
“Magic Maids,” said a lady when the call connected.
I handed the phone to Aunt Monica and stepped out into the backyard to give her some privacy, and there I found Eleanor, ready to ruin mine.
“You are outdoors, again, without shoes,” she said.
“You are outdoors, again, without bones,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. “I thought you had a committee meeting,” I said instead.
“That was hours ago,” said Eleanor, though she’d told me about it just ten minutes earlier. Time runs different for passed-on people, seems like. Sometimes when Eleanor recomposes, she’s years younger than the last time I saw her, and other times only a couple of hours have passed. If there’s a logic to that, I can’t figure it. Right then, though, all I was figuring was how to get out of another shoe lecture before I detonated.
“I have a meeting too,” I said. It was a flat-out lie, and I’d have felt bad about it, but right away I remembered the five-second rule. “Aunt Monica,” I called into the house quick as I could. “We’re out of eggs.”
20
I had to put on shoes for the walk to the MiniMart, which made Eleanor smug, but it was worth it to get away from her fussing. While I was in my room, I grabbed my thank-you note for Salma and her mom, thinking I’d slip it under the door of ClayCation on the way.
Salma spotted me before I even reached the door. She waved one of those big overhead waves people do when they don’t want you missing them, and she shouted my name so loud one of the ladies inside dropped the plate she was painting.
“Hi,” Salma said, opening the door.
“Hi,” I said.
“What’s that?” She was looking at the envelope I was holding. With all the yelling and plate clattering, I had almost forgotten about it.
“It’s a thank-you note,” I said. “For you and your mom.”
“Did you write the address like that? It’s pretty.”
It was pretty, I have to say. Not Declaration of Independence pretty, but close. “Thank you,” I said. “Your shop is pretty too.” ClayCation was bright and sunny with long wooden tables and all different-color chairs and shelf after shelf of pottery things people had made with their own hands. There was even a rainbow of balloons over the back counter and a big banner saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FATIMA.
“We do a lot of paint-your-own birthday parties,” Salma explained. “They’re fun, but really messy, especially if the parents don’t stick around to help.”
I told her I understood how that might be.
“Wanna make something?” Salma asked.
I shook my head. “I told my aunt Monica I was going to the MiniMart.”
“Are you?” asked Salma.
“Yeah,” I said, “right after I leave here.”
“Then you didn’t lie,” said Salma. “Come on, we’ll make something fast.” She dashed over to one of the tables, and there was not much for me to do but follow. Pinch pots, she was saying, were the fastest to make but also the most boring. Next fastest was something called a coil pot. For those, you just roll little clay balls into snakes and then spool them one on top of the other.
