A Little Bit of Spectacular (9 page)

“That's what they say,” I said. “But so what? Dad was perfectly healthy. No surgery, no nothing. And—
poof
—he was gone. That can happen. It could happen to Mom.”

“That's it, isn't it?” asked Amelia.

“What?”

“That's what your wish is about. Your wish is that she's really well. That the tumors are gone.”

I reached down and picked up Bertha, flinching when I first touched her skin, which was rough and bumpy like something out of an alien invasion movie. But she was also cool and dry and surprisingly delicate. She trembled in my hand, her heartbeat thumping against my fingers.

“That's not my wish,” I said to Amelia. I stroked my thumb over Bertha's head, watching the pulse beat in her throat. “My wish is that Mom gets well forever. Forever and ever. That she's never sick again. She never gets old or weak. She just stays strong and happy and perfect, and nothing ever hurts her again. That's my wish.”

Bertha blinked at me. It's very hard to read a frog's expression. Amelia's face, though, was easier to read, even before she spoke.

“Oh, Olivia,” she said, her eyes on the ground. “I don't think you can get that wish.”

“You didn't ask me if it
could
come true,” I said. “You asked me what I wished for.”

She didn't say anything after that—we both seemed to become totally fascinated by the frogs. Eventually we went back to talking about a spot on Bertha's back and a fire drill at school and whether a bump on my arm was a mosquito bite or poison ivy. I mostly stopped thinking about either one of my parents. Then I found a sheet of paper from Mom when I got home. She'd taped it to the door of my room. The paper was a letter typed on hospital stationery, and attached to it was a yellow sticky note.

“Mario,”
wrote my mother in blue pen,
“I had my doctor give me this note just for you. Am out now bungee jumping. Be back about 6:00 p.m. Kidding about the bungee jumping. Am really buying groceries.”

The typed note read:

Dear Olivia:

I'm Dr. Ingram—I met you while your mother was still in the hospital. She's asked me to write you this note, which she calls a permission slip. I promise you that your mother has recovered wonderfully from her operation. We removed the tumors, and she's healed perfectly. She is in excellent health now, and she can do everything she did before the surgery. She has recovered.

She asked me to repeat that at least once. She has recovered. I give you permission to take her swimming.

Best,

Kathleen Ingram

When Mom came home an hour later, she dropped an armload of brown paper bags on the counter, then shot me a look like, “Well? Was that enough for you?”

I tried to look amused. I mean, really, I have a decent sense of humor. But I had a hard time meeting her smile. She was practically sparkling over there in the kitchen, so giddy to be feeling strong again that she looked like she might leap onto the counter and do a little dance with the grocery bags.

I sat there knowing I didn't feel happy or amused or even relieved. Relief would have been a reasonable thing to feel when your mother's doctor guarantees you she's all better. No, as I was sitting there wondering why I didn't feel any of those things, I realized what I did feel: afraid.

The doctor's note scared me, and I had no idea why.

“So we'll go out later this week, huh?” said Mom. “To a pool?”

“Sure,” I said, but I knew my voice didn't sound like I was sure.

We unpacked groceries, and later I helped Gram make spaghetti for supper—lots of red peppers, just like I liked it. Mom sprinkled extra Parmesan on my plate, and Gram tried to show me how to eat spaghetti with a spoon and fork at the same time. I should have had a great time. And I tried. I tried to taste how delicious it all was. But my mouth didn't seem to be working right. I could hardly taste anything, I couldn't smile like Mom and Gram were smiling, and I could barely manage to speak to them.

I left half the spaghetti on my plate and asked to be excused. When Mom asked me if my stomach was bothering me, I said of course not. I said everything was so wonderful that I couldn't handle any more. She laughed and let me clear my plate.

My appetite didn't really come back that night.

It didn't come back the next morning, either, not even when Gram made pancakes.

By the end of school that day, I was getting concerned. I didn't know why the fact that Mom getting better made me feel so unsettled. But being unsettled was one thing—not enjoying food was a whole other thing. An unacceptable thing. I figured maybe a scone would jolt my stomach—or taste buds or whatever—back into action.

And, of course, on the first day where I hadn't been obsessing about the Plantagenets once every five minutes, I finally heard from them. The chalk must have gotten their attention faster than boring old marker on a bathroom wall, because the answer to my chalk message was written on the bathroom door of Trattoria.

Let's do meet,

Though Saturn is a bit far.

You know where my home is.

Meet me there for coffee

6:00 p.m. this Thursday.

A CUP OF TEA

The note kind of freaked me out at first—I mean, find a place not on this earth where I could buy coffee? My first thought was that NASA had set up a space station with a coffee bar. Then I thought about all the coffee shops I knew so well: Other than Trattoria, there was Urban Standard, Celestial Realm, La Reunion, Crestwood Coffee. I had a feeling I knew what Celestial Realm meant, but I thought I'd look it up to make sure. (When I was little, every time I asked her what a word meant, Mom drove me crazy by telling me to look it up in the dictionary. It had become habit.)

The dictionary told me this:

celestial: (adj.) Relating to the sky or heavens

realm: (n.) a community or territory

That seemed clear enough. But Celestial Realm was too far to walk from the apartment, which meant we needed someone to drive us. I didn't want to ask too much of Olivia's mom since she'd already taken us to the high school, and Mom did keep pestering me to give Gram a chance. So I asked her for a ride. That got me a lecture about coffee not being good for young women. But it also got me and Amelia an invitation to dinner at Gram's favorite restaurant, Rojo.

That was more helpful than it sounds. Because Rojo happened to be next door to Celestial Realm. Apparently Gram felt like caffeine was less harmful on a full stomach.

So on Thursday night, Amelia and I sat across a table from Gram, devouring quesadillas and something called Hog Wings, which were like hot wings only they were made of pork. Very tasty.

Gram had handed us the kids' menu when we got there. “Ages eight and under,” I'd read aloud. And she'd looked at me a little puzzled until I said, “And I'm eleven, remember? I usually order off the adult menu now.”

I was a surprised she didn't expect me to entertain myself with crayons and a coloring book.

Anyway, we'd nearly finished our quesadillas—my appetite was back to its old reliable self—when Gram surprised me.

“So you two aren't really just interested in coffee, are you?” she said.

I took my time swallowing. Gram had a little bit of roasted pork on her cheek, and it seemed like a good time to mention it.

“You have something on your cheek,” I said.

She swiped at it and kept watching me, not losing focus at all.

“What do you mean?” I tried again, kind of laughing that she'd asked a silly question.

“Why are you really going to Celestial Realm?”

“It sounds cool,” I said.

“They have a mocha drink that's supposed to be amazing,” said Amelia. That was true. And it was about as much help as I could expect from Amelia. Because, really, it's sort of understood that you don't lie to other people's parents, certainly not other people's grandmothers. If there was lying to be done, it had to be me.

“Uh-huh,” said Gram. “Right. Now, what's the real reason? You're two smart girls. I can see your brains working. You're planning something. Don't try to distract me with pork this time. I can only have so much food on my face.”

It occurred to me that sometimes I underestimated Gram.

“No reason,” I said.

She just kept looking at me. Amelia just kept eating her quesadilla.

“It's nothing bad,” I said.

She kept looking at me. Her hair was puffed like a gray cloud around her face, and her eyelashes were long and thick like Mom's. I let myself stare at her eyelashes for a little while.

“Here's the thing,” I said, and it was maybe the first time I had talked to Gram like a real person and not like a very nice stranger who let us live with her. “There is a reason. It's nothing bad. It's not, like, meeting boys or anything. But it's a secret and I'd like to keep it a secret. If you don't mind.”

I clenched and unclenched my fists. This, I thought, was the problem with having moved around her politely in the condo. With having not talked much. With having been so determined to act like this was not permanent and she was not permanent and that we didn't need to know each other. Now when I was desperate, I had no idea what she was thinking. What she would say. We looked at each other for a little while over the empty basket of chips and the cold queso, and then she smiled.

“Fair enough,” she said, and she reached over and took my hand in hers. Her hands were warm and soft and for some reason made me think of biscuit dough. “I'm not just a grandmother, you know. I'm an actual person. I've had secrets. I like secrets. I say give a girl a good friend”—she nodded at Amelia—“and a good exciting secret, and you've got everything you need.”

“Really?” I said, leaning forward and accidentally setting my elbow in a puddle of cheese. “You say that?”

She winked at me.

“You can go to the coffee shop. I will stay here. I will not cramp your style. But you've got an hour before I'll come over there to make sure you're all right.”

That seemed fair, really. So we finished our food, I kissed Gram on her poofy hair—which smelled sort of pleasantly of hair spray—and soon enough Amelia and I were strolling into Celestial Realm coffeehouse.

The minute we were inside, I forgot all about Gram. I forgot all about real life. I only wanted to think about whoever was waiting for us.

“I'm still not sure why she'd make the message into a riddle,” I said, looking around the warm, softly lit room.

“And I keep telling you, she didn't want everyone in the city meeting her here at tonight,” said Amelia. “Secret groups don't like to advertise their private meetings.”

We paused as we looked around. I'd only been in Celestial Realm once before, and it was a little fancier than most coffee shops. Instead of tables and chairs, the shop was full of leather sofas and puffy chairs. Rugs of all colors lay across the floor, overlapping, and the teardrop-shaped lights hanging from the ceiling were rainbow-colored. The room looked soft and touchable, lit up with reds and purples and greens and blues all around.

“Now comes the real question,” I whispered. “Who is it we're meeting?”

We scanned the room carefully. People were sprawled across four of the sofas and five of the chairs—a few students staring at books or computers, two couples obviously out on a date, an older man listening to headphones, a group of women about my mom's age laughing as they sipped at cups overflowing with whipped cream. None of them looked up at us, and none of them looked particularly mysterious. Definitely none of them looked like aliens.

None of it felt like I had expected. This was possibly the biggest night of my life, the night where everything would change forever. There was no telling what I might learn—the world might seem like a totally different place tomorrow. But the coffeehouse looked normal. The people looked normal. There was no sound track like in movies, where the music let you know something big was about to happen. All I could hear was the low buzz of conversation, the espresso machine whirring, and some guitar music playing over the speakers.

I had been expecting something more dramatic. Maybe dead silence when I walked into the room. Maybe spotting a group of people, probably dressed in black, possibly wearing sunglasses. People with mysterious expressions who talked in whispers, people who would give me a quick “come here” sign, scoot their chairs even closer together, and ask me to prove myself worthy of joining them. I didn't know that's what I expected until I looked around and saw nothing but totally unsuspicious, nonmysterious people.

“Maybe we should have included some sort of instructions in the message,” said Amelia. “Like ‘wear a green hat' or ‘carry an umbrella.'”

I frowned. “Whoever they are, they won't have any idea who we are, either.”

As I said that, I noticed someone new, someone not sitting in a comfy seat. Over against the wall, next to the shining glass coffee bar, stood a tall, white-haired woman. Silver-haired, even. She was staring right at us, sipping a hot cup of something and breathing in the steam. She smiled over her cup, and I wasn't sure if she was smiling at us or at the smell of her drink. Then she gave sort of a half wave, half salute. I looked behind me, wondering if she was acknowledging someone else.

When I looked back toward her, she'd turned away, facing a small hallway that led toward the back of the building. She looked over her shoulder directly at me and Amelia, then she started walking. She did not move like an old lady. She moved fast and easily.

“I think that's her,” I said, taking off after her.

“Her?” Amelia pointed.

We had to rush to keep her in our sight. When we got to the end of the hallway, she turned a corner. We stepped into a small private dining room, the kind you could reserve for a birthday party. It had one long wooden table and eight chairs. The table was covered in platters—scones, muffins, tiny quiches, cut fruit. There was a tea pitcher and a French press of coffee, both steaming.

Distracted briefly by the food and the hidden room, I looked up into the eyes of the white-haired woman, who was standing perfectly still about two feet away from me. She had gray eyes, not cerulean.

“I suppose you are the young ladies with an interest in graffiti?” she said.

I nodded. She held out her hand, and when I took it in mine, she shook my hand with a strong, sure grip. Her nails were polished a very pale pink, which matched her silky blouse and skirt. Tiny pearls dangled from her ears.

“I am Cassandra Halley,” she said.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, not sure what else to say. I didn't know where to start. I studied her, hoping if I just looked more carefully, this might make more sense. This polite, well-dressed woman had been writing on bathroom walls?

“And it's very nice to meet you,” she said. “I've been very curious who might walk through that door. I didn't expect there to be two of you. You're younger than I would have thought.”

None of my possible responses seemed very polite: You are older than I expected. And more human. And pinker.

“How did you know it was me, Mrs. Halley?” I asked. She was an old lady—it's not like I could call her by her first name.

“You were looking for someone,” she shrugged. “I've been here for half an hour, and no one else who walked through that door scanned the whole room like you did.”

She gestured to the table.

“Won't you join me?” she said. “I wasn't sure what you liked to snack on, so I ordered a bit of everything.”

We settled in at the table, and Amelia and I both chose a scone and began picking them apart. We were stuffed full of quesadillas, but it was nice to have something to do with our hands.

“I'm sorry I took so long responding to your first request for a meeting,” said Mrs. Halley. “I had gotten a bit busy. Time slipped away from me.”

“What were you busy with?” asked Amelia, looking at Mrs. Halley like she was a rare Eastern spadefoot.

“A few things,” said Mrs. Halley. “We'll get to that.”

She sipped at her tea, and when she blew on it lightly, the smell of orange drifted over. “I suppose we should start with the high school, though. Plantagenet. That's back when I was Cassandra Mosely, before I met my husband, Lowell.”

Something about that caught my attention. Cassandra Mosely. Who was now Cassandra Halley. So her husband had been named Lowell Halley. C.M. and L.H. The same initials I'd seen carved into the tree out at the old high school.

“Did you carve your initials into a tree recently?” I asked, setting down my scone altogether.

She stared for a moment and slowly nodded. “You found that, huh? You
are
observant. I did carve those. Just once. Lowell had been going out there every year or so and recarving it for the past few decades. He had a real fondness for leaving his mark on things.”

“He sort of rubbed off on you, didn't he?” said Amelia.

She smiled. “You could say that.”

I felt like I should just confirm a thing or two. Make sure we were on the same page. Maybe if I said things more directly this would stop feeling like a dream.

“You're the one who's been writing about Plantagenet on the walls, right?” I said.

She nodded.

“Are you the only one?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said.

I waited for her to say more. She picked up a cinnamon scone and broke it in half. She tore off a small piece and popped it into her mouth. For a while we sat there, chewing. She chewed very neatly, I noticed, tearing off piece after tiny piece of her scone like I imagined princesses—or gerbils—did. She wiped her mouth with the corner of her napkin. I couldn't see that she'd spilled a single crumb. Meanwhile, I was pretty sure I'd dragged my hair into my coffee. Finally I couldn't stand it anymore.

“I'd love to know what the messages meant,” I said.

There was still a chance that I hadn't been totally wrong. That this one woman was only the tip of the iceberg to something bigger and better.

“And I'd like to tell you,” she said, crossing her legs. “I guess I was trying to decide where to begin.”

“Maybe with the high school?” I suggested. She'd already started there, but we hadn't gotten very far.

“It's as good a place as any,” she said. “Plantagenet is where I went to high school, of course. Class of 1949. But the story really starts with Lowell. I'd gone to school with him for two years before he first spoke to me. That's not even right—he didn't speak. He wrote to me. I should mention he was an artist. He did cartoons and sketches and all kinds of drawings, but he also had beautiful handwriting. He'd do banners for the football games and such—just markers on white paper, but they looked like they should have been hung in a museum.”

So far this story was not living up to my expectations. The way Mrs. Halley told a story reminded me of how she ate a scone—it might have started out whole, but it got broken into pieces and scattered around. But I smiled politely and nodded encouragingly, hoping these bits and pieces would wind up making sense.