Chasing the Milky Way (6 page)

I hold Izzy's hand, and I watch Mama. The ripples around her reflect the starry sky. Bouncing strands of color collide with the stars and dance with one another. She floats along the surface, a pearl silhouette in a magical pool. I feel my breath get caught in my throat. Her clothes are so wet that I can see all her parts. My mind starts to race. I look out toward the road, thinking,
please don't let anyone come by.
Thinking,
I wouldn't call 911 now if I had to.
Thinking,
cover up. What are you doing? Why are you doing this? Why aren't we asleep in bed like the other kids?

“I can see through her nightie,” Izzy says, squeezing my hand.

“Let's keep an eye on the lights,” I say. “We'll go home soon.”

I lead Izzy over to the grass, out of the sightline of the road. If someone does come by, maybe we can sneak into the woods, just over there.

Along the tender breeze, I hear Mama's voice, calling us to join her.

“Come on, girls, come and swim.” She splashes and then starts going over that Robert Frost poem again. “‘One luminary clock against the sky'—come on, girls, isn't it the most perfect thing you've ever heard? It's the moon of course.”

Shut up,
I want to scream. Shut up with your stupid poem. But instead I take a deep breath and cross my legs and make sure I'm a good distance out of the sightline of the road.

Izzy climbs into my lap, her big eyes still facing the sky. And I tell myself to look up, too. Don't watch Mama, don't listen. Just watch the stars. Still, I hear her happiness float up from the water to the sky and for a second I wish I were a part of it. I wish I could get even close to that kind of happy. Here on my birthday night, I search the constellations, from Orion, to the Big Dipper, to his little brother, straight down to the Milky Way. Wondering if I might find it, also.

“I'm getting tired,” Izzy says, as she buries her face in my shirt.

“Me too,” I say. “Me too.”

A
S WE HEAD BACK DOWN THE
dip, Mama starts to get quiet. And by the time we're back to the house she rushes inside and straight into her room. Closing the door without so much as a hug good night. I open the linen closet and pull the last towel off of the shelf.

“Mama,” I say, knocking gently on the door. “You probably should dry off.”

I hear a noise from the other side of the door, shuffling, moving, but no answers.

“Lucy, I'm going to bed. I'm really tired,” Izzy says through a yawn.

“Okay,” I say. “Go ahead.” Izzy ducks into our room. I turn and knock on Mama's door. “Mama, you're soaked through.” I tilt my head and listen. No response. I turn the knob and step into her dark room. I scan her bed, barely lit by the light spilling in from outside. She isn't there. Just piles of clothes. I go over to the closet. Not there. I turn to the right. She's in the nook. The little spot in the corner between her bed and the wall. A chair closes it off into a little square. She's lying there with her pillow under her head.

“Mama, you okay?” I ask, looking over the chair.

“I'm fine. We'll be fine. All fine,” she says, softly. “Just be quiet please. I don't feel well.”

I glance over at her nightstand. The clock reads 3:00 a.m. “Maybe we should call—”

Mama flips over real fast. “I said I'm fine. Promise me you won't. I'll feel better once I sleep.”

I hold out the towel.

“What's this?” she says.

“A towel,” duh, “for you to dry off with. You're soaked.”

She takes it. “Right, right. I know.” She wipes her chin and wraps it around her head.

“Will you pass me another pillow?” Mama says. I reach across the bed and grab her second pillow. She takes it and places it underneath her head along with the first. She closes her eyes and I see her tremble.

“You need a blanket,” I say, pulling one off her bed. All of the clothes on top of it fall to the floor. I bring the blanket over and cover her with it. She keeps her eyes going left to right and left to right. And her mouth dips down, getting sad, sad, sad. Her spaceship is crashing.

“Sleep tight,” I say.

“Right,” Mama says, flipping back to the wall.

I go toward the door, stepping over piles of clothes and shoes, out into the hallway. I slide the door shut behind me but it stops about a hand's length from the door frame. Jammed. I look down. A shoe, shirt, papers. I try to push them with my foot, but they don't budge. I lean down and grab hold of the shirt and yank. It gets caught on the edge and then sends the shoe catapulting into the wall behind me.

“What was that!” Mama shouts. I open the door to see her sitting back up, looking around. “Was that a gunshot!?”

“No,” I say, clearing the door frame. “Just a shoe. You're fine.”

“I'm fine,” Mama says, disappearing below the edge of the bed.

I slide the door closed, this time smoothly. As I walk back toward my room, I kick a shirt out of the way. There's something white and rectangular underneath it.

I sink to the floor. It looks a little like a birthday card. I pick it up. It's definitely a card of some sort. But I can barely see a thing here in the hallway. I step back past Mama's room to the back door so I'm standing in a ray of moonlight. I press my finger along the seal. It hasn't been stuck closed, so it doesn't need any tearing to get it open. I slide the card out of the envelope.

For my daughter, on her birthday,
it says on the front underneath a vase of flowers. I flip the card open.

You're the best daughter I could ever imagine. I'm so proud of you,
the glossy writing shines in the light. And I wince. I wince 'cause it's Hallmark mumbo jumbo. Mama didn't even sign it. It just says
LOVE,
in her messy handwriting. Like she obviously had other things to do besides sign a card for her stupid kid. I throw it back over my shoulder. It belongs on the floor. Love comma. Stupid. My eyes fill up with tears as I make my way to bed. I don't let them squeeze out. The tears just sit on the surface like they're making a new home there. I tell myself to sleep. But it doesn't happen. Instead, my mind rewinds to other midnight birthday surprises. Better ones.

• • •

My eighth birthday. Our first year in Seahook. While Gram put Izzy to bed, Mama and I ate popcorn and Starbursts from the vending machine. And Mama let me run the remote. I watched
Star Wars,
the originals, and pigged out while lounging on the hotel bed. But as the clock switched from 11:39 to 11:40 and the
Star Wars
episode came to a close, Mama got up and looked out the window.

“I think we better get out to the beach now,” Mama whispered, “so we can make it there for your birthday.”

I slid out of bed and into my shoes, pulling the Velcro across. Mama picked up a bag and her purse.

“What's that?” I whisper, thinking it looked something like birthday surprises.

“Oh, nothing important,” Mama said, but I could tell from her smile and her sideways look that she was being sneaky. I thought about what it might be as I pulled a Windbreaker on over my pajamas. Maybe that stuffed turtle I saw at the tourist shop on the pier today. Maybe something else. You never knew with Mama.

“What's going on?” Gram muttered as one eye half opened.

“Nothing,” Mama said, “just heading down to the beach to celebrate Lucy's birthday before the rest of the world wakes up.”

Gram nodded and muttered her way back into dreams.

Mama snuck the door open and we tiptoed down the hallway and out into the fresh night air. I heard the sounds of the ocean. I jumped up onto the sidewalk and walked the edge of it like it was a balance beam. Mama saw me doing it and she got in behind me and did the same as we made our way down Ocean Avenue. “Listen to the sea, Lucy! What's it saying?” she asked as she balance-stepped behind me.

I listened to the waves roll in and out and in and out, and the water gush up against itself. Hushhushhushhush. Whushwhushwhushwhush. I stepped to the beat, felt it in my heart. Felt it in my legs and in my toes.

“RunRunRunRun,” I said, jumping off of the sidewalk. Jumping high like it might blast me off into space.

“Is it?” Mama said, stopping to cock her ear. I landed and listened, too.

Mama nodded. “So it is.” She turned, but before she could get going, I darted out in front of her, knowing exactly what she was going to do, knowing exactly which way she would go. Mama and I sped down the sidewalk. The shadows and cement peeled away into sand, sea, and stars as we hit the beach and went to meet the waves. I slipped and slid in the sand and had to stop to take my shoes off. I left them propped against the stone wall lining the beach.

We ran along, kicking the waves. Smashing them to smithereens. I got fifteen before my toe scraped along something and when I looked down I saw the curve of a blue shell. I reached down and picked it up, wondering if it really was blue. It had a sort of glow to it.

“They turn blue at night because they suck up the moonlight,” Mama said, like she was reading my mind. She picked up another and handed it to me. I watched the two shells tuck together like wings in the palm of my hand. “But they're white in the morning. Aren't they?”

“Well,” Mama said. “The magic's gone by then. The daylight sucks it out.”

The shells seemed to shift in my hand. Moving on their own to prove that they were genuine pieces of magic.

Mama sat down and pulled the surprise bag onto her lap. I settled into the sand cross-legged and pretended I didn't notice what she was doing. Instead, I watched the Milky Way. I stared at it, thinking it looked like it was made up of more than just stars. Like maybe a lady named Captain Milky Way picked up the sand and moon shells from earth. Only on her way into deep space, her ship sprung a leak, sprinkling the heavens with a trail of magic.

A second later, I heard a lighter spark and Mama's face lit up with an amber glow. I sat up on my knees. A candle and cupcake floated up from the bag. Mama cupped it between her hands, and where her fingers landed, the frosting began. It looked like a little cloud with a candle on top.

“Make a wish, baby girl.”

I thought on it for a minute. Everything seemed perfect here. Me and Mama sitting in the middle of the sand. A glowing little orb of orange surrounding us in the blue-soaked night.

“Do you want a great year in third grade? Or a new bike? Or maybe a new stuffed animal?” Mama looked up to the sky. “A piece of the Milky Way?” she joked. But I looked down into my hand and seeing I already had a piece of it, a piece of the magic, I made a wish for nothing to ever change. I blew out the candle and the little orange orb disappeared into a jagged smoky line between us.

I ate the sticky cupcake, chocolate frosting over strawberry. Mama had one, too. And we sat and watched the stars. She did get me that stuffed animal from the pier and I collected a jar full of moon shells and we swam and called to the sky and Mama read a poem about a cow thinking the Milky Way was his pasture.

• • •

But sometimes birthday wishes get botched. Sometimes it just takes a while to realize that it's all hocus-pocus. That there isn't any magic. That moon shells are just lost pieces of mollusks and clams, not related to the Milky Way at all. I hear doors opening and closing. Mama must be up. I don't get out of bed to check on her. I spot that old jar of moon shells on my desk. Then flip away from it, toward the window, toward the carport. I try to think on real things right here in this world. Things like plans and promises, making choices, and BotBlock. As much as I try to think about steps one, two, and three, the memory plays over and over again in the background. And I fall asleep with a wanting in my heart.

I
KNOW WE'RE LATE BEFORE
I even pull my eyes open. I know because I heard Chuck making his racket, but it got wrapped into dreams. And when I finally wake, it's silent. He's done his song for the day.

Thwak, thwak, thwak.
I flip over and look out at Cam's face. Big bags have piled up under his eyes and he looks at me with something that is the opposite of Mighty Hawk. Zero Energy Man, maybe. He holds the laptop up. Some dust filters down. I look at my watch and Cam says it at the same time as I see it. “It's seven fifty-five.”

I groan. School just started.

I pull the window open. My arms are still heavy with sleep, but I manage it. As it slides up, only one word seems right for the moment.

“Crap,” I say, eyeing the brightening sky over the park behind Cam.

“You can say that again.” He rubs the back of his hand over his eyes.

He looks up at me, then gestures toward the laptop. “Maybe we can make the switch during lunch?”

“Yeah, we better,” I say, thinking my options are depleting. Getting critically low now. “I'll meet you in ten.”

“I'll write the notes.” He walks toward the carport.

I pull Izzy out of bed. “We gotta jet to school!” She opens her eyes and slumps into me.

“No, thank you,” she says. But I manage to get her dressed. It is not an easy feat to get a grumpy queen dressed first thing in the morning.

I pull a sweatshirt over my head, throw on some jeans, and we walk through the living room. Mama is sitting hunched on the couch. Her face is down in her hands. Great.

Gram had a name for this. Meditation of Misery. It's what sadness looks like. Everything is turning down into a frown. Shoulders bend, smiles slide off faces. My first thought is
uh-oh.
My second is that she'd better snap out of this by the time we have to leave for the BotBlock later today, or nothing else will matter. Not the laptop, not our plans, not my promise to Gram, none of it.

“I'm calling Dr. Vincent, Mama,” I say as I pass. She doesn't respond. I don't need her to.

I step around piles of books until I'm out in the kitchen. I grab Izzy's backpack off the hook near the door and hand it to her.

“You go and meet Cam at the carport, tell him I'll be right there.”

She moseys outside. I notice the rat's nest of knots at the back of her head and make a mental note to get some of that out before school if I can. I grab the phone off the hook, take a deep breath, and pull the little piece of paper off the bulletin board. I step out onto the tiny porch so Mama can't hear me, then dial the numbers and listen.

Ring ring . . . Ring ring . . . Ring ring.
It rings three times, then there's a crackle on the line.

You have reached the office of Dr. Vincent. If this is a life-threatening emergency, please hang up and dial 911. If this isn't an emergency, please leave your name, number, and a brief message and I'll return your call as soon as I can. Have a good day.

Beep!

“Uh, hey, Dr. Vincent, this is Lucille Peevey. I'm calling 'cause, uh, she looks pretty down this morning. I didn't know if you guys had your meeting or appointment or whatever. I didn't know if her medication changed. Uh, anyway, not an emergency, but call us. Bye.”

I click end and go inside, placing the phone in the receiver. My stomach growls, so I head toward the fridge. I pull the door open and look for something that might work for breakfast. Seems everything but actual food is in the fridge. There's a notepad sitting on the top shelf next to the ketchup. A knife in the upper corner, hiding behind a bottle of orange juice. I pull it out and drop it into the sink so that no one gets cut on it. I spot two browning bananas hanging off a hook on the counter, so I slam the fridge closed, grab those, and get going.

When I get into the carport, Cam jumps off the desk and hands me the laptop. I take it and put it into my backpack.

“Let's do this,” Cam says, pulling two folded notes from his pocket. “From Mrs. Margaret Peevey. All in caps, just like your mama.”

I take the note and slide it into my pocket. “Izzy?” I spot her snarled hair on the other side of the car. I walk around and see she is writing in the sand with a stick.

“Can you get me a rubber band?” I ask Cam as I take her hair and start maneuvering it into a ragged ponytail. Cam searches the desk and a second later the rubber band wings over my shoulder and hits the tarp.

“Really?” I say, holding the ponytail with one hand and reaching for it with the other.

“Fastest way to get it to you, Cap'n,” Cam says.

I shake the rubber band free of dirt and secure the ponytail the best I can.

“Rat's nest,” I mutter, looking up at Cam.

“It'll do,” he says.

“Wait,” Izzy says, unzipping her backpack. She pulls her pickle jar crown out of it and puts it on her head so her ponytail is rising up out of the center. Then she zips her backpack up like all is well and heads out of the carport. Cam and I follow. I look back toward the trailer, wondering if maybe I should stay, but I know how this works. Mama's not going to move for a while. Could be hours. Dr. Vincent will call or come by and it'll be okay. We'll be in tip-top shape tonight. And we can leave for BotBlock as planned. Dr. Vincent will fix everything.

Since we've already missed the bus, we walk down to Cherry Lane Elementary first. It starts to sprinkle halfway there, and I look up, wondering why the sky even has to spit on me when things are going so awful.

We drop Izzy at the door of the elementary school and I watch as she makes her way straight down the hall and into her classroom. The hall monitor looks over at her and frowns. I can see she is looking at Izzy's hair. And judging it, too. It's going to be a long day.

Cam and I go two blocks over, not talking much. I look down at my watch. Eight thirty. I press the mode and it switches to the timer.

“T-minus nine hours until liftoff,” I say as we head into the school. “And forty-eight hours until competition.”

“Don't despair, yet, Cap'n,” Cam says as we head into the office. A lady cuts in front of us, setting her bag up on the counter.

“Hi, I'm Sharon Clementine. I'm here as the sub for”—she looks down at her piece of paper—“uh, Mrs. Shareze?”

I risk a look at Cam. We lock eyes.

“Yes, thanks for coming in on such short notice, Sharon,” Mrs. Ginesh—the secretary—says. “Please sign in. Here's your visitor's badge. Head down to room 221. Principal Partridge is down there currently and will give you a quick rundown of what needs to happen today.”

Mrs. Clementine scribbles on a clipboard and then grabs her bag and heads down the hall. We step up to the counter.

“My, we're all running late today, it seems,” Mrs. Ginesh says. You don't know the half of it, lady, I think, but we hand her the notes Cam made. She glances back and forth. Looks like she might question them, but I guess decides it isn't worth it. She initials them and hands them back. “Please report to your classroom.”

“Thanks, Mrs. G,” Cam says. And we head out the door.

I wait until we're out of sight of the main office before I turn to Cam. “Mrs. Shareze's out.” I think of her cold yesterday. It must've gotten worse.

“I can't believe it,” he says as we pass the overly cheery mural of kids holding hands.

“This is going to work,” I say. “We just need to find a time to get in when the sub isn't there.”

“Maybe at the end of the day?” Cam says. “Subs usually leave as fast as possible.”

It could work. We turn the corner and come to room 221. Principal Partridge comes out the door and we nod and hold out our notes so she knows there's no funny business. She just hurries past us. We hang up our bags and take our seats.

“Hello, class, I'm Mrs. Clementine, your teacher for today,” she says as she spells out her name on the board. As she makes a final flourish at the end of her name, I can't help but feel a little bit of gratitude. Even the sky out the classroom window has a little ray of light splitting through a cloud.