I Wish (17 page)

“Is your family in need?”

I hadn’t meant for that to slip out, but I couldn’t leave it alone now. “Why else would he be helping us?”

“My point exactly. Are there things your family needs that he can’t help with?”

I’d handled our mess for months without anyone asking anything. Why were they all asking now? “No, Kimberley. We’re fine.”

“You’re fine except for the things a complete stranger is fixing?”

I took a deep breath. No matter how mad I looked, she wouldn’t let this go until I reassured her. “Grant is not a stranger. He’s shown me his identification. There is no problem here.”

Mrs. Rey parked the SUV next to the curb in front of my house. I grabbed the handle and swung the door open. “Thanks for the ride,” I mumbled as I slid from the car.

“How do you know Grant’s ID isn’t fake?”

Why wouldn’t she drop this? “It isn’t fake!” First Mr. Taylor. Now the Reys. All of these questions were a bit insulting. I wouldn’t dream of letting anyone around Henry or Mom unless I thought he was safe. I turned to scowl at Kimberley. “I have this under control. Can you please stay out of my family’s business?”

Mrs. Rey gasped.

“Sure. My mistake.” Kimberley tilted her head, eyeing me thoughtfully. “I thought we were friends, and it was my job to have your back. I didn’t know that you’re allowed to care about my brain damage but that I’m not allowed to care about your safety. I’ll butt out.” She reached over, grabbed the handle, and slammed the door shut before I could say anything. The SUV pulled away from the curb, and they sped off.

Status Report #14
Thursday’s Wish: Restoration of a Stained Glass Window

Dear Boss,

I found the day’s assignment to be entirely satisfying. Stained glass is a new skill, with both dexterity and creativity involved. It is a lovely addition to the house and will certainly broaden its appeal.

Chief argued with a friend. I couldn’t help overhearing the end of it. Kimberley Rey is a true friend to show such concern for Chief’s welfare; it’s a shame that Chief will not allow herself to accept such concern.

It has surprised me how little interest the neighborhood has shown over my presence. Did the Linden-Joneses keep to themselves so much?

I hope Chief makes things right with Kimberley soon. May I introduce the topic?

Humbly submitted,
Grant

I
had plenty of time last night to brood over my conversation with Kimberley. I knew she was just trying to be nice, and I had blown her off pretty badly. If I’d learned anything with Sara, it was to make sure that I didn’t let fights like this fester. I had to fix this today.

Kimberley avoided me all day. That had to be intentional. She arrived in the classroom at the last possible moment for APUSH and raced out again before I had a chance to speak with her. She always had Sean walking with her in the hallways between classes, and she didn’t show up for lunch.

I even tried to ambush her in the parking lot after school, but I waited ten minutes and neither she nor her mother ever appeared. I would just have to drive to their house.

When I got home, my mom, my BSB, and the car were gone. They hadn’t left a note, and my brother would be home around three-thirty.

I was too anxious to see Kimberley to wait for Grant and Mom to return. Glancing at the clock, I figured I could bike over to Kimberley’s house, apologize for my rudeness, and bike back in thirty minutes, plenty of time to get back for Henry. I tossed my backpack into the studio, grabbed a bike and a helmet, and took off.

Mrs. Rey was pushing a manual lawnmower across the front yard. When I slid off the bike, she stopped, dabbed delicately at her face with a pink bandana, and glanced my way. Her lips thinned as recognition dawned.

I waited at the curb. “Is Kimberley here?”

“She is.” Her voice and expression were belligerent. “Why do you want to know?”

“I want to talk with her.”

Mrs. Rey crossed her arms and watched me silently. She did attitude really well.

The stare-down continued, without her saying anything. Guess that left the next move up to me. I walked up the driveway, in through the garage, knocked once on the door, and stepped into the kitchen.

Inside was hushed, dim, and immaculate. Where had their obsession with cleanliness come from? The chemotherapy?

“Kimberley?”

A recliner creaked in the adjacent den. She stood, an iPad in one hand. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For…?”

“Being rude to you yesterday.”

Her eyes widened. “Am I still supposed to mind my own business?”

“If it’s about Grant, yes.” Maybe this would sound harsh, but it had to be said. “I want you to stop worrying. My family needs him, and I am one hundred percent sure that he’s a good guy. Please trust me about this.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“Okay…what?”

“I accept your apology.” She smiled. “And I’ll drop the thing about Grant.”

Relief flooded in. This was easier than I expected. “Will your mom let it go too?”

“Yeah.” She set her iPad on the table and then gave me a hug.

After a moment’s hesitation, I hugged her back. It felt good.

When she released me, we were both still smiling. That was the quickest fight I’d ever had with a friend. It had always taken Sara a long time to get over anything. Hopefully, my next question wouldn’t ruin things again. “I don’t mean to be rude, Kimberley, but how did you remember to avoid me all day?”

She held her hand out, palm up. Something was written on it with black marker.

“Really? You wrote a note on your hand?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” She laughed.

I laughed too.

When Mrs. Rey came in five minutes later, we were in the kitchen, raiding the snack drawer and still laughing.

The car was parked in the driveway when I arrived home. As I was putting the bike away, Grant appeared in the door to the studio, his arms full of boxes.

“What are you doing?”

“Preparing for today’s wish. May I set up in the living room?”

Clean The Hall Closet Day. A rush of adrenaline hit me. No telling what was in the hall closet. I’d been putting it off for months, scared and excited and worried about its contents. “The living room is fine. But why are you starting so late?” I would’ve expected him to finish this morning.

He continued across the back yard. “I was busy earlier.”

“Doing what?”

“Shelving canned goods.”

I followed him in the back door. “Where did you shelve cans?”

“At the Food Pantry. We heard that—”

“
We
? We who?”

“Crystal went with me.”

“You took my mother to a food pantry?”

He nodded. “It was a good exchange. We supplied labor. They let us fill a bag with groceries.”

My good mood fractured at this news. Grant and I had been getting along so well. It had been lovely for the past couple of days. But he
knew
that I wanted to keep our problems private. I felt betrayed. “Why did you do that? Did Mom see anyone she knew? You can’t let people know we need free food—”

“Stop, Chief. It’s done.” He set the boxes down in the living room, his face tight. “Crystal provided for her family today. Leave it at that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get started on this wish.”

“I’m not finished.”

“Perhaps not, but I am, so unless you enjoy talking to yourself, I’d suggest you move along.”

Our stand-off lasted a good fifteen seconds before I decided to change tactics. I might not be able to make him talk to me, but I did have something else I could control. “You can bring the stuff to me and I’ll sort.”

“From the closet?”

I nodded.

He tensed. “Does this imply that you will assist me?”

“Not exactly.” I dropped onto the couch and propped my feet on the coffee table. “This implies
I
am in charge, and
you
are going to assist
me
.”

“I prefer to complete wishes on my own.”

“I
wish
you would help me clean the hall closet.”

Grant had this way of locking his face into marble sculpture mode. All hard angles and stony expression. It was kind of hot. Not that I’d admit it to him.

Items appeared on the coffee table, organized with precision. He made no comments. He made no eye contact. It was far more effective at expressing frustration than anything he might have said.

For the first half hour, nothing emerged from the closet but junk—things like
National Geographic
magazines older than my mother, empty soda bottles, and chocolate wrappers (somebody named Josh had had a serious Godiva addiction). The junk went straight to the trash can and recycling bin.

Then the items became more interesting.

Grant pulled out a half-dozen unmatched women’s shoes. I tossed them under the bay window.

He handed me a bag with thirty or more movie DVDs from the previous century. There were some decent ones—animated films, war movies, and a few black-and-white classics. We could sell them all at the flea market.

I paused when he held out the tuxedo jacket. It was still in good condition, but where were the pants? I patted the pockets and squealed with joy. Josh had left behind several crumpled twenty-dollar bills and a handkerchief.

“Chief?”

I looked up. Grant had a shoebox full of sewing supplies tucked under one arm. “Those are my mom’s.”

He nodded and set the box on a nearby table. “What about this?” He dropped a large, thin book on the coffee table.

A scrapbook. I opened it.

The first page held a photo of my dad in his Marine Corps dress uniform. He looked stern. Tough. Inscribed below the picture was his name in Nana’s handwriting.

Jonathan Eric Linden

I curled my legs up on the couch and turned the pages. There were pages with my father as a baby and a toddler. His kindergarten report card—Good Conduct had not been easy for him. A staged photo in his baseball uniform. Several shots from his high-school graduation. One had him in the center, my mom wrapped with one arm, and Mr. Taylor with the other.

Grant continued to come in, dropping objects in a pile at my feet and leaving again, but I didn’t look up, too absorbed by a picture of my dad wrapped in a hospital gown, holding little swaddled me. He was laughing. I was screaming.

Eerie. I flipped through the remaining pages. My dad with me at my first Christmas. My third birthday party. Reading a story to my preschool class. The final picture in the scrapbook had been taken at the military base with me all dressed up and my dad in uniform. Frills and camouflage. I looked a lot like him. I’d never noticed.

My mother came in and hung over my shoulder. “I’m glad you found that. I’ve wondered where it was.”

“Whose is it?”

“Yours. Nana Linden made it for you.”

“It’s amazing.” The memory of that final picture tickled at my brain, hazy and silent, like a movie on mute. It had been a windy day. Just before Grampa snapped the photo, Dad kissed my cheek. His breath had smelled like cinnamon.

“Eric thought you were the cutest thing that had ever been born. I loved to see the two of you together. He was a great dad.” She flipped back a page and pointed. I was riding on my father’s shoulders, laughing from pure delight, my fingers holding tightly to his ears—since he hadn’t really had any hair to hold on to. My father was grinning, even though he had to be hurting. “You spent most of your toddler years being carried by him. It’s a wonder you ever learned to walk.”

“Chief,” Grant said, interrupting. “I believe you will find this rather compelling.” He held out an accordion-pleated folder.

With a great deal of reluctance, I closed the scrapbook, set it on a side table, and took the folder. I brushed away a light coating of dust and slipped off the elastic tie. Inside were official-looking papers. Bills marked paid. Auto insurance contracts. Department of Defense documents written in jargon I didn’t try to comprehend. “They don’t look all that important.” I held them up to my mother. “Do you know what these are?”

“No.” She ducked her head and shuffled toward the bay window.

What was she afraid of? “I guess we should go through them anyway.”

“We who?” Grant asked.

Good question. Probably I should. But what if the papers were about Eric? Or Josh? What if it told me things I didn’t want to know? What if there were more bills…? “
You
need to go through them.”

He glanced from my mother to me and then lowered his voice. “A new wish?”

Crap. My wants kept accumulating. “I’ll put it on the list.”

Mom was bending over the pile of orphaned shoes. She extracted a bronze, jewel-studded sandal. “I’ve been looking for this one.”

“There are more closets to clean in this house, Mom.”

Her gaze roamed from the collection of books to the pile of old clothes. Josh’s old clothes. Her face sagged. “I think this is enough for now.” She drifted from the room.

My attention returned to the folder. Maybe it held good news. I liked the idea that there might be hidden treasures lurking within.

“She could use your sympathy.”