Learning to Hula. Lisa Childs
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a while longer so he can cool off.
Instead I run into town to check on Pam. The outside door for the stairwell to her apartment is locked. She’s probably at her yoga class in Grand Rapids, which is about a forty-five-minute drive away from Stanville.
Thinking I might collect some paperwork, I use my key to let myself into The Tearoom. It closes at three-thirty every day. It’s only four now, so the air is still rich with the mingled aromas of coffee, herbal teas and cinnamon. I breathe deeply, appreciating now why this place means so much to my mother.
Even empty, it’s still abuzz with the chatter from the day, the gossip, which was probably mostly about me. Really, Pam owes me. If not for my incident at Smiley’s, folks would have all been talking about her separation.
I wonder how long it took Bulletin Bill to spill the news about me to the deputy. Not long, I’m sure. But I bet Westmoreland wasn’t surprised. What does surprise him? He was solemn but not upset the night he brought me the news about Rob.
Westmoreland’s not from here, but he’s lived in Stanville long enough to be accepted. A few years? I can’t remember when he came or where he’s from, probably a big city where he’s seen far more than a heart-attack-induced traffic accident.
For him that was routine.
For me, it was the end of every routine I’ve ever known.
I glance at my watch, then lock the door as I leave to pick up Claire. She grunts when I ask her how her lesson went. That’s still better than the silent treatment from the morning. Not much, but better.
The house is quiet when we step inside. Some of the bags by the back door are missing. That’s good. Robbie’s already begun to put some of it away, tantrum over as quickly as mine had passed in Smiley’s. Robbie’s still my mild-mannered boy.
“Call your brother for dinner,” I tell Claire, as I open the fridge and bring out the seasoned strips of steak and chicken, which I’ve already sautéed. They just need to be popped into the microwave for a quick reheat. I reach for a plate on the counter when my sleeve brushes against something that rustles. A folded piece of paper with “Mom” scrawled across it.
I pick up the note and unfold it.
“Since you’re getting rid of everything that reminds you of Dad, I figure you’re going to get rid of me next. So I’m saving you the trouble.”
STAGE 4
I am not stupid, nor did I raise stupid children. I don’t really believe that Robbie has run away.
Despite living in a small town, he is aware of the dangers that might befall a teenager traveling on his own, and because of our small town, traveling would not be easy. The closest bus terminal is a forty-five-minute drive away, the same for the train station and airport.
How would he get to Grand Rapids? Once again, I am glad that I loaned out Rob’s Beetle. And because of the asthma that has excused him from every Phys Ed class, I know that Robbie did not run away.
If he were truly like his father, this would be one of those pranks he’s been pulling lately, and I would open his bedroom door and he’d be standing there with a big grin on his face, thinking he is so funny even though he’s not.
But his room is empty.
I know this without even stepping inside because the door is open. His bedroom door is never open.
Neither is Claire’s. Hers is shut now, with signs posted all over that No Trespassers Are Allowed. Those used to be meant for Robbie. Now I’m not so sure to whom she is referring, but I don’t care what she thinks. I am not a trespasser in my own home.
I open her door without knocking. She whirls away from her bed, where she is pulling stuff from her backpack. I step close enough that I can see a couple of wadded-up T-shirts and some CDs. Packing or unpacking? Is she intending to leave me a note, too?
“I told you to call Robbie for dinner,” I remind her, watching her face.
Her mouth twists into the familiar sulky pout. “I didn’t hear you,” she claims. The pout becomes a sneer. “I didn’t hear you knock, either.”
I swallow the words threatening to erupt. This is my house. I don’t knock on doors in my own house. Those were my mother’s words whenever Pam or Emma protested her “invading” their privacy. She’d never had to invade mine. I’d never kept any secrets from her. And Claire never used to keep any secrets from me.
She and I had been close…until a few months ago. So much has changed since then. She is no longer my little girl. She’s as tall as I am and poised on the brink of adolescence. Even her room reflects this. Not much of the soft yellow walls can be seen through the odd mixture of rock posters and pictures of kitties curled in baskets or hanging from tree limbs. Although she wants to, she’s not quite sure how to grow up. So she’s pushing me, testing her limits.
And mine.
Back when she used to share stuff with me, she’d told me about a friend of hers who purposely makes her mother mad because she thinks it’s funny to watch her turn red, and hear her swear. I suspect that is what she and Robbie have been trying with me, not because they think it’s funny, but because they’re stuck in stage two: anger. They’re lashing out like I did in Smiley’s.
I am the cupcake now.
“So where is Robbie?” I ask her, ignoring the odd little flutter in my chest. I refuse to panic. There’s no reason for it. Robbie has not run away, he’s just trying to make a point.
Claire shrugs and looks down at the T-shirts on the unmade bed. “I don’t know. Probably downstairs.”
In his father’s den. He still spends all his time there, playing on the computer. He’s not going to be pleased when I take over the room for my office, but Robbie has a laptop he can use anywhere. I need the space for files.
“I don’t think he’s there,” I say, knowing I will check anyway.
“Whatever…”
That is another chorus she sings, like the “it’s not fair” one.
“What’s with the stuff in your backpack?” I ask her, wanting to know if she thinks she’s leaving, too. Is this something they planned together, like the packed bags and boxes and the For Sale sign on the front lawn?
“I got it back from Heather.”
She and her friends share clothes and CDs so this is not unusual. But I detect that surly note in her voice, not directed at me for once. “Are you and Heather fighting?”
It would not surprise or disappoint me if Claire said yes. This is the girl who purposely makes her mother mad.
She nods. “Yeah, she’s a lying bitch!”
“Claire!” Despite our house rule against swearing, she’s called her brother names many times, but never a friend, even a friend like Heather.
“I don’t need her.” Her dark eyes tell me more, that she doesn’t think she needs anyone.
I’ve wondered why the phone, which used to ring incessantly, has been so quiet. I want to talk to her about this, about her isolation from her friends, because I understand. My friends have stopped calling, too. They expressed their sympathy at the funeral, but now they don’t know what to say to me. And if adults can’t figure it out, I doubt young girls can.
I want to explain this to her, but don’t believe she’ll listen to me now. I need to find Robbie and treat them both to their favorite dinner first. I hand her the note.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“You tell me.” They are too close now for her not to know.
She reads it through narrowed eyes. “He ran away?”
“You tell me,” I say again.