Out of the Box
ONE
“Ellie?”
My parents are staring at me across our dining-room table. Mom’s still in her work clothes—a tailored beige blouse and black pants that make her seem confident and professional. Dad has changed from his usual T-shirt into something dressier. They’ve raised their wineglasses full of bubbly water for a goodbye toast, and they’re waiting for me to do the same.
I grip the stem of my glass, trying to figure out how long I’ve been staring out the window at our bark-mulched yard. I was imagining myself picking raspberries in Aunt Jeanette’s garden in Victoria. My parents have finally agreed to let me stay with my aunt for the whole summer this year, instead of just a week. Jeanette says she needs help cleaning her basement— something she and Alison had promised each other they would do this summer. They had wanted to hold a giant yard sale and give all the proceeds to a soup kitchen where they volunteer. Despite everything that’s happened, my aunt’s sticking to the plan. I told my parents I wanted to help, because it feels like the last thing I can do for Alison. Maybe they get it, or maybe they’re worried Jeanette’ll get depressed if she sorts through twenty years of memories of Alison by herself. Either way, I’ve been counting the days until I get to my aunt’s place.
I raise my glass. “To a fantastic summer!” I say.
“To Ellie,” says Dad.
“To Jeanette,” Mom adds, giving us each a long, meaningful look. She’s reminded me often in the past few weeks that I can’t expect my aunt to be the same as before, now that Alison’s gone. Even though Jeanette sounds fine when we talk on the phone or when she visits, grief might come crashing in on her when summer arrives and she’s not busy teaching. Besides, summer is the season of kayaking, hiking and lake swimming—activities she and Alison used to share. I think Mom imagines her curled up in a chair, desperate for company, but personally I can’t picture it. My aunt always says that life is nothing if not a great adventure. I’ve told Mom she shouldn’t worry so much, but telling Mom not to worry is like telling her not to breathe. Sure enough, Mom seems sad and tired as we clink glasses, and I scramble to think of something cheerful to say. “I was thinking about what to pack,” I lie.
“Don’t think too hard,” Dad says, his voice cheerful enough to make up for my mother’s mood. This goodbye dinner was his idea, and he spent all afternoon chopping sun-dried tomatoes and grating extra-aged cheddar for his gourmet macaroni and cheese, my favorite meal. He doesn’t usually try this hard, but we both know tonight is important. “You never know what Jeanette has up her sleeve,” he says. “You can’t possibly prepare for everything.”
“No kidding,” I say, digging into my macaroni. One year, Jeanette, Alison and I made elaborate costumes and waved from a float in the Canada Day parade. Another time, we rode horses to a secret waterfall at the top of a mountain. Last year we went camping, whitewater rafting and to the opera, all in one weekend. That’s what visits with Jeanette have always been like. Intense. Fabulous. And full of stuff I’d never do at home.
Dad and I are smiling.
Mom isn’t. Tears are welling up in her eyes.
I feel a pang of guilt, but I grit my teeth. I’m not giving in. Not this time. “Great supper, Dad,” I say.
Somewhere outside, a lawn mower roars to life, startling us and giving me a few extra seconds to think up a cheery new topic. “You guys’ll have a great summer too, right? What did Jeanette call it? The romantic opportunity of a lifetime?”
Mom had laughed when Jeanette said that a few weeks ago, and I’m hoping for the same response now. Tomorrow I want to leave with memories of us laughing together. If I can think about that, I’ll worry less about what happens here while I’m gone.
On the outside not much will change, I know. When I return, the lawns on our cul-de-sac will be as green as ever. The air will smell of sprinkler water on pavement, and the neighbors will be walking their dogs.
Our backyard might be weedier. The house was new when my parents bought it thirteen years ago, right before I was born, and they’ve never gotten around to putting in a garden. Each year they order a load of bark mulch and hire a gardener to spread it out so the weeds don’t take over. I pull out the dandelions and grasses that sprout through the mulch. Not many do.
It’s hard to say what things will be like inside our house two months from now. Mom gets upset a lot, and Dad says no one can calm her down like I can. Dad spends most of his time downstairs in his office, designing software for his company or just surfing the Internet. Mom says no one gets him out of his shell like I do.