Out of the Box(32)

Yours truly,

Ellie Saunders

P.S. Any idea how both you and your father’s bandoneón wound up in Canada separately?

Frank asks me if I’m sure about this, and when I nod, he tells me he’s proud and disappointed at the same time. “You have the makings of a damn fine player, and I hate to see you go without a bandoneón. If ever I hear of one for sale, you’ll be the first to know, and if you don’t go about finding one yourself, I’ll personally come over and give you a swift kick in the pants.” Coming from Frank, I figure that’s the highest compliment. I thank him, he hugs me, and Louise gives me a CD that Frank and his tango group made a few years ago. I promise I’ll visit again as soon as I can.

I walk back along Government Street feeling lonelier than I have in my whole life. I eat the granola bar that I brought for Ned and am relieved that Sarah’s busy at the petting zoo. Last night I tried to figure out what to say to her, and I wrote a whole speech in my head about how much her friendship has meant to me and how awful I feel about how it’s turned out. When I woke up this morning, though, I knew I’d never have the courage to say all that, so it’s just as well I won’t be able to see her.

In the end, I wrapped up something I found in the basement—a box of my aunt’s clothes from the seventies, which Jeanette agrees Sarah will love. The card that I taped to the top said only Sarah, I’m sorry for being such a lame friend. Hope this makes up for it a bit. E

I wrote her name on the envelope and left the package at her front door. Sometimes there’s only so much you can do.





TWENTY-FOUR


At home, nothing and everything has changed. My list of chores for each person still hangs in the kitchen. The house looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since I left, and the only thing in the fridge is half a liter of milk.

The second we’re in the door, Dad hugs me, tells me how much he missed me, and suggests we go out for dinner. Mom says he should have had supper on the table by now. Dad stomps off into the kitchen, and half an hour later, we’re sitting down to pasta with salmon Alfredo sauce, whipped up with stuff from the pantry and the last of the milk. I smile. No canned soup. No sandwiches. At least in one way, it’s good to be home.

My father and I spend the next two days cleaning the house while Mom’s at work. I weed the bark mulch in the backyard, walk to the library, fill my backpack with novels and walk home.

I think about the paper Jeanette slipped into my hand before we left: the name and phone number of a counselor, a friend of Alison’s who works within a bus ride of my school. “In case you ever want to talk to someone outside the family. Just make an appointment. I’ll pay.” I don’t think I’ll call, but I’ve saved the paper, just in case.



On Saturday, I wake up to the sound of arguing and the growling of my stomach. I ignore my hunger, grab a book from the stack by my bed and try to read. I promised Jeanette I wouldn’t get involved in my parents’ arguments anymore, and if I show up in the kitchen to make breakfast, they’ll want my opinion. It’s safer to stay in my room.

When I was at Jeanette’s, curled up in a deck chair under the cherry tree on my last night there, I felt like I could stand up to anyone. It was two in the morning, Mom was snoring in the living room, and my aunt and I were having a secret farewell picnic in the backyard. She was talking about setting boundaries and said again that my job is to be a kid. She said my parents need to talk to other adults about their problems, not to me, and that I have every right to tell them that. I wrapped my hands tighter around my mug of hot chocolate and pictured myself standing up to Mom. I pictured her tears, but they didn’t hurt me. I felt strong, powerful.

But now, with their shouting ringing in my ears, I’m hiding out in my bedroom, too scared to go out and too hungry to stay. Finally hunger wins out and I go to the kitchen, where Mom is banging dishes in the sink and Dad’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, glowering at the floor.

“Don’t bother,” Mom says when I open the fridge door. “It’s not like your father’s made the effort to shop properly lately.”

“It’s been a busy week, Gloria.” He sounds more tired than angry.

“So we don’t need to eat?” Clank, clatter, crash.

I grit my teeth, open the pantry and pull out a box of crackers. I’ve just found an unopened peanut butter when Mom turns to face me. “Right, Ellie?”

“What?” I bang the jar down on the counter louder than I mean to, and she startles, as if she’s the only one around here with noise privileges.