With a sigh of relief, I joined Erica again. I pointed the flashlight over her shoulder, and she began to sift through the papers in the box. A stack of letters tied with a ribbon would have tempted me, but Erica wasn’t interested. She pushed those aside and dug deeper.
And then she froze.
“What?” I said. I straightened. “Did you hear something?”
“No. Claudia, this is it! I’ve found it! Quick, the flashlight!”
I turned the beam of the flashlight on the piece of paper Erica was holding up in the shadowy closet. It was a birth certificate — for “Baby Girl Stiller.”
“It’s my birthday. It’s me,” Erica whispered. I stared and then I looked at the lines beneath “Baby Girl Stiller.”
There, spotlighted in the circle of light, were the baby’s parents’ names. And they weren’t the Blumbergs.
They were Alison Stiller and Jonathan Gardener.
“They’re nice names,” I said stupidly. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I noticed that the flash-light was shaking a little and clamped my other hand over the one holding the light to make it stay still.
Erica stood up, still holding the box, and walked out of the closet.
“Where are you going?” I asked, alarmed.
“I have to write down the information,” she said. She sounded calm. How come I was the one who was shaking?
I didn’t know what else to do, so I followed Erica back to her room and watched as she took a notebook from a desk drawer, opened it to the middle, and wrote out the information. She closed the notebook (which said MATH PROBLEMS on the front) and returned it to the drawer.
Then she went back to the safe and put the box inside. As the door closed, I breathed a sigh of relief. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.
We raced down the hall to Erica’s room. She closed the door behind us, went back to her desk, took out the notebook, and opened it to the page where she’d written her birth parents’ names.
I’d stopped shaking. I took a deep breath.
Erica began to cry. Really cry.
“Erica,” I said, alarmed. “Erica, it’s okay.”
She gulped and sobbed, one fist clenched on top of the notebook. “It’s them, it’s them,” she said.
“It is,” I agreed, making my voice as soothing as I could.
“I know their names.”
“You do.” I put my hand over the clenched fist. “You really do.”
She sniffed and grabbed a tissue. Then she blew her nose. She wiped her eyes on her shirt sleeve, sniffed once more, and said, almost in a wail, “Claudia! What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t knooow.” The tears welled up again. I quickly handed her a tissue. She dabbed her eyes and repeated softly, “I don’t know.”
Poor Erica. She looked so miserable. I wondered if she’d really believed she’d find her birth certificate, just like that.
I hadn’t expected to find it. I don’t know what I’d expected.
Then two words floated into my brain.
Be honest.
I looked at Erica. Her head was down.
“Erica,” I said. “This is what I think you should do. You should be honest.”
“What you do mean?” Erica raised her eyes to meet mine.
“You have to tell your parents what you’ve found out. You can’t keep this a secret. It’s too big. You can’t handle it alone.”
“But if I tell them, and they realize how upset I am, they’ll say it proves I was too young to learn my birth parents’ names.”
“What if it does? It’s a done deal.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Erica said slowly. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them to meet mine again. “Okay. I’ll tell them. As soon as they get home.”
“Good.” I stood up.
Erica went on, “And you’ll stay and help me, won’t you, Claudia?”
How could I say no?
* * *
Mr. and Mrs. Blumberg were not happy with the news. Her mother had come home first and knocked on the door of Erica’s room. Seeing me, she’d smiled. “Claudia! Are you going to join us for dinner?”
“Uh, I, ah …” I stammered. “Uh, not exactly.”
“Mom, could I talk to you and Dad? Together? As soon as Dad gets home?” Erica came to my rescue.
Mrs. Blumberg raised an eyebrow. “Of course, honey. Is everything all right?”
“I think so,” said Erica. At that moment, Mr. Blumberg called out, “Anybody home?”
“Yes!” Erica said, bouncing to her feet.
“Why don’t we go to the kitchen? You can put some hot water on for tea while I get out of these shoes — they’re killing my feet — and then your father and I will join you,” Mrs. Blumberg said.
“Okay.” Erica grabbed my arm and practically yanked me after her.
We made the tea. We sat down. I spent the next twenty minutes gripping the hot mug and never saying a word as Erica told her story.
“Claudia helped because I made her,” she concluded. “So please don’t blame her.”
My face turned red.
Mrs. Blumberg, her expression shocked, said, “I don’t blame anybody. But Erica, how could you?”
“I had to,” Erica said earnestly. “It was driving me crazy.”
Mr. Blumberg reached out to rest his hand on his wife’s. “It had to happen sooner or later, Rachel. We were going to give her the information eventually.”
“But not like this! I wanted to tell you, Erica. To fill in the details …” Mrs. Blumberg’s voice trailed off.
Tears had sprung up in Erica’s eyes. She said, her voice choked, “Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Oh, honey, it’s not me … it’s you I’m worried about.” Mrs. Blumberg stood up and put her arms around Erica.
Erica turned her face into her mother’s shoulder and began to cry in earnest. Maybe Erica really wasn’t ready for this just yet.
“I guess we need to decide where to go from here,” said Mr. Blumberg, almost to himself.
“Speaking of going,” I said, “I’ve got to get home.”
I don’t think Mrs. Blumberg or Erica heard me. Mr. Blumberg nodded. He gave me a lopsided smile.
“ ’Bye,” I said, and made my escape.
It had been a long, hard day. And I had a feeling that for Erica, finding out what she’d wanted to know wasn’t going to make things easier. At least not right away.
“You’re late,” were the first words my mother said to me as I walked through the kitchen door.
“I was at Erica’s,” I answered vaguely. Being a part of what had happened at Erica’s house had made me feel like a painting composed of wild drips and dabs. “I left a message for you.”
“I got the message. But you’re still late.”
I sat down limply at the kitchen table where Mimi and I had sat so many times, drinking tea and hot chocolate. I had talked to Mimi. I had been honest with her. Nothing was too trivial or strange for me to tell her. I knew she would never, ever stop loving me.
Just as Erica had to know that her parents would never, ever stop loving her. They might not always understand her, but they would always love her.
That was why it was so important to be honest with the people you loved — the people who loved you.
I looked up at Mom. She hadn’t moved, and I realized that she wasn’t angry so much as worried and a little puzzled. She said, “Claudia?”
And I said, “Oh, Mom!” and jumped up to hug her.
She was startled, but she hugged me back. She didn’t say anything. I leaned against her and smelled her familiar Mom-smell of perfume and powder and shampoo, and yes, books. I hugged her harder.
She said, “Claudia, it’ll be all right, whatever it is.”
And I said, “I’m an artist, Mom. I didn’t think about who to ask for permission or who was the boss. I just thought about how
to make the wall look beautiful, and I wanted you to be proud of me.”
“Oh, Claudia.” Now my mother’s arms tightened around me. “I am proud of you. Every day in every way. Don’t you know that?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.”
She let go and stepped back. “I know you see the world differently, and I wish I could see it a little more the way you do. I imagine it’s a wonderful world.”
“Sometimes,” I said. “And sometimes I can’t make sense of anything I see. That’s why I like art so much, I guess. If I can just put down what I see, the way I see it, then I can figure out what I’m looking at.”
It didn’t make much sense, but I knew what I was talking about. My mother smiled. “Words do it for me,” she said. “I always wished I could write, but I’m not much good at it. That’s why I love reading. I look for writers who can write down what I feel. If I can find that, then I can make sense out of the world.”
I’d never thought about words or writing in quite that way. I’d never known my mother wanted to be a writer. All I could think to say was, “Wow.”
A deeply dumb thing to say. But my mother laughed aloud. “The perfect word,” she said. “Exactly. Wow.”
Then I laughed too. I heard footsteps in the hall and knew it was my father. It was time to get ready for dinner.
I said quickly, “Don’t worry about the mural. I can fix it. That is, if you’ll trust me. On my own, not on library time.”
“I trust you,” said my mom. “And if Ms. Feld wants you to work on it as part of your job, that’s between you and Ms. Feld.” She paused and said, “Although I’m not sure about that group effort …”
“I’ll find a way for the kids to be part of the mural without making a total mess,” I promised. “In fact, I already have an idea.”
* * *
“Next,” I said, a few days later.
Erica led four children out into the hall, which was once again lined with old newspapers. I looked at the four children who’d just finished “working” on the mural. They held out their paint-sticky hands carefully.
Erica handed me a stack of clothing — old work shirts and aprons that I’d brought from home. As she led the four artists to the bathroom to get cleaned up, she said, “Don’t touch anything.”
My new group of artists included Jackie Rodowsky. I chose the biggest shirt for him and swaddled him in it. Then I put aprons or shirts in more matching sizes on the other three.
I led them to the wall. The bottom and sides had been painted over with quick-drying paint to make a border. Now handprints and names were filling in that border. One at a time, I let each artist dip a palm into one of the shallow tin pans of color I’d arranged on the floor. Jackie went first. He put a bright red, slightly smeared handprint near the corner of the mural. Then, with my help, he signed his first name beneath it.
“Excellent,” I said. “You’re now officially part of the Stoneybrook Library mural. And you can wave at yourself every time you walk by.”
Jackie grinned. “That’s silly,” he said.
“That’s art,” I replied — which was a silly thing to say too. But Jackie didn’t mind. He stepped carefully back and watched as the others added their handprints and names.
Four by four, every child in the story session put his or her handprint and name on the border of the mural. We’d do this for the next couple of weeks, to make sure all the kids would be included. I’d also made signs and put them at the front desk and at the children’s room desk: “Kids! Be an Artist for the Stoneybrook Library. Ask Ms. Feld in the Children’s Room to Give You a Hand!”
Yes, I made that awful pun. Alan had been rubbing off on me, clearly. But it was a pretty good joke. My mom grinned when she saw it and shook her head.
Alan. He wasn’t quite in focus on the muddled canvas that was my mind. But the picture was getting clearer. Definitely.
After story hour, Erica talked to me while she ate her lunch and I worked. I’d painted out the sections that were to be removed and was sketching in the new figures.
“What’s happening at your house?” I asked as I painted in the castle tower where Rapunzel read her book and let down her long golden hair.
“We talked. And talked.” Erica sighed. “I’m tired. And relieved.”
“You must be,” I said, thinking of how much better I felt since I’d talked with my mom.
“Totally. But you know what’s funny? My parents said I could go ahead with my search — and now I’m not even sure I want to.”
“Mmm,” I said neutrally. Then I added, “It’s sort of like a mystery. You know, solving it is what matters, and then once you’ve figured it out, it’s not so …”
“Compelling.” Erica supplied the word for me. “That’s right. I was obsessed with the search. And I think I wanted to show my parents I could pull it off. But now, part of me thinks maybe they were right. I mean, I’m not all that eager to take the next step. I think, just for now, I’ll wait.”
“Well, whatever you decide to do, I’ll help you if I can,” I said.
“Thanks, Claudia. You’re a true friend.”
“And don’t forget ‘great artist.’ ”
“That too,” Erica agreed.
* * *
I couldn’t spend the entire day working on the mural. I still had my regular work to do. But I planned on coming early and staying late to get it just the way I wanted. I wouldn’t rush. I would do it right. After all, I had the rest of the summer.
I was still hard at work late that afternoon when Alan showed up.
“Alan,” I said. I was really glad to see him.
“Hey, Claudia.” He sounded reasonably happy to see me. But he was not his usual exuberant self.
“Did you come to give me a hand?” I asked. I gestured at the row of handprints that were scattered along the borders of the mural.
Alan smiled. “Good one. And the mural looks like it has potential.”
“Oh, it does. Believe me.”
“The artist is always right?”
“You know she is,” I answered. I stopped. I was giving Alan a chance to make one of his corny jokes. But he didn’t. He just looked at me, then at the mural, as if he couldn’t quite meet my eyes. I noticed then that he had folded his arms in front of him. He did not look comfortable.
And I didn’t feel comfortable with this other side of Alan.
“Hey,” I said. “Let me get things cleaned up here, and then I’ll show you my favorite place in the library.” I waved my hand around. “Meanwhile, maybe you can find a book to read while you wait.”
Alan smiled. Politely. “Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
* * *
“What is this, a dungeon?” Alan asked.
“Nope.” I led the way down a narrow flight of stairs at the back of one of the book storage closets in the reference corner of the main library. I pushed open the door at the bottom. The floor there was made of uneven bricks. Two steps brought me to a brick wall with a door just to the right of it. I pushed that door open, and we were in a small square room made of bricks. A dehumidifer hummed in the corner, but other than that, the room was quiet. Bookshelves covered most of the walls, but in places you could see the fan pattern in which the bricks had been laid, which echoed the pattern beneath our feet.
“It is a dungeon,” Alan said.
I shook my head. “Have a box,” I said, indicating one of the storage boxes on the floor. I sat down.
Alan sat down facing me. “It’s part of the original building that was here,” I explained. “It was an old farmhouse, I think. Nothing big or fancy, but the man who built the house was a mason, and he put a lot of work into it. He made the bricks himself, by hand. That’s why they’re uneven and different colors.” I ran my hand over the rough surface of the nearby wall. I wish I could paint textures like that.
“How do you know all that?” Alan asked.
I shrugged. “Mom told me. The library uses this space
now to store things that Mom doesn’t quite know what to do with but doesn’t want to throw away. Right now, it’s mostly the old card catalog files.” I gestured at the card-sized file boxes lining the bookshelves. “Some of the files are really old, written by hand. Librarians had to learn a special kind of writing for the files, so they could be sure that people could read them.”
“If I had a job like that, I’d make up some cool books that should be written and put them in the files,” Alan said. “I’d …” He stopped.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Alan,” I said. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” He looked alarmed and very defensive. “I wasn’t doing anything. I’ve been … really careful.”
“I know,” I said. “And I appreciate it. I mean, that you didn’t let Kristy get to you when we played miniature golf and all that. But you don’t have to make yourself into some kind of pretzel, holding back when you want to talk. To be yourself.”
“Great,” said Alan. “A pretzel. So I’m a jerk if I’m myself and I’m a pretzel if I’m not. I’d call that a lose-lose situation.”
“Just be yourself,” I said.
“I can’t!” Alan shot back fiercely. “I’m afraid to!”
I was shocked. “Afraid?”
“You won’t like me if I’m myself. Your friends won’t like me. I mean, I saw Kristy that day. She was just waiting for me to be Alan the clown. The Alan she hates. The Alan you don’t like either.”
“Alan!” I said.
“It’s true. Think about it. I sure have.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, Alan. Kristy doesn’t hate you. She’s just having a problem changing the picture she has of you.”
“And she won’t change it if I start goofing.”
“That’s not true. Kristy’s stubborn, but she’s not unfair. I’m the one who has been unfair.”
“What do you mean?”
“Letting you think I want you to be somebody you’re not. But I don’t want you to be some perfect, polite, dull robot Alan.”
“Dull?” said Alan, looking indignant.
I rushed on. “I’ve seen the side of you who doesn’t cut up and make jokes to answer every question, who doesn’t have to be the center of attention, even if that just means everybody’s rolling their eyes and shaking their heads. I know a different side of you. But I also like the side of you that does unexpected things, that isn’t afraid to see what’s funny and go for it.”