“I think this calls for a celebration,” Mrs. Stuldy said, beaming. “How about some chocolate cake?”
At the end of August we left the Stuldys to move into an apartment at the university. But we go back and visit a lot. I tell Mrs. Stuldy about the friends I’m making at school; she tells me about the friends she’s making at the senior center. And Bran helps Mr. Stuldy.
Sometimes when I’m over at the Stuldys’ I can’t help staring at the Marcuses’ house. No one new has moved in yet, and it looks empty and sad. No matter how much I squint, I can’t make it look as glorious to me as it did at the beginning of the summer. I see the cracks in the stucco now; I can tell the bushes need to be trimmed and the shed needs a fresh coat of paint.
It’s hard to look at that house without feeling ashamed.
But I don’t blame Bran anymore. The other day I found him picking up palm fronds that had blown down in the Marcuses’ yard.
“Did Mrs. Marcus tell you to do that?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“She already forgave you,” I said. “She isn’t ever going to like you.”
“I know,” Bran said. “But this helps me forgive myself.”
And I knew just what he meant. I know now that Bran isn’t perfect. But somehow that makes me love him even more.
When Mom goes to the Stuldys’ with us, sometimes she talks about her parents. I think Mrs. Stuldy told her that I needed to hear more about them, and Mom feels safe talking there. So now I know what Mom’s life was like when she was my age: how her parents would lock her in her room for an entire day for not finishing her oatmeal at breakfast, how they’d spank her until she bruised just because she spilled her milk. And now I know about the two brothers who died when she was little, and how Mom thinks maybe that’s what turned her parents so sour.
All her stories are sad, and I can understand why she didn’t want to talk before. But I still wonder: What if her parents have changed? What if now that they’re old they regret being so mean and driving her away?
Last night, with Mom’s permission, I wrote to my grandparents. I picked out a pretty postcard—you can’t send that back unopened—and I printed carefully on the back:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Marcus,
You don’t Know me, but I’m your granddaughter. A few months ago, someone I thought might be my grandfather died. And I was really sad. It didn’t seem fair that he had died without me Knowing anything about him. So I was just wondering what you were like. Do you have any hobbies? What do you do for fun? What makes you happy?
If you don’t want to know me, that’s okay. But shouldn’t I get a chante to know you?
Sincerely,
Britt Lassiter
P.S. You should be really proud of your daughter now.
Just for good measure, I wrote a postcard almost like it to my other grandparents. I wrote my dad, too. I mailed all three cards after school, on my way to visit Mrs. Stuldy.
Mom says I shouldn’t get my hopes up, and probably none of my relatives will answer me. And even if they do, I may not like what I find out. I told her that’s okay. I just had to try.
Probably someday when I have kids of my own, I’ll want to tell them the story of this summer. I know just how I’ll start. I’ll say Your uncle Bran was up to something. And I’ll tell them what a great detective I was, and how scared and confused I was when I found out the truth. I’ll tell them about Mrs. Stuldy too, and how much she helped. And I’ll be able to finish the story, In spite of all the mistakes Bran and I made, everything turned out better in the end.
Margaret Peterson Haddix, The House on the Gulf
(Series: # )
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