“I worry about you is all,” she says. “You’re the best thing I ever did with my life, you know that? You are, don’t roll your eyes. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Well, you won’t have to find out,” I say. “I love you too, Mom. Look, I’ve got to go. Call me on my cell if you need me to pick up anything on my way home.”
“Help me up before you go, will you?”
Mom holds the edge of the table while I get behind her to help her out of the chair. She rocks back and forth to get some momentum going.
“Hold on now. Hooold on—okay, I’m ready. Chair, be good to me, y’hear? One two three …”
And she’s up to standing. Every single time it’s a triumph.
And then she catches my arm, looks meaningfully at me, and, for the fourth time today, she asks, “You sure you’re doing okay, sugar?”
Like I said, she is one strange woman. I love her to death, but boy oh boy is she strange.
CHAPTER FIVE
Honor
Last year was not my best year.
Every December I go for my annual checkup with my psychic, Misty Rae, and every year, even though I tell her not to give me any bad news even if she sees it heading my way, she still always ends up telling me about some horrible calamity that will befall me and my family in the coming year. I spell it out clear as the Carolina sky—in fact, I beg her not to tell me—but it comes tumbling out anyway, and then it’s burned on my brain just the same as if I was cattle-branded. What can I do? You’ve got to take the bad with the good, I guess.
Last year on December 30, just like always, Eddie helped me get ready for the trip to see Misty Rae. Even though we’re estranged, he fusses over me, and I don’t let on as much but deep down I don’t mind it. So there he was in his driveway wearing that crummy old Cabela’s ball cap, lecturing me to turn off my cell phone but leave it on the passenger seat in arm’s reach, wear my seat belt, keep the radio down low. It comes with the territory I guess. Eddie’s a police officer at Precinct 140 across Hartsville, over in what I call the sad section, though most people think of it as the bad section. Eddie comes from a long line of law enforcement—his daddy, his granddaddy, even his great-granddaddy were all on the force, and his brother is a firefighter, not that that’s law enforcement but still. Anyway, last year, just like always, Eddie came by, got my car all washed up and filled with regular unleaded (on the radio they said there is no discernible difference between super unleaded and regular unleaded so why spend that extra money), and put a note in the glove compartment: “for later,” it said on the front. Turns out he had Cricket write me instead of his usual “good luck and don’t let the bastards get you down” note I always secretly hated (because it made no sense! For one thing, I’m only going to see one person, one singular person not plural, and the second thing is—just because Misty Rae sees into the future, she is not a bastard. And plus, I’m not so sure women can be bastards. I’ve always thought of the word as being masculine).
Cricket’s letter was just precious, with the handwriting she will never be able to overcome because poor penmanship runs in the family, telling me how next year will be filled with rainbows and balloons and wonderful things we’ll all have together, and then she said we have an angel up in Heaven watching over us now so no matter what Misty Rae says, our angel will keep us safe. I went and had that letter laminated at the Kinko’s downtown. A few months later and she’s nearly a teenager, she’s gotten so sassy. She’s still my baby, but she isn’t even thirteen yet and I’m already losing sight of the little girl who loved rainbows and balloons.
In our session last year Misty Rae said Mother would get cancer though she couldn’t say what kind, and would need to have chemo which would make all her hair fall out. Of course that’s bad news for anyone, but in Mother’s case? Let me explain it this way: Mother’s hair is her best and favorite feature, still shiny dark brown, almost black, and without one single gray hair, I kid you not. So beautiful. She takes real care to keep it that way—once a week she mashes up an avocado and has her hairdresser, Krystal, use it in place of shampoo and yes it’s disgusting but Mother’s hair is thick and healthy and never been dyed so who am I to judge? It would kill her if her hair fell out. Especially now that she has the weight issue. Her hair is the one thing she feels good about when it comes to her appearance.
Misty Rae said that it would grow back but—and she made a big deal out of this part, made me write it down even—she said that if Mother used a brush on her hair while it was trying to grow back “it will fall out all over again and she’ll stay bald the rest of her days.” Those were Misty Rae’s exact words. She said we were to use a comb when Mother’s hair was “coming in,” as if it was the ocean tide.
“Go on and get yourself a comb,” she said, “and keep it clean and where you’ll remember it. Your momma will thank you for it later on.”
So just now, when Mom brought up the comb I keep in a Tupperware container, I had to do some fancy footwork to concoct a plausible reason I had it. There is no way on God’s green earth I would tell her about cancer and chemo. She’s got enough to worry about without that pushing its way into her mind.
Misty Rae saying Mother would have cancer was just one of many awful Misty Rae predictions—several of which have proved correct, I’ll have you know. Not that I’m glad that Cricket broke her leg in three places and had to stay immobilized for almost five weeks last summer. Or that I lost my job as a secretary at the law firm of Marlowe & Hayes due to the unforeseen recession. Of course I wasn’t glad Misty Rae was right about all that. It did confirm to me, though, that Misty Rae is a psychic of the highest level so me paying her money I hardly have is justified, because, of the predictions that didn’t come true, I’m certain at least half were prevented because I knew about them in advance. I will say some made no sense whatsoever. What was all that about a box that gives an electric shock to the person who opens it? I asked Misty Rae if she meant a fuse box or some electrical outlet and she shook her head with her eyes squeezed shut and described what she was picturing: sawdust, a dark room, a box the size that could hold a pair of ladies’ shoes, and a hand slowly reaching to open it and whipping away after the shock.
Then there was a three-legged brown dog kicked by a child’s foot. She was dead certain it was a little girl’s foot, but my girls would no sooner have hurt an animal than they would have driven a railroad tie into their own feet. There were a few more crazy visions like these but they made no sense so I paid them no mind. You can’t be one hundred percent right one hundred percent of the time and Misty Rae’s only human after all.
The past year was bad for many reasons, but the thing I thought was the worst of all has turned into a blessing, if you ask me. Cricket and I had to move back in with my mother, and honest to goodness I think we’ve all needed one another in ways that would have stayed invisible had I not lost my job, my marriage, and all my money. The big surprise of it all is that it turns out Cricket needed the move more than anybody. She needs someone who doesn’t inexplicably break into tears one minute to the next. She needs to be with people who aren’t thinking about her dead sister around the clock. I’ve tried so hard to pull it together for her, but I know she sees it’s a real struggle for me. Hell, just getting out of bed has been a struggle, I won’t lie. Mother is perfect for Cricket right now. She focuses on her the way girls need a grown-up to focus on them. The two of them can roll their eyes at me together, and maybe that makes Cricket feel normal. I tried to tell her people mean well when they become solemn, cock their heads to the side, and ask how she’s really doing, but I myself know that it wears you down, always being associated with sadness in other people’s minds. I see Cricket watching friends greet one another in front of school, smiles breaking out (and what’s with the hugging? The girls hug each other in greeting now, as if they hadn’t seen one another in school just the day before). I ache watching their smiles melt into looks of concern when Cricket walks up. Many
times—more times than not, actually—she is ignored completely, as if grief is contagious. It kills me in a million different ways, knowing this is what Cricket faces on a daily basis.
Oh good Lord, there’s Evelyn Owens clickety-clacking up to the school door in her high heels and pearls in the middle of the day. And I had to pick today to wear this old pair of JCPenney shorts that make me look fat. I forgot I need to get out of the car—for summer school pickups they make you come inside to personally fetch your child, which is silly and wastes time but those are the rules and I’m not about to do anything to jeopardize Cricket getting the extra help. I believe she got accepted to the program on account of the Chaplin name and because of Eddie. He gives the “stranger danger” talks to the young kids and talks about self-defense to the older ones. They all love Eddie over at the school, so when the insurance company said Cricket’s ADHD medication was no longer covered I had Eddie do some sweettalking to get our girl into the extra-help summer program everybody says is the best in the state for kids with attention issues. Gives kids ways to calm down and focus so they can sit still and do their homework without their minds racing too much. Plus, Eddie and my separation’s been real hard on Cricket and I thought some structure this summer might be just the ticket. The death of a sibling plus ADHD plus separated parents equals one sad child. Take my word for it.
Of course, Misty Rae failed to predict our firstborn would die of a horrible illness. She failed to predict I’d be so full of rage and grief that I damn near attacked Mrs. Childers from down the street when she said it was God’s will.
No, Misty Rae didn’t tell me about any of that. Or about the silence that would descend on our home after the funeral. Which I found ironic because all we wanted to do was scream. She didn’t tell me how people would cross the street to keep from bumping into us—for lack of what to say, I know, but still, it stung. Misty Rae neglected to mention how hurt I’d feel when Eddie completely shut down, then decided to cut short his bereavement leave to go back to work. How it’d tear my heart in two, watching him from bed as he’d get ready to go in each day as if none of it had ever happened. As if he was relieved.
So why do I keep going to see Misty Rae?
It’s simple: when the worst happens to one child, you’ll do anything in your power to keep anything bad from happening to the other one.
The other one, who, when I got laid off and lost my marbles again crying, sidled up to me on the couch and said:
“It’s okay, Mom. Everything’s going to be okay. You know why? Because we’re Chaplins. And Chaplins …”
“Always take the high road!” we finished the sentence together.
CHAPTER SIX
Honor
“Hey, candy lamb, how was it today? Here, give me that backpack. Honestly, they should make a law against schools loading y’all down with these heavy books. And it’s summer! You hungry? We’ll stop by Wendy’s on the way home.”
I reach out to rub Cricket’s head and notice that her hair is a rat’s nest. I have to get Mom to cut her hair. Thank God she inherited Mother’s thick hair, though she got the blond from Daddy’s side. It’s the shade women pay a lot of money for at the salon. A gorgeous spun gold that turns baby blond in the summertime. She has no appreciation for it—in fact, she shows no interest in anything girlie at all. She’s a tomboy, start to finish. Ed used to say she’s the son he never had. Her sister had the market cornered on femininity, so Cricket went the other direction early on. Her slight frame doesn’t much lend itself to sports, though God knows that doesn’t stop her from trying out for teams. Volleyball. Soccer. Basketball. Bless her heart, she isn’t any good at any of them, getting tripped up on her gangly limbs. She’ll grow into them, Dr. Cutler, her pediatrician, said a couple of years ago. When she does, God help us all—she’s such a bundle of energy, that one.
“Yeah, I’m starving. Wait, Mom, can we stop by the library on the way back please can we please cuz today I finished L and someone might check out the M and I can’t go out of order so please can we go please? I’ll run in you won’t even have to get out of the car pleeeease …”
“Maybe tomorrow we can swing by the library,” I tell her, “but I’ve got a lot to get done this afternoon and you didn’t straighten your room like you promised you would last night, ahem, so you’ve got a lot to get done too, missy.”
“Aw, Mom, please? It’ll be gone if we don’t pick it up today.”
“Honey, I’ve got news for you: the M will be there tomorrow. No one is going to check out the M volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica tonight, I can pretty much guarantee you that.”
“How do you know? Maybe someone will have to do a report on something starting with M like, like …”
I can see her struggling to keep her argument from going south.
“Like—Madonna?” I smile into the rearview mirror.
“No, Mom,” she says, sighing and rolling her eyes. “They can get stuff on Madonna anywhere. Duh.”
“Oh, oh wait I know: Malta,” I say. “Or wait: mold! Speaking of which, I have got to call the plumber—”
“Or Mary, baby Jesus’s mother,” Cricket says. “Or mitts, like baseball! Wait, what’s Malta?”
“It’s an island off the coast of somewhere I don’t know. Meerkats!”
“Molecules!”
“How do you know about molecules?” I ask. “Have you already covered that in science?”
“Um, yeah, like eons ago, duh,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. Mom, please please please can we stop at the library please please please please please …”
She is like this, my Cricket, she chirps and chirps and chirps until it gets so bad you think you might have gone and lost your mind. It’s how she got her nickname in the first place. She doesn’t do it to be rude or mean. She is just a loaded pistol, that one, full of curiosity about every tiny little thing you can imagine. Which is why she’s checking out the Encyclopaedia Britannica one letter at a time and trying to memorize it. She has complete and total recall of anything she makes a point to remember. You’ve never seen anything like it. She could go on the Today show with it. Dr. Cutler says he’s never known a child with ADHD and a photographic memory at the same time, but that’s our Cricket. One rare bird.
“Hush for a second, Cricket,” I say. Traffic’s a bear today—no one’s slowing to let us out from the school back onto Ferndale Road, and the line of cars is so long we could be here all night for heaven’s sake.
“Look to the left and tell me when there’s more room between cars, will you?”
“Can we please get the M today, Mom? Please?”
“While I think about it why don’t you tell me—Oooo, they’re letting me in! Thanks, sir! Wave to thank the man, honey. Thank you!”
I wave to the man in the Jetta and we are in business.
“I can see you picking on your nails from the rearview mirror, Cricket—stop that. Now tell me about school today.”
The pause is what I notice first. When you’re talking to my Cricket, there are no pauses. Ever. She’s staring out the window, but I look in the same direction and don’t see what could be so riveting unless you consider a big office supply store riveting.
“Honey? You okay?”
“If I tell you something, you promise you won’t get mad?” she asks, catching my eye in the mirror.
What parent has ever heard that and not felt a little twist of nerves in their gut for what they’re about to hear?
“Do I promise I won’t get mad? Well, did you break the law?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did you hurt another human being or creature?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then I promise I won’t get mad,” I say. “What is it, honey?”
“Um, well …”
“Stop picking.”
“Okay so I didn’t know it and I don’t think anybody did but today was dissecting day in lab because the frogs came yest
erday and Mr. Taylor didn’t want to wait until the dissecting chapter because he can’t wait to rip open frogs and I told you I wasn’t going to do it and you said I didn’t have to, remember? You said I didn’t have to dissect a frog, you said that and so I told Mr. Taylor that you gave me permission to leave the room but he didn’t believe me so I waited but when I smelled the formaldehyde the frogs had been soaking in I told him I was sick at my stomach and needed to go to the bathroom and could I please have a hall pass and he gave me one and I left the room and it’s a good thing I did because I knew I was gonna hurl and if I’d done it in front of everybody I’d never be able to show my face in school ever again ever ever ever. It’s bad enough as it is.”
“All right now, honey,” I say. “Remember what the doctor said about taking a breath in between every other sentence. It helps with the concentration.”
She is so damn cute. I see her take a breath and blow it out like she was holding a bubble wand. God, I miss those days. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I just can’t figure out how she got to be almost thirteen so fast.
“Okay good. That’s real good. Now go on.”
“I made it to the girls’ room just in time and no one was there so I threw up and no one saw me. When I went back in the hall I couldn’t figure out where I could go to hide until the bell for the next class and that’s how I came to be following the ninth graders to the auditorium, where they were having some assembly I didn’t know about which is weird because I always read the bulletin board but I never saw anything put up about a ninth-grade assembly so I wanted to know what all they were going to see because everybody knows ninth graders get to watch movies like all the time pretty much every day. No one even noticed me or if they did they ignored me so it was easy to hide in the back row of seats because they were empty because Mr. Learson said for everybody to gather up front—he didn’t want any lollygaggers he said. Lollygaggers. Lolly-lolly-lollygaggers … you know where we got that word? In the encyclopedia it says—”