Learning to Hula

“So he took the bus home.”

No big deal, unless he gets into the special gordita dinner before Claire and I get home. I chopped up all the peppers, tomatoes and onions before I left. Even though I washed my hands, I can smell the onions yet. The leather steering wheel will probably smell like them for some time to come.

I’m not so worried about Robbie eating the healthy things. But if he eats all the strawberry shortcake, his favorite food, before we get home, he’ll be in trouble.

“Maybe that’s what he did,” Claire says, in that I-know-a-secret tone every sister learns. Usually she uses it on him, though, not me.

I should be happy that they’re getting along, for that hasn’t been the case since Claire learned to talk. Like sisters everywhere, she knows which buttons to push for the biggest reaction, and pesters and teases Robbie incessantly. Robbie is typically quiet and mild-mannered; she’s always been the only one who can set off his temper…until now.

Now everything’s changed. The only reason they seem to be getting along is that they have something in common—being mad at me. I know they’re not automatically going to forgive me just because I made their favorite dinner, but it’s a start.

Besides, I owe them some homemade dinners. I’ve been so busy lately with trying to get everything ready for the closing with the business, training Steve’s mom, going over records while we waited for all the paperwork to be processed regarding Rob’s estate.

It got so bad that Claire and Robbie started complaining about eating pizza too much. Maybe Pam’s right—I am a hypocrite. Just because my children are both probably underweight doesn’t mean that now is not the time to instill healthy eating habits in them. I used to, back when I’d had Rob on that diet.

I remember the days they used to beg for Rob to pick up a pizza on his way home from work. He’d had one with him that night….

“Mom!”

I step on the brakes. “What?”

“You almost passed Mrs. Diller’s.”

I glance around and see that I am just past the short picket fence that marks her property line. Behind it stands a little white bungalow, its yard aglow with the riotous colors of all the mums she’s planted.

Despite her age, Mrs. Diller rises agilely from her knees and peels off her gardening gloves and floppy straw hat. As Claire hops out to join her without so much as a goodbye, Mrs. Diller waves her hat at me.

I hesitate before pulling away. Robbie’s not with me and I’m not sure what to do, so I watch Claire for a moment. I watch the sulkiness leave her face as a smile spreads across it. I watch her snuggle into Mrs. Diller’s quick embrace before walking with her into the house. The storm door bounces twice against the frame before closing behind them and shutting me out.

My chest hurts. I want to see that smile on Claire’s face again. For me.

“Everyone grieves in his or her own way,” the grief counselor had informed me. That was about all she could offer regarding the kids’ feelings, since they wouldn’t share any of them with her.

Until last night they hadn’t shared that much with me, either. The tears in the early days. The shock. The denial. Last night was the first that I’ve felt their anger. Ironically, the same day I really gave in to mine. Maybe everyone in my house grieves in the same way.

“Give them time,” my mother said the day of the funeral and several times since. With the business sold, I can give them all my time now. Tonight’s dinner is just the beginning.

Since I’ve waited at the curb so long, I don’t have time to drive home and back. I’ll let Robbie wait at home—if that’s where he is—for a while longer so he can cool off.

Instead I run into town to check on Pam. The outside door for the stairwell to her apartment is locked. She’s probably at her yoga class in Grand Rapids, which is about a forty-five-minute drive away from Stanville.

Thinking I might collect some paperwork, I use my key to let myself into The Tearoom. It closes at three-thirty every day. It’s only four now, so the air is still rich with the mingled aromas of coffee, herbal teas and cinnamon. I breathe deeply, appreciating now why this place means so much to my mother.

Even empty, it’s still abuzz with the chatter from the day, the gossip, which was probably mostly about me. Really, Pam owes me. If not for my incident at Smiley’s, folks would have all been talking about her separation.

I wonder how long it took Bulletin Bill to spill the news about me to the deputy. Not long, I’m sure. But I bet Westmoreland wasn’t surprised. What does surprise him? He was solemn but not upset the night he brought me the news about Rob.

Westmoreland’s not from here, but he’s lived in Stanville long enough to be accepted. A few years? I can’t remember when he came or where he’s from, probably a big city where he’s seen far more than a heart-attack-induced traffic accident.

For him that was routine.

For me, it was the end of every routine I’ve ever known.

I glance at my watch, then lock the door as I leave to pick up Claire. She grunts when I ask her how her lesson went. That’s still better than the silent treatment from the morning. Not much, but better.

The house is quiet when we step inside. Some of the bags by the back door are missing. That’s good. Robbie’s already begun to put some of it away, tantrum over as quickly as mine had passed in Smiley’s. Robbie’s still my mild-mannered boy.

“Call your brother for dinner,” I tell Claire, as I open the fridge and bring out the seasoned strips of steak and chicken, which I’ve already sautéed. They just need to be popped into the microwave for a quick reheat. I reach for a plate on the counter when my sleeve brushes against something that rustles. A folded piece of paper with “Mom” scrawled across it.

I pick up the note and unfold it.

“Since you’re getting rid of everything that reminds you of Dad, I figure you’re going to get rid of me next. So I’m saving you the trouble.”

STAGE 4

I am not stupid, nor did I raise stupid children. I don’t really believe that Robbie has run away.

Despite living in a small town, he is aware of the dangers that might befall a teenager traveling on his own, and because of our small town, traveling would not be easy. The closest bus terminal is a forty-five-minute drive away, the same for the train station and airport.

How would he get to Grand Rapids? Once again, I am glad that I loaned out Rob’s Beetle. And because of the asthma that has excused him from every Phys Ed class, I know that Robbie did not run away.

If he were truly like his father, this would be one of those pranks he’s been pulling lately, and I would open his bedroom door and he’d be standing there with a big grin on his face, thinking he is so funny even though he’s not.

But his room is empty.

I know this without even stepping inside because the door is open. His bedroom door is never open.

Neither is Claire’s. Hers is shut now, with signs posted all over that No Trespassers Are Allowed. Those used to be meant for Robbie. Now I’m not so sure to whom she is referring, but I don’t care what she thinks. I am not a trespasser in my own home.

I open her door without knocking. She whirls away from her bed, where she is pulling stuff from her backpack. I step close enough that I can see a couple of wadded-up T-shirts and some CDs. Packing or unpacking? Is she intending to leave me a note, too?

“I told you to call Robbie for dinner,” I remind her, watching her face.

Her mouth twists into the familiar sulky pout. “I didn’t hear you,” she claims. The pout becomes a sneer. “I didn’t hear you knock, either.”

I swallow the words threatening to erupt. This is my house. I don’t knock on doors in my own house. Those were my mother’s words whenever Pam or Emma protested her “invading” their privacy. She’d never had to invade mine. I’d never kept any secrets from her. And Claire never used to keep any secrets from me.

She and I had been close…until a few months ago. So much has changed since then. She is no longer my little girl. She’s as tall as I am and poised on the brink of adolescence. Even her room reflects this. Not much of the soft yellow walls can be seen through the odd mixture of rock posters and pictures of kitties curled in baskets or hanging from tree limbs. Although she wants to, she’s not quite sure how to grow up. So she’s pushing me, testing her limits.

And mine.

Back when she used to share stuff with me, she’d told me about a friend of hers who purposely makes her mother mad because she thinks it’s funny to watch her turn red, and hear her swear. I suspect that is what she and Robbie have been trying with me, not because they think it’s funny, but because they’re stuck in stage two: anger. They’re lashing out like I did in Smiley’s.

I am the cupcake now.

“So where is Robbie?” I ask her, ignoring the odd little flutter in my chest. I refuse to panic. There’s no reason for it. Robbie has not run away, he’s just trying to make a point.

Claire shrugs and looks down at the T-shirts on the unmade bed. “I don’t know. Probably downstairs.”