Out of the Box (3 page)

I wake up the next morning to the sound of Jeanette's hushed voice. She's talking on the phone. My room is right off the kitchen, and the phone hangs on the wall by her stove. Sunlight is streaming in through my blinds, but I don't hear the birds that usually sing from the cherry tree outside my window in the morning. I wonder what time it is.

“No, that's not necessary,” Jeanette is saying. “No, no. Yes, I understand.” Her tone is like a brick wall: firm, unmovable. Whatever she's discussing, she's made up her mind and isn't going to budge.

I decide it must be a telemarketer, and I roll over to look at the alarm clock. It's the old-fashioned kind that you see in cartoons, with two hands on a round face, and two bright yellow bells at the top. It's 9:30, the latest I can ever remember sleeping at Jeanette's house.

Morning is Jeanette's favorite time of the day, and she sees nothing wrong with making plans for sunrise. Yesterday, she woke me up at six—which is after sunrise, but still way too early for summer holidays— and we went on a march to end homelessness. By 9:30, we'd already walked ten kilometers and were ready for a second breakfast.

“Good grief, Gloria. It's only a checkup! A couple of months won't make much difference.” My aunt's annoyance—and my mother's name—snaps me out of my thoughts, and I sit up, stunned. Jeanette's not talking to a telemarketer. She's talking to my mother.

“Okay, okay. I'll schedule one. We
do
have dentists in Victoria, sis,” Jeanette says, her voice gentler, almost teasing.

I blink. How could Mom's own sister not know the effect of that teasing tone? I picture Mom's eyes filling up with tears, and the corners of her mouth turning down—two red flags warning that you've gone too far and need to apologize. But Jeanette isn't apologizing. “I'll find a great dentist,” she says. “It'll all work out fine.”

I feel sick, the way I always do when Mom gets upset. The calmness of my aunt's voice doesn't match what I imagine is happening at home. If my father or I had spoken to Mom the way Jeanette just has, she'd be sobbing by now.

Unless she's slipped into her Professional Woman mode, the confident, cheerful version reserved for casual friends, marketing clients and people who are more upset than she is.

That must be it, I think. Mom assumes Jeanette is still grieving and heartbroken. Mom is protecting her. She has no idea that my aunt's as spontaneous and goofy as ever. She doesn't know that being sad is part of Jeanette's life right now, but it isn't running her whole life.

I hear the phone clatter back onto its base in the kitchen, and I jump out of bed, moving around noisily and humming one of the jazz tunes Sarah played for me. I try not to think of what's probably happening at home right now. Mom's Professional Woman persona never lasts long when she's at home, and Dad will be the only one around to talk her through her tears this time. I wonder if they'll regret letting me stay here for the entire summer, but I'm glad they think Jeanette needs me more than they do.

I pull open the bedroom door and step into the sunny yellow kitchen. I smell pancakes burning. The table is already set. An orange bowl of dusky raspberries sits at the center, next to a Mason jar of yellow roses.

“Good morning,” Jeanette says, waving her pancake flipper at me as smoke drifts up from the frying pan. “Sleep well?”

I nod and stretch. “Have you been up long?”

“Oh, a few hours,” she says, “puttering around.”

I hold my breath. If she mentions my mother's call, should I say that I overheard it? Would that embarrass her, or would she expect it, since the phone is so close to my bedroom?

She doesn't bring it up. Maybe she has no idea that, at this very minute, my father is hugging Mom, reassuring her that Jeanette is going through a hard time, telling her she shouldn't take things so personally.

“Did you see the empty shelf in your bedroom?” Jeanette asks, flipping a blackened pancake onto a stack of slightly more edible-looking ones.

“The shelf in the bookcase?”

She nods. “I cleared it out for library books. I thought we could go this afternoon and get you a card.”

“That,” I say, “is the best news I've heard all day.” I never went to the library when I was here before. My time was all about doing things, rather than reading. That was always okay for a few days, but I'm glad it won't be like that all summer.

I've loved books for as long as I can remember. Mom used to spend hours reading to me. I imagined myself into each story, and we talked about our favorite characters the way some people talk about their friends and relatives. On Saturdays, as a special treat, she'd make baked custard for me because that's what Winnie the Pooh ate.

These days I read whenever I can, and summertime is the only time of year when my life isn't jammed full of school, French lessons, self-defense classes, violin practice and homework. I can spend entire days with my nose in a book—escaping from Afghanistan, living on the streets of Ethiopia or solving mysteries in Halifax. I leave the rest of the world behind.

“Best news all day, eh?” Jeanette asks. “Well, you
have
only been up for a few minutes.”

I flash back to the phone conversation. A person can hear way too much in a few minutes, I think. I focus on smiling instead of letting my mind wander back home.

F
OUR

J
eanette laughs when she joins Sarah and me in the teen section of the library. “We can come back again in a few days, you know,” she says.

I've completely taken over the nearest table, stacking my selections in neat piles: books about accordions, novels, and a bunch of
CD
s, mostly tango.

“Don't forget you have to carry all those home in your backpack,” Sarah says, and I freeze. How could I forget about the car thing? I'm so used to taking out twenty books at a time that I totally forgot we walked here. At home, nothing is within walking distance, and there aren't many sidewalks to walk on anyway.

Jeanette lives a ten-minute walk from downtown Victoria, where the library is. She has a car, but she doesn't believe in using it unless she absolutely has to. She walks everywhere or rides her bike or takes the bus. (She even got me a bicycle. We agreed that my mother—who calls cycling a head injury waiting to happen—doesn't have to know.) Normally I don't mind. I like going slow enough to notice things. Today, the three of us meandered downtown, sniffing big white peonies, waving to a toddler who peered at us from the front window of a house, and stopping to listen to a kid play the violin across from the ivy-covered Empress Hotel. He was playing one of the classical pieces that my teacher asked me to learn last year. Sarah said she liked it. I said I'd take tango any day.

Much as I like walking with Jeanette and Sarah, I also like checking out big stacks of library books. The thought of running out of reading material makes me panicky. My parents are always teasing me about my book addiction, but I'm not going to think about my parents. I don't want to feel guilty. Whenever they're fighting, or Mom's upset, or Dad's disappeared into the basement, I wish I were somewhere else. Now that I
am
somewhere else, though, I feel like I should be there, doing something to help.

A chill rolls down my spine. What if Mom called about more than just the dentist? What if she has bigger news, but she doesn't know how to break it to us? What if they're getting a divorce? Mom threatens it often enough. Is that why they were fine with me coming here? They needed me out of the way while they made the final arrangements?

“I promise we'll come back soon,” Jeanette says. “The library's on the way to pretty much everywhere.” She looks concerned, and I realize my face is all scrunched up. I must look like I'm three years old and someone's taken away my teddy bear. I shove my thoughts aside and force myself to laugh. Her face relaxes.

Sarah whistles. “You must really like to read.”

“Yup,” I say, embarrassed. “My parents call me a book junkie.”

“There are worse addictions,” Jeanette says, rummaging in her knapsack for pen and paper. I write down the names of the books I'm leaving behind so I can find them again later.

I feel better now that I have a book stash, but I still feel weird about this morning's phone call. I keep waiting for Jeanette to mention it, but she doesn't. Again I wonder if the dentist appointment was the only reason for the call, or if there's something more that I'm missing.

I know better than to prod an adult who doesn't want to talk. For instance, Dad never talks about his childhood, but it must have been pretty bad. We never see his parents, no matter how much I ask. He'll talk about anything else under the sun, even stuff that kids never want to hear about—like the first time he had sex—but not his family.

Mom's parents died before I was born. Jeanette is the only blood relation I know. Mom was only six when Jeanette left home at seventeen. According to Jeanette, their father was an alcoholic bully and their mom couldn't stand up to him, so Jeanette struck out on her own, working as a waitress in a coffee shop and sleeping on a friend's floor until she had enough money to rent an apartment. Mom says all hell broke loose in their house after Jeanette left, and things happened that she'll never recover from. Eventually, their father took off and their mother had a breakdown.

Jeanette rescued Mom when Mom was ten and raised her on her own, only going to teachers' college after Mom was in high school and could fend for herself a bit. Despite having all that responsibility, Jeanette turned out fearless and fun-loving. Mom is scared of everything. Now that I'm thirteen, she worries even more than usual. She's forever telling me she understands that rebellion is a natural part of being a teenager, and she knows I'll do my own share of acting out, but she wants me to make wise decisions. I tell her I'm not going to get pregnant or become a druggie or anything, and she looks at me sadly and says it's hard to predict these things. Other times she looks at me like I might turn into a werewolf right in front of her. Sometimes I wish I could go directly from twelve to eighteen, just to save her the anxiety.

Jeanette, on the other hand, flies at life, ready to snatch up everything it has on offer. If I turned into a werewolf tomorrow, she'd congratulate me on all the new opportunities I'd have in the film industry.

They're totally different, Jeanette and Mom. When they're together, you can tell they love each other, but that doesn't mean they don't fight. Mom never much liked Alison, for example. Every time we came to visit, Alison wanted to hike Mount Doug, or paddle the Gorge, or at least invite a bunch of friends over for an exotic banquet. Mom only wanted to chill, and she seemed to take it personally that Alison wasn't interested in sitting around chatting all the time. Mom never got that Alison wasn't the chatting type. So Mom and Jeanette have had their fair share of fights, and whenever they're mad at each other, I hear all about it. Mom doesn't believe in hiding things from me, and as soon as she gets off the phone with Jeanette, she tells me every detail of the argument.

Jeanette's not like that though. She's not telling me anything about her phone conversation with Mom.

F
IVE

“I
t's now or never,” Jeanette says, flicking on the switch in the stairwell down to the basement.

“You're sure you're ready for this?”

I laugh. “
I'm
ready. Are
you
?” I've got on my oldest pair of shorts. They're too small and have faded to an ugly pink instead of red, but they're perfect for cleaning out a basement.

My aunt shakes her head. “Nope. Definitely not ready. Do you have any idea how long this is going to take?”

I shrug and plod down the wooden steps behind her. For as long as I can remember, I've loved organizing. When I was little, I liked to sort out the recipes Mom clipped from the newspaper and piled in a corner of the kitchen counter. Once I offered Dad my allowance to let me organize his office. Jeanette's basement has always been a mess, full of everything from books about Mexican microwave cookery to bags of stamps from fifty years ago. Everything that's ever interested Jeanette or Alison— and lots of things that haven't—is down here. You never know what you'll find if you move a box or kick aside a pile of magazines.

“I don't mind helping,” I say.

Jeanette glances back at me. “You don't have to, you know. Alison would have understood. She never did agree with child labor.”

I laugh. “Aunt Jeanette, you're stalling.”

She surveys the dark, low-ceilinged room. I can already picture the place empty and swept clean. I feel like an explorer, about to discover new worlds.

“Oh god,” Jeanette says, picking up a tattered pink hula skirt. “Where do we start?”

I smirk. “Looks like you just did.”

She tosses the skirt onto the stairs—the only available space—and we begin picking through stuff. Behind two boxes of chipped bright orange dishes, I find a stack of books about octopuses. Beyond that is a red guitar case and a reclining bicycle. A bag of tap-dancing shoes sits on top of some mountaineering gear. To the right is a set of golf clubs.