Stolen Secrets Page 11

  “What’s Lynn think about this?”

  Tom shifted uneasily, his eyes jumping to the living room door. “Lynn left me.”

  That shocked me into silence. They’d been married for twelve years.

  “She met someone else. A guy who throws caution to the wind and, I’m pretty sure, an alcoholic. I think she missed having an enabler around.”

  “I’m really sorry. That sucks.” I thought about what bad news did to my mother. My body tensed, preparing for the worst. “Did you drink again?”

  Tom’s “rock bottom” story involved popping peppermint patties and drinking gin until he weighed eighty pounds more than he did now. It wasn’t until he collapsed from a heart attack in Walmart that he paid attention to his doctor’s dire warning. Tom once said that if he’d taken one more drink, he would’ve become a permanent resident of Bennington Cemetery.

  He shook his head. “No, it made me want to go to the gym every day and lift a hundred pounds.”

  He did look better. “So that’s why you have muscles now.”

  “The silver lining.” The hurt behind his eyes dampened the small stab at humor. “If you want, when we get to Vermont, you can call your friends. Maybe they’ll invite you over for an extended sleepover. If not, I’ll take the couch. We’ll make it work.”

  I felt an unexpected twist in my gut. “What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll make up a reason. No one has to know the details. By the way, your mom notified your school this morning. They can prepare an independent study program for you to do while you’re away.”

  My heart thwacked in my chest. Vermont. Maybe when Mom came out of rehab, she’d see how happy I was to be back home. Maybe she’d let me stay with my friends for the rest of the year.

  Strangely the thought felt constrictive, like an outgrown pair of jeans.

  A laugh erupted from the sitting room. My mother was laying on the charm for Oma’s lawyer.

  “I’ve heard that all you’ve talked about is going back to Vermont,” Tom said. “I’m sure you’ll want to see your friends again.”

  Right. The same friends who’d barely contacted me since I’d left. And then there was Sean, who’d broken up with me in a text. I realized I hadn’t thought of him in weeks.

  My eyes filled up, spilling over the floodgates. Tom put his arm around me, and I cried into his shoulder, leaving a wet spot on his Grateful Dead T-shirt. It felt good to let loose, to feel someone else hold me up for a change.

  “Can’t I stay here by myself?” I dragged an arm across my eyes. “It’s no secret that I take care of Mom, not the other way around.”

  “I don’t know, Liv,” Tom said. “That’s a conversation for you and your mother.”

  Right on cue, Mom stepped into the hallway, followed by a giant man with the broadest shoulders I’d ever seen. They looked at Tom and me, and we looked back. Finally Mom broke the silence. “Oh, Liv, hi,” she said. “This is Adelle’s personal lawyer and trustee, Mr. Laramie.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. Mr. Laramie’s grip cracked my knuckles.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Mom assured me. “We’ll hire a second caregiver to help Vickie until I get back.”

  Mr. Laramie was going to let Mom come back?

  “Adelle says she wants me to keep helping her,” she explained, lowering her chin so I couldn’t see her eyes.

  “Where’s Oma?” I asked.

  “In her room. She’s watching TV.”

  “I want to say hello.” I walked to Oma’s door, resting my hand on the knob for a moment before turning back to Mr. Laramie. “If Vickie can switch shifts to the day, can I stay in San Francisco to help take care of Oma? I mean, Adelle … I mean, my grandmother … from the afternoons until I have to leave for school the next morning … until my mother gets back?”

  I couldn’t believe I’d said that.

  Mr. Laramie cleared his throat. “Aren’t you a little young for the responsibility?”

  “I’m sixteen. And there’s a caregiver living right next door.” As soon as I said it, I realized I didn’t want to leave Oma. What if she died while I was gone? Besides, my grandmother deserved someone who loved her. Vickie was okay, but I could take care of Oma better than anyone. “I’ve been alone with her many times, and I handled it fine. It’s easier because Adelle likes me.”

  “Don’t call me that!” Oma shouted from her room. Mom and I both laughed, but I stopped myself, not wanting to share a moment with her.

  “We’re packed in this tent like sardines in a can,” Oma continued. “Livvy, tell them to stop this ruckus right now!”

  I exhaled with relief, because today, at the right time, she’d remembered my name.

  “I’m coming, Oma. I’ll be right there,” I said with textbook calmness.

  She settled down, her sigh drifting out into the hall. It occurred to me that if I stayed at Oma’s house, it would be easier to piece together her past, to really get to know her. Maybe I could find out what had happened to her. If I could do that, maybe I could figure out the root of the bitterness that made my mother drink. I had a feeling the two were connected.

  I pulled my shoulders back in a show of confidence. “Why don’t we ask Oma if she wants a new caregiver … or me?”

  “I want that grandchild!” Oma hollered. Mr. Laramie smiled, which I took as a good sign. Mom’s lips were pressed into a white line. Tom’s eyes swung from Mr. Laramie to Mom to me.

  “I’m not sure that my daughter is prepared to—,” Mom started. Mr. Laramie cut her off with a raised hand.

  “Please excuse me while I talk to my client.” He passed by me into Oma’s bedroom.

  Through the door we heard her wail, “We have to leave this scary place. We have to climb the fence and run, run, run, run. They’re chasing us!”

  “Welcome to Casa Crazy,” Mom said to Tom.

  A minute later, Mr. Laramie sidled out of Oma’s room. “I’ll think on this. We’ll discuss it tomorrow, Gretchen.” He shook everyone’s hand again, crippling me for the second time.

  I slipped into my grandmother’s room and sat down on the edge of her mattress. Oma clutched her blanket to her chin like a child afraid of the dark. Her skin felt soft and warm as leather under my fingers. “It’s okay, Oma. I’m here. They aren’t chasing you anymore.” I didn’t know who “they” were, but the curve of Oma’s mouth let me know that I’d said the right thing.

  “You can’t keep them away if you’re a Jew,” she whispered, tugging on a necklace chain under her sweater.

  “But you’re safe here.”

  She searched my face. “Do you think we’re Jewish?” Her eyes shone behind a sheen of tears.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I grasped the only truth I knew. “It’s okay to be Jewish, Oma. The war happened a long time ago.”

  “But it’s not good to be German. They’re the bad guys.”

  “Things are different now.” I started to explain why but stopped myself. Her timeline was a knotted ball of yarn. She was living the same years over and over again.

  Oma pulled the necklace out from under her shirt. She traced the tiny diamonds that edged a star. I counted the points—six of them: the Star of David. The silver was tarnished, almost black.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  “God,” she said.

  “Would you like some ginger tea?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Gretchen. Thank you very much.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  “… AND I WANT DETAILED UPDATES EVERY WEEK when we talk, Liv, okay?” Mom said. “I have reservations about this, but if Mr. Laramie’s willing to give it a try …”

  “It will be fine,” I said for the hundredth time.

  “If Adelle hadn’t been so adamant …”

  “I’ll be responsible,” I said, thinking, I’ll do a better job than you did.

  “If your homework suffers, or there’s any negative impact at all, t
he deal’s over.”

  I nodded, careful not to roll my eyes. Mom switched the maternal gene on and off as it suited her.

  “Don’t forget to lock up the apartment when you move to Oma’s. And Mr. Laramie will send you money—”

  “I know.”

  “—for food, incidentals, and a stipend. Anything you need, really. And of course, Vickie’s right next—”

  “Mom, I have it!”

  She was quiet for a moment, then, “Don’t forget that Fridays are your days off, and you switch to a day shift on Saturdays only. On Sundays, you’ll go back to the overnight evening schedule until Friday. But Mr. Laramie is paying Vickie extra to be on call when you’re working, so if you need anything, anything at all, feel free to knock on her door.”

  Mom’s eyes went from frantic to wet in a blink. I had to look away. “I’m sorry, Liv … I let the alcohol do the thinking for me.” There she went again, blaming the booze, not herself. I tensed, trying to fend off a tidal wave of emotion. Don’t say anything, Liv. Now’s not the time.

  There was a honk. Tom in his rental car. Mom glanced at her twin suitcases, lined up at the door.

  “He’s probably circling the block,” I said.

  “I guess I’d better go. I think that’s Tom.” It was as if she hadn’t heard me.

  The question on my mind was a big one to throw out as she was leaving, but I didn’t know when I’d get another chance. “Mom, was Oma a prisoner in a concentration camp?”

  She looked down as if the answer was etched in the frayed rug. “My mother has Alzheimer’s. If you try to piece together a puzzle with most of the pieces missing, you could come up with the wrong picture.”

  I wanted to ask more, but Tom’s triple honk signaled his impatience. Mom looked relieved, as if she was glad to get away from me. I just hoped she was happy to be heading to rehab.

  “Be safe and call if there are any issues,” she said.

  I fought an urge to hug her. Soon there would be thousands of miles separating us. Before I could figure out what to do, she picked up her suitcases and headed out the door.

  I ran to the window, waiting for her to exit downstairs. A minute later, she stood at the curb, the weight of the suitcases pulling her shoulders forward.

  I raised my fists and banged on the windowpane until she looked up. Then I ran across the room, flung the door open, and almost tripped down the stairs.

  Outside, her arms were open wide, waiting for me.

  After school the next day, Franklin D. and I researched our debate topic in the library.

  “I have to leave in half an hour,” I reminded him.

  “I know. You have somewhere to be. You’ve told me three times since school let out.”

  Oh, wait. “Sorry, I don’t have to go. I got it wrong.” It was Free Friday, my day off. I wasn’t used to all the schedule changes.

  “I know something’s wrong, Livvy. You haven’t turned a page in that book for the past ten minutes.”

  I started to deny it but shrugged instead.

  “Come on, what gives?”

  “My mom’s away for a while,” I told him.

  Twenty-eight days, to be specific. Despite everything that Mom had done, I missed her. More than I had expected. Or maybe I missed the person she’d been before all this happened—my fun-loving, quirky, clueless, big-hearted mother.

  “You mean you’re staying by yourself?” Franklin D. asked. “For what, the weekend?”

  When I didn’t answer, he said, “Your mother left you alone?”

  “Well, not really,” I backtracked. “She’ll be gone for a month. I moved in with my grandmother for now. I want to help take care of her.” At the surprised look on his face, I tried to clarify. “My grandma’s got Alzheimer’s. Every day, she gets worse. I want to know her for as long as I can.”

  “That’s noble,” he said, “but it sounds like a lot of work.”

  “There’s another caregiver, too. Vickie lives in the apartment next door.” I didn’t tell him how awkward she made me feel. What kind of feeling was awkward, anyway?

  I dropped my chin down on the stack of books on my desk. The top title, The Righteous Death: Euthanasia Explored, loomed large. Franklin D. paused, then said, “Well, then, you have a whole month of teen bliss! You can sleep till noon on the weekends, eat chocolate for breakfast, and take selfies at two in the morning.”

  I smiled. He was a goofball, but his attempt to raise my spirits was sweet.

  “Or you can go in the opposite direction. You know, rely on your friends for support. For example, you’re welcome to join my family for Shabbat dinner tonight.”

  Sha-what?

  “It’s nothing too outrageous,” he continued. “A prayer or two, and then you get to eat bread and drink wine.”

  “I don’t know any prayers,” I said, about to add that I wasn’t Jewish. But I wasn’t so sure of that anymore.

  “Just move your lips. That’s all anyone does at synagogue, anyway. Oh, and at the end, say, ‘Amen.’”

  “Ahh, men,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows.

  Franklin D. turned pink. “Cute. Anyway, you have to promise not to make fun of my mom and dad. They’re, um, interesting.”

  I wouldn’t expect anything less from parents who’d turned out a kid like Franklin D. “I’m sure mine take the prize,” I said.

  “It’s just that they’re so … so … frustratingly perfect.”

  I stared at him.

  “I mean it. I have the ideal mother and father. My dad comes home at four to spend quality time with my brother and me, and my mom bakes cupcakes for our after-school snack.”

  I must’ve sighed, because he looked at my face and nodded. But I wasn’t thinking about how weird his sitcom parents were; I was thinking, Lucky guy.

  “Teenagers are supposed to pull away from their controlling, out-of-touch parents. It’s a fundamental stage of independence so we can skip out the door to college. Well, not me. I’m going to actually”—he lowered his voice—“miss them.”

  I laughed. “Wow, so tragic.”

  “How about it? You want to join a Disney channel family for some Friday night fun?”

  When was the last time I’d been around a real family with an intact parental unit, anyway? “Thank you,” I told him. “I’d love to.”

  He looked shocked by my easy acceptance. He scrawled a time and address on the back of my hand. “In Sharpie,” he said meaningfully, “so it won’t wash off.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised. To convince him, I added, “Five minutes early.”

  “Livvy, it’s so good to hear from you!” Mom gushed.

  “Yeah, well, I wanted to make sure you got to Evergreen okay.” I’d waited a whole day for Mom to get settled and call before giving in and calling her myself.

  “Everyone’s really supportive here,” she said. “So how’s it going at Casa Crazy? Is Adelle behaving? Things working out with Vickie?”

  I looked around the sitting room, which was now my bedroom since it had a futon. All my chargers were in a plastic bag on the window ledge facing the front street, and my clothes were still in the suitcase, shoved in from yesterday’s move. “It’s fine, I guess. I mean, it’s only been a day since you left.”

  I thought about telling her how Vickie, with her preschool ways, had actually given Oma a “time-out” yesterday, and how I’d missed turning in my math homework for the first time since forever because I ran out of time last night. But Mom needed to focus on her recovery. That was a thousand times more important than my list of grievances.

  “I’m so glad Vickie’s there to help, Liv,” Mom said. “It gives me peace of mind.”

  My ear hurt from jamming the phone against the side of my head. I switched to the other side.

  “It’s been great hearing from you, Liv, but they don’t want me to talk to people on the outside during my time here. They’ve asked for my cell so I won’t be tempted. I’m giving it to them in an hour.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, okay.”

  “Of course, if there are any emergencies, any at all, you can call the Evergreen switchboard or, better yet, phone Tom.”

  “Got it.” So now I couldn’t even speak to my own mother. “Good-bye,” I said, hanging up before she could say anything that made me feel worse.

  The tangy scent of yeast filled the foyer of the Schiller home. My lust for homemade bread must’ve shown, because Franklin D.’s mother said, “The challah’s almost done, dear. My son tells me this is your first Shabbat.”

  “Yes. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “We’re happy to have one of Frankie’s friends join us.”

  Franklin D. grabbed a chunk of his curly hair and pretended to pull it out. “Mom!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She covered a toothy grin. “Franklin D.”

  “It’s hopeless,” he said, turning to me. “Liv, if you ever call me Frankie in public, I’ll—”

  “Frankie, it’s not polite to threaten a guest.” Mrs. Schiller circled an arm around my shoulders and led me into the kitchen. She slipped on a pair of oven mitts that said Happy Hanukkah!

  “Can I help you with anything?” I asked. Wow, the kitchen was really clean.

  “Absolutely not,” she said, pulling a braided loaf from the oven.

  Mr. Schiller came in. He had a head full of salt-and-pepper curls and a solid gray beard. He winked at me in place of a greeting and began to open the wine. I liked Franklin D.’s parents right away. It was strange, but I felt as if I’d been coming to their home for years.

  Mr. Schiller examined the cork. It seemed to have splintered in the bottle. “Holy crapola!” he said.

  “Not Shabbat-sanctioned language, Dad,” Franklin D. called from the other room. I could hear the tease in his voice.

  Mr. Schiller screwed his eyes shut. “Oops. Sorry, Livvy.”

  I laughed, wondering if Franklin D.’s father might actually be goofier than his son.

  “I don’t suppose you have experience getting broken cork out of a wine bottle?” He squinted into the neck of the bottle.

  “She’s our guest,” Mrs. Schiller reminded him. “Her job is to relax.”