Authors: Holly Chamberlin
Last Summer (9 page)
10
M
eg didn’t really mind picking Petey up from camp every day. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do at three-thirty in the afternoon. Sometimes she walked to the church, but today she had ridden her bike. For some reason she thought more clearly when she was riding than she did when she was walking. And today she had something important to think about.
eg didn’t really mind picking Petey up from camp every day. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do at three-thirty in the afternoon. Sometimes she walked to the church, but today she had ridden her bike. For some reason she thought more clearly when she was riding than she did when she was walking. And today she had something important to think about.
That morning, before she had left for work, Meg’s mother had told her that Mrs. Patterson had demanded Meg not talk to Rosie. This news had made Meg feel angry and also a little bit sad. What did Mrs. Patterson think she was going to say to Rosie? What did she think she was going to do? Punch her in the nose?
Well, she supposed she had no right to be angry. She knew she had “blown her credibility” with the Pattersons. She had read that term recently in an article in
Time
magazine about some disgraced politician. Her dentist never had fun magazines, just serious stuff. In Meg’s opinion,
Bloomberg Businessweek
did not help calm your nerves when you were waiting for someone basically to drill a hole in your head.
Time
magazine about some disgraced politician. Her dentist never had fun magazines, just serious stuff. In Meg’s opinion,
Bloomberg Businessweek
did not help calm your nerves when you were waiting for someone basically to drill a hole in your head.
Meg turned the bike smoothly onto Main Street. The bike was secondhand; she and her mother had gotten it at a yard sale two summers before for twenty dollars. Her father, for once actually keeping his promise, had fixed it up enough so that it rode pretty well. And the brakes were in good shape, which was important. Meg just wished it looked a little newer than it did. And that it wasn’t a weird shade of green, kind of like pea soup, which was good to eat but not so much to look at. But she didn’t care enough about the bike’s appearance to bother with painting it, and besides, if she was lucky she would find a newer model at another yard sale this summer.
Meg continued to ride through downtown on the sidewalk. Though technically you were supposed to ride a bike in the street, lots of people in Yorktide ignored that law, and as far as Meg knew, nobody had ever gotten arrested or fined. Anyway, she was careful not to go too fast and to watch out for old people or anyone on crutches or some little kid who wasn’t paying attention. Once when she and her mother had been up in Portland, some skuzzy-looking guy on a bike had crashed into a tiny old lady on the sidewalk outside Renys on Congress Street. Mrs. Giroux had hurried right over to help the woman, but the skuzzy-looking guy had just taken off. That had happened years ago, but Meg still remembered how scared and kind of sick she had felt seeing the blood on the old lady’s forehead. A police car was on the scene within minutes and it turned out that the cut on the old lady’s forehead was minor, but Meg had a feeling that both she and the old lady would remember that incident for a very long time to come.
Meg glanced down at the Swatch watch on her left wrist. She was a bit early. There was time to window-shop. Nothing helped chase away negative thoughts or upsetting memories like window-shopping, unless it was actual shopping, but she couldn’t afford to do that too often. She came to a stop in front of a small store called Annie’s Boutique. It sold women’s clothes and accessories. Now, for summer, there was a display of bathing suits, cover-ups, straw hats, sunglasses, and sandals. A pair of sandals right in the center of the display caught Meg’s eye. They were flat and silver, with a thin strap around the ankle and a shiny blue stone on the strap that went across the toe. She would love, love, love to have a pair of those sandals, but she bet there was no way she could afford them. It seemed so unfair. Rosie could probably afford to buy them but she probably wouldn’t bother; she didn’t care about fashion all that much. Meg sighed and touched the glass of the window with a fingertip. She supposed she could try to save up for a pair, but by the time she had enough money to buy them, the store would probably be sold out.
“Grr,” Meg said under her breath. “Grr, grr, grr.” She was self-aware enough to recognize the mood into which she was rapidly descending. Her mother called it her Miss Grumpy Pants mood. She said it wasn’t attractive. Most times, Meg didn’t care. Like at that moment, slowly cycling on past the boutique and toward St. Teresa of Avila church and rectory. Who was around to even notice if she was being “attractive”? And why should Meg care what other people thought of her?
Well, no man—or woman—was an island. That was another one of her mother’s favorite expressions.
And in my case,
Meg thought contritely,
yeah, I should care what other people think about me.
Because no one could get by alone. No person could survive without a community.
And in my case,
Meg thought contritely,
yeah, I should care what other people think about me.
Because no one could get by alone. No person could survive without a community.
Her mother was right. She had told Meg she was lucky that her part in Rosie’s breakdown wasn’t known. If Meg had been publicly accused of bullying, even if she wasn’t really guilty, no sane parent would have hired Meg to baby-sit her kids. And the Giroux family needed whatever money they could earn. It seemed like Meg’s mother reminded her of that every single day. Meg glanced down at the ratty old sneakers she was wearing. As if she could ever forget. Her mother didn’t even let them get a real tree at Christmastime because she said it was money down the drain. The artificial tree that they had been using for, like, forever, was sad and saggy, but nothing short of it falling on top of Petey could persuade Mrs. Giroux to toss it and buy a new one. Buy fresh flowers at Hannaford? No way. The dusty old plastic yellow tulips she had found at a garage sale would have to do. Throw away a pair of jeans because the hems were frayed? Why not just sew on a new hem, cut from a stray scrap of fabric? Her mom didn’t need Jane Patterson’s help to do that.
Meg pedaled on. Well, she thought, she might be poor now, but she fully intended to make a ton of money when she grew up and got out of school. She definitely wanted to go to college but was pretty sure she would have to go part-time while she worked a full-time job. Whatever. She would do it, and since she was really good at math and science and computers, she didn’t think she would have too much trouble making a lot of money in some big career. No way would she wind up like her mother, who was really smart but stuck working a job that Meg had concluded was beneath her. Not that Mrs. Giroux had ever said that, exactly, but Meg thought she could read between the lines of her mother’s reports at the end of each workday. And not winding up like her mother also meant not getting married to someone like her father. No. Way.
Lately, Meg had spent a lot of time wondering why her mother had chosen to marry her father. She wondered what it was about him that had attracted her mom. It couldn’t have been his intelligence or his character—neither of which he had much of—or even his sense of humor, which Meg had long since judged as juvenile. Beavis and Butt-Head were more sophisticated than her dad! Well, sometimes. Part of her wanted to come right out and ask her mom to explain why she had done what she had done, but another part of her was afraid to know the truth. Maybe, Meg thought, when she was older she would work up the courage to ask. There had to have been something good about her father to make Frances Mary Donaldson marry him. There had to have been. Meg had seen plenty of photos of her mom when she was young. She had been really attractive. She probably could have gotten any guy she wanted. But something had made her choose Peter Giroux.
Meg looked carefully both ways before riding her bike across the street to the opposite sidewalk. She passed the old-fashioned family-owned-and-run pharmacy and saw that no one was inside. She found it hard to believe that the Robbins family could make a living when all those big stores like Hannaford and Walmart had huge discount pharmacies. But maybe some people still liked the charm of a small local store. Personally, when Meg was a kid she had loved to go into Robbins Drugs and Sundries and buy a pretzel rod for a nickel or a giant gumball for ten cents. Her mom had been cool about little things like that years ago, before Petey was born. Maybe money hadn’t been so tight with only one kid in the family.
Meg pedaled past the florist and then past the tiny salon where her mother used to get her hair cut, ages ago. For the past few years, Mrs. Giroux had been going to a salon out by the mall that hired beauty school students, some of whom, in Meg’s opinion, were not very good at all. There were times when her mother came home from the salon and Meg itched to grab a pair of scissors. Anything she could produce, she was sure, would be more attractive than the disaster produced by those inexpensive but inexperienced students. How hard could it be to cut on a straight line?
Ahead, Meg could see the spire of the church.
Maybe,
she thought,
I should go to confession soon.
She didn’t like having critical thoughts about her mother; even if it wasn’t technically a sin, having critical thoughts was in some ways a betrayal. Honor thy father and thy mother. It was a commandment, so criticizing her mother probably was a sin after all. And Meg really did love her mom. She even wished she could spend more time with her, but knew it would be useless to ask if they could hang out, maybe go to the mall or just take a walk after dinner. What would be the point? Mrs. Giroux was always complaining about being so busy. And she really was busy, so busy that she seemed never to have time for anything fun. For example, a year or two ago, Rosie’s mother had started a monthly book group and Meg’s mother had gone to only two meetings before dropping out because she didn’t have time to read the books. And if Mrs. Giroux wasn’t busy, she was exhausted. She was usually in bed by ten every night and snoring loudly soon after. Meg couldn’t remember the last time her mother had gone to a movie or had dinner out with anyone, not even Mrs. Patterson, her best friend. Correction, her onetime best friend. And Meg had ruined that.
Maybe,
she thought,
I should go to confession soon.
She didn’t like having critical thoughts about her mother; even if it wasn’t technically a sin, having critical thoughts was in some ways a betrayal. Honor thy father and thy mother. It was a commandment, so criticizing her mother probably was a sin after all. And Meg really did love her mom. She even wished she could spend more time with her, but knew it would be useless to ask if they could hang out, maybe go to the mall or just take a walk after dinner. What would be the point? Mrs. Giroux was always complaining about being so busy. And she really was busy, so busy that she seemed never to have time for anything fun. For example, a year or two ago, Rosie’s mother had started a monthly book group and Meg’s mother had gone to only two meetings before dropping out because she didn’t have time to read the books. And if Mrs. Giroux wasn’t busy, she was exhausted. She was usually in bed by ten every night and snoring loudly soon after. Meg couldn’t remember the last time her mother had gone to a movie or had dinner out with anyone, not even Mrs. Patterson, her best friend. Correction, her onetime best friend. And Meg had ruined that.
About a block away from the church buildings, Meg spotted Mrs. Abbott getting out of her car across the street. Mrs. Abbott worked at the gigantic Goodwill store in South Portland and was a bigger busybody than anybody Meg knew, and in a small town like Yorktide, that was saying something. Meg said a silent prayer that Mrs. Abbott wouldn’t see her. The last thing she wanted was to be asked questions about Rosie. The other day a checkout person in Hannaford, a young woman named Kari who Meg was pretty sure had a sister in Yorktide High School, had asked Meg if she knew why Rosie Patterson had missed the last weeks of school. Meg had thought she would pass out with embarrassment. She wondered if she was about to be publicly blamed for Rosie’s breaking down. Before she could plan a careful reply, she was lying. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have no idea.”
The checkout person had kind of smiled. Or maybe she had frowned suspiciously. (A guilty conscience, Meg thought now, remembering the girl’s expression, needs no accuser. That was another one of her mother’s favorite expressions.) “Oh,” Kari had said. “I thought I heard that you two were best friends.”
Meg had stammered something unintelligible and, grabbing the plastic bags of toilet paper and discount paper towels, darted out of the store.
Luckily, Mrs. Abbott didn’t see her, or maybe, Meg thought, she had seen her and decided she didn’t want to approach a teenager with a big scowl on her face. There were benefits to being grumpy. People often left you alone. Meg reached the church parking lot and parked her bike apart from a few mothers waiting to pick up their kids.
She recognized most of the women from church, but she didn’t really feel comfortable going up to talk with anyone. Some Sunday mornings Meg grumbled about having to get up early enough to make the ten o’clock Mass, but usually she didn’t much mind. The priest, Father William, gave pretty good sermons and Sister Pauline had been really nice to her when maybe she should have been angry. But then again, nuns were supposed to be nice and forgiving. One thing Meg knew for certain. There was no way she could ever be a nun, not with her short temper and general impatience with everything! Plus, she liked boys too much.
Meg lifted her hair off her neck and then let it flop back down. Why hadn’t she brought a hair elastic with her? Because she had been preoccupied before leaving the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rosie coming or going next door. Pathetic. Maybe she had become like an island after all, alone and cut off from other people her own age. Her mother had never been able to afford to send her to a summer camp, but that had never really mattered, not with Rosie to hang out with. And as long as Rosie had been around, Meg had never felt the need to make other good friends, not during the summer, not during the school year. Now, without Rosie ...
Meg roughly twisted her hair into a rope and knotted it so that it was semi-off her sweaty neck. Self-pity was lame. What was she complaining about? She had plenty to keep her busy all summer. She had those books to read for her English teacher and a lot of housework to keep her occupied. And then there was Petey to take care of....
Petey’s day camp was pretty inexpensive and a few of his friends from school were also enrolled, so his summer wasn’t turning out so bad at all. Sometimes, but not too often, Meg felt a little resentful that Petey got so much more attention from their parents than she did, especially from their father. Not that Dad was a prize. But feeling a little resentful didn’t mean that she didn’t love her little brother. It was kind of hard not to. He was just an all-around good kid. Her mom deserved a well-behaved child, Meg thought, especially with Miss Grumpy Pants for a daughter.
Mom should have had a daughter like Rosie, Meg thought now, idly watching one of the waiting mothers chatting away on her cell phone, a daughter who was always sunny and willing to do her chores without grumbling. And Rosie would make a great sister. She had doted on Petey since the day Mrs. Giroux had brought him home from the hospital. Sometimes, Meg thought, Rosie had treated him more like a doll than a living, breathing child. Long after he was able to walk, Rosie had carried him around when they were together, kissing his cheek and telling him how much she loved him. Well, Meg thought now, as long as she hadn’t tried to dress him up in ridiculous outfits. Meg—and her mom!—would have drawn the line there. She bet that Rosie missed Petey. But if she did miss him, why didn’t she try to spend some time with him? Why had she cut him out of her life like she had cut out Meg?
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