The Way Back to Happiness (8 page)

“Starting tomorrow,” he promised. “And tell her to phone me if there’s anything she needs, you hear?”

The doors opened on Gladdie’s floor.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell her.”

Warn her.

He grinned, and she hurried away so quickly that she stumbled on the hallway carpet.

“See you next trip!” Wink called after her.

When Alabama and Bev stopped back at the hospital on the way out of town, Gladdie looked even more glum than she had that morning. To cheer her up, Alabama blurted out, “Guess what? Wink’s not dead.”

Her grandmother lifted slightly in surprise, then winced. “He’s not?”

“I met him in the elevator at The Villas. He looked the same as always.”

“There now,” Bev said. “You see? Another medical miracle!”

“He said he’s going to come visit you.”

Gladdie’s forehead wrinkled with apprehension. “What would he do that for?”

Alabama shrugged. “He also said to call if you needed anything.”

“Why would I need anything?” Gladdie looked perturbed. “And if he’s going to pop up at any time with that ukulele of his . . . well, that’s going to be a lot of botheration.”

Alabama hadn’t even mentioned the ukulele.

“I think it’s nice,” Bev said. “And don’t dismiss music as therapy. It can do a world of good.”

“You’ve never heard him play that thing,” Gladdie grumbled.

The talk about music made Alabama remember the shoe box. She took out the paper grocery sack she’d brought with her that contained her Walkman and the box, picked out
The Sound of Music
sound track, and inserted it into the player. Of Gladdie’s music, it was Alabama’s favorite. It always reminded her of when they’d show the movie on television when she was a kid. It was usually Sunday night, and her mom would make a big event of it—they’d get a pizza delivered and change into their pajamas, and half the time Alabama would be stuffed and asleep on the couch by the end. She’d been eleven before she’d seen for herself that the von Trapps made it to Switzerland.

But Gladdie didn’t know what was in the Walkman, and her gaze darted suspiciously at the device, even as Alabama explained, “I’m leaving you my antisocial doodah,” which was what Gladdie had dubbed it. She placed the metal headband over Gladdie’s permanent wave, attached the orange foam headphones to her ears, and turned it on.

In a few seconds, Gladdie’s eyes widened and she said too loudly, “Now I see what these contraptions are good for!”

Alabama smiled. Then she put the rest of her cassettes and a bag of orange slices on Gladdie’s side table, bent down, and kissed her good-bye.

 

For weeks Alabama had been numb, but during that first drive from Dallas to New Sparta, she was practically having an out-of-body experience. Her head kept going all Shirley MacLaine-y, imagining she was floating outside the car, watching herself slumped in the shotgun seat, wishing herself anywhere else.

All that time at Gladdie’s, a part of her had felt as if what was happening was a bad dream. That at any moment her mom would waltz through the door. Okay, she knew that wouldn’t actually happen. She’d seen her mother in the funeral home, endured the funeral, and had been at the graveside. But the true finality of it hadn’t really sunk in until now, when she was yet another step removed from her mom. She’d never see her again. Never meant forever.

Aunt Bev didn’t seem to notice that her passenger was astral projecting. She was all positive thoughts and big plans—voiced in that grating first-day-of-kindergarten tone she had.

“You’ll have plenty of time to get settled and registered for school before it starts.” Alabama’s lack of enthusiasm didn’t have any visible effect on her aunt’s sidewise smile. “What are your favorite subjects?”

Alabama shrugged.

“Come on now,
everybody
has a favorite subject. I bet you’re smart enough to make honor roll.” She cast a few expectant glances her way, but Alabama didn’t give her any satisfaction. “Or are you the athletic type?”

Alabama was the opposite of athletic—she was a PE hypochondriac. Any ploy to get her to the bleachers would do. When the cramps excuse had worn thin, she’d moved on to headaches, stomachaches, back spasms, and shooting pains in her legs. She’d perfected a wincing limp that had fooled more than one gym teacher.

“Don’t like sports, either?” Poor Aunt Bev. She was performing a monologue. “Do you sing? I direct the school choir.”

Alabama’s mouth twitched into a smirk.

But then she remembered her mom, who said she’d always wanted to be a dancer. Diana had taken classes in school, and she’d taught Alabama a few steps. She’d even sent Alabama to a tap class one summer—a big splurge. Her mom always said Alabama was more graceful than she looked. At the time, the comment had bumped Alabama’s bs meter off the charts, since
looking
graceful seemed sort of the whole point of
being
graceful. Now she embraced the possibility that she was more than she seemed. More like her mom . . . or at least what her mom dreamed of being.

“I want to be a dancer,” she announced, trying out the sound of it.

Bev did a double take, doubt all over her face. “Really.”

Alabama eyed her steadily, daring her to voice her skepticism.

“I mean . . . that’s fine, of course. So healthy! But it reminds me of . . .”

Alabama narrowed her eyes.

Bev swallowed. “That’s terrific.”

Mom still makes her uncomfortable.
From guilt, obviously. Whatever Bev did that had caused Diana to flee her home was still eating at her conscience.

It was a good thing New Sparta was only an hour’s drive from Dallas, because it looked like the kind of place you’d want a quick escape route from. Bev pointed excitedly to the city limits sign—POPULATION 8,482, not a number that raised Alabama’s drooping spirits—and gave her a guided tour of the pathetic outskirts, where a housing development, a couple of second-tier fast food joints, and the Walmart were located. To Alabama’s relief, Bev confessed she didn’t actually live in the “good” part, but had one of the older houses closer to downtown. Unfortunately, downtown turned out to be a joke—a courthouse, abandoned storefronts, a doomed dime store, and a Western Auto. Even the movie theater just had one screen. She and her mom had always lived in big cities. Now she felt like a hamster being demoted from a Habitrail to a shoe box.

Before they got to the house, Bev circled the school: a network of older brick edifices, portable structures, and a modern one-story building. “The stadium behind the school is where the Fightin’ Jackrabbits play.”

“Wow,” Alabama said. “You guys have a scoreboard and everything.”

“Of course.” A beat late, Bev laughed. “Oh—I get it. Sarcasm.” She reached over and squeezed her knee. “I know who you got
that
from!”

Alabama sucked in a breath, wishing for nothing more than to reach the house so she could flee the car. Then, a few minutes later, they were pulling up in front of a tidy wood-frame home, and she wished Bev would turn the car around and drive somewhere else. This place was
so
not her. Butter-yellow paint. A porch festooned with potted begonias and impatiens, with a smiling sun cut-out hanging on the blue front door. Precious. She stepped out into the steamy late-afternoon air and marched up the petunia-lined walkway like a prisoner on the way to a
Good Housekeeping
–approved death house.

Aunt Bev didn’t get it. She was too busy playing tour guide, showing off what little there was to see. The house was a box—living room and kitchen on one side, two bedrooms separated by a bathroom on the other. The bedroom designated for her was as plain and bare as a cell. Four white walls and a twin bed—a daybed covered with a cheery yellow spread—and a painted yellow dresser.

She made a mental note to despise the color yellow, starting now.

“I know about teenagers and their rooms,” Bev explained. “You’ll have a million ideas for how you’ll want it to look. It’s your space, so don’t worry that I’ll interfere.”

“Is there a lock on the door?”

Bev blinked at her. “No.” Alabama shrugged, and was ready to collapse on the bed when her aunt asked, “Why don’t we peek at the rest of the house? Get your bearings.”

Alabama trudged after her, taking in the living room—a nightmare of elaborate slipcovers and upholstery experiments, needlework pillows and shadowboxes full of cutesy garage sale finds. A seashell mobile hung in one corner. The really surprising thing was the mess—Bev had been so snooty about the apartment in St. Louis, but here there was loads of clutter and crafty crap strewn everywhere. Bolts of cloth propped in corners. Unpainted wood stacked in the living room. Boxes on the dining room table marked
BUTTONS, RIBBONS,
and
MISC
. Lots of
MISC
.

In front of the double doors leading to the backyard, wedged next to the dining room table, stood an old dressmaker’s dummy, looking like a headless torso that had been impaled on a hat rack.

Bev saw her staring at it and laughter trilled out of her. “Let me introduce Rhoda.” She put her hand on the wooden knob that was the thing’s neck stump. “I named her after Rhoda Morgenstern on
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
. Isn’t she fun? I wish I could have dressed her up for you.”

It would have been better if she had draped something over that pinky-beige torso. An old spill had stained one of the bumps that were supposed to be breasts, and a Frankenstein scar cut across the abdomen where the material had been torn and resewn.

Bev dropped her hand abruptly. “Well. I guess we should fix some dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” Alabama said, but that didn’t stop Bev from marching toward the kitchen. Cabinets opened and closed as her aunt half hummed, half sang “Billie Jean.”

Slouching against the door frame, Alabama took in the kitchen. It was done in sandy peach and pale earthy greens, attempting more or less to replicate a Southwestern look, judging from all the stenciling on the cabinets and walls.

“You have to eat,” Bev told her. “At least a little bit. And then I’ll fix a dessert. Derek’s probably coming over.”

“Who’s Derek?”

Puddles of red leaped to Bev’s cheeks as she stood back from the open fridge door. “He’s my friend. My
very good friend,
if you know what I mean.”

Alabama frowned. “I thought his name was . . .” She couldn’t remember. “Not Derek. Glen, maybe?”

“Glen!” Bev’s eyes widened. “Who told you
that?
”

Who did she think? “Gladdie.”

“Well.” Bev shook her head. “Mama wouldn’t know a thing about it.”

Ick.

Bev rushed over to her. “I really want you to like Derek. And for him to like you, too, of course.”

Alabama didn’t know what to say to that. She couldn’t exactly promise to like someone she hadn’t met yet, could she?

Bev turned back to the counter. “I bet you’ll go crazy for my spaghetti and meatballs. It’s one of my specialties. And for dessert I’ve got peach cobbler. I bought scads of peaches at a stand the other day and made a few things. I preserve and freeze a lot during the summer. Makes meal preparation during the school year a snap-a-rooni.”

She was so nervous, it was painful to watch.

“I’m really not hungry,” Alabama repeated.

“You will be when you smell that scrumdiliumcious peach cobbler bubbling in the oven. And we’ve got Bluebell ice cream to go on top.”

Her stomach was actually rumbling, but what Alabama really wanted was to grab the tub of ice cream and a spoon and run off and be by herself.

“I’ll go empty out the car,” she said.

“Oh!” Bev swiveled on her heel. “I’ll help you.”

Alabama cut her off. “No—I can get it. Stay with your meatballs. I’ll have to try those.”

That managed to repulse her aunt’s advance. Thank God.

Alabama emptied the car of all the boxes and then hid in her room until Bev flushed her out at dinnertime.

Derek was late, but he called and told them to start without him. The meal was served at the cramped table in the corner of the kitchen. The dining room table was reserved for events, Bev explained, as Alabama picked over spaghetti and grayish meatballs dandruffed with parmesan from a green shaker container.

“Tomorrow we can go shopping and buy you all the things you like,” she said, noting that Alabama wasn’t making a dent in the plate of food.

“I’m not a big eater.” At least, not of
Ladies’ Home Journal
food.

“You need to watch that. You don’t want to end up like . . .” Bev broke off, her expression stricken.

“Karen Carpenter?” Alabama finished for her.

Her aunt shook her head and took a long sip of iced tea. “I
loved
her. Well—I might as well say I
love
her, because I still do. That’s the point of art, isn’t it? It lives on, even when . . .” Her eyes glistened with tears. “Such a waste! Last semester I spent a day on Karen in health class. I played ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ during the anorexia discussion. Some girls cried.”

Alabama was beginning to think she should just eat the meatball.

On the wall, the cat clock’s tail swished back and forth extra-slowly. How could it not even be seven yet? She wouldn’t be able to go to bed for hours.

Then she remembered Gladdie. This day probably had seemed a hundred times longer to her. She sent up a prayer for Gladdie’s speedy recovery. Maybe this move to New Sparta wouldn’t be permanent. If Gladdie got better, there was no reason why they couldn’t go ahead and look for an apartment in Dallas, like they’d planned.

The doorbell rang, and Bev hopped up. “That’ll be Derek. Come on out and meet him.”