Read Online Up From the Blue by Susan Henderson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Henderson
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you just want to put your arm down there and chop it up?” I asked her, giggling.
“Tillie! Why would you say such a thing? That’s a horrible thought!”
For the rest of the morning, I sat on the towel, embarrassed, fuming, and waiting for the phone to ring.
The next day I woke up feeling sorry for myself. I was out of candy and not looking forward to eating breakfast that was good for me . When I left the bedroom, I found Anne pulling clothes from a hamper, folding them and setting them on the coffee table.
“Are those my clothes?” I asked.
“I found them under your covers when I checked on you last night.”
“They’re my property!”
“Tillie, Tillie, it’s okay. I just washed them.”
But I had already grabbed an armful as I ran back to the bedroom. When I brought them to my nose, there was no smell of home or Momma. They just smelled like detergent. Not even our detergent. I squeezed my fists around the ruined clothes and yelled while I threw them.
When Anne came to my room, I was facedown on the bed with my arms out to the sides, furious that Phil was, at that moment, enjoying a long drive with Momma. I imagined him riding behind her, listening to her sing. When they reached the new house, he would be the first to help Momma decorate with books and colorful pillows and the dolls with button eyes.
“Tillie, I was trying to help. I didn’t mean to upset you, but you will not behave like this here.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you listening to me?”
“When can I go home?” I whined into the covers.
“Just a few more days,” she said. “I talked to your father last night.”
I turned over to hear better, and also to move her hand off of me.
“You have a great big house with a beautiful yard and a swimming pool in back. The school’s just down the street so you can walk or ride your bike to it.”
As she spoke, she touched my hair, combing it with her fingers until I covered my head with my hands.
THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED were torture. I wasn’t used to such calm—Anne’s soft voice, her quiet tidying, the droning violins. Even when the music swelled—the one part I liked because it snuck up on you, bold and almost spooky—that was when she lowered the volume. Each day, Anne moved from room to room with a cup of tea, as I moved from room to room with my encyclopedia. After a while, one day was so much like the other, it was hard to know whether I was any closer to seeing Momma.
I missed her—the loud music, the surprise of her moods, the colorful bracelets, even the tears. I missed jumping on the couch and the quick pickup from a package of Ho Hos. I missed all the time on my own when I gave myself dares, like slipping my tongue through the slats of the electric fan or sticking my arm down a hole in the ground, wondering if I’d find the animal that made it.
When she came to my room to call me for breakfast, I asked, “How much longer? Should I pack yet?”
Anne’s face looked very serious, and she was slow to answer. “Your father needs more time,” she finally said. “You’ll need to stay another week.”
“No!” I slapped at her, one hand after another, and she leaned backward so I couldn’t reach.
“It’s not that long,” she said, grabbing my wrists. “It’s really not that long.”
“Stop saying that!” I said, wanting to hit again, but even though she’d let go of me, my arms felt too heavy.
“It’s just the way it has to be,” she said.
And something in her voice and in my own reaction not to shrug away her hand when she placed it on my back gave me the strongest feeling that things were not right at home.
“It’s complicated,” said Anne, who’d been talking the whole time, as if, by not giving me space to think or reply, I might forget I was upset. “There are so many unexpected things when you move. You have to get all the utilities turned on. There are broken things that need to be fixed. There’s just an awful lot to
“Tillie! Why would you say such a thing? That’s a horrible thought!”
For the rest of the morning, I sat on the towel, embarrassed, fuming, and waiting for the phone to ring.
The next day I woke up feeling sorry for myself. I was out of candy and not looking forward to eating breakfast that was good for me . When I left the bedroom, I found Anne pulling clothes from a hamper, folding them and setting them on the coffee table.
“Are those my clothes?” I asked.
“I found them under your covers when I checked on you last night.”
“They’re my property!”
“Tillie, Tillie, it’s okay. I just washed them.”
But I had already grabbed an armful as I ran back to the bedroom. When I brought them to my nose, there was no smell of home or Momma. They just smelled like detergent. Not even our detergent. I squeezed my fists around the ruined clothes and yelled while I threw them.
When Anne came to my room, I was facedown on the bed with my arms out to the sides, furious that Phil was, at that moment, enjoying a long drive with Momma. I imagined him riding behind her, listening to her sing. When they reached the new house, he would be the first to help Momma decorate with books and colorful pillows and the dolls with button eyes.
“Tillie, I was trying to help. I didn’t mean to upset you, but you will not behave like this here.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you listening to me?”
“When can I go home?” I whined into the covers.
“Just a few more days,” she said. “I talked to your father last night.”
I turned over to hear better, and also to move her hand off of me.
“You have a great big house with a beautiful yard and a swimming pool in back. The school’s just down the street so you can walk or ride your bike to it.”
As she spoke, she touched my hair, combing it with her fingers until I covered my head with my hands.
THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED were torture. I wasn’t used to such calm—Anne’s soft voice, her quiet tidying, the droning violins. Even when the music swelled—the one part I liked because it snuck up on you, bold and almost spooky—that was when she lowered the volume. Each day, Anne moved from room to room with a cup of tea, as I moved from room to room with my encyclopedia. After a while, one day was so much like the other, it was hard to know whether I was any closer to seeing Momma.
I missed her—the loud music, the surprise of her moods, the colorful bracelets, even the tears. I missed jumping on the couch and the quick pickup from a package of Ho Hos. I missed all the time on my own when I gave myself dares, like slipping my tongue through the slats of the electric fan or sticking my arm down a hole in the ground, wondering if I’d find the animal that made it.
When she came to my room to call me for breakfast, I asked, “How much longer? Should I pack yet?”
Anne’s face looked very serious, and she was slow to answer. “Your father needs more time,” she finally said. “You’ll need to stay another week.”
“No!” I slapped at her, one hand after another, and she leaned backward so I couldn’t reach.
“It’s not that long,” she said, grabbing my wrists. “It’s really not that long.”
“Stop saying that!” I said, wanting to hit again, but even though she’d let go of me, my arms felt too heavy.
“It’s just the way it has to be,” she said.
And something in her voice and in my own reaction not to shrug away her hand when she placed it on my back gave me the strongest feeling that things were not right at home.
“It’s complicated,” said Anne, who’d been talking the whole time, as if, by not giving me space to think or reply, I might forget I was upset. “There are so many unexpected things when you move. You have to get all the utilities turned on. There are broken things that need to be fixed. There’s just an awful lot to
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