Diary Three: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Read online

  You say, “So, what’s up?”

  To your ENORMOUS, cowardly, what-a-rotten-friend-you-are relief, Amalia says, “it’s Maggie.”

  “Maggie,” you say, and let out a saved, when, sigh.

  Because you (“Hi, I’m Ducky, the center of the known universe. Everything is about me”) were actually afraid she had come to talk to you about Sunny. And you.

  Amalia nods. She thinks you’re sighing in sympathy.

  “Yeah,” she says.

  Then she tells you about the hours Maggie spent at her house the night before, all torn up about her mother.

  She tells you that Maggie can’t take much more of this.

  She tells you that some thing’s got to give.

  “Maggie has to confront her home life or she’s gonna blow,” Amalia says. “Explode. Break down. Something. I don’t know what.”

  “As long as you’re there for her, maybe she won’t,” you say.

  Then you feel like a complete jerk.

  You tried to be there for Alex, and did it help? No. You couldn’t save him. Couldn’t help him.

  The best you could do was send him to the ER.

  And now you barely hear from him at the treatment center.

  Being there for someone is, in your opinion, not always the best advice.

  But what other advice can you offer?

  Amalia sighs. Big. “Yeah,” she says, her voice as unconvincing as your lame offer of sympathy.

  “You could… Well, maybe you could talk to Mrs. Blume with Maggie. You know, be there for moral support.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think Maggie would go for that.”

  She’s right.

  So you decide to do the original, the obvious. You decide to change the subject. “Talked to Brendan last night,” you say. “He’s decent, you know?”

  “Yeah,” says Amalia, her tone even less convincing. Distinctly lacking in enthusiasm.

  “Yeah?” you say. “That’s it?”

  Relief at not being grilled about Sunny makes you bold. Giddy. Reckless.

  You say, “What’s going on, Amalia? With you and Brendan?”

  Your tone is no-nonsense. Authoritative.

  Very John Wayne.

  Amalia succumbs to your tough-guy act.

  She says, “Brendan is great.”

  “But?” you prompt.

  “But… He’s too great, you know? I mean, maybe he’s too good for me. It’s scary how nice he is, how… I mean, what if it doesn’t last? It’ll hurt. Big time. Why suffer if you don’t have to?”

  “Because you like Brendan?”

  “Yeah.” Like this is bad news.

  You want to tell her the bad news is when you don’t like someone. Someone you count on. Someone who is like family to you.

  Big Amalia sigh. She adds, “I’m just going to try to keep it light.”

  You say, “C’mon, Amalia. Why be afraid of admitting you care about Brendan?”

  “I’m not afraid! It’s not that. Really,” she says. “it’s just… self-respect. Common sense. Reason.”

  “Nope. Fear,” you say. Fearlessly.

  She shakes her head, looks down. Doesn’t answer.

  “Don’t be afraid. If it’s right… you can’t be afraid.”

  (It’s when it is wrong that you should be afraid.)

  She jumps up. “Gotta go. Later,” she says, and hurries away without meeting your eyes.

  Was she crying?

  Good work, Ducky.

  But you know you’re right.

  Ask the love doctor. He’ll tell you the truth.

  Except about himself.

  Aug. 28

  Way past midnight

  The phone rings at 5 of midnight. This hour, you figure it’s the parents, still wrestling with that old time-zone problem of theirs.

  Another few years, they may get it.

  You also figure that your brother will sleep through the ringing. So you grab the phone and croak, “Hello?”

  “Ducky,” a strangled voice says.

  “It’s me,” you say, still half asleep and not quite sure of who is calling you.

  “It’s Maggie,” says the voice. Little. Scared. Tear-filled.

  Not like Maggie’s voice at all.

  “Maggie,” you say. “what’s wrong?” You are awake now. And a little freaked.

  And guess what? You do not think this is about you.

  “Can you pick me up at my house? Like, right now?” she says in a low, hoarse whisper.

  “Now,” you repeat. You realize you do that a lot these days—repeat words to stall for time.

  But why do you need to stall for time? There is only one right answer.

  “Please,” she whispers urgently.

  “I’m on my way,” you say at the same moment.

  “Oh, Ducky,” she says and hangs up the phone.

  Your bro is still sleeping like a baby when you rocket off the premises.

  You leave him a note.

  Like he’s ever gonna wake up and notice your absence.

  You get to the Blumes’ and think maybe you shouldn’t ring the doorbell, since it is so late.

  Then you notice that lights are on. Everywhere. If the house were any brighter, it would look as if it were on fire.

  And it would be a big fire too, considering the size of the house.

  You ring the bell.

  The door opens a crack. You see one of Maggie’s eyes. She whispers, “We’ll be right out.”

  You can barely hear her. Not because she is whispering.

  Because someone is shouting in there.

  Loud, incoherent shouting. You hear things breaking. You hear music turned way up.

  You flinch at the sound of something big smashed into small pieces as Maggie shuts the door in your face.

  Moments later Maggie emerges—holding Zeke’s hand. He’s still pj’d but he’s wide-awake. His eyes have that round, little-kid look. Scared, sleepy, like maybe it’s all just a nightmare that mommy will come fix.

  Mommy’s not available, kid. She might as well be in Crete.

  You’re pretty sure about that, even though Maggie says not one word to you on the ride back to your house. She just rocks Zeke and makes this crooning sound.

  You lead the way into the house, not sure what else to do.

  You stash Maggie and Zeke in the parents’ room, which has its own bathroom, in case Zeke has any off-hour runs to make.

  You haul out clean sheets and produce clean towels.

  “We’ll take care of it,” Maggie says. She hands the towels to Zeke. “Why don’t you go put these in the bathroom for us,” she says.

  He obeys. He seems glad to have a job to do.

  You say to Maggie, as she stands in the door of the room, “Are you okay?” figuring maybe she sent Zeke away so you could have a quick chat.

  “Yes,” she says. “Thank you, Ducky. Thank you for not asking any questions.”

  “No problem,” you say, taking the hint. “Good night. Call me if you need anything.”

  Maggie nods. It is the nod of a tired, much older woman.

  She closes the door.

  You feel like you should stay awake and keep watch. Sit outside the door.

  Pace the hall.

  But you know this is pointless.

  Time to zzz.

  Like Ted’s been doing this whole time.

  Aug. 28

  Saturday

  8:45 a.m.

  You wake up. You think you’ve gone to sleep with the radio on.

  Because you are hearing voices.

  But no. The little voices are not coming from the bedside box.

  They’re coming from… the kitchen.

  You throw on some clothes, speed to the kitchen, and hover outside the kitchen door.

  The voices are Maggie’s and Ted’s. They are chatting away like old friends.

  Time to make a guest appearance before Ted says something really stupid.

  10:30 A.M., More o
r Less

  Ted IS A JERK.

  As you walk into the kitchen and say good morning, he gives you this BIG, TOTALLY OBNOXIOUS guy-to-guy wink.

  His eyes cut to Maggie.

  You get it.

  You wish you didn’t.

  Ted the Dumb thinks Maggie is your girlfriend and that she has spent the night.

  Maggie doesn’t catch this, of course. She is pouring you a cup of coffee.

  You give Ted your death-ray look.

  Then all is redeemed by Zeke trekking down the hall calling, “Maggie? Maggie, I’m hungry!”

  Ted is blown away. The random collection of cells he calls a brain crashes.

  As Zeke comes into the kitchen, you enjoy the moment.

  In Ted’s limited universe, Zeke does not compute.

  I give Ted a big, big wink. “Later,” I say.

  Ted recovers (give him credit for something) and makes conversation with Zeke.

  “When did you get here?” Ted asks.

  “Late,” says Zeke. “Can I have any cereal I want?”

  “One bowl,” says Maggie firmly. “But you can put any cereal you want into it.”

  “Right,” says Ted. “Be my guest.” He jumps up and begins lining up cereal boxes on the table.

  When he is finished he looks from you to Maggie to Zeke. He shakes his head.

  “Gotta go,” he says. “Nice to see you, Maggie, Zeke.”

  “’Bye,” Zeke says.

  Maggie gulps down some OJ. You go into your breakfast-chef routine and manage to put together pancakes. Zeke demands three, and Maggie accepts the two you offer. You compromise on the missing-syrup issue by heating apple jelly in the microwave. You tell Zeke it is special apple syrup.

  He goes for it. He’s a good kid.

  Maggie forks up the pancakes and tells you, politely, that they’re good. She drinks more juice.

  Silence.

  You get that Maggie doesn’t want to talk about it. You don’t ask questions.

  You can wait her out.

  It’s Zeke who says, “I like this better than my house. I hate my house. Why can’t dad come home? Why can’t he make mom act right?”

  That about covers it, you figure.

  You and Zeke both look at Maggie.

  Zeke says, “Don’t we count as much as his movie?”

  Maggie speaks at last. “Good point, Zeke,” she says slowly. “We should count at least that much. We should.”

  “Yeah,” says Zeke. He eats more pancakes.

  “He’s right,” you say. “Your father should be here. This is too much for you, Maggie. Way too much. It’s not fair—to Zeke or you. Or to your mother, if you want to go there.”

  “I don’t,” Maggie answers. She stands up, takes dishes to the sink, rinses them, and loads them in the petrified forest of dirty dishes in the dishwasher.

  She takes a box of dishwasher soap off the counter and sets the dishwasher to work.

  “Maggie?” you say.

  She answers, “may I use your phone?”

  You nod at the phone on the kitchen counter. She grabs it and dials. “Dad?” she says. “It’s me. You have to come home. Now. Things are out of control…. No. Now…. I mean it, dad…. No, you can’t call me back later. Zeke and I aren’t home. We couldn’t… Mom was out of control.”

  She pauses to listen for a minute.

  “No,” she says.

  She listens some more.

  “No!” she says. “You come home now or I’m going to turn mom in to the police. I mean it.”

  Zeke’s eyes go round.

  She listens. She says, “All right, then.”

  She hangs up.

  She looks sooo relieved.

  “He’s catching the next plane back,” she says.

  Zeke says, “The police?”

  “No way, Zeke. Don’t worry. I was just being tough with Dad.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  I meet Maggie’s eyes. “Good for you,” I say.

  Bookstore. Afternoon Break. Baby-sitting

  You are baby-sitting in the bookstore. That means that Zeke is reading in the kids’ section. You are sitting in the beanbag chair (kid-sized, but adequate), making sure he stays safe and happy, more or less.

  He’s taking all this in stride. After his astute situational commentary this A.M., he’s kept to himself.

  You hadn’t intended to bring Maggie and Zeke to work, but what else could you do with them? Leaving them alone in your house isn’t a kind thing.

  You’ve learned to live in the cave. You’ve learned that if you keep your room clean, the chaos and grime do not bother you. Too much.

  But Maggie is different.

  Sunny and Maggie are hauling out boxes of display props. Mr. W has been looking sad—missing Mrs. W, I think. He touches some of the items in the boxes and then backs away.

  Sunny catches him at it.

  She says, “Dad. Mom’s watching you shirk your work.”

  For a moment, Mr. W is still. Then he smiles. Not a 100% smile, but a smile. His eyes meet Sunny’s and she gives him the same kind of smile back.

  They seem closer than they’ve ever been. Tighter. A real family unit of two.

  You remember then that Sunny told you that her mother was very into organizing special seasonal windows. She collected props from everywhere: yard sales, catalogs, crafts supply houses. She also made them.

  This explains the Barbies on the beach. It’s not just a Sunny thing.

  It’s a Sunny-and-her-mom thing.

  “Look at this,” Sunny says. “I made this. Well, Mom and I did.” She holds up a small papier-mâché tree. “We used a paper-towel roll to build the trunk. The branches are made of chopsticks saved from the Thai takeout….”

  “Cool,” says Maggie. “Maybe Zeke and I can make something for the window collection.”

  “Good idea,” Mr. W says.

  Sunny has barely spoken to you. She’s not ignoring you in a mean way.

  She’s just not quite looking at you. Shying away from you.

  You. Feel. Rotten.

  You’d feel worse, but you are exhausted from the night before. You didn’t stay up guarding Maggie and Zeke (from what?) But you didn’t sleep all that well either.

  Mr. W is doing something on the computer.

  You watch Zeke and listen as Maggie says in a low voice, “I know mom can’t help it. I know that, Sunny. But it doesn’t help anymore. I mean, when I was out of control about my eating, I kept thinking I was in control, you know? And I bet mom feels the same way. But it’s no good. She’s got to stop. For me. For Zeke. For dad. For herself.”

  “You’re right,” Sunny says softly.

  And then you hear Maggie start to cry.

  Zeke has put down his book. He is now in puzzle heaven. He doesn’t notice.

  Sunny and Maggie go to the back of the store and stay there for a long time. When they come out of the break room, Maggie’s eyes are a little red. She looks tired.

  But she is still standing.

  4:28 p.m.

  Less rotten. More confused.

  Sunny just came up to you and whispered, “Maggie’s told me everything. What you did last night was a good thing, Ducky.”

  “Uh,” you say.

  But Sunny has already walked away.

  6:02

  Arrivals and departures.

  Mr. Blume just showed up to scoop up Maggie and Zeke.

  I think Maggie wanted to cry. But she wouldn’t let herself. She folded her arms and glared at her father.

  I think she has a right to be angry with him.

  Zeke flung himself at his father. Mr. Blume looked… shocked?

  Mr. Blume thanked me. He thanked Sunny.

  Maggie kept her arms folded. Only as they were leaving did she unfold them.

  Zeke took one of his father’s hands.

  Maggie took Zeke’s other hand.

  What are they going to find at home?

  7:02

 
; What? What?

  She gave you this blank, cold, unfriendly look.

  You thought it meant for you to say, “No, thank you, Mr. Winslow. I’d like to have dinner with you but I’ve promised Ted I’ll be home tonight.”

  But as Sunny, you, and Mr. Winslow are leaving the store, Sunny whispers, “You should have come with us, you know,” before following her father out the door.

  She doesn’t look back.

  9:15

  Heartburn and Heart Pain

  This could be the title for a country music song.

  Taco takeout indigestion.

  And stupid, stupid, stupid Ducky.

  Asking Ted’s advice?

  AGAIN?

  WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

  First he says, “Maggie’s a babe! She’s the one giving you problems? Let me tell you, she’s worth it— even if she does travel with a little brother.”

  You tell him she’s a friend, not a babe.

  “She’s cute,” he says.

  “She’ll be thrilled you said so,” you retort.

  He says, “Problems, Ducky?”

  This should have been your cue to give up.

  But you say Maggie isn’t the one giving you problems, and that you are still having problems with the other girl, the one you don’t like “that way.”

  You’ve avoided mentioning Sunny’s name. No point in giving Ted too much information.

  You don’t want to have to clean up the mess when his head explodes.

  He chuckles. “Ducky the chick magnet,” he says.

  And continues like that. You should have known he would say brilliant things like, “Give it spin. Check out the menu. Drive to the hoop, man.”

  You say, “Sunny is not a) a car; b) an entree; or c) a basketball.”

  You storm out of the family room, leaving Ted puzzled but unafflicted.

  This has taught you, Ducky, a lesson.

  Asking advice is not going to help. The only thing that is going to help is dealing with it yourself.

  Tomorrow.

  Definitely tomorrow.

  Aug. 29

  The History of My Sunday, Part I

  So Maggie’s okay.

  You are relieved that one thing in life is going better.

  Maggie said that on the way home from the bookstore, her father told them what he had already planned. (You might have known that people in charge of big things like movies would GET THINGS DONE. On the other hand, you can’t help but notice that Mr. Blume spent a lot of time and effort avoiding the whole situation—and leaving his kids to stew in it. Good going, Mr. Blume.)