Waiting for Normal Read online

  Marley, this one is for you.

  contents

  Cover Image

  Chapter 1: Tin Box on a Tar Patch

  Chapter 2: Small Stuff

  Chapter 3: Welcome Pie

  Chapter 4: According to Webster’s

  Chapter 5: The Over-Underpass

  Chapter 6: A Renovation

  Chapter 7: Tryouts and Friendships

  Chapter 8: Gates and Bridges

  Chapter 9: TV and Toast Dinners

  Chapter 10: A Gift of Cream and Honey

  Chapter 11: A Bunch of Numbskulls

  Chapter 12: A Violent Storm

  Chapter 13: Evening Interview

  Chapter 14: Waiting for Mommers

  Chapter 15: Late-Night Mail

  Chapter 16: Another Dish of Fish-and-Chips

  Chapter 17: A Different Sort of Halloween

  Chapter 18: A Phone Call from the Mansion

  Chapter 19: The New Blue Car

  Chapter 20: All or Nothing

  Chapter 21: Dwight Explaining Hannah

  Chapter 22: All About Twos and Fours

  Chapter 23: Bedtime at the Inn

  Chapter 24: Breakfasts and Boxes

  Chapter 25: A Ton of Turkey Soup

  Chapter 26: From Good to Bad

  Chapter 27: Willing to Bloom

  Chapter 28: Twists and Turns

  Chapter 29: The Counting-on Part

  Chapter 30: A Frozen Good-bye

  Chapter 31: An Unexpected Meeting

  Chapter 32: A Few Gifts Before Christmas

  Chapter 33: Waiting for Normal

  Chapter 34: Jingle All the Way

  Chapter 35: Another Thing to Borrow

  Chapter 36: Loads of Snow

  Chapter 37: A Visit from Grandio

  Chapter 38: Valentine Hearts

  Chapter 39: The Goosh in My Gut

  Chapter 40: Fiesta Night

  Chapter 41: Making Changes

  Chapter 42: My Fault

  Chapter 43: A Hero in the Fog

  Chapter 44: After the Fire

  Chapter 45: Something Familiar

  Chapter 46: The Going-Away Note

  Chapter 47: Defining Normal

  Chapter 48: Full of Surprises

  Chapter 49: All to Home

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  chapter 1

  tin box on a tar patch

  Maybe Mommers and I shouldn’t have been surprised; Dwight had told us it was a trailer even before we’d packed our bags. But I had pictured one of those parks—like up on Route 50. I thought trailers were always in trailer parks. I expected a little grass patch out front, daisy shaped pinwheels stuck into the ground, one of those white shorty fences and a garden gnome.

  Dwight crossed traffic and pulled the truck up over the curb. When he stopped, Mommers’ head bumped against the window. “What are we doing here?” she asked. I watched Dwight’s face for the answer. Dwight is my stepfather. Well, he’s really my ex stepfather since he and Mommers split for good. That was two years ago. (It’s best to know right from the beginning that my family is hard to follow—like a road that keeps taking twists and turns.) But Dwight had always told me, there’ll be no “ex” between you and me, Addie, girl, and I believed him.

  “I said, what are we doing here?” Mommers repeated.

  “This is the place,” Dwight mumbled.

  Mommers sat up. She opened her eyes wide and looked out the front windshield. Then she screamed. “Dwight! You’ve got to be kidding me! This is the city!”

  Dwight leaned away from her—protecting his ear—and in that quiet way he’s got about him, he told Mommers, “Come on, Denise. Let’s not go over it again. You know this is all I’ve got left. You can move in here, or go to Jack’s place.” He slid out of the truck.

  Mommers swung her door open so hard it came back at her. She kicked it and it whined on the hinge. “I can’t live with Jack!”

  She was talking about my grandfather on my father’s side. I call him Grandio. That’s his grandpa name, which my father taught me to say a long time ago. That’s about all my father had time to teach me; he died when I was barely three. I’ve always kind of felt as if my father gave me Grandio—or tried to anyway—that he left him to me so I’d have as much family as possible. Thing is, he kind of left Grandio to Mommers, too. I’ve never seen two people who wanted less to do with each other.

  “I hate Jack!” Mommers hollered at Dwight. “And I hate you!”

  “I know,” said Dwight, as if he had accepted that a long time ago.

  I unfolded myself from the back of the cab, where I’d been squashed in the little jump seat, and slipped down to the ground. Dwight lifted our bags out of the back of his truck and handed Mommers a key.

  “Go in and have a look. We can work on it some if you want,” he said. “And the computer is in for you and Addie.” He tried to say all this with a hopeful note in his throat—Dwight always did that.

  But Mommers threw the key down hard as she could. It hit the ground with a tiny ringing sound like a little chime. “I suppose you want me to overflow with gratitude!” she yelled. “I get a cruddy tin box for a house and a dinosaur for a computer! Lucky me! What about the duplex, Dwight? You could have given me that!”

  “The duplex is gone to pay for the house, Denise.” Dwight kept his lips in a line. Mommers kicked at her own overstuffed suitcase. Then she said all kinds of other things I won’t mention, but boy, did I hear some language.

  Dwight walked away from her. That might have seemed mean to anyone who happened to be watching that day, but I didn’t really blame him. He had my little sisters to think of—half sisters, that is. They’re Dwight’s kids. I’m not. (Like I said, my family is full of twists and turns.) He leaned down and gave me a shaky hug. I squeezed him back and swallowed hard. He whispered into my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Addie, girl.” Then he looked at me eye to eye and said, “I’ll be around—you know that.”

  I nodded. “And you’ll bring Brynna and Katie, right?”

  “Of course. As often as I can.”

  “Then it’ll be all right,” I said, and I faked a big old smile.

  Dwight got back into his truck and raised a hand to wave good-bye. He turned his wheels away from us and with a screech and a lurch, he was outta there.

  I stood next to Mommers, both of us looking at the trailer. The thing was dingy and faded. But I could tell that it’d once been the color of sunshine. It was plunked down on a few stacks of cinder blocks at the corner of Freeman’s Bridge Road and Nott Street in the city of Schenectady—in the state of New York. It was a busy corner—medium busy, I’d say. The only patch out front was the tarry blacktop bubbling up in the heat of the late summer afternoon. No pinwheels. No garden gnome.

  “Can you believe this, Addison?” Mommers said. She stared at the trailer door. “That reprobate.”

  “Reprobate?” I said. “There’s one for my vocabulary book.”

  “Yeah, Addie. And for the definition, you just write Dwight!”

  She fell into a heap and started to cry. I stooped beside Mommers. I gave her shoulder a pat, tried to get her to look at me, but she wouldn’t. Then the little flash of silver caught my eye. I reached down and picked up the key.

  chapter 2

  small stuff

  I’ve always sort of liked small places like tents and bunk beds. You can make them all your own just by being there to fill up the space. I rolled the key over in my palm. I wanted to see the inside of that trailer.

  I climbed the metal steps—pretty sturdy—and stuck the key into the lock. I gave it a twist. Suddenly, there was such noise! The rushing and who
oshing filled my ears, and my legs went weak underneath me. The key quivered in the lock of the trailer.

  “Yah!” I jumped off the step and started to run back to Mommers. “It’s starting up!” I yelled. The loud clack-clack-clacking noise at my back drowned me out. Mommers covered both her ears, her mouth wide open in a silent scream. She had big round eyes fixed on something over my head. I was sure the trailer was falling off its blocks—about to crash. I turned in time to see the blur; a silver train streaked by on the tracks right above our new home.

  Silence followed. Then Mommers wailed, “We’re living under a train!”

  “Well, sort of in front of,” I said, glancing back at the empty tracks. My heart was still pounding.

  “What’s the difference?” she said.

  I braved the metal stairs again, took a breath and pulled open the door to the trailer.

  It really was a little house inside—more of a home than one of those camper things, and it wasn’t going anywhere unless something came to get it; there was no steering wheel. I had to laugh about that when I thought of Mommers and me standing outside screaming all because a train was going by.

  “Look at the kitchen,” I said to Mommers. “Isn’t it perfect?” She rolled her eyes at me. It was kinda shrimpy, like it was made for sixth graders instead of grownups, but that made me smile. I’d be starting sixth grade in about a week. I flipped a light switch and a bare bulb came on above the sink. Mommers squinted.

  “How classy,” she mumbled.

  “Hey, look,” I said. “Everything is six steps.” I counted out six baby steps from the front door. That put me right at the kitchen sink. I counted six more and that put me in the living room, which was also the dining booth and had an extra sleeping bed. In a pinch, we could drop the table down and cover it with the seat cushions. Six more steps and I stood in front of the bedroom, the only real bedroom.

  “This one’s yours, Mommers.”

  “Wow,” she said, “I get a folding door. And a window with a view of—what the heck is that? A Laundromat?” She let a sigh buzz through her lips. “I got me a regular Luxury Suite. Oh, and it’s near the bathroom. What more could I want?” She tossed her splitting suitcase onto her new bed. Her elbow hit the doorjamb and she muffled a swear.

  I didn’t mind Mommers getting the Luxury Suite. I got the bunk tucked up high, way at the other end of the trailer. I climbed up the ladder—six rungs, by the way—and pushed open the curtain on a string to try it out. I straightened up on my knees, inched a little higher and let my head thunk the ceiling a few times. I fell down giggling. I put my nose to the little square window and looked out onto the tar-patch yard and out to the steep, grassy bank that led up to the train tracks. Meadow flowers grew on the slope, the same kind I’d seen growing out at Grandio’s farm fields across Freeman’s Bridge.

  I turned and pulled the curtain shut across my bunk. Then I poked my head out. “Look, Mommers, I have my own sleeping cupboard!”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Looks like a chintzy mattress on top of a closet and a dresser to me,” she said.

  “There’s a closet?” I tipped my head down to see below my bed and almost flipped out of the bunk.

  Mommers let out a tiny laugh. “You like it here, don’t you?”

  I climbed down and crawled into the closet. I tucked up my knees and looked out toward the minikitchen, grinning. “It’s not bad,” I said. “I like small stuff. I’ll make dinner tonight.”

  Mommers went to get settled into the Luxury Suite. I pushed up my sleeves and got to work in the kitchen.

  Out on Freeman’s Bridge Road the cars and trucks bumped and rumbled over the rough pavement while Mommers and I ate our first trailer supper—macaroni and cheese with peas—from the groceries Dwight had left for us. Mommers leaned on her elbow and looked out the front window. I saw her sniffle into her napkin once or twice.

  “I’m going to see if that old computer still works,” she said after dinner.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” I said.

  She turned on her computer and soon she was on the Internet.

  “Pretty nice Dwight gave us the computer. And the Internet, too,” I added. “Are you on the Web?”

  “I’m just looking for a chat,” Mommers said.

  I did the dishes as perfectly as I could. I dried them and put each one away in the little cupboards. I wanted us to keep this new place nice.

  The cleaning had gotten away from us when we’d had the house. Dwight had tried. He would come home from work and start the laundry and drag out the vacuum. The Littles—that’s what Dwight and I called my little sisters whenever we were talking about both of them at once—and I would scrub bathrooms or roll socks. We’d pick up the toys, stack Mommers’ magazines and empty her ashtrays. But after Dwight moved out, the place got bad. Really bad. Mommers was never up at breakfast time and I left a lot of mess from making toast for the Littles. (I was always running late for the school bus.) We used napkins instead of plates and that helped some. But then we couldn’t keep up with the trash. Picker’s Waste Removal quit stopping for our cans because the bill didn’t get paid. That’s one of the things Dwight didn’t like.

  Now, with just the two of us, there weren’t so many dishes. I finished them up quickly. As small as the trailer was, I didn’t know where I should be that night. New places always do that to me. Even when I was little, when Mommers married Dwight and we moved into his house, I’d wandered from room to room like I had to try on each one, get it to fit. Soon Brynna was born and later Katie. Eventually, we were all right at home there, all filling up the space. But that was a long time ago.

  “Addie! You’re pacing!” Mommers wagged one arm behind her to shoo me away. “Do you need to pee?” She laughed and scooted closer to her keyboard and typed.

  I laughed too. But I knew she was done talking to me for the night. She was absorbed in her computer chat. I went up into my cupboard with a book. That first night, as I lay on my chintzy mattress, I listened to the sounds outside—the cars and trucks and especially the trains. I wondered what Brynna and Katie were doing. They’d be asleep, of course, or should be. I pictured Katie’s pink fist curled next to her mouth, Brynna’s cheek resting on her folded hands. I thought of Dwight filling up the bedroom doorway with all his height. “Are they out, Addie?” he’d ask. I’d whisper back, “Been gone for an hour.” Then I’d reach up a hand and catch the kiss he’d blow me and tuck my fist under my own pillow before sleeping. I caught a pretend kiss there in the trailer. I wanted to keep them all close.

  I woke in the night to the rumble and clack, and to Mommers slamming her fist down on the table and swearing about the noise. I opened my eyes and saw her leaning toward the bluish light of her computer screen. I drifted back to sleep wondering when the train would come again, and if it would be a passenger train singing by, or a freighter clacking and swaying. But a few nights later I was done waking for the trains. Me, I’m good at getting used to things—been doing it all my life.

  chapter 3

  welcome pie

  Across the street from the trailer was what I called the Empty Acre. (I don’t know if it really was a whole acre, but I was just talking to myself anyway.) It was a big parking lot of potholes that no cars ever bothered to fall into because there was no reason to drive through there anymore. The old Big N store at the back of the lot was empty too, though Mommers said you used to be able to get your discounts and your hoagie sandwich there. (A hoagie is the same as a submarine sandwich, or a poor boy, or a hero or a grinder, depending on where you come from—or in my case, where your parents come from. Mommers had grown up in Ohio, and that’s where they call it a hoagie.)

  At the front of the Empty Acre was the filling station and minimart. On my way home from my first day of school I discovered a big glass apartment that looked like a greenhouse off the back of the store. It jutted out with a long sloping roofline that nearly met the bumpy pavement. The leaves of plants and trees pressed thems
elves against the inside of the glass. But I could also see colors and fabrics and bamboo furniture inside. Somebody definitely lived there.

  I went right into the minimart that afternoon to scope things out. It’s good to know your neighbors. Funny thing about the corner—it had more businesses than residences. In fact, pretty early on I figured out I was it—the one kid living where Nott Street crossed Freeman’s Bridge Road.

  I checked out the shelves in the minimart—everything from marshmallows and onion soup mix to sunglasses and disposable diapers. Amazing what a little store can hold. I walked around the coffee counter and noted the doughnut case, the microwave and the minifreezer full of ice cream bars and quick snacks. A man pushed past me to slap a beef and bean burrito into the microwave. I smelled cigarettes on him—a different brand from Mommers’, but just as bad. I closed off my nose from the inside and took my next breath through my mouth.

  “Late lunch, Mick?” A woman’s voice sang out over the hum of the oven. I turned and caught my first glimpse of Soula. She was sitting on a lawn chair just a few feet behind me. I had missed her while I was busy looking at all the food and trying not to smell the burrito guy. Soula blended in with the displays, the ones that sell suntan oil and camera film and announce chances to win trips to Hawaii. She looked like an enormous plastic doll in a big flowered party dress. Of course, there wasn’t any possible way Soula would have fit into a small dress, but this one billowed. A pair of pink plastic flip-flops matched her toenail polish. She was a perfect fit for that glass apartment out back, and I thought to myself, It has to be hers.

  “Hey, Soula!” The burrito guy nickered back at her. “How ya feeling?”

  “Good today,” she told him. She touched the sides of her black hair like she was adjusting a hat. “Four down and four to go,” she told the guy. She winked a perfectly lined eye at him.

  Four whats? I wondered.

  A skinny man at the register spoke. “Don’t let her fool you, Mick. She’s a terrible patient.” He filled a see through bin in front of him with matchbooks and smiled knowingly at Soula.