We Are Okay(8)

“Sister,” Gramps said, his voice low and venomous. “I lost my wife when she was forty-six. I lost my daughter when she was twenty-four. And you remind me to remember them?”

“Mr. Delaney,” she said. “I am truly sorry for your loss. Both of your losses. I will pray for your healing. But my concern here is for Marin, and all I ask is that you share some of your memories with her.”

My body went tense. We were called in because they were concerned about my “academic progress,” but I was getting As or Bs in all my classes and all they had on me was that I’d cut a couple periods. Now I realized that this meeting was actually about a story I’d written, a story in English about a girl raised by sirens. The sirens were guilt-ridden over murdering the girl’s mother, so they told the girl stories about her, made her as real as they could, but there was always a hollowness to the girl that they couldn’t fill. She was always wondering.

It was only a story, but sitting in the counselor’s office I realized I should have known better. I should have written about a prince raised by wolves after he lost his father to the woods or whatever, something less transparent, because teachers always thought everything was a cry for help. And young, nice teachers like Sister Josephine were the worst.

I knew I had to change the subject or the counselor would start talking about my story. “I’m really sorry about the classes I missed, okay?” I said. “It was poor judgment. I got too swept up in my social life.”

The counselor nodded.

“May I count on you not to do this again?” she asked. “You have before school and after school. The lunch period. Evenings. Weekends. The majority of your hours are free to spend however you and your grandfather see fit. But during class periods we expect—”

“Sister,” Gramps said, his voice a growl again, as if he hadn’t heard anything we’d been saying. “I’m sure that painful things have happened to you. Even marrying Jesus can’t entirely shield you from the realities of life. I ask you now to take a moment to remember those terrible things. I remind you, now, to remember them. There. Don’t you feel healed? Maybe you should tell us about them. Don’t you feel, don’t you feel . . . so much better? Do they fill you with fondness? Do you find yourself joyful?”

“Mr. Delaney, please.”

“Would you care to dazzle us with a tale of redemption?”

“All right, I can see—”

“Would you like to sing a song of joy for us now?”

“I apologize for upsetting you, but this is—”

Gramps stood, puffed out his chest.

“Yes,” he said. “This is entirely inappropriate of me. Almost as inappropriate as a nun offering counsel regarding the deaths of a spouse and a child. Marin is getting excellent grades. Marin is an excellent student.” The counselor leaned back in her office chair, stoic. “And Marin,” Gramps said, triumphant, “is coming with me!”

He turned and swung open the door.

“Bye,” I said, as apologetically as I could.

He stormed out. I followed him.

The car ride home was a one-man comedy act comprised of every nun joke Gramps could remember. I laughed at the punch lines until he didn’t really need me anymore. It was a monologue. When it was over I asked him if he’d heard from Birdie today, and he smiled.

“You write two letters, you get two letters,” he said.

And then I thought of the tears in Sister Josephine’s eyes when I was reading my story to the class. How she thanked me for being so brave. And okay, maybe it wasn’t entirely imagined. Maybe the sirens gave the girl shells that filled her underwater room. Maybe the story came from some part of me that wished I knew more, or at least had actual memories instead of feelings that may have only been inventions.





chapter four



MABEL IS LEARNING as much about Hannah as our room can tell her. The pile of papers on her desk, her immaculate bed-making. The signed posters from Broadway shows and her bright, plush comforter.

“Where’s she from?”

“Manhattan.”

“This is the prettiest blue,” Mabel says, admiring the Persian rug between our beds, worn enough to show its age but still soft underfoot.

She stands in front of the bulletin board, asking me about the people in the photographs. Megan, from down the hall. Davis, her ex-boyfriend who is still her friend. Some girls, also from home, whose names I don’t remember.

“She likes quotes,” Mabel says.

I nod. “She reads a lot.”

“This Emerson quote is everywhere. I saw it on a magnet.”

“Which one?”

“‘Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can.’”

“I can see why. Who doesn’t need to be reminded of that?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Mabel says.

“Hannah’s really like that,” I say. “Things don’t seem to get to her. She’s kind of . . . straightforward, I guess. But in the best way. In a way that’s really smart and kind.”

“So you like her.”

“Yeah. I like her a lot.”

“Great,” she says, but I can’t tell if she means it. “Okay, let’s move on to you. What kind of plant is this?”