All the Ugly and Wonderful Things(82)

“I’ll come visit. You can send me letters. I’ll come for the summer. Uncle Sean says so. That I can come for the summer.”

When I started to worry the lawyer would have to pry them apart, Wavy took her hands off Donal and stepped back with a horrible, empty look on her face. While the rest of us went to the door to see Donal off, she crawled into the closet under the stairs.

She stopped eating. Really stopped. She got thinner and paler, walking up and down in her nightgown. Mom threatened to take her to the doctor.

One day I got to the cafeteria at school and opened my lunch box to find half my sandwich gone. Sitting next to me, Angela looked at the half sandwich with one eyebrow up.

“Going on a diet?” she said.

“I think maybe Wavy’s going to live,” I said.

Wavy did live. She kept eating, secretly, and she went to school. In her dismal white pin-tucked dresses, she looked like a consumptive child from the nineteenth century, transported to the raucous hallways of a public school. She caught up on the course work she’d missed and survived her freshman year of high school. Survived being stared at and whispered about.

Every week she wrote two letters: one to Donal and one to Kellen. Sometimes she got a short note or a postcard from Donal, but nothing from Kellen.

Eventually Mom sat Wavy down at the kitchen table and handed her a stack of letters. Every letter she’d sent to Kellen, all returned from the prison marked UNAUTHORIZED CORRESPONDENCE.

“The judge says you’re not allowed to write to him and he’s not allowed to write to you. He’ll get in trouble if he communicates with you.” Mom sounded almost sorry. Wavy gathered up the letters and carried them to her room. She never said a word, and I never saw her write to Kellen again. She usually wrote to Donal after she finished her homework in the evenings, and she always signed the letters, “See you soon. Love, Wavy.” See you soon. See you soon.

Donal didn’t come for the summer that year. Or any other. Wavy’s sophomore year, her last letter to him came back stamped: NOT AT THIS ADDRESS. NO FORWARDING ORDER.





10

DONAL

April 1984

I wasted too much time at the sandwich counter waiting for Sean to come out of the bathroom. The counter guy came by twice and said, “Where’d your dad get to?”

“The bathroom.” That’s what I said both times.

“He’s been gone a while, hasn’t he?”

I shrugged, like Wavy, because what was I supposed to do? Sean always took a long time in the bathroom. Sometimes I had to go get him, and he’d be asleep on the toilet with his needle in his arm.

So the counter guy wouldn’t ask me again, I got up and walked over to the gas station. That’s when I saw the postcards. I ran out to the car and looked for money. We didn’t have the Corvette anymore and the new car smelled bad under the seats, like gas and rotten stuff. The carpet was sticky from where somebody spilled a pop. Not me.

I found enough for the postcard, a pretty one of the Grand Canyon that Sean said we didn’t have time to see, but I didn’t have enough money for the card and a stamp. The lady at the cash register said, “That’s okay. I can spot you four cents.” She was nice. I was glad I didn’t steal the card.

Then I had to borrow a pen, because that was how life was with Sean. I liked it better when I lived with Sandy. I didn’t always have to beg or steal things.

I wrote as fast as I could, but I didn’t want it to be messy.

Dear Wavy, we had to move and I don’t know where yet. I will write to you again when I know where. See you soon. Love, Donal.

“Who’re you writing to, sweetie?” the cashier lady said.

“My sister.”

“That’s nice.”

I wished she would be quiet, because it was hard to remember Aunt Brenda’s address. Before I could write the zip code, Sean put his hand on my shoulder.

“Whatcha doing, Don?”

“He’s such a cutie. He’s writing his sister a postcard.”

“Come on, buddy. You can finish that in the car,” he said.

In the parking lot, he took the postcard and put it in the trash. He squeezed my shoulder hard and said, “Don, didn’t we talk about how it’s not safe for you to write to your sister?”

“I didn’t tell her where we were,” I said.

“I don’t want you sneaking around behind my back like that again. Do you understand?”

I nodded. Wavy was right. Sometimes you have to nod, even if you don’t agree. She was right about a lot of things.





11

WAVY





1986


After Kellen was UNAUTHORIZED CORRESPONDENCE, and Donal was NO FORWARDING ORDER, I felt dead. I woke up in the mornings surprised my heart was still beating. The food I snuck at night tasted like nothing. I stole a whole red velvet cake from Mrs. NiBlack that was for a charity auction. It tasted like dirt. That was what I imagined it was like being dead. Feeling empty with the taste of dirt in your mouth.

Whatever Val felt now that she was dead, I couldn’t think of her as Mama anymore. I wanted to take her flowers like Kellen had done for his mother, but I couldn’t stand to go see her now that she was lying next to Liam.

Feeling dead was better than when my heart hurt. Sometimes I thought it might burn through my ribs while I was asleep, and smolder in the sheets until the whole house caught fire. The only thing that made it hurt less was moving my hands. Like Kellen washing dishes, making his head empty. I sliced and knitted and ironed and sanded and hammered and typed, trying to make my heart empty. Home economics class. Typing class. Woodshop class. Homeroom, where I volunteered to make decorations for dances.