The next item on her list is to unpack the other boxes of mugs and find a way to get them all in the cupboard. We have a LOT of mugs and right now it’s only Mom’s favorites that have made it out of the boxes: the really large mugs. I make mug pyramids, which turn out awesome and a little bit like that block-stacking game, Jenga.
Pookie is also supposed to get the downstairs bathroom ready for guests. It looks ready to me, but maybe it needs extra supplies so guests won’t run out. I stuff ALL the towels on the bathroom rod in layers because that way you can just take the dirty one off the top and there’ll be a clean one underneath. I don’t know why nobody thought of that before. I also stack the rolls of toilet paper like columns on either side of the toilet, which looks pretty magical. Now our guests can feel like they’re pooping in the Parthenon.
I decide to check my list and do some of my own chores or I’M going to be the one causing the cosmic anomaly. I only have three: “Unpack your room” (that’s Jack, not my tree room), “Find presentable clothes for being a host” (I guess Mom wants me to wear shorts that aren’t so old; my life jacket is brand-new), and “Set up your bike.”
Mom says physical exercise is healthy and important but it’s risky and dangerous. So, I have a bike but it’s stationary. She’s too worried I’ll fall and injure myself to let me out on the open road. Or even the open driveway. But I have complete freedom to bike in place as long as I wear a helmet.
Joan already put my bike in its frame, so all I have to do is connect the wires to the battery, which is how I power my flashlight. That’s where my pedaling energy goes—to power a light, which is pretty magical when you think about it. If the power of your legs can create light, just think what the power of your mind can do.
Once I’m done with my bike, I go inside to Jack the room to unpack, which means push most of my stuff in the closet. I empty the other boxes onto my floor because that’s how my room normally looks.
My bookcase seems sad sitting empty, though, so I unpack my book boxes and line all the books up by size, unless they’re a series or a subject and then they have to go together, but I organize them by size within their own subset.
Pookie used to read to me whenever I had a nightmare or couldn’t sleep, which means she has read me almost every one of these books at least once. She always knew when I was having a nightmare, or even when I couldn’t sleep. She just knew. It was like magic.
Now she doesn’t know anymore.
She does—did—great voices. She used to dress us up as book characters for dinner every night, and Mom and Joan had to guess who we were. It was very educational for them. They guessed Jane and Michael Banks from Mary Poppins when we sang the nanny song, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory because of the golden ticket, and The Hobbit because Pookie made big hairy feet for us, but they didn’t get Meg and Mo from Inkheart because they’d never read it. After that, I heard Joan reading it aloud to Mom every night, so dressing up for dinner is a good way to get people to read.
Back when Pookie read to me, we were like magnets, stuck together. Now she’s turned herself around and we’re polar opposites, repelling each other. Joan said maybe Pookie would get nicer in Maine because she wouldn’t have any friends and she’d appreciate me again. So far, that hasn’t happened. I guess I’ll have to go back to having friends in parallel universes. Like Arun.
Arun was my friend in Mumbai who got in a taxi there at the same exact moment I got in one in DC and we both had the identical problem—no seat belt! Mine was broken and he didn’t have one at all. We were both really worried that we’d crash and die because our taxi drivers were not exactly responsible, more like insane. Anyway, we talked each other through the whole nightmare, but inside our heads, which is what you do with a friend in a parallel universe; otherwise, people in your own universe get nervous.
I bet Arun and I are going to meet one day, even if it’s just passing in an airport and stopping and staring at each other for a moment like we recognize each other from somewhere but we don’t remember where, and smiling and nodding and then getting on our separate planes and once we get in our seats realizing that we were the ones who talked to each other as kids and we’ll be staring into space with wondrous smiles on our faces and the flight attendant will have to tell us to buckle our seat belts because we’re about to take off and we’ll laugh because that’s exactly what we were scared of when we were boys and then the person in the next seat will stare at us like we’re weird but we’ll just smile at them because we know we’re not weird, we just experienced the magic.
PARALLEL UNIVERSES
I don’t completely understand parallel universes yet because my brain hasn’t fully developed and Pookie says it takes MUCH longer for boys’ brains to mature so I’ll probably be dead before I’m supersmart, but here’s what I know now:
I already said that everything in the universe is made up of atoms that are constantly moving. Well, there are particles even smaller than atoms. They have funny names, like if you named all the marshmallows in Lucky Charms cereal, but basically I’ll call them quarks (that’s a real name). All you have to do is look at something, or someone, and the quarks will change, like turn into a gas from a solid. That’s how you can vaporize your sister. (Just kidding.) Some scientists think that quarks actually make copies of themselves so they can be solids and liquids and gasses at the exact same time but not the exact same place so you end up with parallel universes!
I know what you’re thinking because I thought it, too. How come we don’t see all these parallel universes? Maybe we do! Do you ever wake up from a dream and wonder if the dream was real and what you’re waking up to is really the dream? Me too. Maybe that’s a parallel universe. And have you ever had anyone say you look just like someone else? It happens to my mom all the time. She says it’s because she has red hair and not many people do so she reminds them of another redhead they know. I think it’s because she’s in parallel universes. I hope so, because she’s a good mom and she should spread herself around. I hope she likes our family best, though. I try not to think about her other families or I get a little jealous. And if I get jealous I might get snarky like Pookie. And if I get snarky Mom might look at me funny and then I’ll end up in a parallel universe which might not be as nice as this one. So I usually keep my thoughts to myself. Also because people think I’m weird, which I’m not, I just think about stuff a lot.
I finish putting my books away quickly because thinking about Pookie kind of makes me sad. My Harry Potter books are lined up on top of my bookcase with my wand. They’re the most special. I’d like to go to Hogwarts in a parallel universe. And I wish my wand really worked.
I remember I have to find presentable clothes so I drag one of the boxes back out of my closet. It says JULIAN’S LEGACY—CLOTHING. It’s my baby stuff and OshKosh B’gosh overalls Mom couldn’t give away because they are “adorable,” and also my blazer and gray wool pants I wore to the funeral of Joan’s coworker who I didn’t know but Joan did so Mom said we should all go. The blazer and pants made me feel like I was wearing a uniform at Hogwarts.
I try the pants on and they’re OK around the waist but they’re about three inches too short and I don’t even need Pookie to tell me that they look stupid.
Then I remember researching British schools the first time I read Harry Potter. Do you know that a lot of them, not just Hogwarts, have uniforms? And when you’re in the junior school, which is me, because it’s for kids up to age eleven, they wear “short pants”? That’s British for “shorts.”
By the time Mom and Joan get home, I have a presentable outfit. They get out of their cars all grinning and happy, waving their licenses. They stop smiling when they see Pookie lying on the dock.
Then Mom stares at my presentable pants.
“They were way too short,” I explain, “so I made short pants out of them.”
Joan loves my presentable pants because she’s all about being creative. You can pretty much ruin anything and as
long as you’re being creative—Joan calls it “using your noggin”—she’s OK with it. Once Mom gets over the shock of not getting to keep my funeral outfit as JULIAN’S LEGACY—CLOTHING she decides she likes them, too.
Mom looks back at the dock again. “Please go get your sister,” she says, her voice low and quiet, not in a good way. I don’t really want to get that close to the water, but I can tell this isn’t a good time for a discussion.
I stand on the shore and watch Pookie asleep on the dock. She looks really sweet when she’s asleep, even the drooling part. Especially the drooling part. As I watch her, she starts talking really softly. I hate to interrupt conversations, but I don’t want Mom to go orbital.
“Hey, Pookie?”
She stops quickly and wipes her mouth but doesn’t take off her sunglasses.
I think she’s embarrassed so I say, “It’s OK to talk to an imaginary friend. It can calm your fears and make you—”
“I’m singing, stupid!”
“Oh. I couldn’t tell.”
She sits up, whips her sunglasses off, and opens her mouth to yell, but when she actually looks at me she stops. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m a host.”
“Yeah, for a mutant parasite. Jeez! Why can’t you wear normal shorts?”
“These aren’t regular shorts. They’re short pants. They’re British.”
She stands up, grabs her towel, and practically runs to the house. “Mom! Joan! Why are you letting him wear British pants? The stupid life jacket isn’t enough?”
By the time I get to the kitchen, Mom and Pookie are already at it and Joan is rubbing her head like she has one of her headaches, which she probably does.
“You, young lady,” Mom is yelling, “were supposed to be doing the chores on your list! Instead, your brother is working while you’re lounging by the lake!”
“I don’t mind,” I say quickly. I really hate arguments.
Which is why I’m glad when I hear a voice say, “Excuse me, but what is the meaning of this?”
We all turn to the screen door, where a tall blond man in a tan suit is standing.
Nobody answers so I tell him, “It doesn’t actually have any meaning. It’s just arguing.”
“I’m talking about that,” the man says, pointing to the left of our house.
“Who are you?” Joan says. “And what are you doing on my porch?” She can be blunt sometimes. A lot.
“I’m Mr. Hale. My client is your next-door neighbor. Who said you could build an addition on this house?”
Joan puts her hands on her hips. “Who said we couldn’t?”
“The state of Maine,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says, walking over to the screen door and opening it. “I don’t understand.”
Mr. Hale lets out a big breath and steps inside, just barely. “Look, I’m sorry, too, but that addition is a violation of my client’s easement.”
“Easement?” Mom says. She sounds like she still doesn’t understand.
“Yes, his easement to an unobstructed view of the water, and where you’ve put your addition completely blocks his view.”
“The seller said no one even lived there,” Mom says.
“Well, my client does. Only part of the time because he spends most of the year in Florida now that Julia—his wife—has died.”
Mom takes in a sharp breath, and I see her eyes dart to me and then look away quickly. I know what she’s thinking. Julia, like Julian. And she’s dead. It’s what I’m thinking, too.
“If he spends most of the year in Florida,” Pookie says, “why does he care?”
“His wife loved that view.”
“His wife is dead!” Pookie says.
Mom glares at her. “Pookie!”
I clutch my life jacket. “Did she have a lot of operations?”
“Uh … not a lot,” Mr. Hale says.
“Was it a heart attack?” I ask.
I hear Mom suck in her breath.
Mr. Hale looks at me like I’m trying to deflect, which I’m not. “No,” he says, “cancer. Anyway, the big problem is the easement violation.”
Mom and I look at each other, because we know that’s not the big problem. A big problem is having multiple medical procedures before you’re seven. And a few more after that.
Finally she swallows. “What are we supposed to do?”
“Take down the addition.”
“What!” Joan says, plus a lot of swear words, too.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Mr. Hale says, “but even though he’s not around much, there’s the matter of resale value. Obviously, the property is worth a lot more with a water view.”
“Is he selling?” Mom asks.
“We can’t afford it,” Joan says.
“I don’t think it’ll be sold until he dies or moves into assisted living because this house is what connects him to Julia. He loved her very much. He’s a tough old character, but after losing his wife I think he’s dying of a broken heart.”
Mom makes a little moaning sound.
I twist my safety bracelet which Mom and I made together. I don’t really like it but I have to wear it or she panics. She was so proud that she found a miniature Saturn to put on it. Like a lot of people, she thinks Saturn is every kid’s favorite celestial object. Mine is Sirius, obviously, since that’s where I’ll end up once I’m dead, but I don’t think they make charms of the Dog Star.
Pookie glares at me because she says it’s annoying when I play with my bracelet. I already stopped biting my nails for Mom and cracking my knuckles for Joan; I can’t stop everything. I mean, somebody just died. And her name was Julia.
Scary.
Mom looks at me again and I try hard to give her a calming smile. What Mom—and our neighbor—have to learn is that when Julia, or anyone that sounds like Julia, dies the rest of the people have to go on living. They just have to. Otherwise, the person who dies is going to feel terrible! That’s too much responsibility to put on a person. They already had to die. They don’t need to feel guilty about it!
I’m spinning my bracelet around and around.
Joan says something and then Mom but I don’t hear the words. I’m thinking about our neighbor’s heart and how it’s broken and how he’s so sad about Julia he doesn’t even want to live. It gives me such a heavy feeling in my chest that it’s hard to breathe. When I do take a breath, a moaning sound comes up my throat from deep inside and it hurts a little bit. I think it’s my heart crying.
It’s quiet for a couple of minutes after the lawyer leaves, but my heart is beating loud enough to hear it in my ears, which is not good for it. Pookie pulls my hand away from my safety bracelet so I start saying, You have to live in my head. I’m not sure if I’m saying it to our neighbor or to me.
Sometimes, a lot, I say the same thing to myself over and over to calm down. You have to live, You have to live, You have to live. I count the syllables on one hand, starting with my thumb, which means I have to say the sentence at least five times so I can always finish on my pinkie. Unless it’s a five-syllable phrase, in which case I only have to say it once. But I usually say it more because it doesn’t calm you down much if you only say something once. It’s better if you say it ten or twenty or one hundred times. It’s like what math teachers say about the multiplication table: Repetition helps.
Even though I’m talking in my head and counting I still notice Mom and Joan staring at each other and I can feel their shock and confusion. And fear.
“That’s that, then,” Pookie says. “Let’s pack up and go home.”
I stop counting my You have to live syllables. “But we sold our house. We can’t go back there now.”
“We’ll get another house, stupid. Duh!”
“He’s not stupid,” Mom says quietly. “He’s right. We can’t go back. We can’t afford another house in DC.”
Pookie stares at her. “What are you saying?”
“All our money is tie
d up in this B&B,” Joan says.
“Then we’ll sell it and move back.”
Joan sits down with a sigh.
Mom clears her throat. “Who’s going to buy it now? A B&B that can’t be a B&B because the bedrooms have to be torn down?”
Pookie lets out an orangutan scream. “Are you saying we’re stuck here? Great! You’re supposed to be the adults! You know what’s best! What happens now, huh?”
Mom opens her mouth, but her eyes are searching the walls for words.
Pookie answers for her. “Maybe the old guy will croak and then we won’t have to worry about it.”
“That is not a solution,” Mom says.
“Then what’s yours,” Pookie asks, “since apparently you guys never thought of a plan B?”
Mom turns to look at Joan.
“It’ll be fine,” Joan says.
Uh-oh. That’s what Joan always says when things aren’t fine at all and she’s figuring out how to start damage control.
Pookie paces back and forth in the kitchen until Mom says, “Kids, why don’t you go outside for a bit. Joan and I need to discuss this.”
Pookie grabs me by my life jacket and marches me down the front porch stairs and away from the house.
She starts pacing in the front yard. It’s giving me motion sickness. I see why Mom sent us outside.
Suddenly, Pookie stops. “You have to go over and talk to the old guy.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you look pathetic.”
“I’m not pathetic.”
“You’re wearing a life jacket and British pants. Trust me, you look pathetic.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“That if he makes us tear down the addition, we’ll be homeless.”
“That’s not true. We’ll still have the rest of the house.”
“We won’t have an income, stupid! Money from guests was going to pay the bills. Now there won’t be any guests.”
I swallow hard and roll my life jacket straps up and try to think. “Joan will still be a paramedic.”