Love, Aubrey

I was very glad to have Sammy, who needed his food pellet every few days.

“His name is Sammy,” I said. “And he doesn’t like strangers.”

“She took her address book, but she never said anything at all?”

I didn’t know which would be worse, if she had left in that hazy not-my-mother state, or if she was normal when she left, and might have known that she was leaving me behind.

“No. She never talked about…them, either.”

“So this child named Aubrey was the bravest of children—”

“Why?” I interrupted. “What made her so brave?”

“I’m not sure. I think it had something to do with her heart.”

“Yeah?”

“She wrapped it up in cellophane, to keep it fresh for later.”

For someone who had brought me to live with her, Gram really seemed to want to keep me out of the house.

“It’s good for you,” she explained.

Every morning Gram handed me another list.

“Summer’s not about having a list of things to do every day!” I groaned.

I would have thought these notes were about someone else, except that they had my name on them. Survivor—I had never really thought of myself like that. But a neglected, abandoned child…I was definitely not one of those. Those stories were about other kids, not about me. I’d heard about those kids on TV and in books. My life was not supposed to be like that.

Gram thought again, and spoke slowly. “When your grandfather died, it hurt so much. I remember feeling like I was broken. I thought that if I was broken, there was no point to getting up in the morning. It was so hard to get out of bed, to make breakfast, to take care of the house. And I thought, if I did those things, why would they matter?

“But then I realized I had other things.”

“Like what?”

“I had many other people who mattered to me, and to whom I mattered. None of them could ever be your grandfather, of course, but in the end I got out of bed again. For you.”

“You can’t seal that day off forever. You need to keep living.”

I looked at the two presents. “What should we do with these?”

“Put them in the attic,” Gram said.

I didn’t question her reasoning, but I scooped up the presents and carried them carefully upstairs.

“It’s okay to wait,” Gram said. “I’ll drive you over when it stops.”

I’d ridden the bus in the rain before, but it was a drizzly, soft, and safe rain. The rain was pounding, sweeping, drizzling.

My hair was braided, in two tails, the same way Bridget would wear her hair, the way we’d planned.

I was going to see Amy today.

I had a science presentation. My report, “The Understory Story: The Life Cycle of a Forest,” was tucked in my backpack. It was six pages, plus the bibliography. Gram had marked the end of several days’ work by buying me one of those clear plastic covers with a red plastic spine that slides on to hold the whole thing together.

“No,” I answered Gram. “I—I’ll get on the bus when it comes.”

“No!” I yelled. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be!”

Gram sighed. “Tell me, how is it supposed to be?”

“She’s supposed to come see me! Or she’s supposed to at least call to wish me Merry Christmas!”

Gram slammed something down. “You left her!” she yelled.

“I know.” Mom’s voice sounded as if she was choking. “But I didn’t know then. I didn’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t remember it.”

My breath stopped.

I had been forgotten. But she didn’t leave me behind on purpose. She didn’t know.

Even though it felt heavy in my stomach, the food tasted good and sweet and warm.

“It has gears and everything,” Bridget said, pointing to the switches on the handlebars. “And real hand brakes.”

“This is from you?” I asked, amazed.

Bridget nodded. “And my family. We thought you must need a bike back in Virginia, but you need one here, too. Dad says we can go bike riding on our own this spring, if Gram agrees. Get on.”

“Well, what do you think?” I asked. Maybe she could make this [decision] for me, too.

Gram thought for a few minutes. “I would miss you a lot, duckling. But, I think, you can look into your heart and figure it out.”

I sat on the swing in her yard, wishing that our conversation had gone differently. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her at all.

“Savannah, none of these people go together. They aren’t a family.”

Savannah doesn’t seem to care. “They live in the same place.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“And they are happy together. So there.”