Up High in the Trees Page 2

  Dad’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing the speakers, so he can’t see me. I reach out and touch the back of his neck with one finger. He turns around fast.

  Jesus Christ, Sebby, don’t do that, Dad says. He grabs my hands and rubs them between his hands. Your hands are freezing, he says.

  Cass comes and turns down the music.

  Where’s Leo? she asks me.

  Outside, I say.

  What’s going on? Dad asks.

  Nothing, Cass says.

  Dad looks at me and I don’t say anything.

  Let him stay outside, Cass says.

  Dad goes to the door.

  Just leave him alone, Cass shouts.

  But Dad goes out. He closes the door slowly so it doesn’t make any noise.

  We’re going to eat, Cass says to me.

  She takes my hand and pulls me into the kitchen. The table is already set with the brown place mats that have orange and yellow and red leaves on them. Cass pushes down hard on my shoulders to make me sit.

  Here, she says.

  Cass puts a plateful of steaming spaghetti down on my place mat. I lean forward and let the steam make my face sweaty wet.

  Stop it, Cass says. She sits down next to me and uses my knife and fork to cut up the spaghetti.

  Dad treats everyone like a baby, Cass says and leans back in her chair. I hear the front door open and then close. There are steps, but Leo and Dad don’t come to the kitchen to eat. I look down at my spaghetti because I don’t want to see Cass.

  Eat, Cass tells me.

  It’s too hot, I say.

  Cass takes a bite of my spaghetti with her fork.

  It’s fine, she says.

  I try a bite.

  See, Cass says, it’s fine.

  She takes another bite and then it’s my turn again. We keep taking turns.

  How was school? Cass asks.

  Long, I tell her.

  Cass doesn’t have to go to school anymore because she finished twelfth grade and had a graduation. I’m in third, so that means I have nine more grades.

  Cass takes another bite and then says, Stop. Stop eating, she says, it doesn’t taste right. She gets up and carries the plate over to the sink, then dumps off all the spaghetti.

  I stand up and watch her.

  Go take a bath, she says.

  I don’t move. I don’t want to take a bath.

  I’m tired, I say.

  Cass turns off the water. She doesn’t look at me.

  Whatever, she says, then go to sleep.

  I go upstairs and sit down on the top step. If I go to sleep now, then morning will come and I’ll have to go back to school. I don’t want to go to school, I’ll say, and Cass will say there’s nowhere else for me to go. In my head, the song says, Goodbye to Rosie. I look at the white wall until it makes my eyes go blurry. There are bright spots where Mother touched that haven’t been touched by anybody else. You have to look for a long time before you can see a bright spot. Then the spot glows and that’s how you know where Mother still is. The spot glows and it’s like the spot is glowing inside of you, because it makes you warm inside your chest and that feels good. You want to touch the spot, but you can’t because then it will be gone. What’s wrong is that everybody always goes around touching everything and Cass is always cleaning and that erases the spots.

  I know that when I was three, I was standing on the couch looking out the window at all the flowers. The window was open so I pushed myself out and fell two stories. I landed on my back in Grandmother Bernie’s summer garden.

  Mother put her hand on her chest and screamed. She could feel her heart in her chest. Her heart felt like it was getting bigger. She kept screaming and ran down the stairs, out the door to me.

  I was quiet there in the dirt. Mother picked me up and held me tight. Then I started screaming, too.

  Dad was watching from the upstairs window. He ran down to me and Mother. Dad looked at the ground and saw how my head left a dent in the soil. He bent down and kissed the dent. Then he blew a kiss up to Grandmother Bernie and everybody watching us and he couldn’t stop blowing kisses because Grandmother Bernie had just put the new garden there with fresh, soft dirt.

  Mother held me and she screamed louder and louder—louder than me. Dad put his hands over his ears. I stopped crying and I listened. I could hear everything inside of her.

  I didn’t talk until after I fell.

  Dad tried to get me to talk before that. He sang me songs. He carried me around the house and pointed at everything we saw and told me what it was. He put the words in my head.

  Dad took me to the doctor, but Mother wouldn’t listen to what the doctor said about me. Mother said I would talk as soon as I had something to say.

  After I fell, I said a whole sentence. I want a garden, I told Mother.

  Of course, she said.

  I helped her plant the seeds. I liked watching all the different colors grow.

  Sebby, says Cass’s voice.

  I can hear her, but I don’t want to wake up. She pushes back the hair on my forehead and holds her hand there. Her hand feels cold and then warmer.

  Sebby, she says again. She leans in close to me and I can smell her morning pancake-and-syrup smell. She takes her hand off my forehead and it leaves a cold spot.

  I stretch my arms up out of the covers. It’s morning and I don’t want to go to school. My eyes are foggy. I have to rub them so I can see better.

  Don’t, Cass says, and she pulls my hands down away from my face.

  My eyes hurt, I tell her.

  That’s because you’re rubbing them, she says. She’s getting my clothes out for me, stacking everything in a neat pile at the bottom of my bed. First my pants, then my shirt, and then my underwear and socks on top. It has to be in this order or else I don’t want to get dressed.

  How about no school today? she asks.

  I nod.

  Good, she says, you get ready and I’ll call and tell them you’re not coming.

  My eyes are still foggy. I look out the window and the hill with the big house on top is barely there at all. It’s like the outside has gotten smaller. I close my eyes.

  Sebby, Cass calls from downstairs.

  I push off my covers and crawl to the end of the bed where my clothes are. I dress fast and run down to the kitchen.

  Cass is sitting at the table, chewing her tiny fingernails.

  Eat your cereal before it gets soggy, she says. Cass is skinny-skinny and her face is bony and sharp to look at.

  Does Dad know? I ask her. She stops chewing on her fingernails and leans forward. Her face gets bigger. Her eyebrows go up and her eyes look like heavy, black stones.

  About what? she asks.

  School, I say.

  She shakes her head.

  I look down at the table to think.

  Come on, says Cass.

  At the end of the driveway, the green car is lonely and wet with dew. I have to squint because the sun is making the car sparkly bright. Across the bumper, Cass put stickers that say, CLINTON GORE in red, white, and blue.

  Is it winter? I ask Cass.

  Not yet, she says.

  The car smells cold inside.

  Seat belt, Cass says.

  The buckle is so cold I can’t really even feel it when I put it on. I sit back and wait for the seat to get warmer. Cass starts the car and flicks on the wipers to clean the dew off the wind-shield. Then we go.

  Cass is happy in the car. She pushes the eject button on the tape player and her tape flies out into the backseat. We laugh. The green car is so old we’ve had it since before I was born. It used to be Mother’s and then Mother gave it to Cass. Now Cass has to share it with Leo because he learned how to drive, too.

  I look out my window and watch the houses go by. There are also big, green parks and grocery stores with empty parking lots and there’s the new bank and the movie theater made out of bricks with a sign that says, THE MIGHTY DUCKS in red letters that glow
at night. We go faster now past houses and more houses. They are tall and close together. I watch how the colors change from light brown to yellow to dark brown to light blue. If I turn my head and look straight at the houses going by, I can make the colors blur into tan.

  Cass rolls down her window a little.

  Put yours down, she says.

  I do it and the cold wind from outside blows through. Cass’s long yellow hair flies and snaps around her face in the wind. She puts on her black stocking cap. Then she reaches back and hands me a scarf from the backseat. I bunch it up into a ball and hold it against my chest like a pillow.

  You know, Cass says, you’re going to be okay. The car is windy inside, so Cass has to make her voice louder than the wind.

  Sebby, she says.

  I look at her. She’s facing straight ahead and talking to the road.

  I’m sorry about yesterday in the library, Cass says. I’m sorry I said that you looked dead.

  The word starts going in my head. I know the word dead. I hear it over and over again. I have to catch it and then my head is quiet.

  I make up a song:

  Dead, dead, dead

  Sorry, Mother

  Sorry, Mother, that you are dead

  Don’t be sad

  Don’t be sad that you are dead.

  I sing the song to myself.

  Cass puts her hand on my leg. In my head, the song won’t stop. I close my eyes.

  You’ll be okay, Cass tells me.

  Mother got married on a sunny day. She married Dad outside in the grass and the grass kept making her sneeze. Her eyes were watery and sad, but it was because of her allergies, she said. Cass was already there, inside of her stomach. Mother could feel the baby kicking inside her the whole time. The baby kicked until Mother kissed Dad and then the baby stopped kicking.

  Where was I? I asked Mother.

  You were up there in the trees, Mother said.

  Now I remember sitting up high in the trees. I was happy and I kept jumping from one tree to another and the branches scraped my arms and legs when I jumped and landed, and jumped and landed. I had scratches all over. I could see the red scratches, but I couldn’t feel them because I wasn’t really me yet. I was just a part of Mother floating up in the trees.

  Hello, Cass says, earth to Sebby?

  I can’t answer. She pulls the car over to the side of the road and we stop. Everything stops, but in my head the song about Mother keeps going. Don’t be sad that you are dead. Cass puts her cold hand on my cheek and turns my face to look at her. She holds still and I hold still. Then Cass smiles because she’s going to tickle me. I know she’s going to tickle me. I count in my head. One, two, three. I’m ready. But then Cass jumps in her seat and I scream. She tickles under my arms and all over. I laugh until I run out of air. Cass is laughing, too. I’m kicking and trying to wiggle loose, but Cass holds on tight.

  Okay, okay, she says and she stops. You’re a good boy, she tells me.

  I move back over to my seat. I’m tired. The inside of my mouth is dry like I just woke up.

  Cass gets out of the car to smoke a cigarette. She leans against the door, so all I can see is her back and the smoke twisting up. Cass says that she smokes because it gives her time to think.

  Straight ahead, the empty white sky gets brighter. I look down at my lap, but the white sky glow stays and makes me see glowing spots all over. It’s true that the sun can make you blind if you look at it for too long. I close my eyes tight and think about how the sun fills up the whole sky with light. Then my head is quiet and there’s the sound of trees growing, stretching up and up. The trees are growing and making everything else small.

  Cass opens the door and gets back in.

  Sebby? she asks. Are you sleeping?

  I don’t say anything. Cass smells like smoke.

  You’re a good boy, she says again.

  Cass drives and we blow past the trees. They say, Shhhhhhh. I let the trees put me to sleep.

  Grandmother Bernie locked the windows shut and in the summer, her air conditioner kept breaking, so the air in her house got heavy and dirty-tasting. It made Mother dizzy. She fell asleep on the couch and Dad had to clap his hands on her cheeks to wake her up. After that, Dad put in a ceiling fan.

  I lay on my back under the fan. I could make my eyes follow just one blade around and around and then the fan looked like it was slowing down. But Grandmother Bernie wanted me to sit on her lap always. She held me close like a baby and hummed with the fan. You couldn’t hear the fan unless you listened for it. Grandmother Bernie hummed and held me close, so I could hear her voice humming inside her chest. It sounded like a motor deep down in the ocean.

  Let him go play, Mother would say, he’s not a baby anymore.

  When we stayed the night, Grandmother Bernie made me sleep in the crib with the cold, plastic mattress that crinkled.

  The crib was in Grandmother Bernie’s room next to her closet. She left the closet light on for a nightlight. I could count all her shoes, stacked up high in clear plastic shoe boxes with ugly, green-colored lids. Cass and I would sneak into her room during the day and Cass read me the names of all the shoe boxes, so I knew them in my head. Beige Heel, Black Aerosoles, Pink/Orange Flat, Brown Suede Tassel.

  Grandmother Bernie said good night and fell asleep just like that. Her snores came out like whistles.

  She asked me once why I crawled out the window. Mother was helping her make a broccoli casserole that smelled like cheese, and I was sitting on the counter watching.

  I don’t remember why, I said.

  Mother’s face got red and angry.

  It was an accident, Mother said. Her eyes were watery and she turned away.

  Louise, Grandmother Bernie said. She put her hand on Mother’s back.

  I wake up a little bit. We’re still in the car, driving. Cass’s window is open and the car feels windy, cold and empty. I want her to pull over so the wind and cold and everything will stop. I have to pee so bad it hurts. I don’t think I can hold it.

  Cass, I say. My voice sounds scratchy and asleep. I can feel my throat getting tight and then I’m crying.

  Sebby, Cass says, what is it? She pulls the car over to the side of the road.

  I unlock my door and run out. I have to jump over the rail where the road stops and then I run and slide down the gravel and dirt into the trees. I can’t get my zipper down. I’m crying and it’s hard to see. My fingers are still asleep. I shake out my hands and try the zipper again and then it works. My pee comes out fast and quiet. Cass keeps calling my name. I can hear her coming, looking for me. I don’t say anything. I watch how the dirt soaks up my pee.

  Cass grabs my shoulders and shakes me hard.

  What’s wrong? Cass asks.

  I tell her I had to pee. I thought I was going to have an accident and I couldn’t say the words. There wasn’t enough time to say the words. My face is wet and cold. I can feel my nose running and it tickles above my lip.

  Did you have a bad dream? Cass asks me. She wipes my face with the red scarf and takes my hand. I let her pull me back to the car.

  Cass drives and it’s quiet except I can’t stop sniffling.

  Where are we going? I ask her.

  To visit Emma, Cass says.

  Emma quit school and moved far away to grow bees and make honey at a farm. Now she has a baby girl.

  I don’t want to see Emma.

  When I’m old enough to drive the green car, I will go all the way to Disney World in Florida. Mother took us for a vacation once and she bought me a puzzle of how the states fit together so I could see where we were driving. There is also a Disneyland in California, but that is so far away. And now there’s a Euro Disney in Paris that opened on April 12. You can’t drive there. You have to fly in an airplane. Leo saved the Disney World map of where all the rides are and he circled the best ones in yellow. It’s in his desk drawer.

  I’m hungry, I tell Cass.

  Okay, she says, we’ll b
e there soon. Cass reaches over to get a tape out of the glove compartment. The tape is black with a white label that says, THE CLASH LONDON CALLING FOR CASS XOXO A. The letters are tall and skinny and red. Cass pushes in the tape. Her mouth moves and makes all the words to the song, but her voice doesn’t come out or maybe she’s just whispering the words. I don’t know who A is.

  A is for Alexander, like Uncle Alexander. He was Mother’s brother and then he died of cancer. I remember Uncle Alexander playing tennis in white shorts and socks pulled all the way up.

  I was in the guest bedroom looking at the shells in their glass case. I like to take the shells out and then put them back in a different way, sometimes from smallest to biggest or sometimes from lightest to darkest.

  I couldn’t find you, Mother said. Uncle Alexander is dead, she whispered.

  I kept taking the shells out. I thought about Uncle Alexander playing tennis.

  Mother told him, You look ridiculous when you run, it’s like you’re dancing.

  In my head, I tried to see Uncle Alexander in regular clothes, but I couldn’t. I took out the littlest shell and stared at it.

  Well, Mother said and looked up.

  I looked up, too.

  I’m lost, she said to the ceiling.

  Then I looked at her face. I didn’t understand.

  Can you see that? she asked and pointed up. A bird, she said.

  I could see it, too, in the white-frosting paint. The shape like a bird with its wings spread out.

  Mother left me with the shells. I put them back in the case from quietest to loudest and that was almost the same as smallest to biggest.

  We’re close, Cass says, maybe ten more minutes.

  In front of us, the sun is low. Cass squints to see the road. We’re driving next to the ocean. It’s dark, dark blue. The ocean’s like a night with no moon.