“I see it.”
“The interesting thing is that neither of them probably realizes that it’s happening. You can learn a lot from watching people’s body language—often it tells you much more than what they’re actually saying.”
“I think her body language is saying that he isn’t very interesting,” I deduced, then paused to note that fact on paper.
Grandpa chuckled. “You might be right.”
I looked at the two little girls at the couple’s feet. “But she’s not taking any notice of her kids either.” The observation stung a little—I was pretty sure I’d seen that same look of indifference on my own mother’s face. “Maybe she’s unhappy. It looks like she doesn’t want to be there.”
Grandpa opened his mouth to respond but then stopped, as if he’d cast a fishing line and was reeling it back. “Yes, that could be true.” He squinted above the treetops. “Unfortunately, there are a lot of people in this world who are unhappy with the lives they’ve chosen.”
“That’s really sad, Grandpa.” I kicked my legs out in front of me and tapped my sneakers together. “Can’t we do something to help them?”
“Sometimes, but it’s not always our place to do so.”
I peered up at him, dissatisfied. “But that’s not very fair to her kids.”
He rubbed his stubble for a few moments, thinking.
“I’ll tell you a secret about adults, Clover,” he said finally. “Even though it seems like they know what they’re doing, often they’re just trying their best to work life out as they go. And that’s especially true of parents—I think every mom and dad probably wishes they’d done things differently at some point, in some way.”
I looked back at the woman and her kids. “You mean maybe my mom and dad wished they’d spent more time with me? And maybe taken me with them on their trips?”
“That’s very possible.” I noticed him grimace slightly. “You know, when your mom was a young girl like you, I traveled around the world a lot for my job too. And that meant I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have liked.”
“But you were having adventures.” I loved the stories he’d told me about his biology expeditions to far-flung jungles and islands. “Maybe they were too dangerous for a little girl?”
Grandpa seemed surprised by my logic. “Yes, that’s true. And the same might have been true of your mom and dad’s adventures.”
I considered that for a moment. “And if they’d taken me to China, maybe I wouldn’t be here with you now.”
He rubbed his stubble again. “I suppose that’s something we’ll never know for sure,” he said. “But what I do know is that I’m very glad that you are here with me.”
I beamed up at him, curling my hand under his arm. “Me too.”
We sat for a few moments, watching the kids playing in front of their parents until he tapped my notebook with his pen.
“The lesson here, my dear, is that almost anything can be understood if you study it hard enough. Even human beings. Some people have a natural ability to read others and understand them, but for the rest of us, it helps to look for their patterns.”
“What kind of patterns?”
“Well, as you meet more people in your life, you’ll see that there are many different personalities in the world, and that means you can’t approach everybody the same way. For example, you and I like to spend time sitting quietly reading our books, isn’t that right?”
“Of course!”
“But for some people that would be misery. They’d prefer to always be surrounded by lots of other people, chattering.”
I was skeptical. “Really?” A life without books sounded like misery to me.
“Yes, really,” Grandpa said. “So, as you interact with people in your life, take the time to observe them. Look at the way they inhabit the world. Do they like to be noticed or do they prefer to blend in? Do they approach problems creatively or intellectually? What agitates them or calms them?”
My pen hovered over the page, but Grandpa continued speaking. “Learning these patterns will help you be of most use to people. It won’t help you ever understand them completely—we humans are a complex bunch—but it will give you clues about what makes them tick.”
“People, patterns, clues—got it,” I said, noting the words down like a complicated math formula.
I had a feeling this particular birthday lesson was going to come in handy. I didn’t know many people yet, but one day I might. And I couldn’t wait to find out exactly how I could be of most use to the world.
15
“I thought you’d disappeared into thin air,” Leo teased as he examined the scattering of mahjong tiles between us on his dining table. He circulated a tile between his finger and thumb, considering his move. “I haven’t seen you in a week. Did you even leave the house?”
“Of course I did.” My tone was more impetuous than I’d intended, but he was needling me on purpose. “I walked George every day—twice.”
“That doesn’t count unless you actually interacted with another human being.” Leo returned the tile to his lineup and threw out the neighboring one instead. “I don’t know how you can spend so much time at home without seeing anybody.”
“We’re not all as sociable as you are, Leo. Why do I have to interact with anybody? I like spending time by myself.”
Leo leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms like a disapproving bouncer. “You know, I can’t understand why you keep your world so small. There are so many interesting people out there.”
I braced myself. Leo had become increasingly philosophical in the past month or so, like he’d just realized that he was getting old and still hadn’t pondered many of life’s big questions. Unfortunately, it meant he’d started philosophizing about my life as well.
Shrugging, I picked up a tile from the mahjong wall. “I just like my own company most of the time.”
It was almost true. The upside of having lost my parents so young, if there was one, was a fierce self-sufficiency. Too busy with their own lives, my parents never thought to arrange playdates with other kids. So when I reached school age, I hadn’t really learned the art, or point, of making friends. When my classmates shunned me after Mr. Hyland’s death, I just retreated further into my imagination and became so reliant on myself that I didn’t need anyone. Sure, I’d met some interesting people in my travels during college and even kept in touch with them via email for a while—until Grandpa died. I’d learned the hard way that when people ask you how you’re doing after a loved one’s death, they don’t really want to know. They want to hear that you’ve moved on because they can’t stand to look at your pain. And when I didn’t move on, the emails gradually trickled to nothing.
Leo didn’t let the subject slide. “But you’re so good with people—just look at the work you do.” He reached over to pinch my cheek, like I was still the little girl he first met. “You just need to open yourself up a little more.”
I dodged his hand. “It’s easy to be ‘good with people’ when they’re dying. I know I’m helping them and I know what they need: comfort, company, and someone to listen.” I counted the items off on my fingers for emphasis.
Leo grunted in dissent. “I think you’re underestimating how rare your skills are, kid. Everyone confronts their death differently. Hell, most of us don’t even want to talk about it until it comes knocking. It takes a real special person to help someone navigate the dying process in their own personal way.”
“Right. But I’m good at it because that’s my job.” His relentless prodding was exhausting. “There aren’t any pretenses with dying people. And there’s no pressure to make a good impression because they won’t be around to remember you.” It also meant that there was no risk involved for me—I knew the outcome of the relationship before it even began.
“That’s playing it too safe, if you ask me,” Leo said. “What kind of life are you living if you’ve never let anyone see the real you?”