QUASIMODO RETURNS TO THE BELL TOWER
After fighting with Maddie, all I want to do is burrow into my bed with The West Wing and not come out until graduation, but I was going to get a talking-to about what happened. When I walked up the driveway, Mom stopped mowing the lawn in the middle of a row.
I had left her a voice mail last night. She’d called three or four times until I texted her back. I would rather just have a conversation about it, I told her, and I needed to recover from losing Nationals.
“Hey,” Mom called across the yard as I stalked toward the front door. “Hey!’
“Give me a minute,” I told her, almost running inside.
Now here we were, in person, and I couldn’t avoid it. I could feel her energy rocking and swaying like a ship in a storm. Bette and Davy were putting a puzzle together on the floor. Dad was in the kitchen and dropped the dish he was washing when he heard me coming down the hall.
They followed me and stood in my doorway in their day-off outfits, Mom in ripped jeans and a Mickey Mouse baseball shirt, Dad in a Patriots cap and sweats.
“What happened?” Dad asked.
As I unpacked, I gave them a careful summary, being sure to leave out the curse words and the sobbing. Before I could finish, Mom came across the room and yanked me up into a hug.
“I shouldn’t have let you go,” she said quietly.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I said, my heart trying to decide between sadness and anger. “Not going would have been worse.”
“But we weren’t there, Sammie,” she said, pulling back to look at me. Wisps of her hair were coming out, crossing her face, her eyes wet. She looked young, unsure. I didn’t like it. My stomach hurt. I didn’t like making her look like this.
“Okay.” I tried to peel her off slowly. “We’ve got to be strong. We’re going to make a plan—”
“Sammie, just slow down a minute,” Dad said, and his voice was higher than normal.
I looked back at them, waiting. “What? What do you want me to do?”
Dad swallowed. “No, I just—nothing. Do you get what I’m saying?”
No. I didn’t. Especially when he talked to me in that poor baby, Santa-Claus-doesn’t-exist voice. I threw a shirt into my closet. “I can’t slow down. I can’t stop. I can’t go back in time and not go to Nationals.”
Dad spoke fast, lifting his cap and running his hands through his curly hair. “What if you had been on the street, Sammie? What if you had forgotten where you were and wandered into a dangerous place? What if you had gotten lost?”
“We just need to make sure we can help you!” Mom put on a sweet smile through her tears. She looked and sounded just like Davy, trying to coax a chicken back into the coop. Here, chicky! Come on, chicky!
I didn’t like this conversation. I don’t like hypotheticals, especially considering I had already gotten over it. I already had my crying time about how much it sucked, and now I didn’t want those feelings to come back just because my parents wanted to cry about it. No, thank you.
“Sammie? Earth to Sammie?” Dad asked.
I tossed a pair of pants in the closet. Don’t know why I even bothered unpacking, I was just putting the same pile of clothes into yet another pile. “You need more information, is what you’re saying.”
“We need to make sure we’re not going to lose you,” Dad said.
That stopped me.
Mom crossed her arms and cleared her throat. “This is the first time you’d left and we weren’t sure what state you were going to be in when you came back.”
Right then she sounded more like Mom and less like a kid, more like the mmhmms and the exhaustion and the pushing and pushing she did all day, almost never losing patience.
I think I was beginning to know what they meant. But that didn’t mean I agreed with them.
I walked toward Mom and grabbed her hand, and grabbed Dad’s hand with my other one, and we sat on the floor in my room. That felt right, that felt calm and stable. We used to sit this way as they read to me, a stack of library books in the middle. Then later, as I read to them, the littler kids draped over their bodies.
“So, what’s this plan, Sammie?” Dad picked up a paperback copy of A Wrinkle in Time, flipping through it as he spoke. “How are we going to make sure that you’re taken care of if something like this happens again?”
Much better. This, I could handle. That is, I could handle it if they listened and didn’t argue with me and let me do whatever I wanted.
“If the memory loss continues at the same rate, I might have a slight episode every four months. This is assuming that I would have an episode at all. With those odds, I see very little need to panic.”
My mom laughed drily. “Ha.”
Dad said, “Dr. Clarkington told us—”
“Dr. Clarkington doesn’t have enough information about someone my age with this disease.”