“Uncle Carl!” I yell.
“Jackie-O! You won’t believe it!” He puts the cigarette behind his ear and takes a long drink from his mug. He sees me looking at the cup and says, “From Juan as a special de-stressor.”
“De-stressor?”
“Things have gotten intense, this proposal.”
I start to apologize for not coming sooner, but he just holds up his hand. “No explanation needed. I know you live with the goat. Anyway, I got the balloon tickets. It’s all set. One week from today, me and Rosie will be high in the sky!”
“Oh my gosh, really?”
“Really, really. Except now I have a problem—the ring. There’s just no money for one and I’m going to have to do something drastic to get it.”
“Drastic?” I say.
“Well, let’s just say an opportunity has come my way, and I think I better take it, for my Rosie.”
“An opportunity? Uncle Carl, what are you talking about?” My voice sounds weird—higher than normal.
But he holds up his hand again to stop me. “No way. If I think about it or talk about it too much, I’ll freak myself out and it won’t happen. If it hadn’t been for Juan, that exact thing would have happened with the balloon tickets. No. I’m on my way to meet the guy now and that’s that.”
“What guy?”
“Never mind, Jackie-O. You can’t help with this part. Sometimes something drastic is what needs to be done and I have to do this myself. But come by tomorrow! I’ll need your help with the ring! And we can finish planning the landing party. The last pieces to this Rosie puzzle.” He downs the rest of his coffee and straps the empty mug to the rack behind his bicycle seat.
“But Uncle Carl, I might not be able to–”
But Uncle Carl cuts me off. “It’s a plan! See you tomorrow! Wish me luck!”
Then he gets on his bike and pedals off around the corner, headed for whatever drastic thing he feels he needs to do.
**Observation #784: Islands
Maybe everyone is an island, even if we can’t see the water all around.
B/c if Krysten is an island, then so is Janet. A neon-colored island in an ocean of small-town boredom.
If Janet is an island, then so is Rosie. A compassionate & smiley island in a sea of double-continental responsibilities.
And that means Uncle Carl is one too. & Ms. Perkins & Mrs. Spater. What oceans do they swim in?
Drastic ones? Busy ones? Lonely ones?
Of course that means Mama was an island, the brightest island floating in a dark & ordinary ocean.
& maybe the most obvious island is Patrick, the uncle who put himself out to sea.
CHAPTER 13 A DRASTIC THING
Birdie crawls onto my bed Sunday morning and says, “I’m worried about Uncle Carl’s drastic thing.”
“Birdie,” I say with my eyes closed. “It’s six thirty. Please go back to sleep. We don’t have to be up for another hour.”
“Is that all you can think about? Sleep? Aren’t you worried?”
“Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Especially from under a warm blanket with my eyes closed.”
“Patrick’s already up.” Birdie leans toward my ear and whispers, “Again. Now we can’t sneak out.”
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Is that still the plan? Sneaking out?”
“Well, how else are we going to go help Uncle Carl? I don’t want our plan to go up in smoke, you know.”
“I’m going to ask Patrick for a ride again.”
He looks at me with excited eyes. “You think he’ll actually let us go?”
“I think he’ll let me go.”
“That isn’t fair.” He tugs at his sweatshirt collar again.
“Birdie, nothing about living here is fair.” I spit the words out before I can stop myself.
Birdie slides off my bed and walks toward the door. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
“You want my Honey Bunny Bun?” I call after him as he leaves my room.
“No. I’m going to go make some toast!”
He doesn’t ask if I want any.
• • •
At eight o’clock we go into the backyard. Patrick comes from the side of the house and hands me two pairs of gloves. These ones are smaller and brand-new.
“Those should fit better,” he says as he looks out over the backyard. “Today you guys are going to carry more stones. We’re going to mark out some garden beds.”
Patrick shows us where he’s tilled up a bunch of dirt. We’re supposed to lay a stone border down to make four garden beds. He also wants stones around the four smaller trees—apple, apricot, and two cherry—which he says have been there for forty years.
I want to ask if they grow any fruit, but Patrick says, “Well, let’s get to it,” and then he goes to the other side of the yard where the tiller is. It bursts on with a bang and the opportunity for questions is gone.
We work for two hours and when Patrick turns off the tiller for good and goes inside, we sit on the old bench.
“When are you going to ask Patrick for a ride?” Birdie asks.
“Soon.” Approaching Patrick is like getting close to a wild animal—no sudden movements and the timing has to be just right or he’ll bolt. So I change the subject. “Did Patrick ever talk to you about learning how to fight?”
“No. I’m pretty sure he’s only said like five sentences to me since we moved in.”
I wish I could say that this isn’t true, but he’s probably right.
“At least the garden looks good,” says Birdie. “I like the dark dirt and the light-colored stones together.”
“But I bet we’re gonna have to come out here and water a lot,” I say. “I miss Portland rain.”
“Yeah, and even with all that rain, it still felt sunnier than here.”
Patrick comes out with a mesh sack of flower bulbs in one hand and a plate in another. “A little snack,” he says as he sets the plate down between us. It has some of his thickly sliced homemade bread with
