When he comes out, he has his work boots and hat on. He leaves through the front door. When I hear his engine start, I creep downstairs and watch his truck pull out of the driveway and disappear down the road. I guess Birdie and me are walking to school today.
Mama used to say that imagining yourself in someone else’s shoes can help with feeling the tidal wave of joy.
So I try to imagine being Patrick, having his shoebox life to himself and then suddenly sharing his life with two kids he doesn’t know or understand and didn’t ask for.
Through my own socks I feel the heat in the carpet where Patrick was standing. I bring my hand up like I’m drinking an imaginary cup of coffee, like I actually like living in a shoebox, but maybe I might like to open the curtains now too.
What I feel next still isn’t a tidal wave of joy, but it’s something. Something smaller, but also maybe deeper.
For the first time I wonder what it’s meant to Patrick to lose his sister.
• • •
I’m surprised when Patrick backs into the driveway an hour later. Birdie and me are about to walk to school, but Patrick says he’ll drive us. “Get in the truck,” he says as he runs up the stairs. “I’ve got breakfast. I’ll be just a minute.”
Inside Patrick’s truck the heater is going and there is a box of donuts and two coffee cups sitting on the dashboard. They’re filled with hot chocolate. A travel mug with coffee sits in the cup holder.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met an adult who likes hot chocolate as much as Patrick,” says Birdie.
“I don’t think he normally drinks it. He just thinks that we like it,” I say.
“And he’s actually right for once.” He holds the steaming cup in his hands. “Hot chocolate at night. Hot chocolate in the morning. He’s onto something.”
Patrick gets in with Duke and pulls out of the driveway and says, “Take your pick of donuts. I wasn’t sure what you guys like, so I got a mix. I’ll take the extras to the guys at the job I’m going to.”
I pick a maple bar and Birdie grabs the chocolate twist. Patrick takes a chocolate old-fashioned and he tilts his hat back a little before taking a bite.
We are all quiet but this time it’s only because of the donuts. I’m halfway through my maple bar when I say, “Can I please go see Janet after school? I need to check on her.”
Patrick doesn’t answer right away and I’m sort of regretting asking him. But for some reason, this time, it felt like the right thing to do.
“After last night,” he says, “you should understand why it isn’t okay for you guys to be wandering around. Why I think it’s important to blend in.”
“I won’t wander around and I won’t stay long,” I say, pressing ahead as the roller-coaster feeling returns. “But she’s my best friend and I need to make sure she’s okay. And she won’t tell me the truth over the phone. I know it—”
“You can go to Janet’s,” Patrick interrupts in a firm voice. “But no side trips. Absolutely no going to Carl’s. You go straight there and don’t stay after dark. And you go right home if you get there and see Ross.”
“I will,” I say, but I’m still holding my breath, thinking he might take it back.
But Patrick just nods to himself and then finishes his last bite.
• • •
In English class, we split into partners to work on our poet project. The second we get seated, Krysten looks me straight in the eye and is like, “Jack. The Quesadilla Ship. I wanted to tell you yesterday. I am so sorry.”
Her eyes are wide and sincere.
“Yeah,” I say, looking down at my notebook as my breath catches, imagining the flames and heat again, the smell of burning plastic. It’s been three days since the fire and I’ve called Rosie seven times, but it always goes straight to voicemail. I’ve called Uncle Carl three times, but it just rings and rings. I wonder if he’ll ever plug the phone in without me or Rosie or Birdie there to encourage him. He’s never left it unplugged for so long.
“I called you last night,” Krysten whispers.
“Oh, I was . . . at a friend’s house.” She nods and I continue, “And I’m pretty sure my uncle just lets every number he doesn’t know go straight to the message machine. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m okay.”
Other than everything being worse than it ever was.
“At least her truck isn’t lost, right? The future is bright for quesadilla-pizza babies! That was really great of your uncle to help Rosie, by the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mom is friends with Rosie and Rosie told her about it before leaving for England. Your uncle—Patrick?—he helped Rosie salvage the truck. He convinced her he could fix it because I guess her insurance company said it was permanently ruined or something.”
“Rosie is in England?”
“Yeah. My mom said she left yesterday. Didn’t you know any of this?”
Rosie is gone.
“No, I didn’t know,” I say. “My uncle Patrick—he doesn’t tell us a whole lot.”
“Yeah, my mom calls him Mr. Enigma.”
“Mr. Enigma?”
“You know, enigma, like a puzzle or a mystery.”
I nod, but I can’t stop thinking about Rosie’s truck.
The Quesadilla Ship might be saved.
And Patrick’s helping her save it.
**Observation #789: Enigma in Pants
Maybe Patrick isn’t a clam in pants. Maybe he’s
a puzzle
a conundrum
an enigma.
B/c how can Patrick defend Birdie in front of Ross,
but still make Birdie wear those Norman clothes?
How can Patrick make us hot chocolate & buy us donuts
& still keep us from seeing the only other family we have?
& how can Patrick say that we aren’t slack to be picked up or problems to be fixed,
when he still disappears into the silo shed?
CHAPTER 17 ONE ISLAND
