Where the Watermelons Grow Page 8

  “Suzanne!” said Daddy, his mouth moving like he didn’t know anything else to say. In the light from the ceiling fan above our heads, his brown eyes looked big and black, and just as lost and afraid as I was feeling.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to help Mama rest enough to keep the schizophrenia from creeping back into her this time.

  I was starting to think we were long, long past the time when it already had.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before Grandpa Case died when I was eight, my mama was well enough to stay out of the hospital, but not always well enough to do much else. Sometimes she’d go all day long, sunup to sundown, without getting out of bed. Other times, she’d go for one or two or even three days in a row without ever sleeping more than a few hours at a time. Sometimes she heard voices talking to her that weren’t really there—voices of people we knew or voices of people who only existed in her own head.

  But mostly she did all right up until her daddy died.

  Afterward, once she’d gotten home from that month in the mental hospital in Alberta, she went years without a single day where she heard things that weren’t there or forgot how regular mamas were supposed to act. She was so healthy for so long I sometimes forgot that she’d ever been different from Arden’s mama, forgot that she’d ever lived in a hospital where they locked the doors and only let Daddy visit once a day from three to five.

  But then she had Mylie. And then this summer had come along, and the drought, and the watermelon seeds . . . and now, looking at Mama sitting there scrubbing at the cabinets with hands already turning red from the bleach, I didn’t think that all the patience in the world would be enough to put things back to normal. This was so, so much worse than it ever had been before Grandpa Case died.

  “Suzanne!” Daddy said again, the word cracking across the kitchen like a backfiring engine and making me jump, but Mama paid him no mind. She was in her own little world, a world of germs and voices nobody but her could hear. The rest of us might as well not have existed.

  His jaw tight and hard, Daddy moved forward and picked Mylie up off the ground and washed the ketchup off her in the sink.

  “Stop that,” he said when he’d finished, catching Mama’s hands and pulling her to her feet before prying the sponge away and tossing it into the sink. “You stop that right now, Suzanne. Listen to me. You hear me? You have got to pull yourself together!” He was holding Mama’s hands—both of them together in one of his bigger ones—holding her so tight his knuckles were turning white. “Pay attention to your daughter, Suzanne! How long has Mylie been screaming? She needs you!”

  Even with her hands caught inside his, Mama didn’t look at Daddy. Her eyes were on the cabinet, like she could see those invisible germs dancing down them, undoing all her work.

  “I gotta clean up, Miles,” she whispered, her eyes roving up and down the cabinet in front of her, following the invisible line of the ketchup she’d already cleaned off, following the dancing germs only she could see. “I gotta clean up so the girls don’t get sick. I gotta keep them safe, keep them from getting hurt.”

  Daddy let go of Mama all at once, so fast Mama rocked back on her heels. “The only thing hurting the girls is you,” he said, and I wanted the heat to melt me right down into the floor, to fade out of existence and not have to feel the razor edge of Daddy’s voice anymore. In my whole life, I’d never seen him like this.

  Mama started crying, silent tears that rolled down her cheeks like raindrops. “I gotta do it, Miles. My daddy told me to.”

  Daddy spun around. “I can’t take this anymore.” His face was red, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or the anger. “I gotta go fix that tractor belt before it gets dark. Della, take your sister.”

  He pushed Mylie into my arms—she was heavy and so hot she might have had a fever. Her thumb was in her mouth now, the sobs quieting down but the tears still pooling in her eyes and sliding down her baby skin.

  The screen door slammed shut as Daddy stomped out, and a minute later I heard the door of the pickup truck slam, too, as he got out the part he’d bought from Mr. Anton earlier that evening.

  How could Daddy just go out like that, leave me here with Mylie and Mama, not even staying around to make sure we’d all be okay?

  Mama sank down to the floor, still crying, like Daddy had been the only thing holding her up at all.

  I smooshed my lips together and took a deep breath in through my nose. My eyes were prickling and I wanted to cry, but Mylie and Mama were already doing enough of that for all three of us. Somebody had to stay in control, and for once it sure wasn’t gonna be Daddy. I scooted Mylie over to my hip and stepped over to Mama, taking the spray bottle from the floor beside her and talking to her in a quiet, gentle voice, just like I’d used a few days ago to calm Mylie down.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” I said over and over again, but Mama didn’t act like she’d heard me at all. She just kept on crying, not making any noise, her eyes puffing up and turning as red as her hands. I clumsily unscrewed the spray bottle and dumped everything inside it down the sink, my own eyes watering—it smelled like straight-up bleach, not thinned out with anything at all.

  “You gotta wash your hands, Mama,” I said, remembering what Mrs. Gregory had said last year in science lab about touching bleach, but Mama didn’t answer. I reached into the sink and grabbed a washcloth off the faucet, running it under water till it was as cold as the sink could get it, and then crouched down and wiped Mama’s hands off one at a time. It might not be enough to stop her hurting, but it was all I could do while still holding crying Mylie on my hip.

  The heat of the kitchen pressed down hard on me, warming up that washcloth till holding it felt just like being wrapped up in the humid air. Mylie rubbed her face into my shoulder and whimpered, her arms holding tight onto my neck like she was afraid of what might happen if she let go.

  “Stowy?” she whispered.

  “Not now, Mylie.” I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to tell another Bee Story again. Instead I just held Mylie and looked out the window over the sink and wished, more than ever, that the sky would just open up and cry all the tears I couldn’t.

  That night I lay awake for hours, feeling the little trickles of air coming down from the ceiling fan and the bigger one from the box fan sitting in the open window, my thoughts louder than the cicadas outside. I had failed. I hadn’t been able to get Quigley honey for Mama, hadn’t been able to make her rest enough to heal, hadn’t been able to turn any of my grand plans into reality. I had failed to be what Mama needed me to be—what everyone needed me to be—and now Mama was getting worse, and fast.

  My skin prickled, goose bumps breaking out all over my arms even in that stifling heat. The way Mama was tonight—the way she’d been Saturday—I hadn’t seen her like that since right after Grandpa Case died, when she was slipping away into a world where Daddy and I couldn’t follow, and I was finding out what it was like not to have a mama at all.

  I thought about the Bee Lady Sunday in church, telling me I was the one who needed fixing, not my mama, and squeezed my teeth together hard. How could she think that? How could anyone, after they’d seen my mama?

  How could she have not even been willing to try?

  And how could Daddy be the same way? Why had he just left me alone with Mama and the bleach earlier? Daddy leaving like that almost hurt worse than Mama acting the way she had. Daddy didn’t have schizophrenia hammering at the doors of his mind; he didn’t have any explanation for that except plain old choice. The farm was important, I knew, especially without calm, orderly Grandpa Kelly to keep things going smoothly. I’d heard in the things he’d said to Mr. Ben, to Mama, how ashamed Daddy would be if he couldn’t keep Kelly Family Farm alive through this drought.

  But how could the farm be more important than me and Mylie? How could it be more important than Mama?

  I wished Arden was there. I wanted it so badly my stomach ached with it. On nights
like these, I needed my best friend, needed somebody who had seen me and my family in good and bad for as long as I’d been alive, somebody who could tell me that things would all work out the way they had in times past.

  But even if she had been here, would I be brave enough to tell her what I’d seen tonight?

  Across the bedroom, Mylie stirred in her crib, whimpering a little in her sleep. I rolled over on my side, looking at her outline in the darkness, one hand curled around the crib bars, her head squeezed all the way into the corner of the crib. Only a baby could be comfortable like that.

  I had no idea how I was going to do it, but as I lay there watching Mylie sleeping, so young she’d never remember what Mama was really like if I didn’t make things better right now, I knew I had to try again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I woke up the next morning drenched all the way to my sheets, my pajamas sticky and soaked against my skin. Both fans had stopped and the air in the room was so heavy I could barely breathe it in. The clock by my bed had gone dark, no green numbers smiling out at me, and I wanted to die right then and there.

  The electricity had gone out.

  Usually the power only cut in the summertime when a hurricane blew through, which happened pretty often—but this year all the storms had fizzled before they got this far up the coast, and we hadn’t seen a drop of rain for months.

  I peeled myself out of bed, leaving a big damp spot where I’d been lying, and padded as quietly as I could over to my closet. Mylie was still sleeping, every bit as soaked through as I was, her wispy hair as wet as if she’d just taken a bath. I eased the closet door open and found my lightest, skimpiest sundress, and changed into it. Mama didn’t like when I wore it; she always said it made me look like I was trying to be five years older than I was, and that children should wear clothes for children, not for teenagers. I’d pointed out at least three times that I was only one year away from being a teenager, and I definitely wasn’t a child anymore, but mostly I left the dress hung up so we didn’t fight about it. Still, a day this hot called for drastic measures.

  Even all that bare skin didn’t do a thing to cool me down, and I felt sticky and nasty. I would have given just about anything to spend the whole day standing under a cold shower.

  I scraped my sweaty hair into a ponytail and wondered if Mama would let me cut my hair pixie-style, like all those actresses. Anything else was too much, in this heat.

  Mylie whimpered again, louder this time, and when I looked over at her, she was sitting up in her crib, blue eyes big and teary. “Dell,” she sniffled. “Ouchie!”

  “Shh, little monster, it’s all right,” I said, running over and pulling her out before she could really get going. She was slick with sweat, her pajamas sticking to her skin like papier-mâché on a piñata. I pulled them off and tossed them into a pile with mine. I got her diaper changed but didn’t put any clothes on—sometimes it paid to be a baby. I wished I could run around in nothing but my undies today, too.

  Mama was in the kitchen, fanning herself with the newspaper, looking too hot and bothered even to do the crossword. She had that faraway look in her eyes, like she was somewhere that wasn’t quite here. I swallowed hard, feeling the heat drinking away all my energy and all my big plans, leaving me little and alone.

  “Morning, Mama,” I said, but she only grunted in reply.

  Usually I got the eggs first thing, but this morning I needed something cold and I needed it fast. I strapped Mylie into her high chair and went to the fridge, reaching for the plate piled high with watermelon slices, just letting the cold air of the refrigerator wash over me for a minute.

  “Close that door, Della,” Mama snapped, and I pulled the plate out real fast and obeyed. I wanted to hold on to that cold watermelon plate forever, letting the chill sink into my skin, traveling from my hands all the way to my heart.

  “Why’s the power out?” I asked Mama. I’d never wished more for those useless, noisy fans to be running. Or, better yet, a fixed-up AC, working like it was meant to.

  “Don’t know.”

  “You want some breakfast, Mama?” I reluctantly set the watermelon plate on the counter, already imagining how sweet and cool it would be, and pulled down a box of cereal from the top of the refrigerator. I’d meant to cook a real breakfast again this morning—I’d try not to burn the eggs this time, and maybe boil some grits along with them—but no power meant no electricity meant no stove.

  “Mm-hmm,” Mama mumbled, still fanning away. Her eyes were closed now, her lips moving just a little bit, like she was off talking to somebody I couldn’t see. Her face was squeezing itself into wrong-looking, upset shapes again.

  I concentrated on pouring cereal into bowls for Mylie and me, so I didn’t have to keep looking at Mama. Milk, too, in mine, but not in Mylie’s—she was too messy for milk, and she liked the dry stuff just fine anyway.

  “Mama,” I said after a minute, as I carried the bowls carefully to the table and then went back for the plate of watermelon, “I’m gonna help you extra today, okay? I really want to. I know I’ve still got to do my regular chores, but I’ve been thinking that maybe I could take Mylie with me when I go to the stand with Arden later.”

  Mama opened her eyes, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead.

  “Arden babysits out there lots,” I said all in a rush, before Mama could object. “She watches Rena and Charlotte out there all the time. Once Miss Amanda even let us keep baby Rowan for a while. Between me and Arden, we could definitely keep Mylie out of trouble.”

  I tried to sound confident and sure, even though I was the furthest thing from it: I knew full well the reason Mama had never made me watch Mylie at the farm stand was because Mylie was as much trouble as all of Arden’s siblings put together. She’d probably spend the whole time toppling over boxes and throwing things.

  Mama opened her mouth, the no resting right there on the tip of her tongue.

  “And after we’re done out there,” I said, pushing my words out faster than Mama could, “during Mylie’s nap time I could clean up the house. I could scrub everything real good, just like you do. That way you could rest and wouldn’t even have to worry about the germs being all over anymore.”

  “I don’t need rest. Don’t know where you got that idea in your head, Della.”

  I wanted to say You’re supposed to be taking care of me, not losing yourself more every single day. I wanted to say You’re never going to get fixed if you don’t let Daddy take you to the doctor.

  I wanted to say I need you, Mama.

  But I didn’t. I just stood there for a moment, the watermelon plate cool and slippery in my hands.

  “I just want to let your brain have a chance to get better,” I said finally, my voice small. “Like Dr. DuBose says. You need rest, so you can get better.”

  In her high chair, Mylie tipped over her cereal bowl and watched the Cheerios slide onto her tray in a rush, giggling.

  “There isn’t anything in the world the matter with my brain,” Mama said, words snapping like fireworks.

  “But—”

  “You listen to me, Della Kelly. It isn’t your job or your place to sass your parents like this. I appreciate you trying to help, but there isn’t any need. Nothing’s wrong with me, child.”

  I wanted so bad to believe her, wanted her words to clear out all the fear and worry I’d been carrying for almost two weeks now. But I just couldn’t. Not after everything that had happened. Not after Mama thinking she was talking to her dead daddy. Not after her leaving Mylie to scream and poop in her crib.

  I set the watermelon on the table and left my cereal to get soggy and wet in its milk, and went to the cabinet under the kitchen sink, where Mama held her cleaning supplies. There was a spray bottle there called All-Purpose Cleaner next to a pile of rags. I pulled the bottle and a rag out and sprayed the faucet and the sink and the counters around them down real good, then started wiping, so careful that not a speck of anything was left after my rag passed
by.

  “Della Kelly, you sit yourself in this chair and eat,” said Mama. “You know I don’t like you doing that. You’re not careful enough. And I’m sick and tired of everybody thinking I don’t even have control over my own brain. Fact is, I’ve been feeling better lately than I have since Mylie was born.” Her words slithered into me, making that worry roar even louder, making me look extra hard into her blue eyes, like maybe they could tell me all the secrets she was holding inside herself.

  Daddy came in the back door then, stomping dust off his feet and kicking his old leather boots off onto the rug. He looked hot and tired, sweat glistening in the little rivulets on his face that were like baby wrinkles.

  “Morning, Della,” he said, coming into the kitchen and washing his hands off on a washcloth, leaving a big streak of brown dirt across the sparkling sink I’d just cleaned. All our water came from a well, so no power meant no more water, either, once we’d used up what had already been pumped. Usually Mama filled up every pitcher in the house as soon as the power cut, so we could make the best use of all the water that was left over, but I didn’t see any sitting out on the counter today.

  Daddy grabbed himself a bowl and filled it with cereal. “Power back on?”

  “Nope,” I said, and Daddy sighed, looking down at his hands, which were just about as dusty as when he’d come in.

  “I’ll call in and see if they’ve figured out what’s the matter.” Daddy reached for his cell phone and dialed the power company while he poured milk into his bowl. “Sounds like a pole got hit. The recording’s saying power ought to be back online by this afternoon.” He sighed, wiping his forehead with his shoulder. “Hope it’s sooner.”

  “Me too.” I grabbed a slice of watermelon and handed a second to Mylie. Today even the feeling of the juice dribbling down onto my thumb felt good—a tiny spot of sweet cool, even if it only lasted a second or two. I said a quick prayer that God would turn back on our power and maybe fix our AC while he was at it, and then kept my eyes closed and bit into my watermelon, relishing the explosion of chill against my mouth, all those crisp little membranes dissolving as I chewed.