Caterpillar Summer, page 2
In the living room, books were scattered on the coffee table. Plastic trains crisscrossed the country on their half-finished game of Ticket to Ride. An ivy plant suffered in the corner.
Next was Mom’s studio, which she said had the best light in the apartment. Sometimes she played music or a podcast while she worked, but today was quiet.
After that was Cat and Chicken’s room, where Chicken was already unloading the metal can that held his marble collection. To keep things quieter for the apartment downstairs, Mom had found a piece of carpet, but it was too big for the room. It curled along the edges of the wall like an upside-down slice of melted cheese.
The kitchen had a fake-marble vinyl floor and butter-colored counters. Pale yellow tile continued above the sink and two were painted with a little Dutch girl and boy. The girl had a pointed hat, pink cheeks, and looked straight forward. Her brother in wooden shoes was by her side.
“I bet you never lose your brother,” Cat muttered under her breath.
A door with a rectangle of frosted glass led from the kitchen to Mom’s bedroom. It had once been the dining room and was the room Cat loved best. A chandelier hung above the patchwork-quilt-covered bed. Bookshelves with stained glass doors surrounded the fireplace. The fireplace didn’t work, but even the idea of it made the room cozier.
Each week, Mom helped Cat wash and braid her hair into the perfect French braid. Cat’s hair took a long time to comb out, which tried both their patience. But afterward, when they sat on Mom’s bed and her fingers pulled just right—not too loose and not too tight—and her hair went slip-slip-slip into the braid, it was the best part of Cat’s week.
Some nights, after Chicken was snoring in the bottom bunk, a buttery popcorn smell came from the kitchen. She and Mom would stretch out on the patchwork quilt, with the enormous bowl between them. Mom usually picked a movie from a long time ago, when people made questionable fashion choices.
Cat would tell silly stories and Mom’s big, crashing laugh warmed the room. Or Cat might whisper something awful, like the time every girl except for Cat showed up to class with their nails the same shade of lavender, from a birthday party Cat hadn’t been invited to. A hug from Mom hadn’t fixed it, but it had pulled Cat’s heart from the bottom of the Mariana Trench to somewhere around sea level.
Mom had been working constantly, so they hadn’t had a movie night in months. The most recent time, they’d stood at the window together. Cat had looked all the way past the schoolyard and the thick trees of the Presidio to the tiny red light on top of the Golden Gate Bridge.
“They turned it on tonight,” Cat had said.
Mom squinted. “Turned what on?”
“The light,” answered Cat. “Sometimes it’s on and sometimes it’s not. Tonight it’s on.”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “That light is there every night.”
Cat frowned. She knew it wasn’t always there. Mom leaned her chin against the top of Cat’s head.
“At times, the fog gets in the way,” Mom continued. “But the light shines anyway, no matter what.”
Mom was like that light on the bridge, Cat decided. Even when they were separated by a wall of drawings and deadlines, she was still there. The thought was enough to get Cat through anything.
She glanced at the clock, automatically adding three hours for Georgia time, wondering if she could squeeze in a video chat. Chicken’s marbles were click-click-clicking as he sorted them into piles. Her stomach growled, the two bites of pineapple bun long forgotten, but maybe she could talk to Rishi before she made dinner.
She grabbed her tablet from the kitchen counter and clicked Rishi’s name, but there was no answer. Later, she’d look over his emails, the ones that described the swimming, boating, and fishing adventures they’d have. Three weeks of glow sticks and marshmallows, three weeks of fireflies and floating in a lake under a big blue Georgia sky. Cat was up for anything.
Cat opened the fridge. Before, her dad had always cooked for the family. Cat remembered how easily the knife fit into his big hands when he chopped vegetables. One at a time, he handed her eggs to crack and mix in her own little bowl. He never minded if she got bits of shell in it. He always made her feel like her help was important.
Cat turned the stove’s dial and put bread in the toaster. Mom’s studio door was still closed. Cat wouldn’t miss that closed-door feeling when they were together in Georgia. She cracked the eggs and whisked them, adding salt and pepper, then poured them in the skillet and pulled out three plates. Stirring the eggs, she called to Chicken. “Peanut butter on your toast?”
“Yeah!”
She spread peanut butter and cut apples. Chicken might not touch the apple slices, but Cat would know she tried. She grabbed his favorite hot sauce, the one with the wooden cap and the picture of the lady dressed in white. Chicken had a need to put hot sauce on everything.
Chicken padded into the room. “Is Mama eating with us?”
Cat paused. “I’ll check. Go wash your hands.” She grabbed Mom’s plate and walked down the hallway. There was a chance that Mom would eat with them, but it was more likely she’d grab a few bites while she was working.
When Cat walked into the studio, Mom looked tired. The skin under her eyes was purplish, but still, she beamed at Cat. “Hey, sweet Caterpillar.”
Cat winced. She’d asked Mom to stop calling her that.
“I made eggs,” she said, lifting the plate.
Mom looked apologetic. “I’m not at a good stopping point.”
When Mom worked, she had a hard time changing gears, especially when there was a big deadline.
“I’ll leave your food.” Cat pushed aside a stack of envelopes to make a spot.
Mom reached for Cat’s hand and held it. Cat looked down. Mom wore Daddy’s silver wedding band on her thumb. One side was wrapped with yarn to make the finger hole smaller, so it wouldn’t slip off. When he was alive, he let Cat try it on whenever she wanted. She could easily fit three of her little-girl fingers inside it. That had been a long time ago.
“Honey,” Mom said. “I can tell something’s wrong.”
Cat’s insides spun guiltily. Did Mom somehow know that Chicken had run away again?
“I think I know what’s bothering you,” Mom continued, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve been working a lot—leaning on you too much.”
Cat felt extra mixed up. It wasn’t right to keep secrets from Mom. On the other hand, Mom didn’t need any more stress. Chicken was safe, that was what mattered.
“It’s fine. I understand.” The words felt thick.
But Mom was shaking her head. “I’m working hard so I can relax when we’re on our trip. After I finish teaching for the day, I’ll be all yours.”
Mom sighed, still holding Cat’s hand. “I depend on you, but I know you can handle it. You’re the glue holding the three of us together.”
Cat squeezed her eyes shut. The words crowded inside her. If Mom knew about Chicken wandering away, she wouldn’t be so sure Cat could handle things. But she couldn’t say anything, not when Mom needed Cat’s help. She would tell her another time, when Mom was feeling relaxed.
Mom reached out and gave Cat a quick squeeze. Cat hugged her back.
“Tell Chicken I’ll check on him soon, okay?”
Cat nodded. She shut the door gently behind her.
At the table, she gulped her eggs, which were cold, and then Chicken helped her clear the plates.
“Bath?” he asked.
Cat looked at the clock. “No time tonight. Face and teeth.”
She scrubbed the dishes, then placed them in the drying rack. Chicken came out of the bathroom in jammies, shirt on backward.
“Let me see,” she said.
He opened his mouth wide to show Cat. She checked behind his ears.
“Good job. Do you want a book?”
“No!” said Chicken.
Cat raised her eyebrow. “No book?”
“I don’t want a book. I want ten books,” he answered, grinning.
“One book! And only when your head touches the pillow.”
He was already running, sock-feet slipping on the wood floor. She gave him a head start before chasing after him, skidding down the hall.
“I won!” he said when she came in. His blanket was pulled up to his chin and he held a Caterpillar & Chicken book, the same one he read on Clement Street.
Cat smiled. Back when Chicken was in preschool, he loved trains more than anything. This book was based on something that had really happened—Chicken had asked to go to the trains, and Mom bought tickets. At the train station, Chicken had been a bubbling-over kind of happy. But when they’d tried to board, his mood changed.
I wanted to go TO the trains.
I do not want to go ON the train.
She glanced at Chicken. He had fallen asleep as she read, gripping the plastic shark in one hand. She looked back at the final drawing, at the cloud scribbled over Caterpillar’s head.
Clearly, Caterpillar was furious. In the newer books, she never got angry. She was always sweet and kind, never a bit frustrated, no matter what Chicken did.
In real life, the train day had been the opposite of funny. In the station, Chicken screamed, and Mom was the human version of a gray scribble cloud. Cat had figured out that Chicken hadn’t wanted to take a trip. He’d wanted to watch the trains go by.
That’s what Mom meant when she called Cat the glue. Errands, making dinner, and packing suitcases were only part of it. Cat was the problem solver, the one who knew Chicken well enough to know the difference between what he said and what he meant.
Chicken dug his bony elbow into Cat’s ribs. She rolled away, listening to his slow breathing. The closet door had been flung open, probably when Chicken picked out his pajamas. She needed to pack. She’d get up and do that soon, but for now she would close her eyes. It had been a long day, and she needed a minute.
The foghorns on the Golden Gate Bridge bleated their different tones. Cat listened for the pattern. Even with the thickened summer fog, even though Cat couldn’t see it, she knew the little red light glowed on.
Cat. Cat.”
The voice seemed to come from far away. Cat stirred but didn’t open her eyes. Chicken was snoring, sounding like a miniature dump truck in her ear. She must have fallen asleep in his bunk last night. She shoved him lightly, hoping to stop his rumbling, then pulled the blanket over her head.
A hand shook her. “Wake up. We overslept.”
The words sunk in. Cat’s eyes opened wide and she jumped out of bed, crashing into Mom.
“I didn’t finish packing!” Cat said.
Chicken sat up, squinting
Mom was surprisingly calm. “I’ll get Chicken ready, and you pack. Deal?”
Cat nodded.
Mom held a T-shirt and soft pants. “Come on, Chicken.”
He went with her and a minute later was crashing around in the bathroom, getting ready.
Cat crammed handfuls of clothes into the suitcase. They had ten minutes until the airport shuttle van arrived.
Mom called to Cat. “Have you seen my sunglasses?”
“Coffee table!” Cat hollered.
Mom’s feet clacked down the hall, followed by a clunking and skittering sound. “Oops,” Mom muttered. She must have tripped over the Ticket to Ride game board. Cat pictured the tiny plastic trains catching air and scattering across the room. If Chicken realized their game was messed up, he’d be upset—she hoped he wouldn’t notice.
Cat tugged at the bag’s zipper, which seemed to be permanently stuck. But finally it gave way and closed completely. She ran down the hall and heaved it in the direction of the front door. Next up were backpacks, which she dumped out on the floor to make space. She left yesterday’s papers in a pile, but saved a notebook, a zipper case of pencils, and Chicken’s heavy shark encyclopedia. They could use all of it on the plane.
Mom came out of her studio holding Chicken’s tablet. “Fully charged and ready to go.”
She placed it in the backpack, while Cat ran to change clothes. A thought itched in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t think of what she was forgetting. She had her star earrings, curly-hair shampoo, and her favorite hoodie. She tucked away a few lollipops into a pocket, just in case.
Chicken peeked around the corner of the door. “Have you seen my shoe?”
Cat looked down. He wore baggy socks and held his left shoe in one hand. “Was it with that one?”
Chicken wiggled his toes. “Nope.”
Cat sighed. “Maybe you should take them off in the same place.”
He scrunched up his face. “That would be boring. I like a little mystery.”
He turned and hopped down the hall. Cat shook her head. She could do with less mystery in her life, especially on a morning like this.
“Found it!” Mom called from the living room.
Cat grabbed three apples and three granola bars from the kitchen counter. Mom came through the back door, brushing her hands on her pants.
“Trash taken out,” she said. “We are ready to roll.”
The doorbell rang. Perfect timing. The driver took their bags and loaded them in the van.
Chicken climbed in next to an older lady with a brightly colored scarf. “You smell like flowers,” he told her. She smiled thinly and looked at her phone. Chicken tried to fasten his seat belt, but his backpack was in the way.
“Wait a minute,” Cat said. “Do you have your plastic shark?”
Chicken gulped. “I forgot!”
“Mom!” Cat called. “He doesn’t have his shark!”
Mom ducked back inside. Cat looked sideways at the shuttle driver and Scarf Lady.
“Sorry,” she explained. “We forgot something important.”
The shuttle driver looked at his watch and grunted. Scarf Lady didn’t respond.
Finally, Mom appeared holding the shark. Chicken clapped. Mom reached across Cat to hand the shark to Chicken, who kissed it with smacking sounds.
“Where was it?” asked Cat.
Mom shook her head, but she was smiling. “Way down under the covers, of course.”
“Of course.” Cat grinned back.
They had done it. Packed and out the door in ten minutes flat. When she and Mom worked as a team, they could do anything. Mom climbed into the front and chatted with the driver, who was friendlier now that they were on their way to the next stop.
On the other side of Golden Gate Park, they pulled up to a pink apartment building in the Inner Sunset, with two men waiting on the curb: one with a blond beard and one with brown skin and square glasses. While they climbed into the third row, Cat unzipped her backpack and looked inside. She hoped they would have everything they needed.
Chicken peeked over the seat at the two men behind him. “Excuse me, do you like sharks?”
His volume was about two notches higher than it should have been. Cat turned halfway so she could see the other passengers’ reactions. Some people didn’t get Chicken or were even annoyed by him. Especially when he was being loud in a small space.
“Indoor voice,” she said quietly, so only he could hear.
Blond Beard kept his eyes locked on his phone, but Square Glasses smiled. “I love sharks,” he said. “Do you have a favorite?”
“I have lots of favorites,” said Chicken, leaning across the seat. “I love the dwarf lantern shark for being tiny, the cookiecutter shark for being clever, and the whale shark for being biggest. I am going to the Georgia Aquarium tomorrow and I am going to see many, many sharks.”
Cat kept an eye on the adults to see how they were reacting. Square Glasses seemed okay, and Blond Beard was neutral, still focused on his phone. Scarf Lady probably wasn’t a fan. She twisted her body away from Chicken, who wiggled next to her. She was practically touching the window with her forehead. Mom, who didn’t worry about these things, was chatting with the driver, who, as it turned out, had grown up in Georgia.
Cat patted Chicken’s hand. “He’s excited about our trip,” she explained to the van passengers. “Sorry if he’s bugging you.”
Square Glasses smiled at Cat. “He’s not bugging me. I really do like sharks.”
“Do you want to see some?” Chicken asked. Before Cat could stop him, he was unzipping his bag and lugging out his shark encyclopedia.
The rest of the ride, Chicken showed his book to Square Glasses, who made admiring noises. Cat smiled to herself. Chicken had a way of picking the nicest people to talk to.
When they got to the airport, Scarf Lady was the first to wheel away her luggage.
“Have fun with the sharks,” Square Glasses said to Chicken before walking away with Blond Beard.
When they checked their bags, Chicken asked how the suitcases knew which plane to get on. When they went through security, he asked about the X-ray machines. And when they were on their first flight to Chicago, he asked about everything—from how the plane worked to the clouds outside. Luckily, Mom had the middle seat and handled the questions while Cat sank into a book.
During their layover in Chicago, they got fast food. Cat gave Chicken the soft fries from her bag because he didn’t like the crisp ones. He took a single bite of each and lined them up on the wrinkled burger wrapper. He picked the sesame seeds from his hamburger bun and ate them one by one.
“You should eat something besides fries and seeds,” she told him.
“This food is too plain,” he said.
Mom dug in her bag. Wordlessly, she removed a doll-size bottle of hot sauce and handed it to Chicken. He shook a puddle onto the tray and dipped his burger.
Out on the runway, a plane pulled up to its gate. They were halfway to Atlanta, one plane away from Rishi.
Mom messed with her phone. “It looks like Manjula called a few times.”
“Did she leave a voicemail?” asked Cat.
“She did, but I can’t get a signal and I don’t want to waste the charge I have left.”
“Mom! Did you forget to charge it?” asked Cat.
Mom looked embarrassed. “At least I remembered to charge Chicken’s tablet.”
