Birdie's Book - Andrea Burden [4]
“I know people who would be tempted to give that clarinet a little nudge and watch everything come tumbling down,” I said to myself; then I realized I’d actually said it aloud!
“I suppose those are people I would never invite into my home,” said Mo.
I reminded myself to stay quiet until the jury was in on whether or not my grandmother was a certifiable C.O.B.
“Do you play?” I asked.
“These old things? No. I need to fix them,” she said, nodding toward the instruments. “I have a working violin and guitar,” she added.
We climbed the rest of the stairs and Mo turned around, announcing, “This room was your mother’s. You may move things around if you want. I left it as it’s always been, figuring she’d be back to change it herself someday.” Mo swung open the door and stepped back.
Neon pink bedroom walls were plastered with posters of old pop bands. Above the headboard, on the sloping ceiling, were two posters of a teenage boy with shoulder-length blond hair parted down the middle. I checked out the signature at the bottom of the poster.
“Who’s Leif Garrett?” I asked.
Mo sighed and playfully rolled her eyes. “He was a singer who was popular for a while. Oh, your mother had such a crush on him.” She smiled ruefully. “Closest thing to a plant I could get her to as a teenager was this Leif.”
I found myself truly grinning (braces and all) for the first time in weeks. It was just the kind of joke I would make! “So she did have fun when she was a kid,” I said.
Mo looked around the room as if she were hunting for an answer. Then she said, “Probably more than she remembers, Birdie. She’s forgotten so much, left it all behind.”
My good mood vanished, and suddenly and terribly, I missed Califa and my friends. I missed my dad. I even missed my mom. I put Belle on the nightstand, willing the tears to go away before they spilled over.
“Tomorrow, let’s transplant Belle into new … uh … clothes,” Mo suggested. “But I must say, I’m very fond of the hat she’s wearing now.”
I could tell Mo knew I was sad. But I was still feeling cautious, and I sure didn’t want to start crying, so I said, as lightly as possible, “Thanks.”
I picked up my suitcase and tossed it on the bed.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Mo. And with that, she headed out the door. I could hear her big feet thump-thumping all the way down the stairs.
I sat for a minute, gathering my thoughts. I liked my grandmother. I had to repeat this to myself to make sure I wasn’t just imagining things. I liked my grandmother. Yes, I liked my grandmother, my very own Granny Mo. I liked her a lot. I even liked thinking about calling her the name she wanted me to, Granny Mo, though I’d always think of her as just Mo to myself.
All at once, I knew that I’d much rather be downstairs with her than unpacking my things in this way-too-pink bedroom.
I went to find Granny Mo, which was easy, since all I had to do was follow the noise. A teapot was sending a piercing whistle up the stairs, pots were clanking, and Mo was singing “Deck the Halls” (even though it was nearly a week after Christmas!). I edged my way down the staircase, through a hall, and into the kitchen, where the racket was coming from.
“Some tea?” Mo asked, even though her back was to me. She turned off the burner of the old-fashioned stove and picked up the screaming red teakettle.
“I guess. I don’t know,” I said. How had she known I was there? “Do you have hot chocolate?”
“Hot chocolate it is!” She riffled through the cabinets. “But I make awfully good tea, with fruit and flowers in it.”
“Tea is fine,” I said quickly, since I could see my request was causing quite a ruckus.
“And you need something to put in your stomach. How about grilled cheese?” she asked, slamming a heavy iron skillet down on a burner.
“Great,” I said. “Thanks, Granny Mo.” Hoping she wouldn’t make a big deal out of my deciding what to call her, I crossed to a wide kitchen window made of eyeglass lenses. I looked through them at the snowy landscape beyond.