a bottom drawer of her cabinet of glass. Holiday. It was the only color she ever made up. When I asked, she pulled a record from the sleeve and touched the vinyl in small, gentle circles. She made me close my eyes and listen. The color I saw then, the color the woman’s voice made, was the same one I felt when I sang. Funny, my mother never found any glass to put inside that drawer. She said the glass would have to be the color of sorrow, and where could you find that?
It was because of Becca. We don’t talk about it now, but I’m certain that she remembers. Becca was the one who convinced me to go to the high school auditorium with her after school that day.
“Please?” she whispered as we stood outside the auditorium doors. “Wouldn’t it be fun?” But I knew what she was really thinking. I knew she believed that inside costumes we might be able to become something other than the Pond kids we were. Becca became an actress out of necessity.
We stood there for several minutes, staring at the mimeographed audition announcement, until finally her face fell, and she shrugged. “Forget it. It was a stupid idea anyway.”
“It’s not stupid,” I said. “But why do you need me to do it too?”
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said softly. Her brown eyes were wide and scared. I knew she wouldn’t go without me.
“All right,” I said, acting more irritated than I actually was.
It was Becca who convinced me. To stand alone on the stage while the Quimby girls sat snickering in the dimly lit aisles below me. Convinced me to close my eyes and share the voice I’d been swallowing since my mother left. I remember the sweater I was wearing, an oversized man’s cardigan with chipped wooden buttons and stained cuffs. I remember how cold it was, and the way I let the sleeves cover my hands. I already knew the words to the song. I’d seen the movie a thousand times, so I didn’t need sheet music. I remember the plunk, plunk of Mrs. Jasper’s piano in the wings and the smell of mothballs lingering in my hand-me-down sweater. I also remember the hush that fell like snow when I closed my eyes and opened my mouth and allowed the color of sorrow to escape.
Afterward, I blushed and rushed off the stage, sinking into the chair next to Becca, who was smiling. She squeezed my hand and then went up when her name was called.
After a thousand renditions of “My Favorite Things” and “Do-Re-Mi,” Mrs. Jasper stood up from her piano, shielded her eyes, and peered out into the audience. “That’s everybody, Mr. Hammer,” she said.
“Okay,” a voice answered.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Becca.
“Tenth-grade English,” she said. “He’s going to direct the show.”
“Oh,” I said.
“If Mr. Hammer calls out your name, please come up to the stage,” Mrs. Jasper said.
From the back of the auditorium, Mr. Hammer coughed and then started to read off names. I was nervous despite myself. Suddenly, I wanted this more than anything in the entire world. “Lucy Applebee. Peter Kauffman. Rebecca O’Leary.” Becca squeezed my hand hard and fast and then scurried quickly up onto the stage. “Steve Gauthier. Melissa Ball. Krista Monroe, and Howie Kramer.” My heart sank. And then he said softly, “Piper Kincaid.” I stood up, crossed my arms self-consciously, and walked up the stairs onto the stage.
Mrs. Jasper shuffled us around like mannequins, according to our height. I was the tallest girl. Becca was the shortest.
“You’ll be Liesl,” she said to me. “Unless…Mr. Hammer, have you found a Maria?”
“Yes,” he said. “Charlene Applebee will be playing Maria. We’ll also be casting some children from the elementary school to play the younger Von Trapp children.”
Charlene Applebee was Lucy Applebee’s mother. Lucy was a senior, a Quimby girl. Her parents owned the big brick house with the columns on the park in town. Lucy smiled knowingly at Melissa Ball, whose family also lived on the park, and nodded. Mrs. Jasper clapped her hands together and said, “Good, good. Then rehearsals will start tomorrow after last period. On the dot. Don’t be late, because the doors will be locked at two-thirty.”
At Boo’s, Becca tried on a pair of silver stilettos and wobbled across the driveway, turning her ankles and laughing. I watched her through the window and wondered if it was really this easy, becoming someone else.
Boo was sorting through men’s suits, donated by a woman whose husband had just died. The cardboard box was tearing with the weight of wool.
“Liesl.” Boo nodded. “That’s a big part. You’ll have to sing that duet…what is it? ‘I am sixteen, going on seventeen.’ I just love that movie.”
“I’m just doing it to keep Becca company.” I sighed and leaned over to pull out one of the jackets. I slipped the jacket on and buttoned it up. It smelled like a nursing home.
Boo handed me the matching pants. I took off the coat and hung them both on a hanger.
Boo said, “Your mum would be proud of you.”
I blinked hard and stared out the window. Becca was sitting on Boo’s steps, unwinding herself from the silver straps.
Boo knew where my mother was. The hurt of that had been sharp at first, but now it felt like a fading slap. No matter how many times I asked her, she wouldn’t tell, couldn’t tell, because she would never betray my mother. Boo kept her promises. She was the only one I knew who did, and though it made me ache inside, made my stomach turn and my eyes burn, I had to respect that.
I am grown now. I have to remind myself sometimes that all of this is inevitable, that if it hadn’t been cancer, it would have been something else. Everyone has to leave sometime, everyone dies. But at thirty, this feels like an injustice. I read the obituaries every day, looking for others like me. But almost everyone who dies here is already old. Their numbers glare at me, mocking, from the smudged pages: 93, 76, 81.
This morning Becca brings bagels and the Sunday Burlington Free Press, dividing it according to our now familiar routine. While she reads the “Living” section, I scour the lists of the newly deceased.
“I’m buying you a juicer,” she says, her finger pointing to a glossy Kmart insert. “You like carrot juice?”
“Yuck.”
“Tomato juice?” Her finger presses into the advertisement.
I shake my head, returning to the former Navy officer, 75. The grandmother of twenty-seven, 98. The retired surgeon, 81.
“You can use fruit, too. Oranges, kiwi even.” She sounds exasperated.
I look up from the obituaries. She is tapping the ad now, insistent.
“We’ll go next weekend,” I say.
“The sale ends today,” she says. “Then it goes right back to the normal price.”
“Fine,” I say. “This afternoon.”
Satisfied, she smiles and folds the advertisement carefully. “I bet you can even use pineapples. Mangoes.”
Never
