Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green Read online

  Thankfully, Mom opens the door to our room just then, so I don’t have to respond to Roo, don’t have to disagree or argue with her.

  “My daughters,” she says. I can tell she’s trying very hard to seem cheerful. “My precious, priceless daughters, are you ready for bed?”

  As we brush our teeth and put on shorts and T-shirts for sleeping, I can’t stop thinking about what Roo said. Is it possible that Dad was trying to communicate with her? That there are things he wants us to know but couldn’t say in front of Patricia Chevalier and/or Ken/Neth? That we do need to find out what he’s doing in the jungle? That maybe he is his same old self but has to pretend he’s not? That by being so cold to us he’s actually trying to tell us something?

  But the problem is that I’m not nine years old anymore, and I know life doesn’t work like a mystery novel. It’s usually just what it looks like it is, and what it looks like now is that Dad has become a crazy workaholic who cares more about jungle birds than about his own family.

  We get into bed and Mom tucks us in—well, maybe tuck isn’t the right word, since it’s so hot you don’t even need a sheet, and also it’s really Roo she’s tucking in, not me, because I’m too old for that. I’m in the top bunk since heights are the one thing I’m not scared of that Roo is. Also she sometimes still wets the bed—at least, she’s been wetting the bed since The Weirdness started—and I don’t want to get caught sleeping beneath that whole situation. So Mom is curled up on the bottom bunk with Roo, and when I peek down I can see their two pairs of feet sticking out, Roo’s little feet and Mom’s pretty feet. I bet Patricia Chevalier’s feet aren’t half as pretty as Mom’s.

  I pull out my poetry notebook, because that’s what I do every night since I made my New Year’s resolution, and try to write a poem about arriving at the jungle today, but it just makes me really, really tired to think all the way back to my first sighting of the volcano, not to mention everything that came after. Ugh.

  Down below, Roo is asking Mom what an omen is, because Ken/Neth said that thing about the crisscrossing rainbows we saw from the plane being an omen, and I’m going, Wow, how can she still be thinking about that?

  Mom says: “An omen is a sign.”

  “Like a stop sign?”

  “No, like a sign of something to come. Something that’s going to happen.”

  “Something exciting?”

  “Well, it could be something good or something bad. Just … something.”

  “So Ken thinks something bad is going to happen?”

  It bugs me to hear Roo say the name Ken so easily, as if she’s used to it.

  “No, monkey, I’m sure he was talking about the good kind of omen.”

  “Can we visit Dad again tomorrow?” Roo asks.

  Mom is quiet for a second. “Maybe later in the week,” she says softly. Somehow Roo knows to keep quiet and not argue about that right now. “Good night, okay, girls? You’ll have a fun day tomorrow with your new Spanish tutor.”

  Oh yeah. The Spanish tutor. I’d almost forgotten.

  When Mom stands up after Roo falls asleep, the metal bunk bed creaks. The mattresses are thin and covered in plastic, and I can feel the bed swaying. I look down at Mom standing there barefoot in her tulip dress. She bought that dress for this trip. She said she thought Dad would like it. She seemed to have forgotten that Dad never notices what anyone is wearing. He’d let us wear our Halloween costumes to the pizza parlor in June. And he thought she was terrifically smashing no matter what she wore. Sometimes he would even say she looked smashing when she looked awful, like right after Roo was born. Even though I was only three I remember how scary-ugly Mom looked then. The tulip dress swirls around Mom’s feet. It seems wonderful to me again, not shabby, the way it seemed this afternoon. It must be made of silk.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, Mad.”

  “Is that a silk dress?”

  “Nope. It’s rayon.”

  Even in the not-very-nice light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, Mom looks nice. Her reddish hair all wild from the humidity. The freckles on her face and her arms too. I wish we could sleep with her tonight like we used to when The Weirdness began. We’d curl up, me and Mom and Roo, like three squirrels. But Mom says she has a hard time sleeping with Roo kicking her every thirty seconds.

  Mom stretches up to kiss my forehead and then my nose. Before The Weirdness, she smelled fresh, like grapefruit and grass, but lately she smells different to me, and older, like dust, or black pepper. At first this creeped me out, but now it’s just the way Mom smells. She smiles at me innocently, as though she doesn’t know what I’ve been thinking, which of course she doesn’t. Then she gives me a final kiss, which is what Roo and I call The Bad Kiss. See, there’s this one kind of kiss Mom gives that we can’t stand: she gets high up on your cheek, really close to your ear, and makes this loud kissing sound that makes you go deaf for a few seconds. I hate The Bad Kiss, but I’ve never in my whole life said anything because it is very, very mean to criticize the way someone kisses you. I’m still recovering from The Bad Kiss when Mom reaches up to pull on the chain attached to the lightbulb, and then we’re in darkness.

  I hear all sorts of noises I didn’t hear before, grumblings and hoots and groans. I think about asking Mom to turn the light back on and leave it on, but when I open my mouth, what comes out is, “Everything will be normal again someday, right?” Even though it’s dark I can tell that Mom becomes very still, her bare feet no longer making the sticky sound of footsteps.

  “Madpie,” she says, her voice terribly gentle, “good night, little one. I love you.”

  She’s silhouetted for a second by the blue light of the pool and the pink fluorescent light of the SELV L DGE sign before the metal door slams shut.

  After just a few seconds I start to feel like the sounds of the jungle are inside my head. Shrieking, moaning, flapping, yipping. The darkness more scary than velvety, the jungle noises more freaky than friendly. And the faucet of the little sink in the bathroom. It drips. I try to calm myself down by picturing all the things in the room. The foggy mirror that makes our faces look like blobs with blobs of hair on top, mine brown like Dad’s and Roo’s reddish like Mom’s. The metal closet. The bare lightbulb. The window with no curtain. Our red rolly suitcase on the floor. Roo asleep below me. The orange metal door through which Mom disappeared. Will those little neon-green lizards stay on the door all night? Am I scared of them or do they seem like cute sidekicks? Not to complain or anything, but the Selva Lodge is kind of a weird place. Outside, and inside, growlings and scrapings.

  And that’s when I realize it: The Creepies have followed us here. They aren’t just in Denver, surrounding our house, making us feel like we’re being spied on, forcing Mom to call Ken/Neth and invite him to dinner and ask if he’s heard anything from Dad. They’re also here. Scaring me in the night. As though there are eyes everywhere. Wouldn’t you think that by coming all the way down here, to a whole other country, we might get away from The Creepies?

  “Mom!” I yell. “MOM!” I’m sure she’s already in her room, reading a book in bed, and even if she were right outside, the metal door is so thick she probably couldn’t hear anyway.

  I have to get out of here. I can’t stand to be stuck alone in the dark with The Creepies. No way am I going to be able to fall asleep. I climb down from the top bunk and glance at Roo. In the tiny bit of bluish light coming from outside, I can see her sucking her thumb. She never sucks her thumb anymore. I tug on her arm to pull her thumb out of her mouth but she’s fast asleep and her muscles are surprisingly tense. I can’t move her hand at all. Roo is the World’s Best Sleeper. Even The Creepies never kept her from sleeping well. I wish she’d wake up to keep me company. But she doesn’t, and I’m old enough to know I shouldn’t wake her. I don’t want her to have to be awake, thinking about everything the way I am. I’m jealous that she can sleep like that after a day like this, but I guess I’m glad for her too.

&nbs
p; I don’t even try to find my flip-flops before grabbing the key and stumbling out of the room, barefoot. It’s nice to be outside. The air feels warm and humid and jungly inside my nose. I’m about to knock on Mom’s door when I spot two figures sitting on lawn chairs by the pool.

  It’s Mom. And Ken/Neth. Talking quietly. My heart stutters. Why does he have to have such a big crush on her? If he could just see her with Dad for two seconds—with Dad the way he used to be, I mean—he’d understand that he’d never in a billion years have a chance with her.

  Something stops me from calling out to Mom and Ken/Neth, from saying hi and waving and going over to sit with them and telling Mom about The Creepies. Instead, I walk very quietly into the flowering bushes alongside the pool fence behind them. At first they’re talking about boring stuff. Ken/Neth is telling Mom about all the different awards La Lava’s yoga program has won. Yawn. But anything beats being alone with The Creepies.

  Then, out of the blue, Mom says, “I miss him so much.” She turns to face Ken/Neth and I can see the tendons in her neck (her neck is so long and elegant but the tendons can be scary; they only come out sometimes but never used to come out at all, back before you-know-what).

  Ken/Neth puts his hand on Mom’s shoulder. Gross.

  “I just keep wondering what’s going on with him—what’s going on?” Mom murmurs. “It doesn’t make sense. Unless—is he in love with that woman? That gorgeous woman? It would explain so much. He kept looking over at her today, as though he was asking her permission for every single thing he did.”

  Ken/Neth strokes Mom’s shoulder. Stomachache.

  “But he’s not like that!” Mom says. “He’s never been like that!”

  “He’s not like that,” Ken/Neth agrees. Ten points for Ken/Neth, finally saying the right thing for once in his life.

  “He kept looking at her, though,” Mom says. “She is stunning. I’m just an old lady in comparison.”

  “Oh, Sylvia, you’re lovely,” Ken/Neth sighs. Shut it, Ken/Neth.

  “I miss him so much,” Mom says again. “I miss him so much. I miss him so much.” She’s crying now. Ken/Neth keeps stroking her shoulder.

  I’ve never seen Mom like this. Not even when The Weirdness started. She always stayed very, very, very calm.

  I really can’t handle hearing her say that over and over again. It’s just … too true. So I have to go, back into the night, alone.

  I curl up later with Roo and she wets the bed.

  It figures, I guess.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning Roo and I are hanging out in Mom’s room, watching her get ready for the yoga retreat. Here’s the problem: She doesn’t have any yoga pants.

  “I don’t even know what yoga pants are, really,” she says. “But they told Ken/Neth to tell me I need them. Maybe I’ll just wear my running shorts?”

  Right then there’s a soft knock at the door and my stomach falls. Ugh. Please don’t let it be Ken/Neth, butting in again on the few little moments Mom and Roo and I get to be alone together.

  “Did you hear a knock?” Mom says. “Go check, Mad.”

  I drag my feet the whole way to the door, and when I open it I almost faint. It’s the guy from the Selva Shop. Golden as ever.

  “Um, hello?” I say in an unfriendly way, but just because I’m nervous.

  “Hola,” Mom says to him in her bad Spanish accent. “Come on in.”

  I realize that I’m standing there blocking the doorway, my hands on my hips, so I move to the side and he steps into the room.

  “Good morning, señora,” he says to Mom. “Señor Candy says he’s bringing the golf cart around for you.”

  His English is perfect—no accent at all!

  “Hey,” I say, shocked, “I thought you couldn’t speak English!”

  “I went,” he says to me.

  “What?”

  “I went,” he repeats.

  “You went where?” For some reason my voice comes out sounding angry, and I’m blushing a ton.

  “Fui,” he says, “it means I went. I went to Volcán Pájaro de Lava on the front, and on the back, And you?”

  Oh yeah. That ugly T-shirt in the Selva Shop.

  “Okay,” I say nastily. “I wonder why you couldn’t have told me that yesterday.” What is wrong with me? Why am I being this way?

  He just smiles.

  “I can’t believe you speak English,” I mutter.

  “Mad!” Mom says. “Relax!” Then she turns to Mr. Perfect English, all smiles, and says, “So, I take it you’ve met?”

  “Well, I’m from Ohio,” he tells me, “so, yes, I speak English.”

  “Ohio?”

  “Yeah, but we don’t know each other’s names,” Roo says to Mom.

  “Well then,” Mom says, “let’s do our formal introductions.”

  “Of course, señora,” he says, nodding politely, though there’s something in his nod that’s not quite polite, as though he’s rolling his eyes at us even though he’s not rolling his eyes.

  “Please, call me Sylvia.” I can tell Mom already thinks he’s wonderful. She thinks he’s a very intelligent young man. “Girls, meet Kyle.”

  “Hi, Kyle!” Roo practically shouts.

  Kyle is not the right name for Kyle. Kyle is a name for one of the Popular Boys at school: Kyle is blond hair, blue eyes, good at sports, and always throwing too hard during dodge ball in gym class. This Kyle should be called … Mars, or something like that.

  “Kyle,” Mom continues, “meet Ruby and Madeline.”

  “You can call me Mad,” I say, astonishing myself. Roo and Mom turn to stare at me. In the past I’ve only ever let Mom, Dad, and Roo call me Mad.

  “Mad as in mad?” Kyle smiles as though he’s made a joke.

  I hope I was right to say he could use my nickname.

  “Well,” Mom says cheerily, “looks like everything should be fine around here, then.”

  “What about the babysitter?” Roo asks. “And the Spanish tutor?”

  Why did she have to mention the babysitter in front of Kyle?

  Mom looks puzzled and gestures at Kyle.

  And my legs turn to total Jell-O while Mom informs Kyle that we have notebooks for the Spanish lesson, that we can order lunch at the Selva Café and charge it to the room, that we should get in the pool if we want, et cetera.

  “Okay, girls, now you be good students today, okay?” Mom says, opening the door.

  “Okay, Mom, now you be a good student today, okay?” Roo says right back at her.

  Mom just smiles. From outside the gate Ken/Neth honks the golf cart horn twice. “All aboard, Sylvia!” he yells.

  And I stand there quietly freaking out, because I just can’t believe this golden-eyed teenager is my babysitter.

  Once Mom is gone, Kyle refuses to speak a word of English. He jibbers and jabbers in Spanish as he leads us toward the pool, and I can hardly believe he’s the same super-silent guy we saw in the Selva Shop yesterday. All this Spanish makes me tired. I can’t understand anything. Maybe he’s saying, “You’re two ugly little monkeys and you’ll never learn a word of Spanish. You’re so ugly and stupid I feel bad for you.” Or maybe he’s saying, “Mad, you are so amazing. I know you’re only twelve-almost-thirteen but please will you be my girlfriend?” Or maybe he’s saying, “This is the pool. This is the table. This is the chair. That is the sky.” Whatever it is, there’s no way for us to know.

  “How do you say ‘Can we please go to the jungle, please?’ in Spanish?” Roo interrupts him.

  “¿Por favor, podemos ir a la selva, por favor?” Kyle says.

  Roo repeats the question with a perfect accent, and then adds, “I’m serious, Kyle, we really have to go there right away, it’s very important,” as though she’s known Kyle forever.

  Oh great. She’s still stuck on this whole Poor-Dad-we-have-to-figure-out-what’s-going-on-it-must-have-something-to-do-with-the-jungle-his-hand-on-my-head-was-a-code thing. Man, I really do wish I was
still young enough to believe this crazy stuff, like that Dad needs our help, that he hasn’t stopped caring about us, that the only thing standing between us and the way our life used to be is a march into the jungle.

  Kyle looks at Roo with new respect and says something in Spanish.

  “No,” Roo replies, miraculously understanding whatever he said, “we aren’t like other girls. We don’t just want to hang out at the pool all day. We love the jungle.”

  Then Kyle stands and strides out of the pool area toward the Selva Shop. Roo jumps up to follow him, and I jump up after her.

  “We gotta get to the bottom of this,” Roo mutters at me as we cross the concrete courtyard. One of Dad’s most used phrases. “It’s really, really, really important.”

  She skips along after Kyle, and the only thing I can do is follow them both.

  At the Selva Shop—which seems to be closed now that he’s not on duty—he pulls out a key and unlocks the door, then heads to the back of the room.

  “Um, what are we doing here?” I say.

  Kyle replies in Spanish, so of course I have no idea what he says. Saying things to us that I can’t understand seems to be his new hobby. He reaches deep into the freezer on the back wall and pulls out three Popsicles. Then he slams the freezer door, herds us back out of the Selva Shop, and leads the way across the concrete courtyard to a narrow chain-link gate I somehow haven’t noticed until this exact second.

  Kyle pushes the gate open, and Roo bursts past him.

  “Oh,” she breathes, “the jungle.”

  And I have to admit, it does kind of take your breath away. Actually stepping into the jungle is very, very different from just looking at it from an airplane or a van or a golf cart or a café. To feel yourself surrounded by layers and layers and layers of green. To sense the ground and the trees and the vines crawling with all sorts of strange life. A thrilled-terrified shiver runs down my spine.

  There’s a path leading into the jungle, its dirt as dark and rich as Dad’s French-press coffee grounds. Kyle heads up that path, and Roo rushes behind him.