Chasing the Milky Way Read Free

Next to it is an article headlined ROBERT FROST SCENIC BYWAY , and to the right there’s something about the FBI. Pinned underneath is a list titled “Seahook”:
    Seahook
    Go to Science and Nature Center
    Eat at the Lobster Pound
    Walk on the beach
    Eat shaved ice
    Watch the BotBlock Challenge
    Midnight wishes
    DON’T FORGET TO PACK
    There are also a few poems and doodles pinned up. I look down at the table. A cluster of papers and envelopes are spread out next to each other, like they’re supposed to fold and seal themselves. I spot the stem of a tipped-over wineglass. I reach out and grab it. Pull it up and turn it. A little drop in the bottom of the glass spins and smears across the side.
    I eye the number for Dr. Vincent tacked to the board next to the door. When Gram passed away, Mama seemed like she wanted to follow her, at least halfway. Mama’s right foot is still planted next to Izzy and me here in Sunnyside Trailer Park, but her other foot is behind Gram, trying to journey into a world we can’t see. I don’t blame her for missing Gram. I’d run out behind her, too, if I could.
    â€œHey, Mama!” I shout. I put the glass in the sink. This is the one spot in the house that looks cleaner than the rest. That’s funny ’cause last night it was the only place in the house that was a mess. I open the cupboard. No plates? Just as I close the door, I spot Mama through the window. She’s got the dish bin. And a shovel. I check the other houses and pray it’s still early enough that no one will be around to witness this. I hurry out the door and around the side of the trailer. Mama’s wearing a kerchief over her curly hair, big sunglasses, and a jacket. She’s breathing heavy as she digs into the dirt.
    â€œMorning, Mama,” I say, taking it easy, stepping over to her like I’m walking on glass.
    â€œIf I have to look at one more goddamned dish,” Mama says, putting one of the teacups into the ground. She covers it with dirt and moves a foot to the right and starts digging again. I see three little mounds running alongside the trailer. Three tiny gold-edged handles barely peeking out of the freshly dug soil. Like she’s trying to grow a new set of china. I hear some roots pop free as she pulls up another layer of ground, dumping it to the side.
    â€œConstant goddamned mess,” Mama says.
    â€œIsn’t that more work than washing them?” I say, putting my hands into my pockets, trying to act casual.
    Mama laughs, tilting her head back to the sky. “It’s not the washing. It’s the look of them. If I have to look at one more flower on one more china teacup I’m going to lose it. Absolutely lose it.”
    â€œYou take your meds today?” I ask, thinking she is kind of already losing it. She freezes. Then starts shaking her head.
    â€œLucille, I’ll remind you that I’m the parent. I’m the adult.”
    The light in Mrs. Barlow’s trailer flicks on. She’s the eyes and ears of the whole park, and I don’t really feel like being part of her morning broadcast. Not today. I pick up the bucket of dishes. “I can wash these and put them in the cupboard, okay? Then you don’t have to look at them. They’ll be in the cupboard. Okay?”
    Mama stops and looks from side to side, then she reaches into the pocket of her oversized jacket and pulls out a book,
The Poetry of Robert Frost.
Mama is stuck on Robert Frost ’cause she is a Robert Frost scholar. Meaning she has talked a lot about him and read a lot about him and even written some articles about him. She runs her finger along the index, tears out a page, and puts it into her pocket. She drops the rest of the book into the freshly dug soil and covers it quickly.
    â€œYou’re right. We’d better get inside.” She stomps on the fresh mound and then heads around the house to the door of the trailer, pulling the