The Truth of Me Read Free

thinks things should be a certain way. Her way,” he says.
    I think about my mother being upset when they had to cancel a concert because the second violinist died. I think about her being upset because wild-haired Marybeth is having a baby.
    I nod now. I’m turning into Henry.
    â€œThey worry about Maddy and her wild-animal stories,” I say. “They think it’s strange.”
    I’d like to say that I worry, too. But that’s another thing I don’t say out loud.
    â€œWe all have our truths, Kiddo,” says Henry. “Some are big truths. Most times they’re small truths. But those stories are Maddy’s truths. Your parents have different ones of their own.”
    â€œDo you have truths of your own?” I ask.
    â€œYes,” says Henry. “I am, in my heart, a man with a very large sailboat. I sail around the world with my two dogs and visit people everywhere. I like the wind in my hair. I like the sun. I like the stars at night.”
    I stare at Henry for a moment. For some reason, I don’t know why—maybe because Henry has told me this very private thing—I feel like crying. Just so I don’t cry, I ask Henry my very own stupid question.
    â€œWhat kind of dogs?” I ask, my voice trembling a bit.
    Henry doesn’t laugh.
    â€œPortuguese water dogs,” says Henry. He takes his wallet out of his pocket and shows me a picture.
    â€œThis is what they look like.”
    I look at the picture of black, curly-haired dogs.
    I decide to push a little more.
    â€œAnd their names?”
    â€œAre Luke and Lily,” he says quickly, expecting the question.
    I sit back.
    Henry looks at me with a small smile.
    â€œDo you have small truths of your own, Kiddo?” he asks.
    I shake my head.
    â€œI think I’m too young,” I say.
    â€œOh, no. You can work on it while you’re here,” says Henry. “You’ll have your own small truth by summer’s end.”
    He reaches over to tap my hand. It’s only a tap, but it’s comforting.
    â€œIn the meantime, we won’t worry about Maddy, will we?” he says in a soft voice.
    â€œNo,” I whisper.
    â€œI think we both like Maddy the way she is,” says Henry.
    â€œWe do,” I say.
    â€œYou have a good heart, Kiddo. Want to hear it?”
    Henry picks up his stethoscope and puts the earpieces in my ears. He holds the chest piece on my chest. It is quiet in the room. Even Ellie doesn’t move. And then I hear the steady thump, thump, thump of something inside me.
    Henry knows there are tears at the corners of my eyes, but he doesn’t say so. He puts my hand over the chest piece so I can hold it there. He gets up to stir the pot on the stove.
    And I sit, listening to the sound of my heart.
    Listening for one small truth.
    Listening to me .
    Ellie and I have gone to bed.
    Henry’s stew was normal.
    Maddy’s salad was almost normal.
    I can hear Henry and Maddy talking softly in the kitchen. I like the sound of their talk even though I can’t hear what they say.
    Ellie turns over in the dark.
    I yawn.
    And I realize that I’m missing something.
    What is it?
    I hear the quiet.
    I never hear soft voices in the other room at home. And then it comes to me. What I don’t hear is the sound of music. What I don’t hear is the faraway sound of my mother’s sweet, sad violin, the solid sound of my father playing out a melody on the piano over and over, and the sudden silence when I know he is writing it down. All that music that comes out of the night.
    I close my eyes.
    It is kind of nice to miss something of my mother and father.
    I quickly open my eyes, surprised.
    I wonder if this is a small truth.
    A small truth about me.

5

Alpha
    W hen I wake in the morning, the room is full of light.
    I get up and go into the kitchen. Maddy has left a pitcher of orange juice and a glass on the table for me. I pour a glassful, then walk to