Love, Aubrey Read online

  Gram seemed to be giving me plenty of time to think, so I was surprised when late one afternoon she came into my room.

  “You got some mail,” she said.

  “Really?” I asked, not moving from my bed. “Who’s it from?”

  “Your mother.” She set two envelopes gently on my bed. I didn’t look at them, just at her. I sat up a little and reached for her before she moved away. I hugged her.

  “I love you, Gram.”

  Gram chuckled. “I love you, too, you silly girl. Now open that stuff up and see what it says.” She left the room, closing the door, and I scooped up the envelopes.

  The larger one looked like it had been opened once before and then taped shut again. I opened it first.

  Four faces looked up at me. Though they were extremely familiar, they also seemed to be from some other time and place. It was us: me, Savannah, Mom, and Dad. It was the picture I had taken from Mom’s room and left on the counter in Virginia.

  I set it down to rip open the other letter. My mother had written it, on loose-leaf.

  My dear Aubrey,

  Not long ago I discovered and opened up a mysterious unaddressed envelope. Then I knew where the picture from the frame on my dresser had disappeared to. I thought for only a minute before I realized that you must have wanted it. Even if that guess was wrong, I want you to have it.

  I want you to know that I am doing well here. I have put fresh paint in the living room and dining room. They are both now a sunny yellow. They look quite different than before, I have to say. I have cleaned up your room but I won’t paint it quite yet-I want you to choose your own color.

  I like my job better all the time. It feels good to be helping people, and the babies are, of course, delightful. I have full-time hours now, which means I am working a lot, but as soon as you return, they will let me go back to part-time for as long as I need to, so that we can spend some time together.

  Know that I am thinking of you, for all of every day.

  Love,

  Mama

  I read her letter three times. Then I set it aside. I picked up the photograph again and took it over to my desk, closer to the window, to look at it in better light.

  There we all were, frozen in that one moment, so happy. I had thought we were gone forever, but it wasn’t true. My family would never come back to me, but I did have little things, little reminders. This picture. And Mom still there, and getting better. And my memories.

  Holding the picture in front of me, I closed my eyes. I could still see it. I could feel the memories right there, close, but they weren’t drawing me inside like they sometimes did. Maybe it was up to me now. I thought about Mom and whether I should go to her, and about Dad and Savannah, and then I chose the memory I wanted, and waited for it to fill me.

  I’ve been sick for three days.

  Mom says it’s one of those spring flus. She says some people get sick when the seasons change. Maybe I’m one of those people, maybe not. All I know is it’s Wednesday and I haven’t been to school yet this week. I’m sick of spending all day on the couch, but my pillow still feels good and the sheets are smooth and cool and standing makes me dizzy.

  Mom sits me up, makes me drink water out of a baby cup we still have for some reason. It only turns up when we don’t feel good. The sick cup.

  “Mama …”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “I don’t feel good.”

  “You’re sweating. Do you know what that means?”

  I did. Dad always talks about that, that a fever happens and your body gets really hot. When you start sweating, it means the fever is gone.

  “Get up, come in the car to get Savannah.”

  I shake my head.

  Mom pushes the hair back off my forehead. She pauses for a minute, holding my hair that way.

  “Okay. You’re not ready. Lie back down. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  When I next open my eyes, Savannah is there, watching TV. She wears a pink plaid jumper over a green shirt. Her sneakers are her baby blue high-tops with rainbows and clouds.

  “Did you dress yourself?” I ask.

  “Mama let me,” she says, not turning around.

  Mom comes back into the living room and announces, “You’re going outside.”

  “See ya, Savannah.”

  “You too,” Mom says to me. “The air will help you.”

  She stands me up, and I change into the clean clothes she has brought me, even my underwear, right there in the living room. Then she pushes me and Savannah, who has an armload of toys, out into the front yard.

  “Let’s play house,” Savannah suggests. I sit down on the grass, determined not to move an inch.

  Savannah opens her little portable dollhouse and starts handing me the tiny people from inside: A pale wooden boy with fuzzy yellow yarn hair. A brown wooden boy with black hair. A lanky, bendy-plastic ballerina.

  “Those are the brothers and the sister,” she explains. She holds up a squat plastic woman and a tall wooden man with red string hair. Then she shows me a wine cork with a face drawn on it. “Mama, Daddy, baby.”

  “Savannah, none of these people go together. They aren’t a family.”

  Savannah doesn’t seem to care. “They live in the same place.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “And they are happy together. So there.”

  Too tired to argue, I set the children in their beds. I put my elbow on my crossed legs and rest my head on my hand.

  Dad’s car pulls into the driveway. I don’t get up, but Savannah runs to meet him. They walk to where I’m sitting.

  “How’s my girl?” Dad asks. “What are you up to?”

  “Playing house. But Savannah made up a crazy family.”

  “Ah, that happens. But I’m sure it’s very nice, right?”

  I shrug.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “Maybe,” he echoes. “Well, that’s better than not at all. It’s better than not at all.”

  Though I am nine, and way too big for it, Dad picks me up, letting my head rest on his shoulder.

  “You’ll be fine, girl,” he says.

  “I love you, Daddy,” I say.

  “I love you, too.”

  “And me?” Savannah cries from below, where she holds his hand. “Do you love me?”

  “And you, Savannah,” he says. Savannah squeals happily and hugs his arm. “I love both my girls. Savannah, get your toys.”

  She scoops the dolls into the house, shuts it, and takes his hand again.

  Savannah leads us up the steps and pushes open the unlatched door, not letting Dad go. I am content in his arms. He carries me inside and nestles me back into my cocoon on the couch. Savannah sets the dollhouse next to me.

  Mom calls them to dinner and they leave me, but I hear them talking, eating, laughing together. Alone on the couch, I open the dollhouse and look through Savannah’s little people, pausing carefully to look at each face, wondering if they could be, as Dad has said, a family that is still very nice.

  When I lifted my head up from my desk, I wiped away the tears that had run all over my face. There weren’t more behind them. I was done crying.

  As I wiped the wet spot off my desk, my palm made a slight squeak. I rubbed the spot with the sleeve of my sweatshirt to make sure it was gone.

  I took the photograph and held it in my hands. I smiled at each of them, Savannah, Dad, Mom. Then I set it to lean against the wall, so I could look at it while I wrote.

  Dear Mama,

  I know that you are ready for me to come home. I am really happy that you want me to.

  But I am not ready yet.

  I am happy here with Gram. She is really good to me, even when I am being a baby. I love school, and I have good friends. I really want to finish the year, at least. The family next door is really nice to me. My best friend lives there.

  Now, here is like home.

  I miss yo
u. I know that you miss me, and that you love me, and that you want me to be with you. I promise that I will come home to you, someday, but I am not ready yet. I know that you want us to be a family again. I want that, too. I’m just not ready to leave the family I have here. Please come visit again. I hope everything is good, and your new job is still good, and you are getting ready for when I do come back to Virginia.

  Everything is going to be okay.

  Love,

  Aubrey

  Thank you to my wonderful agent, Elizabeth, and the team at Curtis Brown. Your faith in me, as well as your careful attention, never ceases to amaze me. I feel so blessed to have you watching over me.

  Thank you to my editor, Wendy, as well as Caroline Meckler and the whole team at Random House. You offered the perfect balance between detailed suggestions and creative space, and I am extremely grateful.

  Thank you to my professors at the New School: Tor Seidler, Sarah Weeks, and Susan Van Metre, who provided extensive critiques of this piece from its very beginning; and David Levithan, who kept me inspired with the best of children’s literature and his unceasing, invaluable support. Thank you also to the members of my MFA Writing for Children class, who lent their support, provided crackers and cheese, and critiqued this piece both in class and out with honesty and generosity: Kate Gilliam, Jeff Imrich, Chee Wan Kim, Caron Levis, Paula McAlister, Eric Moffat, Stefanie Pivar, Cait Stuff, and, especially, my Favourite and my Anemone, Anne Heltzel. You helped shape Aubrey and me.

  Thank you to Katherine Ehrlich, who shared her knowledge of psychology in the form of advice not only for plot and characters, but also for emotional support while I wrote this story. You were always ready to talk when I needed you.

  Thank you to my kids at the Anderson School. You probably didn’t realize it, but it was your presence in my life and your insatiable love for books that kept me writing. Some of you were the first kids to hear this story, and your comments were invaluable. I wish I could list you each by name, but as there are over a hundred of you, you know who you are: Ms. Puzo’s classes of 2006-07 and 2007-08, 3-228 and 3-238, and my ELA crew of 2007-08, 5A and 5B.

  Thank you to my first reader, Erika “Ms. Puzo” Vaughan, who read faithfully without criticism, listened continuously without interruption, hugged readily without request, and believed in me endlessly without question. You shared your classroom, not to mention all those grapefruit and strawberries; I could not ask for a better environment in which to write a book, nor a better friend to share it with. Thank you for holding my hand.

  Finally, thank you to my parents, who raised me with love, laughter, and libraries, and to my siblings, who taught me everything else important, like how to transport fish on trains.

  At a very young age, Suzanne LaFleur fell in love with stories. She loved them so much she decided that if she had to grow up, she would write new stories for kids to read. Love, Aubrey is her first book.

  Suzanne works with children in New York City and Boston. Visit her on the Web at www.suzannelafleur.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are

  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance

  to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Suzanne M. LaFleur

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of

  Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at

  www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  LaFleur, Suzanne M.

  Love, Aubrey / Suzanne M. LaFleur. —1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: While living with her Gram in Vermont, eleven-year-old Aubrey writes letters as a way of dealing with tragic losses in her family.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89260-8 [1. Abandoned children—Fiction. 2. Grief—Fiction. 3.

  Grandmothers—Fiction. 4. Letters—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.

  7. Depression, Mental—Fiction. 8. Vermont—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.L1422Lov 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008031742

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  and celebrates the right to read.

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