Kitabı oku: «Learning to Hula», sayfa 3

Besides, I owe them some homemade dinners. I’ve been so busy lately with trying to get everything ready for the closing with the business, training Steve’s mom, going over records while we waited for all the paperwork to be processed regarding Rob’s estate.

It got so bad that Claire and Robbie started complaining about eating pizza too much. Maybe Pam’s right—I am a hypocrite. Just because my children are both probably underweight doesn’t mean that now is not the time to instill healthy eating habits in them. I used to, back when I’d had Rob on that diet.

I remember the days they used to beg for Rob to pick up a pizza on his way home from work. He’d had one with him that night….

“Mom!”

I step on the brakes. “What?”

“You almost passed Mrs. Diller’s.”

I glance around and see that I am just past the short picket fence that marks her property line. Behind it stands a little white bungalow, its yard aglow with the riotous colors of all the mums she’s planted.

Despite her age, Mrs. Diller rises agilely from her knees and peels off her gardening gloves and floppy straw hat. As Claire hops out to join her without so much as a goodbye, Mrs. Diller waves her hat at me.

I hesitate before pulling away. Robbie’s not with me and I’m not sure what to do, so I watch Claire for a moment. I watch the sulkiness leave her face as a smile spreads across it. I watch her snuggle into Mrs. Diller’s quick embrace before walking with her into the house. The storm door bounces twice against the frame before closing behind them and shutting me out.

My chest hurts. I want to see that smile on Claire’s face again. For me.

“Everyone grieves in his or her own way,” the grief counselor had informed me. That was about all she could offer regarding the kids’ feelings, since they wouldn’t share any of them with her.

Until last night they hadn’t shared that much with me, either. The tears in the early days. The shock. The denial. Last night was the first that I’ve felt their anger. Ironically, the same day I really gave in to mine. Maybe everyone in my house grieves in the same way.

“Give them time,” my mother said the day of the funeral and several times since. With the business sold, I can give them all my time now. Tonight’s dinner is just the beginning.

Since I’ve waited at the curb so long, I don’t have time to drive home and back. I’ll let Robbie wait at home—if that’s where he is—for a while longer so he can cool off.

Instead I run into town to check on Pam. The outside door for the stairwell to her apartment is locked. She’s probably at her yoga class in Grand Rapids, which is about a forty-five-minute drive away from Stanville.

Thinking I might collect some paperwork, I use my key to let myself into The Tearoom. It closes at three-thirty every day. It’s only four now, so the air is still rich with the mingled aromas of coffee, herbal teas and cinnamon. I breathe deeply, appreciating now why this place means so much to my mother.

Even empty, it’s still abuzz with the chatter from the day, the gossip, which was probably mostly about me. Really, Pam owes me. If not for my incident at Smiley’s, folks would have all been talking about her separation.

I wonder how long it took Bulletin Bill to spill the news about me to the deputy. Not long, I’m sure. But I bet Westmoreland wasn’t surprised. What does surprise him? He was solemn but not upset the night he brought me the news about Rob.

Westmoreland’s not from here, but he’s lived in Stanville long enough to be accepted. A few years? I can’t remember when he came or where he’s from, probably a big city where he’s seen far more than a heart-attack-induced traffic accident.

For him that was routine.

For me, it was the end of every routine I’ve ever known.

I glance at my watch, then lock the door as I leave to pick up Claire. She grunts when I ask her how her lesson went. That’s still better than the silent treatment from the morning. Not much, but better.

The house is quiet when we step inside. Some of the bags by the back door are missing. That’s good. Robbie’s already begun to put some of it away, tantrum over as quickly as mine had passed in Smiley’s. Robbie’s still my mild-mannered boy.

“Call your brother for dinner,” I tell Claire, as I open the fridge and bring out the seasoned strips of steak and chicken, which I’ve already sautéed. They just need to be popped into the microwave for a quick reheat. I reach for a plate on the counter when my sleeve brushes against something that rustles. A folded piece of paper with “Mom” scrawled across it.

I pick up the note and unfold it.

“Since you’re getting rid of everything that reminds you of Dad, I figure you’re going to get rid of me next. So I’m saving you the trouble.”

STAGE 4

I am not stupid, nor did I raise stupid children. I don’t really believe that Robbie has run away.

Despite living in a small town, he is aware of the dangers that might befall a teenager traveling on his own, and because of our small town, traveling would not be easy. The closest bus terminal is a forty-five-minute drive away, the same for the train station and airport.

How would he get to Grand Rapids? Once again, I am glad that I loaned out Rob’s Beetle. And because of the asthma that has excused him from every Phys Ed class, I know that Robbie did not run away.

If he were truly like his father, this would be one of those pranks he’s been pulling lately, and I would open his bedroom door and he’d be standing there with a big grin on his face, thinking he is so funny even though he’s not.

But his room is empty.

I know this without even stepping inside because the door is open. His bedroom door is never open.

Neither is Claire’s. Hers is shut now, with signs posted all over that No Trespassers Are Allowed. Those used to be meant for Robbie. Now I’m not so sure to whom she is referring, but I don’t care what she thinks. I am not a trespasser in my own home.

I open her door without knocking. She whirls away from her bed, where she is pulling stuff from her backpack. I step close enough that I can see a couple of wadded-up T-shirts and some CDs. Packing or unpacking? Is she intending to leave me a note, too?

“I told you to call Robbie for dinner,” I remind her, watching her face.

Her mouth twists into the familiar sulky pout. “I didn’t hear you,” she claims. The pout becomes a sneer. “I didn’t hear you knock, either.”

I swallow the words threatening to erupt. This is my house. I don’t knock on doors in my own house. Those were my mother’s words whenever Pam or Emma protested her “invading” their privacy. She’d never had to invade mine. I’d never kept any secrets from her. And Claire never used to keep any secrets from me.

She and I had been close…until a few months ago. So much has changed since then. She is no longer my little girl. She’s as tall as I am and poised on the brink of adolescence. Even her room reflects this. Not much of the soft yellow walls can be seen through the odd mixture of rock posters and pictures of kitties curled in baskets or hanging from tree limbs. Although she wants to, she’s not quite sure how to grow up. So she’s pushing me, testing her limits.

And mine.

Back when she used to share stuff with me, she’d told me about a friend of hers who purposely makes her mother mad because she thinks it’s funny to watch her turn red, and hear her swear. I suspect that is what she and Robbie have been trying with me, not because they think it’s funny, but because they’re stuck in stage two: anger. They’re lashing out like I did in Smiley’s.

I am the cupcake now.

“So where is Robbie?” I ask her, ignoring the odd little flutter in my chest. I refuse to panic. There’s no reason for it. Robbie has not run away, he’s just trying to make a point.

Claire shrugs and looks down at the T-shirts on the unmade bed. “I don’t know. Probably downstairs.”

In his father’s den. He still spends all his time there, playing on the computer. He’s not going to be pleased when I take over the room for my office, but Robbie has a laptop he can use anywhere. I need the space for files.

“I don’t think he’s there,” I say, knowing I will check anyway.

“Whatever…”

That is another chorus she sings, like the “it’s not fair” one.

“What’s with the stuff in your backpack?” I ask her, wanting to know if she thinks she’s leaving, too. Is this something they planned together, like the packed bags and boxes and the For Sale sign on the front lawn?

“I got it back from Heather.”

She and her friends share clothes and CDs so this is not unusual. But I detect that surly note in her voice, not directed at me for once. “Are you and Heather fighting?”

It would not surprise or disappoint me if Claire said yes. This is the girl who purposely makes her mother mad.

She nods. “Yeah, she’s a lying bitch!”

“Claire!” Despite our house rule against swearing, she’s called her brother names many times, but never a friend, even a friend like Heather.

“I don’t need her.” Her dark eyes tell me more, that she doesn’t think she needs anyone.

I’ve wondered why the phone, which used to ring incessantly, has been so quiet. I want to talk to her about this, about her isolation from her friends, because I understand. My friends have stopped calling, too. They expressed their sympathy at the funeral, but now they don’t know what to say to me. And if adults can’t figure it out, I doubt young girls can.

I want to explain this to her, but don’t believe she’ll listen to me now. I need to find Robbie and treat them both to their favorite dinner first. I hand her the note.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“You tell me.” They are too close now for her not to know.

She reads it through narrowed eyes. “He ran away?”

“You tell me,” I say again. “Earlier, when I asked you about his not riding the bus, you acted like you knew something. Did you know about this?”

“No!” she cries, tossing the note back at me. Her hands are shaking. She’s madder now, at him, than at Heather or me. I don’t think it’s because he ran away but because he ran away without her. “All he told me was that he wasn’t waiting for you to pick him up. He didn’t say anything else. He’s a liar!”

She may think she doesn’t need anyone, but she’s come to depend on her brother. Regardless of their past relationship as pest-pestee, they are the only ones who truly understand what each other is going through, more so than I do. With Rob’s passing, I lost my husband; they lost their father.

“I doubt he’s really run away,” I assure her, as she’s blinking back tears. “We’ll find him.”

I reach to put my arm around her, but she pulls away from me.

“Whatever…”

I am mad now, not worried. I still believe he is too smart to have run away. I’m mad because he’s so smart that he has hidden well. He’s not with his friends. I have called their houses, had their mothers search their rooms, as I have searched every room of my house.

And the garage.

And the shed in the back.

And now, as I stand at the kitchen window of Emma’s farmhouse, I watch flashlight beams bounce around in the woods like huge fireflies. Others are searching for him now.

But he isn’t out there.

Autumn, even this early, and his asthma are a bad combination. If he’s out among the rotting leaves, he’ll be breathing so hard that they’ll hear him, the flashlights unnecessary. But it’s important to them that they search. Keith is looking, with Emma’s husband, Troy, and her oldest son, Dylan. It’s how men react; they have to fix things. That was how Rob got into computer repair in the first place. He was a fixer, too.

But his expression would not be as grim as theirs had been when they learned Robbie was missing. He’d be smiling, cracking jokes or sleeping. I remember how he used to play hide-n-go-seek with the kids when they were little. He’d created his own version: hide-n-go-sleep.

While Robbie and Claire hid away, being absolutely quiet so he wouldn’t hear them, Rob would lie down on the couch where he’d been counting, and fall asleep. His snoring would eventually draw them from their hiding places, and he’d catch them when he awoke, without ever leaving the couch.

Maybe I should have tried that. But I’m too mad to sleep. And not just at Robbie for pulling this stunt, but at Rob for not being here to handle it.

My trembling fingers close over one of the ceramic roosters sitting on the windowsill. Like Mom with the teapots, this is what Emma collects, claiming they are required in a country kitchen. While not as bad as the hula lamp, they are tacky. She has too many. Would she mind if I picked up this one and hurled it against the wall? Or through the window? I need to break something so that I don’t.

Because if Rob were here, Robbie would be, too. He wouldn’t run away from his father. Just me. I’d thought what he and Claire had said before slamming their bedroom doors last night had been in the heat of the moment, but what if he meant it? What if he hates me? Then he really would have run away….

“Where do you think he could be?” I ask Emma, who stands anxiously behind me. I see her reflection in the glass, the tight expression on her face, the worry in her eyes. It’s my face that’s staring back at me, the mirror image. There’s a catch in my voice as I tell her, “I checked with everyone.”

I called my mom on the off chance Robbie walked to town, but she hadn’t seen him. I convinced her not to come out, that the guys had the search under control. Pam still hadn’t been home, not that I could see Robbie crashing with his least-favorite aunt. It’s probably just out of loyalty to Rob that he doesn’t like Pam, and why he played the pranks on her. He’d heard them argue too many times.

Emma puts her arm around my shoulders. Unlike Claire, who’d pulled away from me, I lean into her, appreciating her warmth and support. If only it were Rob’s strong arm around me, his big body to lean against for support….

I blink back the tears burning my eyes.

“I don’t know,” she says.

I was so sure he’d be here, in the old farmhouse where I’d grown up, probably doubting Emma would notice one more teenager with five of them already. Or believing that if she did, she would let him stay anyway.

He and Claire think Emma is more lenient than I am, but that’s just because her house has two sets of rules. Emma has one set for her kids; Troy has another for his. And neither of them disciplines the other’s. They agreed on this arrangement to protect their marriage. Sometimes I think it does more harm, but Emma will do whatever necessary to make this relationship work, since she really loves Troy.

I understand Emma. I always do. It’s Pam who rarely makes sense to me. Then Emma says, “You need to try Deputy Westmoreland again.”

Now I wonder about her. “I didn’t call him.” But I did call the police department. “They’re already sending an officer to check the bus and train terminals for a boy matching the description I gave them.”

Emma squeezes my shoulder. “Deputy Westmoreland is the one who works with teenagers at the high school.”

At-risk teens. Robbie is not at risk. He’s just pissed off that I sold his father’s business. I’m deliberately obtuse. “Robbie’s not at the high school.”

I already called Principal Van Otten…at the mayor’s house. Robbie had attended school today, but I learned there were some other days that he’d missed.

When I find him, I intend to make it clear to him that skipping school is unacceptable and he has detention to serve. At least I assume that is what Mr. Van Otten wants to discuss during the meeting he scheduled with me for tomorrow, provided I find Robbie by then. I have to find Robbie by then. My fingers tighten so hard around the rooster that I imagine I hear a quiet crack. I force my grip to loosen.

Mr. Van Otten also checked with the bus driver and called me back to confirm that Robbie had taken the bus home this afternoon. I doubt he could have gotten as far as the bus or train terminals. He has to be around here somewhere. I continue to watch the lights bouncing around in the woods.

“Holly,” Emma says in that long-suffering, patient tone that has me squirming like one of her children. “Deputy Westmoreland knows where all the teenagers hang out.”

“I’m sure he’s not the only one in the police department who knows. I know.”

The cemetery. The park. The football field. Nothing much changes in Stanville, or Standstill, which is what we called it as kids, which is what the kids call it now. “I’ll go look for him.”

“You should stay here,” she insists. “In case he comes home.”

He better. And soon. Once he does, he’ll never run away again because he won’t be leaving the house. Maybe I’ll homeschool, then I won’t have to worry about his skipping or running away. I have the time now.

But Rob will haunt me. He had strong opinions about kids needing the social aspect of public school, especially someone like Robbie, who’s so shy. Too shy to be hanging out at the cemetery. Or the park. Or the football field. Looking for him at any of those places would be a waste of time.

“Deputy Westmoreland knows what Robbie looks like,” Emma continues. “He was at Rob’s funeral.”

I’ll have to take her word for it, since I didn’t see him there. I really don’t care who looks for Robbie, as long as someone is. “I called the police,” I remind her again. “And I have pictures of him, you know.”

His class photos had come back earlier this week. Maybe I shouldn’t have paid extra for the professional touch-up. His skin isn’t really that clear, but still they’ll be able to recognize him. If it comes to that.

I hope it doesn’t. But if they can’t find Robbie outside, I need to call the kind-voiced police dispatcher back and have them send an officer out so I can file an official report. A missing person’s report.

My son is missing. For a moment I can’t breathe, my lungs crushed from the pressure on my chest. I can’t lose Robbie, too. I need to do something. I’m tired of standing here, watching other people search for my son. “Do you have another flashlight?” I ask Emma.

She shakes her head. “Come on, Holly. You know he’s not out there.”

I know he’s not. Robbie hates camping, probably because of his asthma. The outdoors, campfire thing was never for him, and our family vacations were all spent in nice hotels.

“He must have new friends,” I say, “because he hasn’t spent much time with the ones he used to have.”

Like Claire, does he think he doesn’t need them? But I actually like Robbie’s friends. They’re sweet and shy like him, like he used to be.

“I’ll ask Jason,” Emma says. Jason is her stepson who’s in the same grade as Robbie, even though he’s a year older. Before she leaves the kitchen, she presses a card into my hand. “His cell phone number is on here. Call him.”

I open my fingers around the ivory paper. Deputy Westmoreland’s name and badge number are on the card, along with the number for the police department that I’ve already called. Someone has also written in his cell number. From the bold scrawl, I figure he wrote it down himself.

When did Emma get this? At the funeral? Had the deputy thought then that Robbie would be “at risk” just because his father had died? Now I’m mad at Westmoreland again. Or still. I can’t remember which, but he really has no business getting in my business.

If I call him, I would tell him that and…that my son is missing. Emma’s right. He should be the officer with whom I file the “official” report. He knows the situation, unlike the dispatcher, who’d been kind but not particularly concerned. “He’s a teenage boy,” he’d said. “He’s probably hanging out with friends. But we can take a report….”

I’d held off then, wanting to let the guys finish their search first, but I can’t wait any longer. Turning away from the window, I cross to where Emma’s cordless phone sits on the counter. It’s still warm from all the calls I made earlier. I’ve punched in two numbers when a clamor erupts upstairs. Raised voices. Jason’s. Then Emma’s. Emma hardly ever raises her voice. Then there are footsteps on the stairs.

“You aren’t supposed to come into my room!” Jason’s shouting.

Unlike me, Emma is sometimes considered a trespasser in her own house because of the house rules. She’s not allowed to enter Troy’s kids’ rooms. He respects their privacy, sometimes more than I think he respects Emma. Rob and I hadn’t parented like that. We’d been equal partners, which is probably why it’s so hard going it alone.

“What’s going on?” I ask, as she charges back into the kitchen.

Her face is red, and she’s dragging someone—Jason?—behind her. All I see is an arm. Then the rest of the slight body follows.

“Robbie!”

Relief floods me. Until this moment I didn’t think I was worried, not really worried, but my knees are a little weak now. If I’d lost him, too…

I reach for him to throw my arms around him, but he steps back. His reaction isn’t the same as Claire’s rejection of my comfort, though, because there’s something in his dark eyes, a fear of me magnified by his thick lenses, that’s never been there before.

Maybe it’s good that he fears me a little. He should after this stunt he’s pulled. My hands are shaking as I close them over his shoulders, forcing him to look at me.

“What—” I bite my tongue. Damn our no-swearing rule “—were you thinking?”

“I want to live here,” he says, “with Aunt Emma.”

Pain grips my heart, squashing it as viciously as I had the Kitty Cupcakes yesterday.

Emma flashes me a look, one full of sympathy. As a mother she knows how much it hurts to have your child want to run away from you.

“That’s too bad,” I say, steeling my voice to cover the hurt. “We all want things we can’t have.”

I can’t have Rob back.

That’s what Robbie’s and Claire’s attitudes are all about. They blame me. Last night I let them. Tonight is another story—my patience has worn out.

That’s why I can’t homeschool. Rob’s wrath and socialization aside, I don’t have enough patience, not where my children are concerned.

Seeing that he’ll get nowhere with me, Robbie turns back to Emma. “Please, Aunt Em, I can’t live with her anymore. She doesn’t really want me there.”

And that’s why the fear is there. He’s scared that I really don’t want him.

“Don’t make me go back,” he begs.

Poor Emma, always stuck in the middle. I can see her soft heart in her eyes as she stares back at Robbie. “I’m sorry, honey….”

“She has too many kids already,” I remind them both.

At least one too many. Jason has come downstairs now, standing in the doorway behind Emma and Robbie. His hair is dyed black and his eyebrow, nose and lip are pierced. He’s only sixteen, but his father gave his permission for the self-mutilation.

With a little relief, I realize that the deputy probably did not give his card to Emma for me or Robbie. Robbie is not the at-risk teen.

Not yet.

But I have a horrible feeling that if I can’t reach him, he soon will be.

“Great,” Claire says, as she flops onto the living room couch next to Robbie. “It’s your fault we gotta listen to a lecture now.”

She shifts against the deep suede cushions and manages to elbow him in the ribs, a move both daring, because she does it in front of me, and subtle, because she can swear it was an accident. She’s good.

But then so am I. I paid attention growing up. I know what nonsense my sisters pulled on my parents. And I’m not going to let my children pull it on me. Rob and I had made that pact, along with others. Like we wouldn’t let them play us off against each other. No going to Dad with a request that Mom had already refused. We had vowed to keep a united front. That’s hard to do alone.

“Okay,” I say. “We need to talk.”

“You mean you need to talk,” Robbie says. “All we get to do is listen.”

“That would be nice,” I reply, “but apparently you don’t do that very well.”

His face flushes bright red.

Claire elbows him again. “Dork.”

“Enough,” I say. And I mean it.

“That’s another reason I want to live with Aunt Emma,” Robbie says. “Because she doesn’t.” He scowls at Claire.

Their truce of the night before is apparently short-lived. I don’t mind. I know they need each other, but I’m not crazy about their ganging up on me.

Rob got a vasectomy after we had Claire because, as he pointed out, we didn’t want them outnumbering us. Well, Rob, they outnumber me now. If only you’d put down the damn cupcakes.

“You’re not going to live with Aunt Emma, either,” I remind him. “You live here. And Claire lives here and so do I. This is our home.”

That was why I never seriously considered getting rid of it. Even though it’s sometimes difficult for me to be here without Rob, I know it would be harder for the kids not to be here.

“I’m not selling the house. I’m not getting rid of anything else.”

Except the lamp.

I will get rid of the lamp. I wound up bringing it into the house and stowing it in my closet, but just for now because I was going grocery shopping and needed the room in the back. The thing is tacky and impractical and dangerous. It has to go. But that will be the last thing.

“There’s nothing else to get rid of,” Claire says, unaware of the lamp.

“Just us.” Robbie reminds her, and me, of his note.

“I would never get rid of either of you.” My voice cracks as I say this, and I blink hard, fighting tears that have sprung up from nowhere, or maybe from the tightness in my chest. “I love you both very much.”

They look down, maybe embarrassed to say it back to me with the other listening. I hope that’s the only reason they don’t reciprocate. We used to profess our love to one another every night at bedtime when they were younger. Losing their father has aged them.

I hope that’s all it is. I hope that they don’t hate me, as they professed last night to the accompaniment of slamming doors. Do they resent me for being alive instead of their father? Would they have preferred him as the single parent?

Pain presses hard on my heart, stealing my breath for a moment. I’m not jealous of their love for Rob; I still love him, too. I can’t deny that he would probably be handling this better than I am. He would find a way to keep them close, instead of pushing them away.

I open up myself more. They deserve that. I spent too long in a haze, unaware of the anger building in them.

“I also need you both. That’s why you’re not running away…or moving out.”

“Running away was stupid,” Claire tells her brother.

This time he blocks her elbow before she can make her move. But if he had included her in his plan, I doubt she would be as critical of it.

“That was stupid,” I agree. “But you’re not the only one who’s done something idiotic….”

“You’re admitting that selling the business was a dumb idea?” Robbie asks, his dark eyes filling with hope, probably that I can back out of the sale.

I shake my head, then suck it up and tell them about what I did in Smiley’s.

Claire’s mouth falls open. “It’s true? I thought Heather was lying.”

Robbie starts laughing. “I don’t believe it….”

It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh in ages. Even when he’d pulled those pranks on Pam, he hadn’t thought they were funny. Despite my face being hot with embarrassment now, I’m glad I confessed. I haven’t felt this close to my children in a long time, not since we held hands beside their father’s casket as the DJ played the Rolling Stones.

“But why?” Claire asks, not as amused as her brother. She’s appalled that her mother would make such a scene. She’s becoming more like her aunt Pam every day. “Why’d you do it?”

I can’t talk to them about losing control, about snapping. They need security right now. But anger they do understand. “If your father hadn’t eaten so many of those things…”

Robbie’s laughter dies. And so does our closeness. “He might be alive,” he says.

“I tried to get him to stop,” I tell them, hoping they’ll forgive me for their father dying and for my being alive instead.

They don’t say anything or even look at me. They’re both staring at the floor. Fighting back tears?

It’s been six months. Why is it still so hard? Shouldn’t we be moving on? Shouldn’t we be getting better, not worse?

“Can we go to bed now?” Claire asks, getting up from the couch.

Not knowing how else to try to reach them, I nod in agreement. “Yes, you have school in the morning.”

Robbie stands, too.

“No skipping,” I say, to let him know I know.

But his skipping school is the least of my concerns right now. As I watch my children walk to their rooms, I drop onto the couch and sink deep into the cushions. Despite the warmth and softness, it doesn’t compare to the comfort of Rob’s arms after a long, tiring day. I’d rather be laying my head against his chest than against a pillow.

But he’s gone. And tonight, for a little while, so was Robbie. He didn’t go far, just next door. This time. What if he runs again? Or Claire does?

That weak, helpless feeling steals over me once more, the one I felt standing in Emma’s window, watching the guys search for my son. I wish I had that rooster in my hands again; I’d twist its head off. I need to do something. So I clench my hands into fists and pummel the couch cushion. I’m biting my lip so no grunts or groans slip out, but I’m panting from the exertion. I was already exhausted. Emotionally. Now I’m physically exhausted, too.

I don’t know why I can’t reach them. We all want the same thing—Rob back. The only difference is that I’ve accepted he can’t come back.

I have to help them get through this. Since I don’t have Rob’s creativity to help me figure out how, I’ll have to do it myself. I can’t lose them, too.