Out of the Box by Michelle Mulder Page A

noticing or being able to help, how far is she from turning into Diane, who hears God’s voice, or George, who is convinced that we spit in his sandwich before handing it to him? How will I know when she’s at the breaking point?
    â€œDo you want to search here?” Frank asks. “After the lesson, I mean. I’ve got a computer.”
    For a moment I don’t know what he’s talking about, and then I remember that we’d been talking about Facundo García, the guy who had no idea who his real parents were. I nod, and Frank smiles.
    â€œYou’re a good person, Ellie,” he says. Then he fishes out some sheet music from a pile on the floor, and we begin the lesson.
    Later, we search the Internet but find only Facebook pages and personal websites of people who were born much earlier or much later than 1976.

S IXTEEN
    J eanette’s basement still has mounds and mounds of stuff that we haven’t sorted through yet. At least the “sell” and “throw away” piles are getting bigger though.
    â€œLooks like we’ve almost got enough for another load,” Jeanette says, surveying a heap of broken stuff by the stairs. She’s found an artist who turns old junk into sculptures, and once a week, we’ve been pedaling things across the city to his place. “I don’t suppose one of the broken lawn mowers would fit in our bike trailers, eh?”
    I laugh. “No way. I draw the line at lawn mowers.”
    â€œOkay, okay.” She sighs and pulls over a box of vinyl records. “I guess there are some things I’ll have to fire up the car for.”
    â€œYup.” I scan the stack of boxes nearest me. One is labeled Costumes (Sound of Music) and another Doilies . I smirk, shake my head and open a plastic grocery bag full of something soft. “Whose toys?” I ask, pulling out a teddy bear.
    â€œSo that’s where those are,” says Jeanette. “We got those for any kids who came to visit, but then we lost track of them somehow. Put them on the stairs. We’ll have a toy box in the corner of the living room for visitors.”
    I’m about to reply when I hear a knock on the tiny window over by the hockey net.
    â€œAre you guys down there?” Sarah calls.
    I pop open the window latch, and she sticks her eye close to peer in. “Do you want to go to the drive-in for ice cream later?” she asks. The drive-in is about three blocks away, and going there is a summer tradition in Victoria. I look at Jeanette, and she nods.
    â€œMichael and Steve are going to meet us there,” Sarah adds, and I change my mind. I never know what to say around them, and since Sarah asked them first, she’d probably rather go with them.
    â€œI think I should probably pass,” I tell her. “We’ve got quite a bit to do here still.”
    Jeanette gives me a quizzical look and opens her mouth to say something, but I cut her off. “Maybe another time?”
    â€œSure,” Sarah says, “of course, and, uh, let me know if you need any help down there. I don’t mind pitching in.”
    I feel suddenly guilty, as though I’m the one that’s snubbed her , and I ask if she wants to join us now. She’s around the house and down the steps in record time.
    In the next hour, we discover an entire box full of wine corks, a basket of cat toys (in case Jeanette and Alison ever decided to get a cat), and a rock collection. We tease Jeanette mercilessly and laugh so much that by the time Sarah gets up to go, I wish I was going with her, boys or no boys. I can’t go back on my decision now though. That would just seem weird.
    â€œSee you tomorrow,” she says.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”

S EVENTEEN
    O n my fourth Monday in Victoria, I go to the soup kitchen alone. Jeanette has an appointment with her financial advisor.
    Things at the soup kitchen are much the same as the first