Ruptured Excerpt

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NEW YORK

✧ ✧ ✧ The poem “My Parents Never Dance Anymore” on page 74 is based on a poem the author published under a pseudonym in her college literary magazine.

Copyright © 2023 by Joanne Rossmassler Fritz All Rights Reserved HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

Printed and bound in September 2023 at Maple Press, York, PA, USA. www.holidayhouse.com First Edition 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Fritz, Joanne Rossmassler, author.

Title: Ruptured / by Joanne Rossmassler Fritz.

Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, [2023] | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: “Phoebe navigates fear, grief, and hope for recovery about when her mother has a ruptured brain aneurysm while their family is on vacation, and right after her mother shares that she’s planning to leave Phoebe’s father”—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022022156 | ISBN 9780823452330 (hardcover) Subjects: CYAC: Novels in verse. | Aneurysms—Fiction. | Brain—Fiction.

Mothers—Fiction. | Emotions—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction.

LCGFT: Novels in verse.

Classification: LCC PZ7.5.R73 Ru 2023 | DDC [E]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022022156 ISBN: 978-0-8234-5233-0 (hardcover)

✦ ✦ ✦ This book is for Carl, Eric, and Kurt, who lived through it all with me.

Twice.

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THE TUGBOAT My parents and I are having breakfast in a tugboat.

Well, not a real tugboat.

Not out at sea.

Today is Wednesday, halfway through our first week of vacation in Crystal Harbor, Maine.

Ever since I was nine, we’ve been coming here for two weeks in the summer.

Mom and Dad and me.

We don’t do much, other than eat lobster, go kayaking, take tour boat rides.

It’s quiet.

Quiet is usually fine with me.

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The front half of an old tugboat forms the entrance to the restaurant across the parking lot from our motel.

1

I brought a canvas bag full of library books on this trip because my favorite thing to do is sit on the covered deck outside the motel room and read.

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2

All I ever want to do is read.

Maybe someday I could be a librarian.

Today, it’s sunny and warm but not as hot as it would be back in Pennsylvania.

Maine summers are cooler.

There’s a lot less humidity, and we don’t even need air conditioning.

At breakfast in the nearly empty dining room, I’m thinking about the book I started reading last night.

Not about what my parents are saying.

Or not saying.

They hardly ever talk to each other anymore.

SPITTING IMAGE I’ve never understood people who say I look exactly like my mother or I’m the “spitting image” of my father.

Except my dark brown eyes and dark brown hair are my mother’s.

My narrow face is my father’s.

My long fingers are my mother’s.

My big ears are my father’s.

(And I hate them.)

But my white skin comes from both.

FISHING My parents have this annoying way of talking to me, when they’re really trying to get a message across to each other.

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To me, I don’t look much like either of them.

3

Dad adjusts his eyeglasses, looks at me across the table.

“Remember, I’m going fishing today.

Mackerel.

Already reserved my spot on the boat.

I’ll be gone all morning.” ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧✧ ✧✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

4

Mom waves one hand.

“Have fun.”

Her voice is flat.

She doesn’t look at him.

Then she sits up tall, brightening.

“Claire, let’s have a mother/daughter day.

We haven’t done that for ages.”

She smiles.

My heart sinks.

She goes on.

“We could walk through town, do some shopping, maybe buy some clothes, find a jar of blueberry jam to take home.”

“But I—”

She sets down her muffin and leans toward me.

“We could visit the aquarium, maybe have lunch at that little cafe along the upper road we’ve been wanting to try.

Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Her smile is beginning to look forced.

My plan, to sit on the deck and read, watch the sailboats in the harbor, evaporates like drops of water on a hot griddle.

I hate being thirteen.

Old enough to want to be on your own, but not old enough to do anything about it.

And at this moment I really hate being an only child.

“Mom, I just started a new book.

All I want to do is sit in the sun and read.”

Last night, I started The Line Tender.

It’s so good I need to keep reading.

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I try not to groan.

That aquarium?

We’ve been there at least three times.

5

Dad clears his throat.

“You should do what you want, Claire.

It’s the last week of July.

Soon enough you’ll be back in school.”

He’s looking at me, but I know he’s talking to Mom.

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6

Mom’s face clouds over.

She picks up her knife and slices her muffin in half.

One quick ferocious cut.

“Since when do you have anything to say about parenting, Steve?”

She’s still gripping the knife, holding it so tightly her knuckles protrude like rocks on the shoreline at low tide.

Dad opens his mouth.

“Andrea . . .” But he closes it again.

Looks at me, then away.

Picks up his coffee cup.

Mom turns to me.

“Claire, reading is great but you need to get outside more.

You need to do something.

Join something.

When I was your age, I took dance lessons, worked at the animal shelter.”

She reaches for the butter.

Reading is something, I think.

Volunteering in the school library is something.

Dad drains his coffee cup, stands up.

“Gotta run,” he says. “Boat won’t wait for me.”

Mom doesn’t say a word.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF LIGHT I look out the floor-to-ceiling window next to me at the rippling blue water and the tiny island with the cottage, the boathouse, a small lighthouse.

It’s the only island in the inner harbor.

There are lots of islands in the outer harbor, on the way out to the ocean.

This lighthouse reminds me of Mom’s collection at home on a shelf in our family room.

Miniature ceramic lighthouses, although those are only a few inches high.

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“Bye, Dad!” I call, as he races out of the dining room.

7

We’ve been giving them to her as birthday gifts for years, ever since she first said she liked them.

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8

This lighthouse, nestled in rocks on the island, is about three feet high.

A stubby white tower and a glowing lightbulb.

The sunlight reflecting on the water around the island is brighter.

The light in Crystal Harbor is different than at home in Summerfield, where grass, trees, pavement make up our world.

Here it’s all water.

Water everywhere you look.

Rippling gently, constantly moving, reflecting the sunlight in thousands of tiny shimmering diamonds.

I wish I had artistic talent.

If I could draw and paint this is what I’d show.

Diamonds of light dancing on the water.

Seagulls catching the sunlight

as they wheel and cry.

That rustic cottage on the island, that cottage with its own little lighthouse.

If we could buy that island, live here year-round, maybe everything would be better.

Dad could quit his job, maybe start his own video game company, working from home.

Besides work, all he ever does is gaming.

And I could read books all day.

It’s silly, I know.

Only a dream.

PRETENDING TO BE A HAPPY FAMILY “Claire, are you finished?”

I startle. “Oh, yeah, sure, Mom.” Force myself to turn away from my view of the island.

This lighthouse is not fifty or sixty feet high, like a real lighthouse.

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Mom could quit her stressful job and do research.

Maybe write a book about lighthouses.

9

This lighthouse is three feet high.

More ornamental than anything.

Not real.

Just like our family.

Pretending to be a happy family when we’re not. ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧✧ ✧✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

10

“We should get going.”

Mom pushes her chair back.

Leaves a few crisp, folded dollars on the table for a tip.

Breakfast is free, included with our room.

Most of the guests staying here don’t even tip.

Mom likes to be generous because she worked her way through college waiting tables.

“Thank you!” she calls to the waitress on our way out.

The gray-haired woman waves at us.

“Thanks! See you tomorrah!”

We’re regulars.

She probably remembers us from last year and the year before.

We stop back at the room to freshen up before our big outing.

While Mom’s in the bathroom I quickly text Leala and Trish.

Wish me luck!

About to go shopping with my mom.

My friends know I’m not into shopping.

Trish doesn’t answer.

But I didn’t expect her to.

She’s at music camp in the Berkshires, playing the violin.

I’m tempted to grab my book and flop down on one of the queen-size beds.

Mom and I share one and Dad sleeps in the other.

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Leala texts back immediately.

She’s probably at her family’s fabric store, back home in Summerfield.

Aww, your mom’s nice, Claire.

Maybe she’ll let you buy a book. Or two.

Her emoji is an upside-down grinning face.

I smile.

Leala knows me.

11

I thought it was weird when we first arrived, even though we’ve always done it this way.

I’m thirteen.

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12

I know more now than I did when I was nine about what parents do.

Wouldn’t they want to sleep in the same bed?

I tried to ask Mom about it that first night, when Dad was brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

“Don’t you and Dad want to sleep in that bed?

I could sleep in this one.”

She wouldn’t look directly at me.

“Oh, Claire, let’s give him more room.

He’s a big guy. This way he can spread out while he sleeps.”

I nodded, too embarrassed to continue.

WICKED GOOD LOBSTAH The seagulls laugh at me as we cross the parking lot.

Or maybe they’re crying with their constant hoo haa hoo.

It’s hard to tell.

The sidewalk along Commerce Street is cracked, uneven.

Pieces of heaved concrete thrust against other sections, lurking like traps.

As we walk along, Mom glances over at me.

“Claire, when did you grow so tall?

You’re the same height as me now!”

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You have to watch your step or you might stumble and fall.

It takes concentration.

13

I slow down, turn my head to look at her, realize I can gaze straight into her eyes without turning up my chin.

She’s right.

I’m taller this summer.

I hope I don’t keep growing.

Getting too tall would be awkward.

She reaches out, squeezes my hand.

The scent of her jasmine perfume washes over me.

I almost trip over a bulge in the sidewalk, right myself just in time.

The first store Mom wants to stop in is a clothing boutique.

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14

She always hopes I’ll want to wear something fussy and pink and feminine, like she does.

She should know by now I’m content in jeans and T-shirts.

Last year for my birthday, she bought me a ruffled blouse.

I thanked her, then the next day shoved it to the back of my closet.

It’s not me.

I’ve never been a girly girl.

Now she fingers a rack of brightly colored frilly dresses.

I shudder.

Leala would love this place.

She wants to be a fashion designer.

She always grumbles, says they don’t make enough cute clothes for fat girls.

Leala will be good at it too.

She has an eye for patterns, from helping out in the fabric store.

She flinches as if she was a million miles away.

“Sure, honey.”

We go next door to the General Store.

The one that sells Maine goods: blueberry jam, blueberry pies, whoopie pies, six-packs of Moxie, that bittersweet soda Mainers seem to love.

I wander down an aisle filled with nutcrackers for cracking hard lobster shells, lobster picks for extracting the delicate meat from the knuckles.

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“Mom,” I blurt out.

“Can we keep going?

Please?”

15

Another aisle is crammed with signs.

Decorations for your house.

“Wicked Good Lobstah” “Maine: The Way Life Should Be” “It’s Bettah in Maine!”

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16

Everything’s better in Maine.

The light.

The weather.

We could be happy here.

I look around.

Wonder where Mom is.

Twirl a lock of my hair.

I could be back at the motel.

The Line Tender is calling me.

Or I could be taking photos of the light dancing on the water, dreaming about someday trying to capture it with paint.

DO YOU WANT ANYTHING? “There you are,” Mom says, holding up a big jar of blueberry jam, the lid covered in cheerful blue-and-white-checked gingham.

“This is the one I want.

Do you want anything, Claire?”

Yes, I think, I want to be at home reading.

I want you and Dad to get along again.

Is that too much to ask?

And I jumped, right as they both lifted me up.

For a second or two I was flying.

Free and happy.

I want that feeling back.

A POLITE SORT OF JINGLE After she pays for it, Mom manages to fit the blueberry jam into her voluminous purse.

I try not to roll my eyes.

I don’t even carry a purse, simply stuff my phone in one back pocket, my thin wallet in the other.

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FLYING I remember being three or four, little enough to walk between my parents, holding their hands.

They would say, “One, two, three, jump!”

17

A few doors down, Mom stops in front of a jewelry store.

The window display shows silver bangles and necklaces.

And a few tourmaline rings.

Raspberry red, minty green.

Maine’s gemstones. ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧✧ ✧✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

18

I look up the steep hill toward Peabody’s Bookstore.

I hope we have time for it.

As we step into the jewelry store, a bell jingles lightly.

A quiet, polite sort of jingle.

This is a classy shop.

Not like the touristy place we just left.

A woman emerges from the back room.

“How may I help you today?”

Mom looks up at the woman.

“I need something,” she says.

“Something pretty and nice, only for me.

You know?”

The woman pulls out a tray of bracelets from the big glass display case.

Mom leans over, looks at the bracelets.

“I really needed this vacation, Claire,” she says in a low, shaky voice.

“Work is stressing me out.

Life is stressing me out.”

She rubs her forehead.

“I shouldn’t say this, but . . .”

She shakes her head. “Never mind.”

Mom is a fundraiser for the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I never thought of it as stressful.

It always seemed like fun to me, being at the museum every day, surrounded by so much art.

I guess she mostly sits in an office, makes phone calls, convinces people to give lots of money.

That would not be fun.

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My stomach gets all squiggly when she talks to me this way, as if I’m her friend, not her daughter.

“What, Mom?” I whisper back.

19

When I was younger, she and Dad both worked from home.

Mom used the kitchen table as her desk.

Dad was holed up in the spare room, on his computer.

Doing the accounting for a small firm.

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20

Now Mom picks out a delicate silver bracelet.

A smile brightens her face, a genuine smile.

It’s the happiest she’s looked in days.

Now that I think about it, she’s been frowning this whole vacation.

Something’s definitely wrong.

“You should buy that,” I say.

“You should get something too, Claire.”

She reaches over, smooths my hair.

“Earrings, maybe.

Or a big chunky necklace.”

I step back.

“Mom, I don’t want jewelry.”

My ears aren’t even pierced.

She must be distracted by what’s going on with her and Dad.

I don’t want jewelry.

What I want is for us to be a happy family again.

Mom’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh!” She grins at me.

I grin back.

The woman unlocks the case.

“Would you like to see them up close?”

Mom frowns.

“I shouldn’t.”

To me, she whispers, “Probably too much money.”

I shrug.

“You should buy one, Mom. You like them.”

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LIGHTHOUSES In a glass case on the wall behind the sales clerk perch three miniature lighthouses.

“Look, Mom! Lighthouses!”

21

The woman handles the ceramic lighthouses carefully.

She spreads a cloth across the top of the main display case, sets the three tiny lighthouses on it.

“Portland Head Light we already have,” Mom says, gesturing toward the tallest one, no more than three inches high. ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧✧ ✧✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“And Rockland Breakwater too.”

She points at the chunkier one.

“Remember going there, Claire?”

Mom’s a picky collector.

She wants only miniatures of the lighthouses we’ve actually visited.

22

Getting to Rockland Breakwater Light means walking over a nearly mile-long breakwater of large loosely fitted rocks.

You have to pay attention.

There are gaps in between them.

Staring at the miniature, I remember being there.

Years ago.

I must have been nine.

Our first trip to Maine together.

The three of us, holding tightly to each other, me in the middle, as we stepped across the big rocks to reach the lighthouse.

Laughing.

And we don’t laugh together like that anymore.

The third miniature lighthouse is one Mom doesn’t own yet.

Blaze Island Light.

Not far from Crystal Harbor.

Out toward the Atlantic.

We visited last summer, the three of us, on the tour boat with fifteen other people we didn’t know.

Mom and I watched the performance, the man pretending to be the lighthouse keeper, the woman acting as the lighthouse keeper’s wife a hundred years ago,

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We haven’t held each other that tightly since then.

23

miming doing her laundry on a washboard.

Dad didn’t sit with us on the folding chairs, said he wasn’t interested.

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24

He seemed distant.

But at the time I didn’t think about it.

He’s always been an introvert.

Now Mom picks up the miniature of Blaze Island Light, sees the price tag on the bottom, and sets it back down.

“Maybe another time,” she says.

If I had a debit card, like Trish does, I’d buy it for Mom myself.

THE PIER Mom decides we should eat at the cafe above the pier.

The same pier Dad left from a couple hours ago.

Harbor View is a small, casual restaurant, looking out at midharbor.

Moored boats bobbing in the current, sailboats and tour boats heading out, engines rumbling, tourists walking across the footbridge that connects both sides of the town.

“I don’t know. Maybe the crab quesadilla with avocado.”

Mom raises her eyebrows.

“That would be new for you.

Not a burger and fries.”

I tell the waiter my order.

At the same time, my phone buzzes in my lap with a text.

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Mom orders a lobster BLT. I finger the menu for too long.

What do I want?

Usually, I order a burger.

But today I feel an itch to try something different.

I stare at the menu so long, Mom asks what I’m thinking about ordering.

25

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26

It’s Leala.

How’s your shopping day going?

I itch to text her back.

But Mom has always had a rule.

No texting during meals.

Still, maybe I could text Leala under the table, if I don’t look down too often.

Mom gazes at me as if she’s seeing me for the first time.

“I’m proud of you, Claire.”

Leala will have to wait.

I shrug, my face warm.

“Thought I should try something different.

That’s all.”

Mom nods.

“Different is good.”

Funny.

That’s what Leala always says.

BORED Were you ever so bored you wished for something to happen?