The Sky’s the Limit: My Journey with Maryellen

But not yet. I’m not ready to go back to the tension of the ski race awards platform. The next day, as we get closer to Washington D.C., I get nervous. The Larkins think they’re driving me to my new family’s house, but I have no family there, and no house either. What am I going to say when they ask for my new address? I glue my nose to the car window, as if the answer is out there somewhere.

Maryellen asks if I’m excited about seeing my family soon. I nod with a weak smile. She rattles off famous places in Washington D.C., wanting to know what I want to see first: the Lincoln Memorial? The Smithsonian?

I tell her those all sound great, but most of all I want to go to the Naval Observatory, the only D.C. landmark I know, for its huge telescopes that track the planets and stars. I’ve been fascinated by the night sky since I was a little kid. Last summer I wanted to go to astronomy camp, but Emma didn’t, so we went to ski camp instead.

Maryellen asks what I’d do there. I tell her I’ve dreamed of looking through the telescopes to see the moon and stars up close, and I’d like to see the clock that’s the official timekeeper of the United States. I glance down at my watch with a secret grin. The people at the Observatory would get shivers if they knew what my watch can do.

Maryellen unfolds a big paper map of Washington D.C. to find the Observatory. I squint at the maze of lines and labels, since GPS and smartphones don’t exist yet. She finds it listed as H4, traces her finger to where line H crosses line 4, and recites the address, 3450 Massachusetts Ave., Northwest, pleased at how maps boil a place down to dots and lines. I point out that her doodles do something similar.

Maryellen shows me how to use the map to follow our route to Mr. Larkin’s friend’s house, matching street signs to the map so she can tell her dad when to turn and how many blocks to go.

Before we know it, we’re pulling into Mr. Blanchard’s driveway, where we park the trailer for the night. Tomorrow the Larkins deliver me to my family. Dave Blanchard, a hardy, jolly guy pleased to have the Airstream in his driveway, helps Mr. Larkin disconnect it, then takes us all out to dinner.

After dinner, Mr. Larkin announces we’re going to the National Theater for a ballet. Beverly is speechless, sitting on the edge of her seat through the whole performance, not so much watching it as consuming it. Maryellen whispers that Beverly wishes she had her tutu to pirouette up to the stage and dance with the ballerinas, while Carolyn is enraptured by the music, fingers moving on an invisible keyboard above her lap.

That night, settling into our last night in the trailer, Maryellen sighs that she wishes we had more time. Then she sits up. Does my family think I’m flying in tomorrow night? I nod. She points out there’s no reason I need to go home first thing in the morning. Maybe Mom and Dad will let us have one more day and drive me home tomorrow evening instead. I love the idea: more time to part from the Larkins, and more time with Maryellen.

The next morning, Maryellen presents her idea to Mr. and Mrs. Larkin, who are happy to keep me around. We drive into the heart of Washington D.C. The car is zippy now without the trailer. We park and set out on foot, Maryellen using her map skills to lead us from the Lincoln Memorial to the Washington Monument to the Capitol to the Library of Congress. After lunch, we go to the National Gallery.

Beverly’s feet get tired after just a few rooms of sculptures, so Mrs. Larkin takes her to the museum restaurant while the rest of us tour on. We’ll meet at three o’clock. Mr. Larkin tags along for coffee, leaving Carolyn, Ellie, and me on our own.

Entering the paintings section, Maryellen stops in her tracks. These are by the greatest artists who’ve ever lived, Leonardo da Vinci, Vermeer, Van Gogh, amazing to see in real life. She stares at every painting as if walking into it, moving so slowly that Carolyn and I keep having to go back for her.

We find Maryellen in a room of modern paintings, splashes of color and wild shapes, and she lights up. Some artists paint people and landscapes just as they look, but others paint with wild imagination so everything looks like a dream. Museum signs mention some of these artists were criticized for being different, yet now they hang in a grand museum. Her point is that art doesn’t have to be one certain way.

I notice Maryellen’s sketchpad tucked under her arm. She’s captured some of the paintings in just a few lines that help me see them more clearly. I tell her that when she goes back to school, she should ask to be the cartoonist for the school newspaper instead of a writer. Maryellen and Carolyn turn to me in shock, but I insist. Kids will like a funny sketch of a cow better than an essay about milk. Maryellen looks doubtful, so I tell her her doodles are brilliant, quirky, goofy, smart, like no one else’s. She hugs me, grinning, and promises she’ll do it.

Carolyn checks the clock, time to meet the rest of the family. We wind through the halls to the restaurant, where Mrs. Larkin has bought postcards of the White House for Grandmom and Grandpop. Maryellen writes the date at the top of one, Tuesday, November 29, 1955. Something about it nags at me. I know this date is significant. But what?