I blink once, twice, three times. I stare at the road in front of us. I start laughing and can’t stop. The laughter comes up out of me like an eruption. Soon I’m laughing so hard I’m crying, gasping for breath, struggling to drive. You sit there smiling at me like the Cheshire cat. Finally, a full minute later, I catch my breath. That felt good, invigorating.
I smile and sigh and glance over at you. “You’ve clearly put a lot of thought into this.”
“Why else would we leave so soon?” you ask, and I see what I have done to you with this knee-jerk reaction, this sweeping you out of everything you know and love. And I am so, so sorry.
“Pearl, that’s what I wanted to explain to you. I’m sorry about this. I need to get away for a little bit. You know? It doesn’t have anything to do with Ms. Pena . . . who I think is a beautiful woman. I’m simply feeling overwhelmed by some things and need to get out of our house. And I truly would love for you to see the place where I grew up.” I pause. “Can you forgive me for this?”
You smile that kind, gentle smile of yours, the one that reminds me so much of Mary. “Grampy, as long as I’m with you, I’ll be okay.”
Well, that gets me. I pull over to the side of the road, and I don’t know if it’s this strange disease working its way through my brain or the forty-year anniversary of Mary leaving or your father’s birthday or something else, but as soon as the car settles in place on the shoulder and I put it in park, I weep. I’ve gone from laughing harder than I can remember to all-out ugly crying. I lean forward and put my forehead on the steering wheel.
I hear the click of your seat belt and feel your small hand on my shoulder. Your forehead lands gently on my back. Your little arm slinks around me. “Grampy.”
“Yes, Pearl?”
“I really do think you’d be much happier if you married Ms. Pena.”
And with that you turn our tears into laughter. I start first, my shoulders shaking. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, and you shout, “Ew!” That makes me laugh even harder.
“Grampy, I’m serious about Ms. Pena.”
There’s a little pinprick of pain at the future that this diagnosis has stolen from me. I try to say, “I know you are,” but I can’t stop laughing, and soon you’re laughing too. I put the car back in drive, and you scooch over and hastily put on your seat belt. I’m still laughing, gently this time, persistently. Shaking my head, I pull out onto the road.
“You are something, Pearl,” I say.
You give me a look that says you know precisely what you are and precisely what you are doing, and that I shouldn’t worry because you’ll take care of me for as long as I live. Even if it’s only anytime to three months.
I should tell you about the diagnosis. I reach up and touch the knot again, thinking this is how an old tree must feel when its trunk begins to rot. I decide that some things can wait a little longer.
“Ms. Pena, huh?” I ask.
“You are very lonely, Grampy.”
“Lonely?”
“You’re home all day by yourself! You don’t have anyone to paint with or read to or play at the park with.”
“I have you,” I say. The uncontrolled laughter from a few minutes ago has cut a path into a kind of lightness, a sense that even when facing the worst, there is something shining.
“Not during the day. Do you think she’s pretty?” you ask.
“I told you, I think she’s beautiful.”
“I think she’s beautiful too. So are you going to ask her out?”
“Pearl, this is what I’ve been trying to tell you. We’re leaving.”
“I know.”
“We’re going back to where I grew up,” I continue. “I don’t know when we’ll come back.”
You are very quiet after that, and miles pass by before I finally ask if you’re okay.
You nod.
The Man in the Hotel
We hit a lot of traffic on the highway and pull into a hotel late at night. I considered driving straight through, but we’d arrive in Nysa in the wee hours of the morning, and I want to see it as we drive in. I want you to see the river and the trees and the fields, because I know you’ll fall in love with it as soon as you do.
Besides, after so many miles behind us, it feels good to stop, stand up out of the seat, and stretch. You come around the car looking tired and worn but also happy. You are excited about the hotel and sleeping in a room where you can watch TV while you drift off, excited about room service even though I have made no promises.
We walk stiffly into the lobby and up to the counter. It’s not a glitzy, upper-crust hotel, but it’s not a dump either. There is a small breakfast room off to the side, and an old man sits in a chair reading the paper. A TV is on in that room, volume turned up, but the man goes on reading as if nothing is going on and the angry voice radiating through the room is nothing more than an imaginary buzzing in the ear. The carpet is tan, the walls are a darker tan, and the ceiling is white, but time has stained it a certain shade of tan. There is nothing remarkable about this place, not in the slightest. Which is fine with me, as long as the bed is comfortable.
But still it gives me a strange feeling, as most hotels in small towns do when the hour is late and the space feels vacant. The hallway from the lobby seems miles long, and at the very end of it one of the lights in the ceiling flickers for a few moments and goes out.
The woman behind the desk smiles, and I think I see her eyes flit to the side of my head, to the bulge of the knot. I self-consciously rub it lightly, then drop my hand back down again, because trying to hide it seems more conspicuous than pretending it’s not there.
“How may I help you?” the woman asks.
I give her my information, and as we wait for keys, the old man who was reading the paper stands up and comes walking over. The top of his head is bald, surrounded by a fringe of bristling white hair. His eyes purse together in a permanent squint—he is skeptical of what someone might say before they even say it. He licks his lips constantly, nervously, and they glisten.
I think he’s going to walk past, but he stops behind us, puts his fingers in each of his pockets, and loops his thumbs around the outside. I glance at him over my shoulder, and he takes me in with a discerning frown.
“Not from around here.” His voice is gravelly, his eyes hawkish.
I shake my head, but before I can get a word out, you turn around and declare that no, we are not from around here.
His gaze turns to you, and something in him softens, though he tries to hide it.
“And who is this?” he asks no one in particular, looking around the room. When he talks, it’s like he’s speaking to an invisible person, someone behind me.
“I’m Pearl,” you tell him, walking over to him with three large strides and offering your hand. “And you are?”
Now you’ve completely unsettled him. He reaches a hand forward hesitantly, as if concerned you might have a communicable disease.
“Yes, yes,” he says in a quiet voice to himself, and as you take his hand and pump it vigorously, he tells you his name.
“Pearl,” I whisper in a gentle correction. “Not so hard.”
But the old man has clearly turned the corner into being amused. His eyes still squint, but there is a glint of mischief in them. “What brings someone like you to this place in the middle of nowhere?” he asks you.
“Someone like me?” you ask abruptly, in an accusatory tone.
“Someone small,” he mumbles. “Someone glittery.”
You laugh and say, “My Grampy. He’s going back to the town where he was born. And he’s taking me with him, to show me around. We might stay there forever.”
I wince, but I’m not sure why. Your honesty is sharp.
“That’s a good Grampy,” the old man says with astonishment. “And what town is that?”
“It’s a small town,” I interject. “I’m sure you haven’t heard of it.” But you jump in, as you always do.
“There’s a lake
and a cabin,” you say, excitement flashing in your eyes. “Right, Grampy?”
I nod.
The man finally turns toward me. “Try me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Try me. Where are you from?”
“Nysa,” I say. “We still have a little ways to go.”
He frowns to himself, nodding. “I know Nysa. Anyone within a hundred miles of Nysa’s heard of the place.”
“Really?” I ask. That seems strange to me. When I was younger and we left town, we didn’t have to go far before finding people who had never heard of Nysa their entire lives.
“It’s a wonderful place,” you say. “I drew a map of it.”
“That’s not what I heard,” he mumbles.
“What have you heard?” I ask, curious.
“Oh, all sorts of odd things. Something about the lake. Drownings. Heard recently the whole place is basically a ghost town.”
“No,” you insist, your voice chirpy and innocent. “Nysa is wonderful. A friend told me about it.”
“Your Grampy?”
“No, a different friend. Besides, Grampy’s not my friend. He’s my Grampy.”
“Of course,” he says, suddenly serious, but in that mock-serious tone that adults take with children. “Who is this friend?”
I sigh. Here we go.
“A woman with silver-white hair came to me and told me where to put everything on the map. Well, not everything. Some of the things she asked me to put on. She’s very nice. She cares very much about me and Grampy. And she needs my help. She lost something very important to her, and I’m going to help her find it.”
The man’s expression changes from whimsical to serious. His squint sets in. “Did you say a woman with silver-white hair came to you?”
You nod.
“She came to you, just like that?”
You nod again, clearly delighted at this conversation.
“Did she have a name?”
You think about it. “I don’t think she told me her name,” you finally reply.
“Did she . . .” the old man begins, his voice unsteady. He glances at the door, then back at us. “Did she come with you here, to the hotel?”
“No,” I say in a flat voice. “She did not.”
You give me that cute little glare. “Grampy,” you mutter before addressing the old man. “No, she didn’t come with us. But she said she would meet me there, in Grampy’s hometown. In Nysa.”
I sigh. You turn and glare at me again—my clear disregard for the existence of the woman is ruining the story. I nearly say, She isn’t real, but I bite my tongue.
“Would you both be so kind as to join me for breakfast? Seven o’clock sharp?” the old man asks in a hesitant, distant sort of voice.
I’m inclined to turn down the offer. I’ve been very tired lately, probably because of the disease sprouting a knot on my head, and besides, I’m not one to visit with strangers. A polite hello is usually as far as I allow such interactions to progress. But once again, before I can speak, you interject.
“It would be our pleasure.” You give him a half curtsy.
I nearly groan, but now the old man is walking off, and you turn your face up to me.
“Pearl,” I begin, but the woman behind the desk says my name. I turn, and she gives us our room key while listing the amenities. We pick up our travel bags and head to the elevator, all the way up to the sixth floor. We find our room and settle in, and although you have been so eager to watch television from your bed, within minutes you’re asleep.
I stay up for another hour or so. All the lights in our room are turned off. I pull the desk chair over to the window and stare up at the stars, take in the acres and acres of forest we drove through to get this far, and imagine the trees shifting in the wind, their shadows swaying.
I can’t stop thinking about what the man said about Nysa.
Drownings?
I had only ever heard of two.
Driving Away
Tom and Shirley and Mary and I became inseparable, spending afternoons and evenings anywhere but in our houses. Tom was the first to get his driver’s license, and that opened up a new world of exploration for us. How many nights did we drive long into the darkness, Shirley leaning her head against Tom’s shoulder while he drove, Mary leaning her head against mine in the back seat, our fingers entangled? How many times did we stop and park somewhere, take blankets up on the roof of Tom’s old car, tuck ourselves in against the cold, and stare at the stars?
“What’s up, old boy?” Tom asked me on a warm summer morning. It was around eight months after the four of us had first met, sometime in June. My life was unrecognizable when compared to what it had been like before those friends swept in and pulled me out of my lonely existence. I felt like I was finally awake to life.
Tom stood over my bed, shaking me by the shoulder. He had taken to calling me “old boy.” I can’t remember where the phrase had come up, although we had recently read The Great Gatsby in school, and I have a feeling it was his version of “old sport.”
“What are you doing?” I groaned, rolling over to face the wall.
Tom pulled the covers off. “We’re going out to the lake today. Did you forget?”
I sighed. I had forgotten.
“C’mon, old boy.”
I made some other sound of protest, but the truth was, I was ready to wake up. Thoughts of Mary filled my head constantly. Everything I saw reminded me of her, and when I closed my eyes, her face was there, offering that same bashful, hopeful grin.
“Don’t call me that,” I said as I put my feet down beside the bed.
Tom laughed. “Okay, old boy.”
Within a few minutes, Tom and I were in his car, windows down, the morning air fresh and new and warming up. Everything smelled like it did in the summer on a day that would soon be extremely hot. Tom’s face was sleepy and happy and free, everything you’d expect to find on the face of a teenager who was in the middle of discovering life and all it might have to offer. I laughed and punched him in the shoulder. He only grinned harder. I put my arm on the window, leaned my head into the rushing stream of air, and closed my eyes.
In that moment, life was perfect.
We picked up Shirley first. She gave Tom a peck on the cheek before climbing into the back seat, over my protests.
“I want to talk to Mary,” she said, “not be the passenger in between you and Tom gabbing.”
“Hey!” Tom protested, but he winked at her in the rearview mirror, and she laughed.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked.
“The lake,” Tom said.
“I know that. But where?”
He laughed. “It’s a surprise, old boy.”
“What?” Shirley exclaimed, sounding genuinely offended.
“Whoa, whoa, easy now,” Tom said. “Don’t worry, babe. You’re going to love it.”
I glanced back at Shirley, and she crossed her arms in mock protest. It didn’t last long though. Sullenness never clung to Shirley.
Five minutes later we stopped in front of Mary’s house. Tom beeped the horn once, and Shirley slapped the back of his seat.
“Thomas Avery James, are you kidding me?” she snapped, glaring at me—I could feel it.
“You’ll make quite a mother someday, Shirley,” I said.
“You get up to that door this instant and ring that bell like a proper gentleman.”
“Okay, okay,” I mumbled reluctantly. I climbed out of the car, turned toward them, and raised my arms in surrender. But by the time I was halfway up the sidewalk, Mary came through the door. I stopped in my tracks. She was a vision.
“Hey, Mary,” I said, my voice running away from me.
“Hey, Paul,” she said with her customary bashful look, eyes flitting here and there.
“You’re real pretty today,” I managed to choke out.
“Paul!” she exclaimed, red rushing up her neck. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, smiled, and shoved
me away playfully, then trotted to the rear passenger-side door and climbed in. I followed her and got back into the passenger seat.
“Where are we going?” Mary asked, rolling down her window.
I wished I was sitting in the back seat with her. I noticed she was glancing nervously at her house. “Let’s go, Tom,” I said.
“Okay, okay, old boy. Relax,” he said, putting the car in gear.
“It’s a surprise.” Shirley rolled her eyes, saying “surprise” like it was the most fake word in the world.
For some reason, Tom didn’t pull away. He was lost in his thoughts, or something else, but as we sat there for an extra moment, I could see Mary getting more and more uncomfortable.
“What’s up, Tom?” I asked. “Let’s go.”
“Tom,” Shirley insisted from the back seat. “C’mon.”
Out of nowhere, Mary shouted, “Go!” and there was panic in her voice.
Tom jumped out of his reverie and looked at Mary like she had lost her mind. Shirley and I were stunned, not knowing what to do. I turned toward Mary to see what would cause her to cry out like that, and she was staring out of her window with fear in her eyes.
“Go, Tom. Please go,” she whispered.
“For goodness’ sake, Tom,” Shirley said, her voice quiet and flighty and trembling. “Mary said go.”
I turned to Tom to tell him to put his foot down, but as I did, he took off, and my head flew back against the seat. The sound of gravel pinging the underside of the car blended with the sound of the air rushing in the windows.
Tom drove at breakneck speed for at least two miles, winding precariously along the back roads between the edge of town and the lake. But before we had gone too far, he hooted a loud cry of freedom.
“How about that, old boy!” he said, laughing.
I grinned. “What were you waiting for?” I asked, but his laugh was contagious, and soon I was laughing too. I heard Shirley giggle.
How easily we forget things when we are young. How quickly we move from one moment to the next. Our laughter rang out, and we basked in the sunshine, the warm air, the empty, open roads. We weren’t thinking about Mary’s unfounded fear anymore, or the silver-haired woman she had seen in the shadows the previous Halloween. We weren’t worried about the future or the past or anything outside of that moment in the car, racing through summer. We were young and in love and had made our way out into the world, out where no one could stop us.
The Weight of Memory Page 6
