by Cari Noga
“Come on, Lucy!” He hands her a sled that looks like a flattened piece of blue Styrofoam and runs up the hill with a purple plastic saucer.
“Come on, come on! Hurry up!” Jared’s sitting on his sled at the top, waiting for Lucy. She lays hers next to his and sits down, crisscross applesauce. If she realizes only the snow separates her from the grass, she’s not letting it stop her.
“On your mark, get set, go!” Jared pushes off only a second or two before Lucy does. They fly down the hill and then around the bowl-like rim, toward the culvert that drains the parking lot. Weeds grow tall around the opening. They’re dead now, a yellowish gray, not green, but I hold my breath.
But she’s OK! She sticks her boots out and halts the sled short of the weeds. Then she follows Jared up and down again. Again and again, switching onto his sled, which spins her even closer to the weeds, but not quite touching, and still she’s OK. I exhale, fear and breath dissolving into the cold night.
Later Rebecca produces a thermos of hot chocolate. Drinking it feels familiar, yet distant. Kids whiz down on all different kinds of sleds. Saucers, tubes, toboggans. Some sit up, some lie on their stomachs. Jason’s got a snowboard.
“I’ll bet it’s been almost ten years since I went sledding.”
“How come?” Rebecca asks.
“Well, Matt outgrew it, and that was that.”
“He’s an only child, then.”
I nod, waiting for the familiar pang that will tow me back two decades. Something stirs, but not so sharply. I don’t feel disembodied, my mind reeled back to Alaska and the cruel mirror of the dark winter days. Instead the sledding scene sharpens: the laughter louder, snow crunching under boots, steam rising from my hot chocolate in curlicues, Rebecca talking while she pours two more cups.
“Excuse me?”
“I said that it’s too bad, isn’t it, that you need kids to give you permission to play?” She nods at Lucy and Jared, charging up the hill again. They take her cocoa cups and collapse, cheeks pink, mittens matted with snow.
“Look who’s talking. Neither of you have gone down yet,” Paul says, reaching for Rebecca’s thermos.
“Oh, come on now, Paul.” She backs away, shaking her head.
“Come on, nothing. You need permission to play, look. Plenty of sleds available.” He manages to grab the thermos from her, then turns to me. “I’ll hold your cup, Jane.”
“What? No.” Instinctively I shake my head. “My back—”
“Back, schmack. This’ll do your soul a world of good. You can go together.”
“Go on, Mom,” Jared says, starting a chant. “Go, Mom. Go, Mom.”
Lucy picks it up. “Go, Aunt Jane. Go, Aunt Jane.”
Somehow he coaxes Rebecca and me onto the toboggan, their longest sled. “Room for one more,” Paul says, looking at Lucy. “All the ladies?”
“OK!” Lucy swallows the last of her cocoa and stands up, no hesitation. She climbs on behind me, hands on my shoulders, and Paul pushes us off. It feels like we hang on the brink forever, but then gravity does the inevitable and we’re flying down, Rebecca’s scarf whipping in front of my eyes, Lucy’s scream mixing with mine, half anticipation, half revelation, pure delight.
Triple loaded on the toboggan, we zoom straight down instead of careening around the edge of the bowl, plowing into fresh, untouched powder, which finally stops us.
“Whoo-hoo, Mom!” Jared has followed us down on another sled. “You went the farthest!”
I gaze at Lucy, laughing, exhilarated, traces of a cocoa mustache on her face, snow sparkling on the braids hanging below her hat, then at the sled tracks. Jared’s almost right. It’s Lucy and I who have come the furthest.
Chapter 55
LUCY
Christmas Day and the airport is deserted. Aunt Jane stares up at the monitors.
“Everything’s on time.”
Figures. I was kind of hoping a storm might keep the flight from taking off, like what happened to Jared’s relatives at Thanksgiving. When I woke up, there was another layer of fresh snow, but not nearly enough to stop the flights. I picked up Lexie and held her tight against my chest. If only there were a way to take her. She has been my ambassador to Michigan. At first it was awful, but I’ve gotten used to it. Well, sort of.
Jared’s face pops up. Miguel, Esperanza. Aunt Jane. My stomach elevator starts dropping. In Mexico, Graciela will be my ambassador, I remind myself.
Downstairs Aunt Jane was drinking coffee and making eggs. In the living room, the real Christmas tree she chopped down smelled so good! I plugged in the lights. Here at the airport, at the security station, they have a fake one, the kind you buy already decorated.
“Got your boarding passes? Your return flight info?” Aunt Jane says.
I nod, the eggs churning in my stomach. My boarding passes to Detroit and then New York, my return flight information plus my one-way ticket to Mexico, leaving the same day. This is it. Goodbye. Adiós, Michigan, Lexie, Aunt Jane. Forever. Aunt Jane hugs me, talking over my shoulder. “Have a nice visit with Phoebe. I’ll see you in four days, OK?”
“OK,” I manage to croak out. But it’s not OK. I’m not OK. Why didn’t I tell Jared to forget the whole Mexico idea?
She steps back and looks at me, then hugs me again. “I’ll miss you, Lucy.” She brushes hair out of her face—or is that a tear? I see a flash of silver at her wrist, the bracelet I got her for Christmas, one of Esperanza’s. “Better get going, now. Don’t want to miss your flight.”
Somehow my feet walk me through the security line. Waiting for my carry-on to come through the scanner, I look back over the checkpoint. Aunt Jane is still watching. She waves and blows me a kiss. Besos. I feel both a sob and the eggs rise up, and just then the gray bin with my Hello Kitty bag bumps over the conveyor, and I hurry away to the gate without looking back.
“Lucy! Lucy! Over here!” Phoebe shrieks, running across the baggage claim area. She’s wearing the same pom-pom hat that’s on her Skype picture, and it bounces on top of her head. She throws her arms around me. “I can’t believe you’re really here!”
I can’t, either. On the plane it felt like time was standing still. Plus it was cloudy when we landed, so I couldn’t see the city. Except for Phoebe it feels like I could be anywhere. That’s pretty weird, since New York is where I’ve lived my whole life. Well, practically my whole life.
“Lucy, darling!” Mrs. Solomon is beaming as she comes up behind Phoebe. “How lovely to see you!”
“Thank you,” I say as Phoebe lets me go. “There’s my suitcase.” I can spot it from way off with the yellow ribbon Aunt Jane said to tie onto the handle.
“Just one?” Mrs. Solomon starts to take it from me.
“It’s OK, I’ve got it.” I pull out the handle extension so I can roll it. Inside I put some of the special photos, like the Disney World one and skating at Rockefeller Center, to take to Mexico. And a new one of me and Lexie. I wanted to put them in my Hello Kitty carry-on, like Mom’s jewelry bag, but I was worried the frames would break. In the suitcase, I packed them in between some sweaters and flannel pj’s.
“Mr. Solomon’s waiting outside.”
Outside it’s so loud! Planes taking off, cars honking, cabstand men blowing whistles. Phoebe is talking, but I can’t hear her at all. And the smell. Burning, yucky black smoke from the cars. Mr. Solomon is waving and smiling and talking, but I can’t hear him, either, until the car doors slam and we’re on our way to Phoebe’s.
The car feels weird, too. So low, compared to Aunt Jane’s truck. In the front seat Mrs. Solomon is talking, to me and Mr. Solomon at the same time: “How was your flight? Was there a long layover?” and “Did you see how the tunnel traffic was backed up on the other side, dear? Let’s take the bridge this time” and “Lucy, you must be exhausted.” Next to me Phoebe is texting, her face glowing in the phone-screen light, and it’s all too much, so I tell Mrs. Solomon, yes, I am exhausted and close my eyes to shut it all away.
I must have dozed off, because I wake up when the noise changes again, the whoosh of the tires becoming a rattle. I sit up, and we’re on the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan. It’s starting to get dark now, and the lights are on the bridge and the buildings shine and it’s so beautiful and I feel so homesick and mixed-up. Because I’m homesick for Daddy and his smile and Mom and her dry-clean-only TV clothes and for Lexie, too, her warm body next to my feet at night. For Miguel and his “hola” every morning on the bus. For the beautiful soft white snow that sparkles in the sun when I look out my bedroom window and covers up all the grass.
The first time I saw it, I thought, Step on snow. The words that came into my head were You can go. So I did. And nothing bad happened, even after sledding down the hill, over and over again. So snow is good, and I know Aunt Jane will be upset when she finds out I’ve gone to Mexico. Thinking of her makes my stomach hurt. I remember her blowing kisses at the airport, letting me run the farm stand, baking the carrot cake that turned out to be good, and rescuing Lexie in the storm. Lexie! And Jared will probably get in trouble for helping me, buying the ticket with his dad’s frequent-flier miles, and I’m sorry, so sorry, everybody, but I got the ticket and I’m just going.
The Solomons’ building has underground parking. Phoebe is still texting as we walk to the elevator.
“Phoebe, put that away. Lucy’s here. Who do you need to text?”
“Everyone, Mom! I have to tell them Lucy’s here.” She looks at me. “Everyone’s so excited you’re back. Rachel’s having a party, and there’s a flick and float at the Y, and ice-skating—”
“Don’t forget the play. We’re going to the Wicked matinee day after tomorrow,” Mrs. Solomon says.
“How long is Lucy here?” Mr. Solomon asks, unlocking the door. “That’s quite a schedule.”
He swings the apartment door open. From the back I hear barking, getting louder.
“Ozzie, hush!” Mrs. Solomon commands as a little, shaggy white dog runs into the room, yapping, panting, and sniffing around my feet. I forgot they had a dog! “He’ll remember you in a minute, Lucy. Just needs to get your scent.”
I pull off my glove. Ozzie’s nose and his tongue on my fingers are cold and wet. Gross. Lexie’s soft and warm and cozy and quiet. Even Sarge is better. I wipe my hand on the edge of my coat. He starts barking again.
“Shush, Ozzie! Have you called your aunt yet to let her know you’ve arrived?”
“Um, no.”
“Why don’t you do that now, then,” she says in an adult not-asking voice. “I’m sure she’d like to know that you’re here safe and sound.”
If I hear Aunt Jane’s voice, I might just lose it all and start bawling. Mrs. Solomon’s not going to let me out of it, so I pull my phone out and dial. Lexie’s picture on the phone’s screen makes me feel a tiny bit better.
One, two, three rings. “Hello, you’ve reached Plain Jane’s CSA,” Aunt Jane’s voice says. “We can’t get to the phone right now, but please leave a message.”
Chapter 56
JANE
“Merry Christmas, Matt.”
“Mom?” Surprise edges out sleep in his voice.
“Merry Christmas,” I repeat. “It is still Christmas over there, right?”
“For another hour or so.” He yawns.
“Sorry, did I call too late?” After prowling around the empty house all day with the cats, I couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
“Nah, it’s OK. It’s just been kind of hectic here.”
“The holidays,” I say.
“Yeah. Lots of people on leave. Rest of us trying to cover. You know.”
“Right. I remember, that’s how it was with your dad, too.” Jim always pulled holiday duty, even after we moved off base. I didn’t mind. San Diego held few warm childhood memories. Wherever we went, first Mom, then Gloria sent the box of oranges and that was enough of home for the holidays.
“Hang on a sec, Mom.” There’s a snatch of muffled conversation, the other voice softer, higher than Matt’s. A sound. A kiss? Then Matt’s voice again.
“Allison’s going to bed. She said to say thank you. She really likes the necklace.”
It was Lucy’s idea to add a gift for Allison to my Christmas package. We picked out one of Esperanza’s pieces. For Matt, I got a pair of fleece pajama pants and made up some dry pancake mix. Snow-day morning stuff for an adult.
“Oh. Good. She’s welcome.” I contemplate my son and a woman, together in a tiny, boxy military apartment four thousand miles away. A woman I’ve not yet met who greets me through him, who kisses him good night.
“So I was planning to call you soon, too,” Matt says. “Big news here.”
“Yeah?”
“Allison’s pregnant.”
Pregnant? I’m dumbfounded, speechless. Jumbled memories collide: a three-year-old on Jim’s shoulders; my hand-knitted blue hat and mittens; a red tricycle on a hot Houston sidewalk; grass-stained baseball uniforms; Boy Scout projects; a black graduation gown.
“It’s all good. We moved into officer housing after she found out. The doctor says the baby’s doing great.”
“When is she due?” The words sound completely appropriate, the question completely impossible. Matt, my child, a father? Me, a grandmother?
“Around June 1.”
So she’s past the first trimester. Past the riskiest time. But not beyond it. No, never beyond risk when it comes to parenthood. “Do you know what it’s going to be?”
“Nope. We’re gonna have it be a surprise.”
The understatement to beat all. I wander down the hall to Matt’s room. I can see him here, curled underneath the plaid bedspread, doing homework at the desk in the corner. Will a grandchild ever visit?
“Well. Congratulations.” To my ears the obligatory word sounds flat, inadequate, but Matt doesn’t pick up on it.
“Thanks.” His voice sounds easy. “Allison’s really excited.”
“Are you?” I blurt out the question, unable to keep anxiety out of my voice.
“Well, sure. I mean, I was a little surprised at first, but this is my kid. Another generation. Of course I’m excited.”
“You’re so young.” I can’t help saying it.
“Older than you and Dad were.”
I do the math. “I guess so.” I was twenty-two, Jim twenty-three, when Matt was born. He’ll be twenty-four in February.
“And you did it. It’s going to be cool.” He yawns again. “So, got a lot of snow?”
You did it? End of story, now on to the weather? Is that really all there is to it for Matt? And Jim and I divorced. We did it, but we couldn’t keep it up.
As much as the words, it’s his tone that rings dissonant from my guilt-infused memories. Matter-of-fact, dismissive, even. Sarah’s voice echoes. Think of it from your son’s point of view.
“I really miss it. We’ve got a little, but nothing like home,” Matt says. His voice actually sounds wistful.
Braced in the doorway of Matt’s childhood room, I reel through the corridors of memory. Nothing like home. He means here. This house on Old Mission was where he grew up. With Jim and me. A devoted mother.
“Mom? Still there?”
“Mm-hm.” Was Gloria right? Sarah, too? He’s contradicting twenty years of regret and self-recrimination. What did he ask about? Snow?
“What does Lucy think? Must be way more than she ever saw in New York.”
“Seems to like it. Got her first taste of sledding at Thanksgiving.” The snow’s been more like a godsend, somehow rendering Lucy’s grass phobia dormant. Has she made it into New York yet? I hope she’ll call and let me know.
“At the Civic Center hill?” The note of wistfulness is stronger. “That was great. I remember building jumps at the bottom.”
“They still do.”
“Good times.” I feel like I can see a smile through the phone. It would be nice to see him. And Allison, and the grandchild. Could I make a visit?
What about Lucy? And a plane ticket to Germany? The Solomons bought Lucy’s. It stung a bit to take their offer, but with money still so tight, it was the only way for Lucy to go. But next time I should try to Skype, at least. Lucy could help me set up an account, or use hers, or whatever. I walk back to the kitchen, looking for Lexie.
“Matt, maybe next time I’ll call on Skype. I’ve got a high-speed Internet connection at home now.”
“My mom, the technophobe, on Skype?” He laughs. “Having an eleven-year-old around is good for you.”
“Twelve,” I correct him, climbing the stairs to Lucy’s domain. Lexie’s curled up on the sill of the hall window. Her ears prick up as I approach, but she doesn’t move.
“Twelve. Sure, we can Skype.” He yawns again. “Listen, I’m on duty at oh six hundred.”
“Oh. OK. Well. Tell Allison congratulations for me.” This time the word comes easier. “I—I love you.”
“I will. Love you, too. Night, Mom.”
The cross-Atlantic connection cuts off. Lexie purrs and arches into my hand as I scratch behind her ears. The snap on her collar clanks against the silver bracelet Lucy gave me for Christmas, one of Esperanza’s creations. I haven’t worn any jewelry since I took off my wedding ring, but I put it on right away.
I gave Lucy a toboggan, like the Livingstons’, and a jewelry box. After Thanksgiving the toboggan was an easy idea. I almost gave it to her early, since we went sledding in December, but held out. The jewelry box was harder. One weekend I happened to see a sign for a holiday bazaar at a church and stopped on a whim. An Amish man was selling beautiful small wood pieces—clocks, candlesticks, lamps—all handmade, dovetailed construction, sanded to a sheen. The jewelry box had a tray divided into velvet-lined compartments for individual pieces, which was inset over a bigger bottom compartment. The lid was inlaid with a mirror. It was perfect for Gloria’s jewelry. When Lucy opened it, I got that full-of-blessings feeling again.
That was last night, so today I had nothing to unwrap. But Matt’s words ring like a gift of absolution. I did it. I raised a child, well enough that he’s ready to be a father himself.
