by Sandra Kring
“Look, I understand you not wanting to tell the kids. That’s heavy shit. Of course you couldn’t really tell them when they were very young, but you can’t keep something like this a secret forever. Okay. Okay. I know it’s not my place to judge how and when you tell them, but to not tell me? We’ve been together for over two years. We love each other. And you didn’t see a reason to tell me what happened? Just that it ended badly? Crissakes, Tess, that’s what you say when a relationship ends and both parties walk away with hard feelings. Not what you say when a relationship ends like yours did. Why in hell would you shut me out like this?”
Mom’s voice is still raised. “Me shut you out? You’re the one who walked out on me, Peter. Are you forgetting that?”
“I know. And I’ve told you how sorry I am for that. I was acting out of desperation, thinking that if you were forced to decide between making a commitment to me or losing me, you’d choose to let me into your life all the way. It was an adolescent stunt, I admit, and it backfired, but, damn it, I didn’t know what else to do. We’d gotten to the point where something had to give.” Peter’s sigh sounds like a groan.
“Honey, don’t pull away from me like this. Come here. Please. Open up to me. Talk to me.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Mom’s voice is husky with tears.
“Just talk to me. That’s all. Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Peter. What?”
“The truth. About what happened—your side of the story—and what parts of it you still struggle with. I want you to tell me if you’re working on it, and if you think we have any future at all. But if you can’t do that at this point, then at least tell me that you love me, if you do. At least that. I’ve waited for two years, and you still haven’t said those words. If you can’t say them because it scares you to say them, but you feel them, then tell me that. And if you can’t say them because you just don’t feel them, then I want to know that too. So I can give up on asking you to marry me.”
My mouth drops open. Peter asked Mom to marry him? Mom has never told him that she loves him? I want to leap up and lean out the window and scream at her, “Are you nuts? Tell him what you wrote in your journals about loving him, and say yes!” I don’t, of course.
Their voices quiet and I get on my knees to put my ear closer to the breezy crack. I don’t hear their words until Mom gets upset again. “Are you saying that I’m lying to myself about what happened?” She’s all but shouting.
“Tess, please. That’s not what I said at all.”
It gets quiet again, but something in the air is so thick that it almost feels solid, and I sense that Mom is telling Peter the story that I long to hear.
I wait. And I wait. And occasionally I hear Mom cough on her tears, or a soft murmur from Peter, but no words. Long after the bones in my butt are sore from sitting against the wood floor, I hear Peter say, “Yes, difficult or not to say—and for them to hear—yes, I think you should tell them. Your mother thinks so too.”
“Don’t you condemn me for trying to protect my kids! You have no right to judge me on this one.”
“Oh, geez, Tess. Where do you get that I’m condemning you for not telling them yet? Where? Did I say that?”
“Your tone said it,” Mom snaps.
There is a pause and then Peter’s voice, softer and slower this time. “Come sit back down here beside me, honey. Let me hold you.”
I can hardly make out Peter’s next words, but I think he’s thanking Mom for telling him the story. Then he says, with conviction and in a voice loud enough for me to hear, “Just know that I will never, ever become like Howard.”
“I’m tired, and my head is pounding. I just want to go to sleep,” Mom says.
Peter laughs lightly and says something that I can’t hear.
“Alone, Peter. I just want to be alone right now.”
“Don’t open yourself to me like that, then close up like a fist right afterward,” Peter says, his voice firm.
“I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.”
“Tess. Please.”
The screen door squeals, and I can hear Mom padding across the kitchen and up the stairs. I have tears in my eyes when she shuts the door to the guest room. She’s ruined it with Peter again, and anger and disappointment tighten my jaw and clog my throat.
I hear Peter come in, and I listen for him to come upstairs and tap on Mom’s door. Or at least for him to open the door to the spare room downstairs. I wait, but I don’t hear anything at all. I picture him standing there, his hands on his hips, as he decides whether to come upstairs and try to talk to Mom again or to leave.
Peter decides to leave.
When I hear his engine start and see the glow of headlights outside my window, I fly down the stairs as though I have wings and race out the front door. Peter’s Suzuki is already heading down the driveway, his headlights skimming the dewy lawn that is cold under my bare feet.
I run across the yard, waving my arms and screaming out his name, but I’m in his blindspot and he can’t see me. I can hear drums thumping from a CD, and I know he can’t hear me either. He pauses at the end of the driveway just long enough for me to catch up, and as his SUV starts to roll, I dart right in front of it and pound on the hood for him to stop.
Peter jams the SUV into park and gets out, the engine still going. “Lucy, my God. I could have hit you!”
“Peter,” I cry. “Don’t go! She didn’t mean it. Whatever she said, she didn’t mean it!”
Peter picks me up and carries me over to the gravel, my bare feet dangling. “You scared the shit out of me, kid,” he says, and he sounds morning-grumpy when he says it too.
“Peter? Is Lucy out there?” Oma shouts from the front door. The fact that she’s awake lets me know that she was eavesdropping on Mom and Peter too. Peter yells back that I am and that he’ll bring me in in a minute. He slips me into the front seat with him and backs the SUV all the way into the driveway. He leaves the engine humming because it’s chilly and I’m in my pajamas, but he shuts off the music and the lights. I can still see him, though, because the moon is harvest-moon bright and big.
“I hate her,” I cry. “She chases you away over and over again. I hate her for that! You’re the best thing that’s happened to Milo and me. Her too, but she won’t admit it. I just hate her! She’s a weakling!”
Peter ruffles the top of my head. “Come here,” he says, and he pulls me to him and rests my head against his wide, warm chest, filling my ears with the soft thumps of his heart. Hearing them makes my anger melt to something both bitter and sweet, because it sounds just like the way I imagine a dad’s heartbeat would sound as he rocks his little girl.
Through the windshield, the moon runs like milk through my tears. I sniffle and cough, and Peter roots through the glove compartment until he finds a napkin from Subway, then lifts my chin and swabs at my face. He doesn’t even seem to care if he gets tears or mucus on his hand—probably like a real dad—which makes me cry harder.
“I just wish Mom would stop this, Peter. She loves you. Trust me, I know this. I read it in her journals—the new ones she writes on her laptop. And I know why she’s bitter about men. It’s because Grandpa Sam was a mean husband, and she’s afraid you’ll get mean like him. But you’d never beat her up like Grandpa did Oma, and you’d never talk mean either. You brought her Tylenol when she was sick. You’re not the mean one, she is. You’d never put her head through a wall, but she’d probably do that to you if she got mad enough.”
“True, true,” Peter says with a tired laugh. Then he leans his head back against the headrest and looks up at the moon.
“Did you ever hear the allegory about the gods’ struggle to find a place to put man’s personal power?”
I drop my cheek back to his chest. “Tell me,” I say.
“Well,” he says, “it is a story that I’ve seen attributed to the Native Americans but also to a couple other indigenous cultures. No matter w
here it comes from, though, it speaks a universal truth.”
His tone changes then. It softens and becomes dramatically wistful as he starts the tale.
“Long ago, when man was first created, the gods gathered together to try to figure out where they were going to put man’s power—and I mean man, as in mankind,” he adds. “Anyway, man was too new, too naive, they felt, to trust him to use his power wisely, so they decided it needed to be hidden. So they gathered together to try to figure out where to hide the power until mankind matured. One of the gods said, ‘Let’s hide it in the sky. They’ll not find it there.’ But another god said, ‘No. One day they will build machines to take them into the sky, and they’ll find it.’ ‘Deep in the earth, then,’ another god suggested.”
“Let me guess, let me guess!” I say. “They couldn’t hide it there, because, of course, man would make drills to tap oil and find it there.”
“Hey,” Peter says with mock indignation. “Who’s telling this story, anyway?”
“Sorry,” I say, and settle back down against him.
“But you’re right. That’s exactly what the gods said. So another god said, ‘Let’s hide it in the ocean.’ But, alas, another god in this fine circle of wise gods said, ‘No. One day they’ll build machines that can skim the tops of the sea and burrow down to the bottom.’
“So the gods were stumped. Where, where could they hide man’s power so he’d not find it until he was equipped to handle it wisely? Having no more guesses, the gods decided to go to the one supreme god to ask his advice. The god listened, was quiet for a moment, then he said, ‘Put the power inside man himself.’ ” Peter tapped his solar plexus area. “He’ll never think to look for it there.”
I look up at Peter, and he’s smiling sadly. “I liked that story when I read it in one of Oma’s books. It’s good, isn’t it?”
Peter laughs. “If you heard it already, why did you let me ramble on?”
“Because I never had a dad tell me a story before,” I say.
Peter sounds choked up when he says, “Lucy, your mother’s not really afraid of love, she’s afraid of losing her power. Which means, of course, that she’s never truly found it. But it’s inside her, and sooner or later she’ll find it. And when she does, she won’t need to control her heart so much. There are good reasons why your mother’s having trouble letting herself love me and telling you kids about your father, so don’t be too hard on her, okay?”
I take the wadded napkin from the dash, because I know I’ll need it again, and I tell him, “Peter, what if this is it? What if she cuts it off with you for good, and you can’t even be my friend anymore, much less my dad?”
“I’ll always be here for you, Lucy. No matter what.” He squeezes my shoulder, then says I’d better go inside.
“Please try and talk to her one more time. Please?”
“Enough talking for one night, Lucy.”
“But do you have to leave right now? Can’t you come back inside?”
“No, I think it’s best if I go. I’ll go up to Bayfield for the wedding, spend time with my family, and give her space to think. Come on, I’ll walk you to the house.”
The moon stretches our shadows on the dark grass as we walk. A man and a girl, her hand in his. We look just like a father and daughter. From now on, I know, this very spot on the grass where our shadows fell will be my very own place-in-the-trees.
chapter
TWENTY-ONE
IN THE morning, Mitzy comes to pick Mom up on her way to her doctor’s appointment. Oma hugs her when she comes in and pats her belly, asking her how she is.
“Queasy,” Mitzy says, and Oma asks, “In your heart still, as well as your stomach?”
Mitzy gives a worried smile. “I guess you could say that. I called my doctor yesterday and he’s going to give me something to help with my nausea so I can get back to work. Now if he could just give me something to ease my heart.”
Oma hugs her, then yammers about using ginger root and charcoal instead of chemicals. Finally, she asks, “And Ray? How’s he doing?”
“Mother,” Mom snaps as she steps into the kitchen and hears Oma’s last question. “Stop prying.”
“He’s happy,” Mitzy says, then adds, “I’ll just feel better after I pass the twenty-sixth week. You know?” Mitzy places her hand on her still flat stomach. “This morning I felt almost crampy.”
Oma looks at Mitzy, then at Mom, who is downing her Paxil with a glass of water, her puffy eyes closed as her neck ripples. “Painful memories can be hard to let go of,” Oma says to Mitzy, though her eyes are still on Mom. “But we relive them every day of our lives—recreate them, even, at least in our minds—until we learn to let them go.”
Oma turns to place a hand on Mitzy’s belly. “This little one needs to feel wrapped in love and joy, honey. Not fear. What good will fear do, anyway? You have to think positively for positive things to happen.”
“You know, Mother, I really hate that mind-set,” Mom says. “What do you mean? That we cause bad things to happen because we have negative thoughts?”
Oma opens her mouth to say something, but Mom cuts her off. “Come on, Mitzy. Between last night and this morning, I’ve had enough sermons for a while.”
Mitzy smiles at Oma, though her eyes are teary. “You’re right, of course. What good will being afraid do me or this little one?”
Mom grabs her purse. She leans down to kiss the top of my head, but I duck. She hesitates and then pulls away.
Oma watches them out the kitchen window, then lifts her hands and draws her Reiki symbols in the air. “Everything will be okay, honey,” she tells me after she turns around—as if her air-drawn symbols alone have just saved us all.
I sit down at the table, but I don’t want the bowl of oatmeal waiting for me, even though Oma has added raisins and crushed walnuts and drizzled it with honey.
“You told Peter something you won’t tell me,” I say flatly.
“Who told you that?”
“I know. That’s all.”
Oma sighs. “Lucy,” she says, her head down, facing the sink. “It’s a difficult time right now for the whole family. But I talked to Sky Dreamer last night, and she reminded me that boils become the most painful right before they burst.”
She opens the cupboard, and she begins unloading the pill bottles—hiding her face so I can’t study it. The pill bottles sound like baby rattles as she tosses them in the trash can.
“Why are you throwing Grandpa’s pills away?”
“He can’t take them anymore, Lucy. He can’t swallow.”
“But he needs his medication. How—” And I stop. “Ohhhhh, they’re putting his medicine right in his drip bag now.”
“No, honey,” she says. “The medicine can’t help him anymore.” She closes the cupboard door and comes to the table. She sits down and puts her hand over mine. “Lucy? I’m so sorry that life hurts and is so confusing for you right now. If I could, I’d make every one of these things—your grandpa’s impending death, your mom and Peter’s breakup, your losing your home—reverse so that they never happened. I wish I could do that for you, but I can’t.”
Her words make tears pool in my eyes, and they’re warm when they fall.
Oma squeezes my hand. “Oh, I just wish I knew what to say to you.”
“You apparently didn’t have any trouble knowing what to say to Peter,” I say while sniffling.
Oma lets go of my hand and looks up. “Was that your grandpa?” she asks, even though there was no sound coming from his room. “I’d better go check on him.”
I get up too and slam my chair against the table. “I’m going for a bike ride.”
“Is Milo going?” Oma asks.
“No. He went when he woke up.”
“I feel better when you ride with your brother.”
“Why?” I ask. “If some danger arose, what would you expect him to do? Attack my assailant with an algorithm?”
“Lucy, you’re being do
wnright snippy now,” she says. “But I forgive you because I know you’re just upset.” Then she tells me not to stay out long, to wear my helmet, and to not go far, since Mom has her cell phone so I can’t take it with me.
I PEDAL WITH purpose, the wind flapping my loose hair, and I head straight for the main street of Timber Falls, where I’m convinced that the truth of my parentage, as well as other family secrets, can be pried out of somebody’s mouth.
I reach town, and the streets are, I suppose, as busy as they can be for a town no bigger than a rabbit hutch. I get off my bike and push it down the sidewalk.
Now that I’m here, I don’t even know where to start. The tea I drank at breakfast has moved into my bladder, and I have to pee. I look around for a store that might let a nonpaying customer use their restroom, then head for the restaurant where Mom and I met Mitzy.
I leave my bike propped next to the building and head inside. There are two booths filled and one person sitting at the counter. Too few to slip off to the restroom in back without being noticed. “Can I help you?” the woman with dreadlocks who scratched skin cells into my sandwich asks. I give her eye contact and a smile meant to charm. “I’m waiting for my mom,” I lie. “I’m a little early, so I’ll just take a seat and wait. Well, after I use the restroom.” Miss Dreads nods.
I hover above the toilet and try not to sprinkle pee on the seat, then wash my hands through both verses of “Happy Birthday” and turn the doorknob with my damp paper towel, just like Oma taught me to do to avoid diseases when using a public restroom. Then I step out.
“We’ll take a booth, Lizzie,” I hear, and see Miss Dreadlocks leading Mrs. Olinger and a fat guy with stubby red hair toward me. His belly hangs over his jeans, and his T-shirt is clinging to two man boobs the size of oranges. His toes point out when he walks.
Synchronicity, sweet synchronicity!
Mrs. Olinger recognizes me before I reach their booth. “Oh, hello there. Sam McGowan’s granddaughter, right?” she says.
“Hello, Mrs. Olinger,” I say. “Lucy.”
