The Art of Holding On and Letting Go

by Kristin Lenz

  I couldn’t explain it, but in my heart, I didn’t believe the trip was going to happen. Or maybe I was afraid it wouldn’t turn out as I hoped. That I wouldn’t be able to convince them to come home. Even when the airline confirmation was e-mailed to me, and I had printed out the details on paper, I wasn’t convinced. I touched the paper and examined the flight numbers and times. Maybe it was Uncle Max. Going back to Ecuador without him felt wrong, like picking the scab off a wound that doesn’t want to heal.

  The basketball group stood and piled up their trash, draining the last of their drinks. Tom picked up his tray and left with his friends, Ann-Marie Fidesco trailing behind him, the paper airplane trampled under their shoes.

  32

  I pulled on wool socks, laced up my hiking boots, and grabbed my coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. My boots thunk, thunked as I walked into the kitchen. Grandma and Grandpa were waiting for me, ready to head out for a Christmas tree. I was looking forward to tromping around a Christmas tree farm; it was the closest I was going to get to being back home in the mountains.

  “Ready?” Grandpa asked.

  “Yep. You got the hot chocolate?”

  “You want to take hot chocolate?”

  “Yeah, in a thermos. Isn’t that what you do too?”

  “Well, I don’t see anything wrong with that. I’m always up for a warm drink. Hot chocolate it is.”

  Grandma pulled the milk out of the fridge while Grandpa went in search of a thermos.

  We all piled into the Taurus, Grandpa’s winter car, and I was surprised that Grandma didn’t object to going. It must be a long drive to get all the way out in the woods where there was room for a Christmas tree farm. Imagine that, the Christmas spirit was even giving Grandma a boost.

  Grandpa found a radio station playing Christmas carols. We sang and hummed as Grandpa weaved his way through subdivisions and out onto the main drag of Woodward Avenue. He slowed down and pulled into a parking lot on the right. A huge blow-up Santa and a snowman flanked a banner that said Tim’s Trees. Behind the banner were rows and rows of evergreens.

  My jolly mood evaporated. This wasn’t a Christmas tree farm. This was a parking lot! No wonder it wasn’t a big deal for Grandma to come with us. We weren’t even on the road for ten minutes.

  And she didn’t even get out of the car. She waited inside with the heat running while I followed Grandpa.

  “What do you think? Is one of them calling out to you?” Grandpa asked.

  I shrugged. My cabin and parents were as far away from this place as possible.

  “You’re going to make me choose?” Grandpa said.

  “I don’t care.” The faint tune of “Frosty the Snowman” piped from a speaker, almost drowned out by the roar of traffic. Grandpa was eyeing me, but I stared off into the rows of nearly identical trees. At home, we would have hiked into the woods and cut down our own tree, leaving gifts of pinecones smeared with peanut butter and bird seed.

  A guy carried the Fraser fir to our car and helped Grandpa tie it to the top. “Now how about some of that hot chocolate. Glad you thought to bring it, Cara.”

  “I don’t want any. Let’s just go.”

  “Well, I’m going to have some.”

  I could feel Grandpa studying me while he shared a cup of hot chocolate with Grandma. I turned away, hugging myself against the chilly air. I slipped off my glove and reached for the stone in my coat pocket, turning it around and around in my fingers.

  Another guy hoisted a tree onto the minivan next to us. He stopped to debate with Grandpa about his choice of a blue spruce.

  Blah, blah, blah. Who cared? The trees had been trucked from a forest a hundred miles away.

  I dropped the stone back into my pocket and yanked on my glove. I kicked one of the car tires with the toe of my hiking boot.

  Back at home, I helped Grandpa carry the tree into the house. I shuffled backward, carrying the heavier trunk end, then I went straight to my room. I knew I was acting rude, but I couldn’t seem to make myself care.

  Later that evening, Grandpa stopped in my room.

  “You okay, Cara?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sorry about this afternoon. I wasn’t thinking. I should have known that might have made you miss your parents even more. The holidays can be a tough time of year.”

  “Is that where you always get your tree?”

  Grandpa looked surprised at the question.

  “For a while now, but not in the old days. We used to head out to the real Christmas tree farm. It was a whole day’s adventure.” He stopped, then slapped his forehead. “What a knucklehead am I! The hot chocolate, those hiking boots. You thought we were going to a real Christmas tree farm!”

  I couldn’t help smiling as he face-palmed again.

  “Nope, your grandma never would have made it all the way up there. But that’s what we used to do when your mom was little.”

  “That’s what we did at home.”

  “I’m sorry you were disappointed.”

  “It wouldn’t have been the same anyway.”

  “No, I guess you’re right. It probably wouldn’t.”

  33

  The next morning, Christmas music drifted into my room. In the kitchen, Grandma had changed the radio station from oldies to Christmas carols. I peeked from the doorway and grinned. She hummed and swayed as she measured and stirred at the counter. She was even cracking eggs to the beat of music!

  In the living room, Grandpa was surrounded by large cardboard boxes. He opened one and pulled out strings of Christmas lights. One by one, he plugged them in to see if they worked. They lit up the room, tiny red lights, just like we had at home. Mom won that argument years ago. Dad grew up with big multicolored flashing lights. Mom grew up with tiny red lights. Our tree and my grandparents’ tree, the only ones I had ever seen with red lights. That warm feeling perked up inside me again, that little bit of holiday spirit.

  When we’d finished decorating the tree, Grandpa asked if I wanted to get some practice driving in.

  “Sure, I guess I should.”

  “Let’s take the Mustang out before we get snow. What do you say, Margaret? It’ll be a pretty drive with all the Christmas lights.”

  “You want me to go for a ride with Cara driving?” Her voice was incredulous.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said.

  “You just keep practicing with Grandpa, and I’ll go with you when you officially have your license.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that, you know.”

  Grandma shook her head. “Oh go on, already. Shoo, you two.” She waved the feather duster at us, then turned to the curio cabinet of porcelain angels.

  Grandma would be appalled at our cabin in California. We definitely didn’t have a regular dusting routine. I cringed thinking about the smoke damage. What would our cabin look like when I finally made it back home? Charred and blackened, covered in soot? Neglected. Abandoned. And the forest? How many trees had we lost in the fire?

  Driving took all my concentration. I was nervous driving the Mustang, but it gave me a spark of energy too. There was so much power in that engine.

  Grandpa directed me toward the freeway ramp, and I held my breath at the sight of the speeding cars. I remembered Billy’s words and merged onto the highway.

  “Nice job,” Grandpa said.

  I smiled and stomped on the gas.

  “Ah, you’ve inherited the family lead foot, I see.”

  I eased up a bit and glanced at Grandpa, but he was grinning.

  “Just stay on 75, I’ll give you a little tour of Detroit. This highway will take you all the way to Florida. Sometimes I get the urge to hit the road, just go and see where it takes me.”

  “Road warrior,” I said, smiling. I cruised along with the steady pattern of traffic.

  “What’s so special about Grandma’s collection of angels? Like all those babies?”

  “Your mom never told you about the babies?”

  “No, I don’t thi
nk so.”

  “Well, maybe she was waiting until you were older. When it was time for you to have your own family.” Grandpa cleared his throat.

  I had a moment of panic thinking he was about to talk to me about sex.

  “When I told you about your grandma’s problems with anxiety attacks, I guess I wasn’t starting at the beginning. It goes way back to before your mom was even born. It even goes back to before me.”

  Now he had really lost me.

  “Your grandma married her high school sweetheart right before he got drafted to Vietnam. She got pregnant, but miscarried, and then her husband was killed in the war.”

  Whoa. My eyes widened and I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I wanted to look at Grandpa, but I was afraid to take my eyes off the road.

  “I know. Terrible. Maybe I should wait and tell this story when you’re not driving.”

  I shot him a quick glance. “I’m okay, keep going. I never knew she was married before you.”

  “We met a few years later. She was the pretty teller with long blond hair at my bank.” He grinned. “I always tried to time my spot in line so I’d end up at her window. When we got married, we wanted to start a family right away, but it didn’t turn out like we hoped.”

  “She had two more miscarriages before we finally had Lori. And it was a rough delivery. Truthfully, we almost lost her. Your grandma, not your mom. Lori came out healthy and bursting with life, but Margaret was rushed off to surgery. Needed an emergency hysterectomy. No more babies for us.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Who knew? I guess there had never been a reason for my mom to bring it up. But now a light flickered in my mind trying to reveal something to me, like the glowing circle of a campfire. I knew this was important somehow, that there was meaning there, but it remained hidden in the shadowy trees beyond the campfire’s reach.

  “There’s the Ambassador Bridge to Canada,” Grandpa said. “It’s pretty when it’s lit up at night.”

  He was right. It was pretty. “Just go a little farther, then we better head home before Grandma gets worried.”

  Ahead, the highway rose up. Down below, off to the sides, were row upon row of factories. Yellow-gray smoke billowed against the purple-rose sky and flames burst out of pipes. A rotten-egg sulfur smell filled the car and stuck in my nose and throat.

  “The Rouge plant,” Grandpa said.

  “It’s disgusting,” I said.

  Grandpa closed the car vents to block the smell. “I saw a photo documentary once. This man had taken pictures of the Rouge at interesting angles. Some of the shots were at this time of day with the sunset as the backdrop. He was able to make it beautiful in a way. To turn it around into something positive.”

  He directed me to get off the highway, drive over the overpass and back on, heading north. Heading home.

  We were quiet for a while, the sky darkening, red brake lights glowing in front of us, headlights zipping by on the other side of the highway. My ears filled with the lulling, steady sound of the tires on pavement. I felt so tired, drained. Grandpa must have been feeling the same way because all of a sudden he sat up straighter, rolled his window down halfway, leaned his head out, and sucked in the sharp cold air.

  He rolled the window back up, shook his head and said, “Brrrrr. Thought I was going to nod off a minute there. It’s time for some tunes.”

  He switched on the radio and punched the preset buttons, passing up talk and jazz, stopping at classic rock. “This is what we need,” he said, and turned up the volume.

  Bob Seger’s scratchy voice filled the car. Sunspot baby, we sure had a real good time.

  Grandpa joined in, I looked in Miami. I looked in Brazil. The closest I came was a month old bill …

  My Brazilian acai bracelet from Tom was on my wrist, and I couldn’t help grinning. Grandma was bebopping in the kitchen, now Grandpa was rocking! Bob Seger was one of my mom’s favorites too. The bass thumped in my chest, and we sang along. Grandpa swayed in his seat. I got off the freeway at our exit and followed the suburban roads home, the stores and houses decorated with wreaths and garland and a rainbow of lights. More lights twinkled in the trees.

  If only there was snow. And mountains.

  34

  The day before I left for Ecuador I awoke with a jittery stomach. It wasn’t right to feel nervous about seeing my parents, but I couldn’t help it. I felt like something important had changed, the thousands of miles of distance between us were like an actual physical barrier to be broken down.

  I opened my window shade to gray skies and brown earth, no sign of a white Christmas yet, but on the nightstand next to my bed was a Christmas cactus, bursting with coral-colored blooms. A flat, rectangular-shaped object wrapped in shiny red paper was in the middle of my floor. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands; it felt like a book. I opened my bedroom door and found another wrapped book at my feet. A trail of shiny, red papered gifts led down the hallway, into the living room.

  “Santa came early,” Grandpa said with a wink. “Come see what else he left for you.”

  I followed him into the basement. Hanging on the wall was a campus-board, wooden rungs lined up vertically for climbing training.

  “Wow! How’d you know how to do this?”

  “I remembered seeing one at your house in Tennessee. Amazing what you can find on the Internet. Give it a try,” he said.

  I jumped on, maneuvering from bottom to top then back down again. I hopped down and shook my stinging hands.

  “No more hanging from the door frames, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said with a grin.

  Grandpa and I sneaked a couple Christmas cookies out of the tins while Grandma cooked a French toast brunch, cinnamon scenting the house. I cleared the dishes afterward, while Grandpa retreated to his chair with a book. Grandma picked up the phone to call friends and relatives out of town. I kept looking at her, trying to picture her with a soldier husband and then as a pretty bank teller with long hair instead of her short curly mop of gray.

  I stood at the kitchen sink, enjoying the warmth of the sudsy water on my hands, looking out the window at the heavy gray sky.

  If only I knew what awaited me tomorrow. Christmas in Ecuador just felt wrong. But it was my best chance for convincing my parents to come home.

  It finally snowed later that afternoon, and I perked up at the first sight of those fat, swirling flakes. I pulled on my coat and mittens and stood on the front porch. Grandma’s goose was dressed in her red coat and Santa hat. After all the gloomy gray days, the world was white and magical. A silent, fluttering storm of down feathers. The sky lilac. So quiet, a hush settling in all around.

  The snowflakes dusted my mittens long enough for me to study their star shapes before melting. They brushed my nose and cheeks, clung to my eyelashes, mixed with my tears. I had been closing my mind and heart trying not to think about what had happened to Uncle Max. Tall and strong, lean, ropy muscles, his face etched from sun and laughter. I couldn’t help imagining him dragged under the snow, buried, suffocating, freezing. His face frozen in horror. Frozen in time.

  35

  The next morning, snow covered the rooftops, cars, and trees like frosting. My flight to Ecuador wasn’t until later in the afternoon, so I helped Grandpa shovel the sidewalk. We turned in opposite directions, working our way to the neighbors on either side.

  Splat! A snowball nailed me in the back of the head.

  “Hey!” I whirled around, the snow dripped down my neck.

  Grandpa laughed. “Sorry, I was aiming for your back!”

  I scooped up a handful, packed it into a ball, and chucked it at him.

  He ducked just in time, but I was quicker with the next one. Splat!

  It smacked him on the chest, exploding, right where he had unzipped his coat.

  “Oh, no fair!” Grandpa shouted.

  “Gotcha!”

  “Got you!” he said, whizzing another one at me, catching my leg.

  I wound up
to throw another, but he held up his hand. “Mercy. I need some hot cocoa.”

  Now that we had stopped, my fingers and toes were stinging with cold. My jeans were stiff and wet.

  We picked up our shovels and returned to the house.

  I lingered in a hot, steamy shower, the water pounding my shoulders, but I still felt chilled. I cringed against the cold blast of air as I stepped onto the bath mat and dried my goose-bumpy skin. I shivered and grabbed a second towel. A headache lurked behind my eyes. My throat felt parched and scratchy. I was about to leave for an exotic trip, to finally see my parents after four months apart. I should have been happy, but my feelings were all tangled up. I just felt tired, drained.

  I curled up in my bird’s nest chair and realized for the first time that it was like a scallop shell—my own shell of quiet here in Michigan. I tried to read, but couldn’t focus. A snowplow rumbled down the street. Snow was clumped on the twiggy bushes like big, white blooms. Unless we went high into the mountains, I wouldn’t see snow in Ecuador.

  Grandma’s music drifted out of the kitchen. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. It didn’t feel right to be leaving Grandma and Grandpa alone for Christmas. I didn’t even know what they usually did; we hadn’t seen them in so many years. They hadn’t said anything about going to church. I never went with my parents either. Dad used to say he felt closer to God when he was on top of a mountain than he possibly could in any church.

  It was almost time to leave for the airport. My lunch churned in my stomach. I curled up tighter. I couldn’t get warm. I wrapped a fleece blanket around myself, but still, I shuddered, my skin crackling with goose bumps. I longed for the toasty warmth of the fireplace in our cabin. I crawled out of my chair, heading to my room for a heavier sweater. My legs wobbled, and the floor tilted.

  “Cara?” Grandma said. “Are you okay?”

  She was by my side in an instant. I wrapped my arms around my body, squeezing. My teeth chattered. Why was it so cold in here? A chisel chopped at my skull. I closed my eyes against the pain.