Wherever You Go

by Heather Davis

  "Holly," Grandpa Aldo said. "Mangia."

  "In a minute," I said, slathering wheat bread with filling and slapping the sides together. I found a paper bag and plastic wrap for the sandwich, along with an apple that was a little soft but still good. There weren't any chips or anything, but a granola bar from the back of the cabinet would finish off the lunch. I plunked down into a chair, setting the crumpled bag in front of my sister. "Enjoy."

  Lena, who'd been chowing down, peered inside the battered paper sack and then rolled the top down in a sloppy seal. I guessed my effort was going to suffice. She ate a last bite of cereal and then pranced over to the sink with her empty bowl. A second later she was off, zooming down the hall toward our room.

  When we were alone, Grandpa Aldo put his hand on my arm. "Last night I saw a boy."

  I patted his fingers and then freed my arm. "Okay," I said. I reached for the milk carton, giving it a sniff and a testing shake. We were almost out, and I didn't know if Mom would remember to pick some up at work that night. I dribbled some down onto the flakes in my bowl.

  "He was here," continued Aldo.

  "So, a boy was here in the apartment?" I took a bite of cereal and studied my grandfather's eyes. They were sincere. He seemed to really believe that he'd seen someone, but I'd heard that Alz-heimer's patients often saw people and things that weren't there. "So, what was this guy doing?" I asked, playing along.

  "He talked with me."

  I spooned in another bite of breakfast. "You had a conversation?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he say?" I asked around the mouthful of barely moistened flakes.

  "He was surprised to meet me. He said no one ever talks with him."

  "How did this guy get into the apartment?"

  Grandpa Aldo pressed his lips together. After a few seconds, he said, "I don't know." The frown on his face deepened, and he stared down at his coffee cup.

  I felt bad suddenly. "So, this guy just showed up in our apartment and starting chatting away?"

  "Yes." Shakily, he lifted the coffee to his mouth. He looked pensive, like he was trying to make sense of whatever he had seen.

  I swirled my spoon, stirring up the cereal at the bottom that was mostly grainy dust. Crappy, cheap frosted corn flakes. We really should buy a different kind next time, but it always depended on what was on sale. I pushed the bowl away and held out a piece of toast to Grandpa. He shook his head, so I went ahead and took a bite.

  "So—this guy," I said, "is he coming back again?"

  My grandpa set down his coffee. "I don't know. He was awfully lonely, cara mia, so maybe he will return."

  I was struck by how animated Grandpa was—how alert he appeared. Even if he'd been seeing things the night before, he didn't seem to be out of it now. "What did this guy look like?" I asked.

  "Very young. Handsome. Sad, sad green eyes. Dark hair."

  "That's a pretty good description," I said, giving Grandpa Aldo a smile.

  "He was here in front of me, as close as you are now," he replied. "He said he knew you."

  The toast clogged my throat. I got up from the table and poured a cup of the cold coffee from the machine on the counter. I washed down the crumbs. "He said that he knew me?"

  Grandpa Aldo nodded, his face totally serious.

  I sat down at the table again, concern rippling through me. How often did delusions actually talk back to patients like Grandpa? This couldn't be a good sign. "Did he say his name?"

  "Roberto ... eh ... Rob."

  I gripped the table with both hands. Surely Grandpa had known about me and Rob dating, though I wasn't sure he knew about the accident. It had to be his mind mixing memory with fantasy. It had to be part of his disease, for sure, but, peering into my grandfather's eyes, I had my doubts. "Rob was my boyfriend, and he was killed six months ago."

  Grandpa Aldo looked down at his hands. "I saw this boy."

  "I'm reaaaa—dy!" Lena zoomed into the kitchen dressed in jeans and a bright green sweater. Her thick brown hair, barely brushed, was in a lopsided ponytail. "Bring on the field trip," she chirped.

  "Grandpa, the senior center bus will be here soon," I said, setting my bowl in the sink. "Can you get your coat, please?"

  He rose Comadpa, the s from his chair slowly and moved toward the door.

  I stuffed the sack lunch into Lena's backpack and grabbed my bag. After I'd shepherded everyone out the door, I locked up. Grandpa was quiet during the elevator ride and while waiting for the buses to arrive. And then at last he and Lena were under way, their rides trailing clouds of diesel fumes. I shouldered my bag and headed down the street toward my school. The blocks melted away under my feet.

  I didn't know what to think about what Grandpa Aldo had said, but each intersection I crossed brought me closer to reality. Grandpa was sick. Grandpa was out of touch with reality and his brain was making whatever connections it could to stay alive. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. No one was ever going to see Rob again. No one could.

  I shuddered as rain began to fall, the drops splashing my cheeks. Rob is dead. Rob is dead. Rob is gone forever. I let the cadence of my footsteps propel the mantra I was repeating in my head. It was all I could do. I wouldn't forget him, but I couldn't pretend he existed anymore.

  ***

  Jason raised his head as the second bell sounded and Holly came through the door of the chemistry lab. She plunked down into her seat in the second row and got her book out, then sat there, smoothing her hair, which was escaping the loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. Even in obvious disarray, she was cute.

  As class started, Jason stared down at the notebook in front of him, doodling on the blank pages. And then he was lost in Mr. Jensen's review lecture on covalent bonding—a sea of words that washed over him. His eyes and mind drifted over to Holly again. It was hard not to notice her sitting just a few seats away from him, scratching notes onto paper like her life depended on it.

  He didn't know if she was a good student or not, but she did seem to know the answers the few times the teacher had called on her in class. It made sense that she would be diligent, responsible. He got that impression from his interactions with her, and the care she took with her grandfather and sister. She was definitely the trustworthy type. He recalled that Holly and Rob had met when they were lab partners back in sophomore year. Wow. They really had been together for nearly a year before Rob died. Jason didn't know any other guys in his circle who had dated girls that long.

  Mr. Jensen wrote a few practice questions on the white board, and Jason snapped back to reality, copying them down so he'd have the homework. Then, at last, the bell rang and the class gathered their things. The hallway was packed, but Jason managed to catch up with Holly just down the hall.

  "Hey," he said. "How's it going?" Inwardly he kicked himself for sounding lame.

  Without warning, Holly grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the traffic of the hallway.

  "What's—"

  "My grandpa is cracking up. For real," she said, her blue eyes piercing, serious.

  "What happened?"

  Holly chewed her lower lip. "Um ... well, it's weird, but at breakfast he said he saw Rob in our apartment last night."

  "Like, as a hallucination or something?"

  "I guess."

  "Okay, well, that's normal for people with dementia, right? They see stuff."

  She shook her head. "The thing is, Grandpa never met Rob. Maybe he heard about him from Mom or something, but how could he describe him to a T?"

  Jason let out a sigh and smiled. "There you go. Your mom probably showed him pictures."

  "Yeah, maybe." She crossed her arms against her chest.

  "That must have freaked you out pretty good," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  "I just don't know what we're going to do if he gets worse. My mom doesn't want to put him in a nursing home, but what if I can't handle him?" Holly's voice sounded small. "Crap. Sorry, Jason. You don't need to hear all this.
" She took a step back from him, and Jason felt the closeness of the last few seconds melt away. "My day's going fine. Thanks for asking," she said, faking a smile.

  "That's crap." He reached out for her hand. "Is there something I can do? What if ... well, what if we took him to another favorite place or something? To keep his memory going. Would that help?"

  Holly didn't move her hand from his. She gazed out at the passing flood of kids on their way to class. "I'm not asking for any help."

  "Then why are you telling me this?" Jason asked.

  "I don't know," Holly said, glancing up at him.

  Jason smiled. "That's cool, but I'm a guy—if you tell me you have a problem, it's my inherent duty to try to do something about it." He saw something change in her face, her mouth soften.

  "Okay." She pulled her hand free from his grasp. "Maybe you're right. We could take him somewhere else on the list."

  Jason raised an eyebrow. "There's an actual list?"

  Holly unfolded a small piece of notepaper and held it out to him.

  Jason quickly read the scrawled handwriting that he guessed had to be her grandpa's. "Sailing. We can do that."

  "Yeah. Know anybody with a yacht?" Holly said with a laugh.

  "A sailboat and a yacht are two different things," Jason said. "I'll ask my dad if I can take you guys out sometime."

  ll ask my ="times new roman">Holly rolled her eyes. "Of course you'd have a sailboat."

  "What does that mean?" he asked.

  "Just, you know, your family is the type that would own a boat."

  "Yeah." The bell sounded for next period.

  "I gotta go to class." Her smile was fragile. "Thanks. I just—"

  "It's fine," he said, not needing her to go on. "We're cool. Let me put your number in my phone and I'll let you know what I can work out for sailing."

  "Just, you know, try me at home, okay?" Holly rattled off her digits.

  "Where you headed next? I'll walk you to class," he said, shutting his phone.

  "No. It's fine." Sucking in a breath, Holly turned away.

  Jason watched her hurry down the hall with the other stragglers. "Idiot," he said aloud, slamming his hand against a locker.

  "You still barking up that crooked tree?" said a voice behind him.

  "Bite me, Mark." Jason summoned his cool and faced him.

  "Hey, just joking..."

  Jason didn't say anything. What was there to say to Mark lately, anyway? They moved down the hall toward English, maneuvering easily through the crowd, Mark stopping to stare at a cute sophomore in a particularly short skirt.

  When they got to the classroom door, Jason asked, "Why do you give Holly such a hard time?"

  "Uh, I think you know."

  "It was your party," Jason said, finally saying it out loud.

  Mark glared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You keep blaming Holly, but she was just there. She didn't..." He trailed off, watching the anger building in Mark's face. "Forget it, man."

  "Yeah. I think that's wise," Mark said. He pushed open the door to their classroom and stormed ahead.

  Jason shook his head as he watched Mark go. And what difference did it really make, anyway? It could just as easily have been a party at Rob's house or Dan's or even his own house. Rob got behind the wheel. Jason could still see the image of Rob loading Holly into the car, of him climbing into the driver's seat, anguish all over his face.

  They should have done something to stop them from leaving the party. Why couldn't anyone else acknowledge that? He sank into the hard wooden seat in English and tried to focus on the lesson, but his mind was swimming with pos Cminge sibilities and responsibilities and, above all, with Holly.

  ***

  You're still reeling from visiting with the old guy. All day, you've been halfheartedly haunting the halls of North Seattle High, keeping tabs on Holly and your friends, wondering if it's weird that suddenly you'd rather be hanging out with somebody's grandpa. But the fact is—he saw you. Aldo acknowledged you existed. You had some beginnings of a conversation, even.

  You decide to drop in on the senior center for a few minutes this morning, because that's where Aldo will be. You don't have any problems getting there. That's one nice perk of the whole dead thing. There's no need to take a bus across town—you just think about who you want to be with and you go there. You wonder if that means you could think about famous people or the president or something and you'd go there—but it doesn't work like that. You test it repeatedly and never end up on the White House lawn. It seems that you have to have had a connection in your lifetime. Aldo Santucci is no problem, though.

  At the Seattle Senior Day Center, wheelchairs and plush recliners are circled near a bank of windows. The white-haired folks occupying them chat about what's on the lunch menu for the day or argue over a game of checkers, some of them with one eye on the daytime buffet of talk shows blaring on the TV in the corner of the room. One lady is on a laptop. You peer over her shoulder and see she's shopping at Victoria's Secret. Yikes.

  You find Aldo in a blue chenille chair, his feet up on an ottoman. He seems distracted by everything going on around him, but after a few seconds he sees you and waves. You smile and move closer to the circle of chairs.

  "How're we doing over here? Are you waving at me, Aldo?" Some kind of nurse in a flowery top and navy slacks takes a seat beside Aldo. Her name tag says GINNY. "How're we doing?" she repeats in a louder voice.

  Aldo gazes at you, almost like he's looking right through her.

  "Buzz off, lady," you mutter under your breath.

  "Buzz off," Aldo tells Ginny.

  "Excuse me?" The nurse looks taken aback, but then the surprise smoothes itself from her face. "Are you saying you want to be alone? Should I go?"

  You giggle. You don't want to blow Aldo's cover, so you move away. If there's a way to disappear from people who can actually see you, you haven't figured it out, since Aldo is the first one.

  "Juice?" Aldo has lost track of you and is suddenly distracted by a dude pushing a cart loaded with snacks.

  "Sure." The woman gets up from the chair and pats Aldo on the shoulder. "I'll be right back."

  You hang out for a while, but you never really get a chance to be alone with Aldo. The place is making you depressed. That many TV court shows are not good for any C goroman">one, and you lose interest in the card games happening at the other end of the room. The online shopper has moved onto QVC. com and is browsing through juicer machines. Aldo conks out in a recliner after lunch, a splotch of tomato soup decorating his clean white shirt, and you finally decide to bail. You'll wait until tonight. You never thought death—or old age, for that matter—would be so lonely.

  ***

  Gazing out at Lake Union, Jason basked in the afternoon sun on the bow of the Lucky Lucy. He wanted out on the water, to ride the wind coming from the north. The sailboat rocked gently as another seaplane landed at the Kenmore Air dock across the lake. It was prime time for the planes to circle back to Seattle with their passengers from the San Juan Islands and British Columbia. Since the lake borders the north end of downtown, it was ideal for those flights, and the lake traffic always got bad in the afternoons. Checking his watch one more time, he lay back on the deck, his irritation growing.

  Just as Jason was about to give up and go home, Peter Markham pulled up in the marina parking lot, his BMW swirling up a microcloud of dust. Jason got up and started taking off the mainsail cover. By the time he had it folded properly and stowed, his dad was boarding the boat.

  "Thought you were standing me up," Jason said.

  "Sorry. Got stuck in a meeting." His dad slipped off his leather shoes. "Big client. Trying to build a new mall over on the Eastside."

  "Sweet. Aren't enough malls," Jason replied.

  Ignoring Jason's comment, Peter went below deck to change.

  Jason ran the sheets to make sure they weren't tangled in a pile underfoot. He was used to the ritual of it a
ll. Ever since his dad realized Jason was halfway dependable, he'd had his son rigging the boat, and that meant every line checked to make sure it wasn't fouled. Every knot tied a certain way. Every line properly coiled. Shipshape was no joke on the Lucky Lucy. Still, even with all the work, sailing was something they could do together, one of the few things they shared.

  Jason hopped down to untie the spring lines and bowlines as Peter emerged from the cabin dressed in shorts, a polo shirt, and deck shoes, a beer in his hand. "Ready?"

  "Yeah. She's ready."

  They cast off and motored out of the slip to the open lake. Jason made the familiar trip back and forth to untie and stow the fenders, which kept them from rubbing the dock or other boats in the slip. His dad always said it was bad luck to take them off until they were well out of the marina. Remove them too soon and you were bound to crash into another craft.

  "All right. Prepare to hoist," Peter called out.

  Jason took off the sail ties and stowed them, then he got on the halyard to hoist the main.

  Once they had the mainsail up, his dad Cl ue spring cut the engine. They sailed along for a little while, riding the momentum and a light breeze. Eventually, they brought out the jib, and soon they were headed on a starboard tack, on a long glide across the lake.

  Jason rode out on the bow for a while, the breeze blowing through his hair. He never felt as free as he did on the boat, with the wind and water working together and the sun warming his face. Even in foul weather, when Seattle skies were drenching them and the winds whipped up quickly, making the sailing urgent, necessary, he felt at peace. Aside from the terms and gear, sailing was simple, really: you picked a point of destination, trimmed your sails to suit the wind, and let the boat go.

  "Ready about?" Peter called out, preparing to tack again.

  "Ready." Jason hopped back in the pit and, when his dad gave the signal, released one jib sheet. As Peter turned the helm all the way in the opposite direction, the jib moved to the other side of the boat. Jason pulled in the sheet tightly on the new side, winching it down with a handle. The Lucky Lucy cruised along at a good clip now.