Gooseberry Island

by Steven Manchester

  By late July, both Heidi and Steph finally learned how to ride their bikes without training wheels—or helmets. Mama threw a backyard cookout to show off the girls’ new skills.

  They also spent a lot of time down by the bay. The girls watched Brian in the shade, while Mama taught Ross how to swim. It didn’t take long for the daredevil to paddle off in the shallow water—all by himself.

  While the girls joined Ross in the surf, Mama grabbed Brian, painted him white with sun block and then marched him into the water until she was up to her waist. For the longest time, she just stood there holding him in the water, while he flopped and flailed around.

  Standing in the surf, Steph nervously asked, “What are you doing, Mama?”

  “Taking away Brian’s fear. Once the water starts to feel natural to him, then the swimming will come natural to him. Right now, we’re just removing the fear.” She looked down at him. “Right, buddy?” she asked.

  Brian contorted and thrashed, struggling violently against the water.

  It was the last week of August when the kids—Heidi, Steph and Ross—presented Mama with a priceless gift. “Come out to the yard,” Heidi, the group’s elected representative, told her. “We have something we want to show you.”

  Expecting to sit through another one of their backyard plays, Mama stepped out into the yard to find Steph and Ross kneeling before Brian on the blanket. The baby was propped up on his bum, with a rolled towel wedged behind him, allowing him to stay seated. But there are no costumes or props, Mama thought. As she and Heidi took a seat on the blanket beside them, the old lady looked at the kids and shrugged. “What’s up, guys?”

  Ross began giggling and couldn’t stop. Heidi grabbed him by the shoulders, “Shhhh, Ross. Let Steph show her.”

  Intrigued, Mama looked toward Steph. “Show me what?”

  Steph never answered. Instead, wearing a giant smile, she turned toward Brian and clapped twice. Nothing happened. She clapped twice more. “Come on, Brian,” she whispered, obviously pleading for him to comply.

  The little guy looked directly at Mama, brought up both of his hands and quickly clapped them together.

  Mama’s mouth dropped open, but before she could get a word out, Steph clapped at the baby again. Brian responded with another clap. This time, he added a laugh.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Mama gasped, and her eyes immediately filled with tears. This was no small feat. Brian’s learning to mimic, she thought. “He’s learning!” she said aloud.

  The kids looked up at their grandmother for her approval.

  “It’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received!” she cried out and meant it. While Brian applauded, she hugged each one of them.

  After a half hour of clapping with Brian and round after round of tearful kisses, Mama stood and stretched out her creaky back. “We need to call Aunt Joan and Uncle Frank.” She shot them a wink. “And after that, I’m treating you guys to McRay’s for supper. Whatever you want to eat, it’s yours!”

  “Anything?” Heidi asked.

  “Anything,” she said, smiling. “You’ve earned it.”

  Once Brian returned home, the other three kids ate enough sugar to launch any one of them into a diabetic coma. It was a glorious—and somewhat discreet—celebration.

  As the leaves turned from green to bright red and orange, a yellow school bus sadly carried the squeals of summer down the road. Life went back to normal and the family returned to Mama’s cottage every Wednesday and Saturday night. Inspired by Brian’s recent progress, the kids kept their promise and spent hours working with him on developing his speech.

  “Say Ma, Brian,” Heidi told him.

  “Say Ma,” Steph repeated.

  “Say Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma…” Ross added.

  It was mind numbing to listen to, but the relentless repetition was exactly what he needed. Occasionally, Frank would chime in, “No, say dah dah,” but he didn’t have a shot in hell with the overwhelming push for the boy to say “Ma.”

  Before long, Frank began to miss some of the weekly get-togethers. As time went on, his absences became more frequent and Joan’s excuses became less believable. No one ever commented on it—not even Mama.

  The weeks turned into months and countless hours were spent trying to teach Brian to utter a word; hours upon hours spent failing again and again.

  “Say Ma, Brian,” Heidi told him.

  “Say Ma,” Steph repeated.

  “Say Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma…” Ross added.

  Brian refused to speak. Still, not one of the kids gave up. Each one of them refused to stay knocked down.

  It was a Sunday afternoon in early November, a few short months before Brian’s third birthday. Frank was out in the backyard, taking a break from raking the few remaining leaves on the ground to teach Ross how to swing a golf club. Joan was in the kitchen, cleaning up from the pumpkin carving when Brian looked up from his oversized high chair and said, “Ma.”

  Joan spun on her heels to face the baby. “Did you say Ma, Brian?” she gasped, hoping against all hope that she hadn’t been hearing things.

  He banged a spoon on his tray, but didn’t repeat it.

  With a heavy sigh, she reluctantly dismissed it as nothing and turned her back on the little guy to finish the cleaning.

  He didn’t like it. He threw his spoon and yelled, “Ma!”

  She dropped the sponge onto the floor and hurried to him. “You did call for Mommy!” she said. “You’re learning to talk,” she squealed in joy. “Can you say it again?” she asked. “Can you say…”

  “Ma,” he said, and grinned at her like he’d merely been teasing everyone for all these months.

  “Oh, God,” she cried. “You’re talking.” She smothered him in kisses.

  He laughed. “Ma…Ma…”

  After composing herself, she called Frank and Ross in from the yard. By then, Brian was on a roll. “Ma…Ma…Ma…Ma…”

  Frank stepped into the kitchen, heard Brian speak and hurried over to him. He lifted his son out of the high chair and spun him in circles. “Daddy’s so proud of you,” he whimpered. “So proud…”

  “Ma…Ma…” Brian answered.

  Ross was so excited that he couldn’t speak. He simply nodded, while his eyes filled with tears. Joan kneeled down and hugged him. “Thank you for helping your brother,” she told him. “He could have never done this without you.”

  Ross nodded again, proud tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Ma…Ma…” Brian said.

  While Frank danced Brian around the kitchen, Joan grabbed the telephone and dialed her mother’s house. “Ma, you need to get over here right away.” She paused. “No, there’s nothing wrong. It’s just that…well…Brian has something he wants to say to you.”

  Mama was at the house in record time. She hurried through the door and threw her tattered jacket onto the couch. “Where is he?” she panted.

  With a grin, Frank pointed toward Brian’s bedroom.

  As she entered the room, she spotted Joan and Ross changing Brian on the bed. Mama bent over and gave Ross a kiss. “What’s the…”

  “Ma…Ma…Ma…Ma…” Brian said, answering for his mother.

  Instantly, Mama began crying and just stood there—shaking her head for the longest time. She grabbed for the crucifix around her necklace and kissed it. “Stupid doctors,” she finally said, sobbing, “what do they know?” She picked up Brian to give him a squeeze and a nibble. Ross hugged her. Joan hugged her. And then she began crying and laughing—all at the same time. “All that money for a speech therapist and he’s learned the same way as any other kid…just by hearing it over and over again.” She ruffled Ross’ hair. “You did this, you know. You taught your baby brother how to speak.”

  Ross nodded, proudly.

  “And I need to tell your cousins the same,” she added.

  “Ma…Ma…Ma…” Brian agreed.

  Frank stepped into the threshold and smiled. Mama handed Brian to Joan, marched over to her s
on-in-law, stood up on her toes and gave him a long, hard hug. Joan froze, unsure of how her husband would receive the unexpected display of affection. He surprised everyone and hugged her back just as hard. It was a moment that transcended all barriers and hard feelings.

  In the background, Brian sang, “Ma…Ma…Ma…”

  Mama pulled away and wiped her eyes. “We just need him to string them together a little quicker and he’ll have my name down, too.”

  “Then can we work on Dada?” Frank asked, playfully.

  She nodded. “I guarantee it.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” he said. “And I’ll never doubt you again.”

  “And from what I can tell, he’ll be crawling by the first snowfall,” she said with a wink.

  The Rockin’ Chair

  When my first son, Evan, was born, it amazed me how he and my father hit it off. Unlike my dad’s tough approach with me and my brothers, he was gentle with my son. And to Evan, the old man walked on water. The entire thing got me thinking about the responsibilities and expectations of a father versus a grandfather, and how the roles can be at such polar opposites.

  In The Rockin’ Chair—arguably one of my favorite tear jerkers—I created Grampa John, a compassionate farmer in the spirit of my late grandfather. I then created Hank, his estranged son, whose memories are not as rose-colored as his father’s. The rest—bitter feelings and things said that shouldn’t have been said—play out in a sequence of scenes that most fathers and sons can relate to.

  Grampa John decides that before he can join his wife, Alice, in eternal rest, he must tend to a few final chores and heal his family. One by one, he guides his grandchildren through their healing process with the strength of his wisdom and unconditional love. And then he gets to Hank. As the clock ticks fast, John wonders if there’s enough time to prove that love has always existed when it has been masked for an entire lifetime.

  The Rockin’ Chair—like our attitudes, either good or bad—is a legacy to be passed down from one generation to the next.

  The novel’s excerpt brings the reader into the family’s great pain—the funeral of their beloved wife and mother, Alice. John is beside himself with grief until he feels a familiar nudge in the back. When he looks up, he sees his family—in all their brokenness—for the first time since his wife’s death.

  The preacher had just finished his sermon when John drops to both knees and speaks to his wife. “I see now, squaw. Seems I still got some chores that need tendin’ to.” He places his lips to the frozen casket and kisses her. “You’re right, as usual. There’s some mendin’ to be done. So leave the porch light on for me and I’ll be along when I’m through.” Standing slowly, he straightens out his back and steels himself for the chores ahead of him. I still got a few more miles to go, he decides. And it looks like I’ll be travelin’ all the way to hell to reclaim these kids. It’s time to take them back from the evils of society.

  *

  *

  It was a bitterly cold Saturday morning when friends from far and wide came to pay their respects. Everyone who knew Alice adored her and equally loved her grieving husband. The McCarthy’s tiny field of granite was filled with mourners. As the preacher spoke, an eerie silence filled the frozen air.

  “The Lord blessed each of our lives with the gift of knowing and loving Alice. Now, He has taken her home to be with Him. Those who remember her, who loved her, walk with heavy hearts today, but we must also remember that Alice has been freed from the heavy chains of this world. She now walks with the Lord and shall dwell peacefully within His house for all eternity. Until the day we meet again…”

  The preacher’s kind words were carried on the icy wind and John listened carefully to each one. Amidst them, a thousand memories reminded him of why he felt such loss. A thousand more reminded him of the void which now filled the desolate chambers of his heart. He stood rigid, conscious not to sway, and nearly snickered when the pastor mentioned “forgiveness.”

  While John fought back the tears that burned to be free, the preacher’s drone drifted and became distant. John tried comforting himself with his own thoughts, but the ache in his heart was worse than anything he’d ever imagined. I’m nothin’ without Alice by my side, he thought, and the pain made him want to join her.

  The preacher continued to talk above the sniffles. John glanced down at the scarred earth where friends had dug the hole. Beside his parents, Alice’s pine casket was about to be committed. A roll of old burlap covered the hole, while a mound of dirt mixed with snow sat behind them. Interrupting his own prayer, John questioned the Lord. Why ain’t there another hole dug beside her, Father? It don’t make no sense. It ain’t natural for Alice to be layin’ here alone.

  John understood the cycles of life and had always been as comfortable with death as he was with life, but putting Alice in the ground alone was a tough one. I got no purpose walkin’ this earth without my wife matchin’ every step. God, how I wish I was layin’ right there beside her in our eternal bed. He became entranced in the fantasy.

  Shoulder-to-shoulder, Hank, Elle, Evan and Tara stood across the casket from the old man. In his most difficult hour, Grampa John needed to stand alone and they respected him for it.

  Elle rubbed Hank’s back, comforting her husband and ignoring her own pain. She loved Alice, too. In fact, for years, she loved her like her own mother. Then, when the illness took hold and caused the kind woman to live more in the past than the present, Elle loved her like one of her own children. Either way, the depth of the love never changed. At the end, though—just before Alice passed on—Elle prayed for closure. Realizing the harshness of such hopes, she wanted an end to everyone’s suffering once and for all. It had nothing to do with loving her mother-in-law any less. It had to do with peace. Mercifully, the Lord finally answered her prayers.

  Denying herself the permission to mourn just yet, she continued to rub Hank’s back and whisper things in his ear that only he could hear. There will be time for me to cry later, she decided.

  Hank stared at the beautifully carved casket and played the same reel of his mother over-and-over in his mind: He remembered watching her slave away for years in the house. She washed clothes by hand, hung them out and warned Hank, “You best stay clear.” Most of the time, he minded her. She canned vegetables, never stopped cooking and was usually busy working on one of her quilts. She was nonstop. Her routine was no easier than Pa’s, only she was being monitored by the ghosts that watched from frames on the parlor walls.

  She was also in charge of haircuts, and what a treat they were. If Hank didn’t squirm and fuss, she’d rinse out the bowl when she was through hacking him up and fill it with a few scoops of cherry Jell-O. Hank loved rubbing the new fuzz at the back of his head, as he sucked the sweet slime through his teeth.

  Ma was also the self-appointed boss of hygiene. Every Saturday, for sure, and sometimes once during the week—depending on how much dirt had accumulated—she’d draw him a bath. Hank loved that old porcelain tub. It was like climbing into a swimming pool, with lion’s claws holding up its weight. Ma would leave him be for awhile, then call out, “Cover up your privates. I’m comin’ in.” With strong hands, she’d wash his hair, all the while complaining, “I swear there’s more water on the floor than in the tub!”

  He could still see her sneaking dinner up to his room when he was punished, never thinking any less of him for misbehaving; and the wedding ring—from her own finger—that she gave Elle at the breakfast table the morning after he and Elle had eloped. He would never forget the way she always found time to talk, or better yet—to listen; and the ways in which she showered his children with love. The list went on and so did the invisible projector in his head.

  Hank struggled to stop it, but the movie kept playing and the emotions he fought to contain finally overwhelmed him. As Elle rubbed his back, telling him, “It’s okay, hon, let it out,” the dam burst wide open. Hank’s whimpers could be heard above them all. Although he was bawling
like a child, his embarrassment was suddenly replaced by another truth. This was not a physical pain that he felt. It was his heart and it was breaking. It didn’t matter that he was weeping in front of people. It don’t matter what anyone thinks, he thought. There was great freedom in it.

  Hank looked across the casket and noticed his father standing strong. “Pa’s mask is still set in place,” he mumbled under his breath. As Elle leaned in to hear what her husband was trying to say, he added, “I ain’t ever been no match for him, but it don’t matter no more.” For the first time, Hank felt sorry for his father.

  Evan listened to his father’s labored sighs and childish sobs. Like a contagious disease passed on by the wind, to his surprise he could feel the man’s pain. With all the resentment he held toward his father, his heart still bled for him. Looking to his side, it amazed him how pain could be such a cohesive bond in bringing people closer together. The bottom line was—they were family. Beyond their differences and hard feelings, they shared a common love and the pain that came from losing it. He’d always thought of his father as being lazy—in a fearful sort of way. Now, he just felt bad for him. Evan realized that his love for his father was stronger than his own pride. He placed his hand upon his pa’s trembling shoulder. Allowing his own tears loose, his mind suddenly flashed Carley’s smiling face. His body shuttered at the unexpected picture, as he realized that the woman he thought was his soul mate had already become nothing more than a bad memory.

  Tara huddled against her brother. As the pastor spoke, her thoughts jumped from Lila to Bryce to the possible reasons Georgey didn’t make it to the funeral. Her mind was everywhere and she felt a wave of anxiety wash over her. Her life was in complete shambles, but looking around she discovered that Evan had been right. She wasn’t alone. There was pain etched into every face. All I want is a drink, she thought. Her body craved it terribly. She looked across the casket and noticed Grampa John’s mouth moving. He’s whispering something to Grandma, she realized. That was it. She lost it.