by Mary Simses
“It’s the annual herb and plant sale,” Cluny says, pulling up next to me.
“My mom’s probably there,” I tell her.
As we pass other riders, I’m thrilled to know there are people slower than me, but farther along, a pack of geared-up cyclists in matching black biking shorts and yellow and black jerseys zooms by us, practically knocking us over with their draft, and I’m brought back to reality. We ride around twists and turns and up and down hills, and I keep pedaling, doing my best to stay in the same gear.
As we cycle past an estuary north of Dorset, the smell of the salt marsh fills my lungs, and patches of tall, yellow-green grass blow in the warm breeze. We catch sight of red barns and stone walls covered with lichen, and deer scampering through the woods. We ride alongside clusters of yellow and pink and purple wildflowers and a pond where swans glide like fairy-tale creatures. We travel along smooth, paved roads where the only sound is the hum of the tires, and down dirt roads that jostle us in our seats. I’m feeling pretty good. Actually, I’m feeling great.
And then we come to the start of a hill. It’s not one of those hills that go straight up, like the one Mitch and I rode over on the way to the lighthouse. At first, this hill doesn’t look bad. I downshift a couple of times, thinking that might take care of things. But the road is insidious. It climbs slowly, gradually, and it just keeps going, up and up. And I keep shifting down and down, until I have no gears left. I try to concentrate on the fields and wildflowers going by, telling myself this has to end at some point. But the burn in my legs tells me they might give out before the road does. I’m going slower and slower. I’m panting, and I can hear Cluny behind me, panting as well. My legs are screaming in pain, and the road keeps climbing. I can barely push the pedals.
“Whyyyyy,” Cluny groans, “did you get me into this?”
“Sorryyyy,” I say, my bike swerving in and out because I can’t pedal fast enough to keep it straight.
There’s a stretch of near silence—just the sound of two gasping women. Then I hear Cluny’s ragged voice. “You said…this would be easy. You said…we could do this.”
“I…know. I…lied.” I’m wheezing, my whole body so weak and wobbly I feel as though I’m going to collapse.
Cluny grunts behind me. “I haaaaate you!”
I’m zigzagging all over the road now, and she’s doing the same.
“Are we there yet?” she moans.
All of a sudden, I can’t go any farther. I stop, and my feet drop to the road. I straddle the bike. “That’s enough,” I pant. “I can’t do this anymore. I need a break.”
“Thank God,” she says as we stagger off the bikes and drag them to the side of the road by a field, our legs threatening to buckle under us. We drop to the ground by a fence and tilt back our water bottles.
“How much farther?” I ask after I drain half the bottle.
Cluny wipes her face with a towel and takes out her cue sheet. “Eight more miles.”
“Eight? Oh God, that can’t be right. Check again.” My legs throb, and my bottom is numb. I think about Tulip’s breakfast, and I can almost smell the eggs and bacon, the pancakes and maple syrup.
“You’re right.” She folds up the cue sheet. “It’s not eight more miles.”
I knew that had to be wrong.
“It’s eight and a half.”
My heart sinks. “Cluny, I’m at the end of my rope here. I was okay until this hill, but this thing’s a killer. And we’re not even at the top yet.”
“Yeah, this is hard,” she says, guzzling more water. “It’s a lot harder than I expected.”
That’s not too comforting, coming from someone who runs and does yoga all the time. I just nod. I’m too tired to talk.
“Even so, I wouldn’t mind trying to finish,” she says.
I give her a pleading glance.
“But I’ll go back with you in the van, if that’s what you’re saying you want to do.”
She gets up and reaches into her saddlebag for her phone. And as she does, I see a rider pedaling up the hill toward us. She’s wearing a purple cycling jersey with a black zipper down the middle, a pair of black biking shorts, and purple biking shoes. On her head is a black helmet with a purple stripe in a shade that’s the exact color of her shirt. She whizzes by. Yes, whizzes. And she’s going up the hill.
“That’s Regan!” I stand and point at Regan’s back as she zips away from us.
Renewed energy courses through me, and suddenly I remember the reason why I committed to this whole endeavor in the first place. “Forget the van!” I tell Cluny. “Come on!”
We get back on the bikes, and I push off, my legs infused with new purpose. I have to finish this ride, no matter what it takes.
The road starts to curve, and the climb becomes steeper, but I keep pedaling, driving myself harder and harder. Sweat streams down my face; my T-shirt is soaked. And then I glimpse Regan’s purple and black outfit. She’s about seventy-five feet ahead.
“There she is,” I tell Cluny. “Come on. Let’s try to catch up to her.”
Regan is on a high-end road bike, probably handmade in Italy, and she’s moving at a pretty good clip, especially considering the slope. But I keep pounding my feet into the pedals, closing the distance between us. I’m about ready to pass out. My legs are falling off, and my ass burns, but I know if Renny were here she’d do it. I know she would. “This one’s for you, Renny!” I shout, the sound echoing, and I grip the handlebars as though my life depends on it and I force my limbs to go, go, go. And then I’m there. I’m at the top of the hill. The road has finally leveled off, and Regan is standing by a stone wall, taking a water break.
I pull up next to her. She turns, a puzzled expression on her face. “Grace?” She’s breathing hard.
“Hey…Regan.” I can barely speak.
“Aw, jeez,” Cluny says, coming up alongside us, breathless. “Never again, Hammond!”
“Cluny?” Regan says.
“Yeah.” She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “Hi.”
Cluny and I pull out our water bottles, and the three of us drink. Regan dabs her mouth with the back of her riding glove. “Did I pass you two about a half mile back?”
“Yeah,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. “You did.”
“Wow,” she says, nodding in approval. “I’ve got to hand it to you girls. Not bad.”
Cluny and I glance at each other. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Regan Moxley compliment another woman.
“Yeah,” I say as I look down the road at a group of riders walking their bikes up the hill. “Not bad at all.”
That night, Mom, Dad, and I sit in the Adirondack chairs at the water’s edge, watching the evening go from dusk to dark and waiting for the fireworks to begin. Every muscle in my body hurts, even the ones I don’t think I used, but I feel great. I take a sip of sauvignon blanc and let out a contented sigh.
“You must be tired, Grace,” Mom says. “Twenty-five miles! I can’t believe you rode that whole way.”
“I can’t believe it either,” I say. “I feel kind of proud of myself.”
“And you should,” Dad says, raising his gin-and-tonic glass. “Here’s to you, Grace. You did it. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
Mom lifts her glass as well, and the three of us toast, the chime momentarily interrupting the murmur of crickets and the metallic call of tree frogs. For a split second, while we’re still holding our glasses in the air, our three hands silhouetted against the darkening sky, I think about Renny. A couple of days ago, I would have staked my life on the idea that no toast my parents and I could ever make would be complete without her being here. But now I know that’s not true. There are still three of us in this family, and we have a lot of love to give one another.
The first boom comes just a minute or two later, a streak of white that zooms straight up into the air and then explodes into a thousand pieces of silver light that fall gracefully like shooting stars.
Chapter 22
Abstract nouns are nouns that you cannot perceive through your five senses.
Memory…is the diary that we all carry about with us.
(Oscar Wilde)
The roofers are loading their pickup truck when I step outside the following afternoon. “Well, we’re done,” the bearded man says. “Now you can sleep late again.”
Sleep late? “Oh, right,” I say, trying to remember the last time I did that. I study the roof, with its crisp, new shingles, and realize I’d almost forgotten the guys were still here, the noise having somehow receded into the background.
The taller man throws a pile of shingles into the bed of the truck. “Okay, that’s it.” They get in and close the doors.
The bearded man opens the driver’s-side window. “See you next time, then.”
“Sorry?”
“Next roof.” He nods toward the house. “This one should last a good twenty years. Sounds like a long time, but it’ll go by faster than you think. So tell the missus to remember us.”
Yes, it will go by quickly. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll tell her.”
He raps on the outside of the door and gives me a wave, and the truck rumbles down the driveway.
The shop is busy when I arrive with Cluny’s Jeep to pick up the Schwinn. Five women are renting bikes, a man in riding gear is inspecting a new wheel, a mother is looking at tricycles with her daughter, and the phone is ringing. Everybody’s out front—Scooter, A.J., Kevin, and Mitch.
Scooter pulls out a rental bike for one of the women, and when he sees me his eyes brighten. “Hey there, Grace. How are you?”
“I’m well,” I tell him. “It’s good to see you.”
“I know you’re busy with your mom’s party, but, boy, we could sure use your help today. We’ve been swamped. I’d put you on phone duty right off the bat.” He looks toward the counter as Kevin picks up the phone. Then he adjusts the seat of the bike and asks the woman to try it.
Mitch glances my way, and I notice his hair looks a little different. Maybe he got it trimmed. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s a good thing we’re busy. I guess we’re not such dinosaurs after all.”
Kevin looks at me. I smile and pretend it’s a joke. I’ll make my apologies to him before I leave.
“I came to pick up the Paramount,” I tell Scooter as he wheels another rental bike toward the women. “I have my friend’s Jeep outside.”
He scratches his head. “I know you said you’d come back for it, but are you sure you want to take it when it’s not finished? We were doing a trade, remember?” He turns to one of the women. “Why don’t you try this, and we’ll adjust the seat if we need to.”
“I’ll just pick it up now,” I say. “I didn’t fulfill my end of the bargain anyway.”
“Oh, I think you did more than enough. I’ll make sure the bike gets done.”
I hear Mitch mutter from behind the counter, “Yeah, I’d say she did enough.”
I try to push down the hurt I feel as I wave my hand at Scooter. “No, really, it’s fine. I think it will just be easier if I take it now. After I get a job, I’ll find a bike shop in the city where I can have it restored.”
Scooter looks as though he’s about to say something else, but then he shrugs. “Okay. Whatever you want, Grace. But remember, if you change your mind, you know where to find us.” He pulls another rental bike out of a rack. “As soon as Kevin or A.J. is free, I’ll have him get your bike and take it to your car. You can wait in the office if you want. It might be a few minutes.”
“Okay, thanks.” I walk past the customers, behind the counter, and into the office. Sitting at the desk, I glance at the stacks of papers, the cycling posters on the walls, and the shelves with Scooter’s collection of old catalogs. I’ll miss this place, but I’m also ready to say good-bye to it. I’m ready to go home and get on with my life.
Mitch walks to the counter, rings up the man with the new wheel, and passes him a credit card receipt. Then he turns and steps into the doorway of the office. “I thought we agreed you weren’t coming back.”
I look up. “We did, but I have to get my bike.”
He takes another step inside and closes the pocket door behind him. “If you’d called, we could have had one of the guys drop it off.” His tone is more distant than angry. “We do have a van, you know. Or you could have asked your Hollywood boyfriend to pick it up.” Now he’s got a little sarcasm going.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“I’m sure you’re working on it, though.”
“No, I’m not working on it. Peter and I…” I stop because the full explanation is far too complicated.
Mitch shakes his head. “Yeah, whatever.”
“Look, I’m just here to pick up my bike. You’ll never have to see me again after this.” He turns to go. I can’t leave things this way. “Mitch, I really am sorry.”
He spins around. “You know, Grace, maybe saying you’re sorry always works for you, gets you off the hook with people. But I don’t accept apologies that easily.”
I only wish he knew how much his words hurt. “Actually, saying I’m sorry hasn’t always gotten me off the hook. It’s taken a lot more than that.”
“Well, there you go,” he says, his tone sharp.
I pick up a model of an old-fashioned bicycle from the corner of the desk—the kind with a tiny wheel and a huge wheel. I think about Mitch’s mother and the letters she wrote. I put the model down and push it across the desk. “Mitch…”
He glances at me.
I’m about to tell him there’s no benefit in holding too tightly to the past. That even what we think we know, we’re seeing through filters—memory lapses, our own biases, what other people tell us, gaps in information. But I never get to say it because someone in the store starts yelling Mitch’s name.
It’s A.J., and there’s terror in his voice. Mitch slides open the door and runs out, and I follow him into the store. Scooter is on the floor, lying on his side with his knees bent. His eyes are closed, and he’s not moving. The skin on his face is pasty and gray, and his cheeks are slack. A.J. and Kevin are crouched next to him while two customers, young guys, look on nervously.
Mitch shakes Scooter’s shoulder. “Dad! Dad! Wake up. What’s going on?” He shakes him again, but Scooter’s head just wobbles. Mitch puts his hand on Scooter’s chest, which is perfectly still, and then puts his ear to Scooter’s nose and mouth. “Oh God, he’s not breathing.”
I feel the room closing in around me.
“He was just standing there,” A.J. says, his voice trembling. “And then he grabbed those bikes and fell over.”
Kevin, his face pale, says, “Yeah, he just collapsed.”
Mitch yanks his cell phone from his pocket. “Calling 911.”
I look down at Scooter, motionless on the floor. What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he breathing? What if he dies? The room is stifling, perspiration edging down my back, prickling along my arms.
“My father just fainted or collapsed or something,” Mitch says into the phone, his voice ringed with panic. “No, he’s not breathing.”
I look at Kevin. “Get those customers out of here and make sure nobody else comes in. Come on, quickly.”
“I didn’t see it happen,” Mitch tells the dispatcher. “But the guys here said he was standing and he fell over, collapsed.” He recites the address of the store and his cell number. “It’s called the Bike Peddler.”
“A.J.,” I say. “Get something to put under Scooter’s head.” I scan the room. “Anything. Biking shorts. Over there!”
“He’s seventy-nine,” Mitch says.
A.J. grabs three pair of biking shorts, and we fold them and place them under Scooter’s head.
“Let’s get him on his back,” I tell A.J., and we gently move him. I look at Scooter. Please don’t die, please don’t die. I take his hand. It’s cool and limp. “Mitch, tell them to hurry.”
“Kevin, was he eating anything?
” Mitch asks.
“No,” Kevin says, and Mitch repeats the information.
He’s not breathing. He’s going to die. Somebody needs to help him.
“Kevin, go outside,” I say. “And flag down the ambulance as soon as you see it so they know where to come. They’ll be here any second.”
“Okay,” he says, and he runs out.
I want the ambulance to come so badly, I’m hearing sirens that aren’t there. I look through the windows, hoping for the sight of a blinking strobe light, but outside it’s a perfectly quiet summer day—blue sky, dashes of cottony clouds, leaves fluttering in the maple trees.
“CPR?” Mitch says. “No, I don’t. What do I do? Yeah? Uh-huh?” He looks at me, his eyes wide.
And then I remember it. The poster in the coffee nook at Jerold Communications, where I used to work. The poster I used to see every day, with its colorful drawings and catchy typeface. Save a Life! Know CPR!
“I can do CPR,” I tell Mitch, recalling the illustrated steps, each one in its own square. 1. Check the scene for immediate danger. 2. Assess the victim’s consciousness. 3. Send for help. 4. Check for breathing. We’ve done all of that. There’s only one thing left. I place the heel of my left hand on Scooter’s plaid shirt, in the middle of his breastbone, with my other hand on top, just the way it looked in step five of the drawing. Then I place my body over my hands, keeping my arms straight.
I look down at Scooter, and I begin pressing up and down and up and down, very fast and very hard on his chest, my hands pushing through skin and muscle to find the heart underneath. I don’t know if I’m doing it too slowly or too quickly, but I keep pressing. Mitch is saying something into the phone, but the words are blurred.
Up and down and up and down I’m pushing. I look at Scooter’s face. Nothing. Come on, breathe, open your eyes. Do something. Don’t leave me. I keep pushing, working my arms like bellows. I keep pushing, but I’m starting to think it’s too late. He’s already gone, and he’s not coming back.
