I squeezed her hand back and nodded. I knew. Mom was never like that—bitching and giving people a hard time. Going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house always made her a little jumpy. Too many bad memories, I figured.
I looked around the living room; everyone just sat in silence, watching the game. The Saints were already way ahead and some Cowboy fan was already calling it quits. Grandma stood up.
“I really don’t know what to do without the turkey. Maybe we could cook some chicken instead. That’s the little sister of turkey, right?” she said in Grandpa’s direction. She was clearly upset, fidgeting with her apron. Grandpa looked up and finished his Scotch in one big mouthful.
“I told you not to make any business with those people. They probably got stoned and forgot all about the good white picket fence peoples’ freaking turkeys and Thanksgiving,” he said, looking at no one in particular.
Silently, Grandma left for the kitchen and we could already hear her moving around the pots and pants. I guess she had found a chicken or two to dress up as a turkey. Mom, Sarah, Dad, and the Chianti all got up and headed for the kitchen, which left me alone with Uncle Arthur and Granddad.
I could tell Granddad was looking at me from across the room. I pretended to look at the game.
“You know, your mom has always had an opinionated mouth,” he said, nodding his head toward the kitchen. He got up and poured himself another three-finger drink. Then he walked over and sat down next to me on the couch. “But she sure is beautiful, right?” He smiled at me. “You look very much like her when she was fourteen,” he said, very matter of fact.
I nodded. I had seen all the pictures. Grandma and Grandpa had tons of pictures of Mom and Sarah scattered all around the house.
“I know,” I said and turned toward the TV, pretending to be enthralled in the game again.
Arthur turned his head and smiled. “Man, they are really kicking some Cowboy butt, huh?”
“I like the Saints better. I like the name,” Grandpa announced and leaned back with his eyes closed. He looked so much older and bigger than I remembered him. His hair was beyond thinning, and he had gained at least twenty-five, maybe thirty pounds, all going straight for his huge belly and big bloated red face. Even though his body was clearly in a relaxed position, he looked like he was about to explode. I leaned up against him, grabbed Grandma’s old woolen blanket and wrapped it around me a few times, and closed my eyes. What a crazy afternoon.
When I woke up again it was dark outside. The TV had been turned off, and Arthur and Grandpa had left their favorite spots in the living room. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep.
Mom popped her head inside the living room. “Do you smell it?”
“What?” I sat up, sniffing the air. But all I smelled was Grandma’s stinky old blanket entangled around my neck. I untangled the thing and put it next to me. “What?” I repeated, still trying to escape the blanket’s stench. How long had Grandma had that blanket, anyway?
“It almost smells like Thanksgiving."
I took another long sniff and there it was: the smell of turkey, without the turkey. I nodded. “It does.”
“Grandma found a few bags of frozen chicken thighs in the back of the freezer. It’s not turkey, but it’s close enough. As Grandma said, “it’s the little sister of turkey.” She raised her wine glass and smiled, a new calm painting her face. I guess cooking and drinking Chianti with her so-called sister in the kitchen had resolved a few wars. "Come on, go wash up. We’ll eat in a minute,” she said as she headed for the kitchen again.
Moments later, we all sat at the table, looking at an abundance of delicious food, almost like a normal, happy family. Grandpa was clearly even more intoxicated than before dinner. Before we even made it to the pumpkin pies, he stood up and announced that he was going to bed, where he could get some “Thanks-freak-giving peace and quiet.”
The next morning, he didn’t get up for breakfast at all. At first, we just thought he was still a little upset and hung-over from the day before, but when he hadn’t come downstairs around noon, Mom decided “to go take the bull by the horns,” I remember her saying. Two minutes later, we all heard the scream, then the footsteps running down the hallway, followed by Mom crying out for Grandma. And I remember the look on Grandma’s face. She knew. I can’t recall all the details after that, but I remember Mom saying to Dad that she would never forgive herself. The last words she had spoken to her own father the night before had been “big old drunk fart.”
Since that terrible day, Mom, Dad, and I agreed that we would never go to bed angry, drive away upset, or hang up on each other yelling. “The last words you speak to someone you love should always be out of love and with happy thoughts of today and inspiring hopes of tomorrow.” Sometimes you can really tell Dad has a major in literature, but he was right, and so was Frederick; saying and showing you love someone is all you can do. It’s the best you can do. Nothing else matters.
I really loved my Grandpa Joe-Joe, even though he sure was a big old drunk fart. I enjoyed spending the night or a weekend at their big house in the woods. We would go to the lake to swim or fish, and Grandma would always make homemade pies, cupcakes, or carrot cake (Grandpa’s favorite) to bring along. Grandpa would build a fire and entertain me and Grandma with stories from way back when he was a teenager and “not exactly one of those pussy choir boys.”
That night coming home from Grandma and Grandpa’s, I cried myself to sleep, mostly because I would never see him again, but also because I had missed my opportunity to tell him how much I loved him. I was this close to telling him that afternoon, sitting next to him on the couch—the Saints kicking Cowboy butt—but I hadn’t. He was drunk, and I guess it didn’t feel right with Mom being so upset with him. So, I never told him. I guess he knew, but I had never told him how I really felt.
I SAT UP AND LOOKED into the dark night and thought about the letter Martha had had the courage to write. Even though Martha had no right to do what she did, I guess she did do the right thing after all. Saying “I love you, Dad” as her very last words while holding his hand, was indeed a good way to say goodbye to life, handful of pain killers or not. And she was right; to live is to love and vice versa.
And with that resolved, I finally went back to bed, back to my usual four AM occupational therapy: kicking myself in my tired butt for saying no to staying in touch with Hans. Why on earth did I do such a stupid thing?
Thing one and thing two
“One hundred and one.” I could hear Mom yelling all the way from the kitchen.
“One hundred and three,” Miss T shouted.
“Bingo,” Mom cried. “You owe me.”
“Enjoys playing poker and Scrabble,” Miss T suggested.
“No, no, no! Gardening and grandchildren,” Mom yelled back.
“Morning,” I said, dragging my lazy feet across the kitchen floor.
“Morning,” Mom said, not even looking up. “Gardening. I told you, Miss T.”
Mom and Miss T were sitting at the dinner table, heads glued to the little remote television set on the edge of the kitchen counter. Miss T turned her head and smiled and pointed at the TV screen. “We’re playing the Smacker’s game,’” she said, excitement infusing her voice.
Miss T and I had come up with the idea one rainy morning, sharing a pot of coffee in the kitchen. It was a plain and rather silly game: on the Today Show there is a recurring theme (sponsored by Smacker’s—hence the name), where this silly old man congratulates old people on their birthdays—followed by their pictures and a few lines about their everyday lives and interests. The game is simple: guess in advance how old they are and what they like to do. Later, when Mom had asked us how on earth we had come up with such a silly game, Miss T laughed and said that watching people turning one hundred and one made her feel so much younger (we still didn’t know how old she was). I liked the guessing. Now Mom was the biggest fan of the three of us. She would even record the show if we somehow couldn’t s
ee it at breakfast.
“Look who decided to join us today.” She got up and turned off the TV and grabbed the coffee pot. “Someone looks like she might be ready for a cup of beans. You look better.” She grabbed my favorite cup from the dishwasher and poured. “Here,” she said, offering me a cup of hot wake-up liquid.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I held out my arm, shielding myself against the smell. I hadn’t had coffee since I had been sick.
“Still no coffee?” Mom leaned up against the counter and took a sip of my cup. “I don’t think I could go that long without coffee – sick or not.” She took another sip and ran her tongue over her teeth. “Nope, I wouldn’t last a day.”
“You and your coffee, Abby. She should get one of those IV’s,” Miss T teased, looking at me. As always, she looked so nice and elegant—a perfect coat of red lipstick and her hair in a nicely styled bun. Around her tiny neck, she was wearing a big red scarf—matching her little cashmere cardigan—but instead of her signature slippers, she sported a pair of sensible shoes. She smiled with her red lips and winked at me. “I missed you, darling,” she said, and sipped her coffee.
“Me too,” I said, suddenly realizing how much I had actually missed her. We had hardly seen her since the liquid caramel night. It had almost been two weeks, but Mom had been swamped with organizing some big charity sale at a gym in Bellevue, and I had been feeling sick and tired, going to bed every single night before nine. We hadn’t had a real book night since.
“Are you feeling better this morning?” Miss T leaned over and placed her little hand on top of mine. It was cold.
“Yes,” I replied with a smile, hoping my lie was convincing enough. The coffee breath on her almost made my stomach turn. I actually felt worse.
She took off her glasses and looked at me. “Abby says you haven’t been feeling that well lately and...” She stopped and looked at me with a wide-eyed gaze. “And...” she said again, staring at me. “Your mom has been a little worried about you, right Abby?” She looked up at Mom and smiled.
“Ah, it’s nothing. Just a little stomach flu, is all. I’m good. I’m good,” I said. I was actually feeling miserable, but it was the last Sunday of September and perhaps the last week before the snow would start to fall in the mountains. We had to go. Besides, we had planned this trip since the beginning of August, before Hans. “I can’t wait to go,” I said, lying for a third time.
“But if you don’t feel up to it, we could just stay here and hang out with this fine lady.” She pointed at Mom who was standing halfway inside the fridge, only her butt sticking out.
I looked at Miss T’s sensible shoes, all ready to go, and shook my head. “No, no, we are going. The sun’s out and hopefully it’s still dry up there. It’s a perfect day for our little Sunday expedition. Mount Rainier, here we come! Woot!” I cheered, trying to sound all excited. The three of us looked out the kitchen windows at the same time. It was perfect. The sun was out, making everything look so alive, so inviting.
We had planned a little trip to Mount Rainer—only a three-hour drive away—where we would hike and have a little picnic by the foot of the mountain, taking in the view while munching on sandwiches.
“Excellent! And I made carrot cake—your favorite, Miss C. It’s still hot. You smell the butter?” She kicked her foot against a picnic basket under the table.
“I can.” Mom licked her lips and smiled. “Is there, by any chance, a little tiny piece left for the poor woman staying home cleaning the entire house?” She looked at Miss T and displayed a pair of big green puppy eyes.
“I thought you would never ask.” Miss T threw her head back and laughed. “Of course, there is. Do you think I would ever bring cake to this house without feeding you two?” she said, shaking her head. “There’s a separate Ziploc down there just for you and Frank.” She nodded toward the floor.
“Did someone just say my name?” Dad was standing by the French doors. He was in his outdoor clothes—a hat, a fleece jacket, and Crocs with socks—looking like a true Washingtonian.
“Well, either that or you must have a very responsive nature to the smell of warm carrot cake.” Miss T looked up at Dad and smiled.
Dad was already licking his lips, looking at Mom. “Can we have it now?”
“I guess we could, right Miss T?” She looked at Miss T like a little girl on Santa’s lap. “I guess there’s no law against eating carrot cake for breakfast?”
“You two sugar addicts.” Miss T got down on one knee and pulled out a huge damp Ziploc. “Go ahead. Eat up!” she said, as she placed it next to Mom’s fifth cup of coffee.
Carefully, Mom unzipped the bag and placed the big piece of damp cake on a plate. Dad—following her every move—armed himself with a fork and got into his plunge-into-the-cake-position.
“You’re the best, you know,” he said with his mouth full. He leaned up against the counter and closed his eyes. It looked like his whole body was slowly melting like the butter he was feeding it with. “And it’s still finger-licking hot.”
Mom took another big bite and leaned against Dad with her eyes halfway closed. “Heaven. Pure heaven,” she said with a sigh.
Miss T looked at me and shook her head. “Oh, stop it, you two. It’s just a cake,” she said, clearly happy with the level of appreciation being expressed by the two drooling people standing by the counter. She grabbed another Ziploc from the basket. “Carrot cake, dear?”
“No thanks. I think I’ll wait till later,” I said. I looked at Mom and Dad, who were still immersed in the cake experience, eyes closed and everything. Good grief.
“Are you sure?” she said waving a piece of cake right under my nose.
“I’m sure,” I said, trying not to inhale the smell of coffee and warm buttery carrot cake. I still felt nauseated and all the strong competing smells didn’t help. I excused myself to my room and got ready to leave for the big expedition.
A shower and two Advils later, I almost felt like a new person. I found Miss T in the living room, sitting next to Mom and Dad.
“Look at you, dear,” Miss T said with her grandma voice. “You look so much better. Looks like you’re ready to hit the Dylan mobile.” She stood up and grabbed her scarf from the coffee table.
I nodded. “Yep, let’s go climb a mountain or two.” I looked at Mom and Dad. They just sat there, almost glued to the couch, all drugged up on carrot cake. At least they had stopped making loud mating sounds. “Look at them, Miss T. Thing One and Thing Two. Don’t stress yourselves out now,” I said in a loud voice.
“We won’t,” they both said at the same time.
“In sync,” I whispered in Miss T’s ear as we left for the door.
“Insane,” she replied, giggling all the way to the car.
THE FIRST PART OF THE trip was all freeway and industrial landscaping, so I think I dozed off more than a few times. Miss T was taking it slow, as usual, and the sound of the motor running and Miss T singing was quite soothing.
I jolted awake as I was tossed into the door when Miss T suddenly made a quick, four-lane shift, speeding up at the same time.
“Oh my,” she cried, “we almost missed our exit. Did I wake you, dear?”
“No,” I lied. “I wasn’t really sleeping.” Anymore anyway.
“Good.” She looked in the rearview mirror (this was the first time I had actually seen her do that. I guess she was slowly getting into the habit of driving, rearview mirror and all). “It won’t be long now before we come to the fun part—going up the mountain.” She smiled and moved her foot to the gas pedal and stepped on it. And it pretty much stayed there the whole time as we went up, up, up.
The view going up was utterly amazing. All at once we were surrounded by huge pine trees, wild flowers, rocks, and snow-covered mountains. It kinda reminded me of something taken right out of The Sound of Music, just without the music and Julie Andrews (thank God). And besides a few turns, critically—and I mean critically—close to the edge, Miss T and the Dy
lan Porsche did a pretty good job.
When we finally hit the plateau, Miss T looked worn out from the long, demanding drive. “You go ahead,” she said with a drained voice. She sat down next to the picnic basket and took off her scarf. “Go explore the wilderness. I’ll set up the picnic table in the meantime.” She grabbed a bottle of water from the basket and waved it in the air. “Water?”
“Thanks.” I sat down next to her and grabbed the bottle. “Are you sure?” I gestured toward the trail going up.
She nodded. “I’m not that young anymore, you know. Besides, I didn’t bring the right shoes.”
I looked at her sensible hiking shoes and smiled. “I see.” I kissed her on the cheek and got up. “Well, until we meet again,” I said as I started walking toward the Skyline trail, leaving Miss T and ground level behind.
Beavis and Butthead
After walking for about half an hour or so, I sat down on a big rock and took in the breathtaking view. To my right, a small trail made its way through a meadow of pink and white wildflowers, and to my left another trail, a rocky trail, went up in the direction of Mount Rainier. The ancient, huge volcano looked both intimidating and beautiful in the sun, with patches of snow covering the top. In a week or two all of the mountain would probably be covered in a thick blanket, and people would start preparing to climb it.
I looked down at my feet. My boots were still a little wet from walking in the high grass leading up to the trail. Could I ever climb a mountain like that? I looked all the way up. Why did people climb mountains anyway? To feel important? To feel alive? I guess standing on top of a 14,000-foot dangerous volcano—overlooking the Cascade Mountains—would make you realize how insignificant and fragile we all are in the grand scheme of things, make you feel very much alive and all existentialistic in a Jean Paul Sartre kind of way. I leaned back in the wet grass and closed my eyes. I didn’t need Jean Paul Sartre or a powerful mountain to make me feel alive; staying on ground level the last couple of months had been more than enough. Despite moving away from my friends, my life, and my home; despite losing all my stuff, and most heart wrenching—losing Hans; and despite all my tears and sleepless nights, weirdly enough I had never felt so alive before, so important. I had become part of something bigger than myself. Together with Mom and Miss T, I had become a part of Martha’s life, from which I had learned so much, not just about Martha, but also about life, Miss T, Mom, and even myself. Together with Hans I had learned that I could finally be comfortable with someone my own age—a boy on top of that.
Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2) Page 22
