by Dan Kolbet
Against my better judgment, I pull one of the remaining picnic tables under the spot where I think the carving would be. I then climb on top. The spongy table bows with my weight. I shine the light toward the rafters. Still too far. I push the table against the fireplace for support and lift a second, smaller table on top of it, forming a precarious scaffold resting against the fireplace stones. I can touch the rafters now.
The flashlight follows my fingers as I walk them across the surface of the rafter. I can't quite recall what I'd written and now I'm questioning if I'm standing under the right spot. The wood is covered with knife marks and the spot I thought might stay undisturbed, is anything but.
And then I see it. Our initials "BR + JR Forever," surrounded by a crudely etched heart. Trying to carve a heart into a rounded piece of wood isn't an easy task with your arms stretched high above your head—that much I remember.
But the carving—the one that in the back of my mind was intended to last a lifetime and the thing that I sought out tonight isn't what it once was. Sure, the letters I wrote are still there, but they have been changed. Destroyed.
A thick "X" covers the middle of the carving, a purposeful mark that was surely meant to destroy the sentiment under it. The "X" goes right through Jane's initials—JR. But that isn't what troubles me most. It's the words written along the lines of the thick "X." It's an unbelievable coincidence or some indiscernible ridicule by a stranger who couldn't possibly know the devastation their act has caused.
"I'm sorry—EMM," the line along the "X" reads.
Chapter 16
My heart pounds as a thin layer of sweat builds on my forehead. It seems as though my breath has escaped me and I'm straining to pull air inside my lungs.
Who would do that? Who is EMM? And why did they feel the need to sign their vandalism? It's got to be some mindless joker who thought it would be funny to destroy something special between two people. No doubt that's what happened.
There are hundreds. No. There are thousands of other carvings enveloping the entire structure. This must be repeated elsewhere. I climb down from the table in search of a repeat event. I look for thick markings crossing out others. I blaze past secondary markings that might be the same type of postscript wording that denotes a reversal of opinion. But the love proclaimed between the two carvers—thousands of them—remains largely unaltered. I can't find another carving destroyed like mine.
I mount the table again to get another look. My original carving is deep and weathered—it's got to be more than 15 years old. I shine the light toward the roof and notice for the first time why the rafter is so dark and damp—it's been exposed to the elements through a hole in the roof. A trickle of water has worn a channel across the face of the carving—both the original one and the blasphemy covering it. This tells me one thing, but doesn't answer my real question. It means the "X" and the "I'm sorry—EMM," note is old—years old. Otherwise it wouldn't be weathered in the exact same pattern as the original carving.
Does longevity mean anything here? Or am I grasping in the dark for an answer that should be obvious. I should just let this go, but I thought that one simple thing could be kept between us and some jerk defaced it. And why "I'm sorry?" What does that even mean? This person doesn't know me or Jane. EMM? I don't know an EMM.
* * *
The darkness of the night and the quiet of the Carving Shelter are pierced when my phone rings and the bright screen shows the call is Mom. Perfect.
I answer, still standing atop both soggy picnic tables.
"Hello."
"William, you've got to get home now," Mom says. I can hear commotion in the background, but can't make out any of the words. "Your sister is here and she's making all these crazy accusations about you and Trevor's money. Kendall is very upset."
"Why? What did she say?" I ask.
"Just come home, William. We need you."
The phone goes silent as she hangs up.
Back to reality.
Chapter 17
"She's gone," Mom says moments after I arrive home. The remnants of April's brief stay are still plastered on the faces of my family. Whatever occurred here wasn't pretty.
"Tell me what happened," I say.
"William, I don't want to discuss your sister," Mom says.
"You called me to come home because she was here and now you won't tell me what she did?"
"Some things are best left unsaid," Mom proclaims, walking out of the living room and into the kitchen.
Well, that was useful.
Kendall is sitting on the couch by the big picture window, her knees to her chest. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, pulling them in toward her. She looks very young. Her eyes are puffy and I can tell she's been crying. Her black eye makeup is smeared down her cheeks. She's tried to wipe away the tears to no avail.
As soon as I glance at her, she looks away.
"What happened?" I ask.
She looks out the window and shakes her head. I sit down next to her and place my hand on her back in a gesture of sympathy for whatever occurred here moments earlier. Her body jerks in surprise at my touch and she scoots away from me. I'm not sure what to make of her reaction.
"Kendall, I don't know what you all are so upset about and I have no way of helping if I don't know what happened."
"She was high," she says, pausing. "On something. She was talking a mile a minute and fidgeting with her clothes like always."
She must be on crank again.
"I'm sorry you had to see her like that," I say, easily painting a mental picture from my own memories of April's drug-induced benders.
"I've seen it before. It's not new," she says.
"Then what?"
"She said she wanted us back. And that you were stealing Dad's money and living here when he never wanted you to be here."
"Honey, you know that's not true," I say. "Yes, he named her in the papers, but she's in no position to take care of you two. She can't even take care of herself."
"But what about the money?" she asks. "I don't know anything about that. Why didn't you tell me?"
I immediately regret not telling her the whole story about the money in the estate. I'd intended to do it, considering in a year she would have a legal right to her portion of the money, but until then it was under my sole control. I bite the bullet and tell her everything. The money is in a trust and she can't touch it until she's 18. Same for her sister. And even then, the money isn't for wasting. They intended it for college and other things they wouldn't be able to provide. She takes it well.
"That's basically what April said; but are you taking the money?"
"No. It's going to pay for this house and the bills that go along with it. I'm paying them with the money, but I'm not taking it for myself."
"What about Grandma and Grandpa?"
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Are you giving it to them?"
"No and I know my mother well enough that she wouldn't take it if I gave it to her. She's too proud."
"But she's living here too."
"Out of necessity, not desire," I say.
The tears wash down her face, running through the lines of eye makeup.
"Why did this happen to me?" she asks.
I'm not sure what exactly she's referring to. Why did her father and mother die? Why did they want to leave her to a drug addict? Why is Uncle Billy living here? Why did April accuse me of stealing?
It could be any number of things.
"Sometimes we get faced with things that seem so entirely insurmountable that we don't know where to start or when things will seem normal again," I say.
"Like when Aunt Jane and Aspen died?"
"Yes, exactly like that."
She stands up and wipes the streaks on her face, effectively making them worse again.
"Well, I don't have the luxury of running away to the mountains and living in a cave like you."
And then she's gone.
* * *
I go to the office and see Gracie asleep in the leather chair. Dad, in his wheelchair is parked next to it. Her arm is draped over the edge of the chair resting under my father's hand. He looks up at me but doesn't move his head. I can't know how long they've been like this, but I can only hope that whatever occurred in the living room with April didn't breach the quiet sleep Gracie is having.
I lean up against the desk and blankly stare at the wall opposite my father. It's the same wall he's been forced to stare at too. It contains a picture of a birch tree with a pile of leaves at the base.
"I don't know what to do, Dad. I wasn't meant for this," I say.
His index finger flicks upward. The motion catches my eye because he never moves much at all. It flicks again and it seems as though he's trying to point to Gracie's cup of water sitting on the desk.
"You want a drink?" I ask, but instantly regret saying it because he doesn't drink anymore—not through anything but the feeding tube that was placed in his side just over a week ago.
But his eyebrows raise, which is his sign for yes. What's the harm? I raise the cup to his lips, which he parts slowly. I tip the cup upward and let the water touch his lips before giving him anything close to a drink. He doesn't rebuff the drink, in fact as I tip it up, he gulps it down as if it was the best thing he's ever had. When he's had enough the water spills out the sides of the cup and down his chin.
He clears his throat. A wet gargle of phlegm and years gone by.
In almost in a growl he tells me what I need to hear. Low and breathy, he speaks for the first time in months. It's slow and measured. The effort clearly draining him.
"Be the . . . man," he again clears his throat and pauses. "Be the man . . . I raised. Proud of you."
Chapter 18
The beginning of the school year came before we all knew it. Considering I'd never bought school supplies or had to give a thought about all that goes into getting a child ready for school to start, I think I did OK. Kendall refused to allow me to accompany her to the mall to pick out new school clothes to start her last year of high school. I just gave her cash. She came home with bags from actual stores and I can only assume they contained clothes. From the outfit she put together for the first day of school, I don't think the money went too far. Red pants with rips from the knees down. A woven black sweater over a green tank top. Black eye makeup? Of course. If this passes for fashion today, then count me out.
Kendall also refused a ride to school, electing to get picked up by Ethan, who's been making himself more and more scarce around our house since Mom moved in and terrorized him with questions whenever the chance arose. Honestly, I'm good with that. The fewer people around here the better.
Gracie, like always, was an entirely different story. I quite enjoyed shopping with her; but I think much of that stems from her ability to briskly walk through the tables at Old Navy and collect the tee-shirts she wanted without ever really looking at them. My job was to double check the size—usually a 6—and place them in the mesh bag. She was in charge. No question. Try stuff on? Nope. The shopping took all of 20 minutes. We then grabbed frozen yogurt and waited for Kendall to finish her shopping. As a guy, you can't beat that trip.
Today—the first day of school—Gracie emerged from her room dressed in white leggings, black patent leather shoes and a blue Old Navy shirt with a picture of a kitty on it. Pretty damn cute.
"Ready for your first day of school?" I ask.
"Yep. I already did kindergarten, so this will be easy," she says.
"I admire your confidence, my dear," I say, twirling her around like a ballerina. "I'm sure you'll do great."
"Yep. That's what I said."
There's no shaking this kid. I like it.
She downs a bowl of cereal and straps on her oversized backpack full of school supplies and we jump in the truck for the short drive to Five Mile Elementary School. I pull into the curve near the flag pole.
"Have a good day," I say, leaning over to give her a hug. But she doesn't budge. She just stares out the window at the other kids and parents.
"You're going to have a great time," I say. "School is fun."
"Can you walk me to my classroom?"
"Of course," I say. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"Awesome!"
I park the truck and we walk hand in hand into the school. The odors of industrial floor polish, new paint and sweaty kids floods my senses. I realize that I have no idea where she needs to go and which classroom is hers. How was she supposed to know if I hadn't brought her in? I'm a moron. Apparently I'm not the first bewildered adult standing in the entrance of the school today.
A middle-aged man, who I can only assume has kids at the school, points to a cluster of parents near at the far end of the corridor.
"Down the hall they post the kids' names with their teacher and classroom by grade level," he says. "Your kid will be on there."
Before I get a chance to say, well, you see she's not actually my kid, the guy disappears and Gracie is dragging me down the hall.
I pick her up so she doesn't get trampled by the mob of parents and kids. Gracie is assigned to Ms. Dixon, room 132.
"Come on!" Gracie says, once again dragging me down hall, "We're gonna be late."
Room 132 is filled with nervous kids sitting quietly at their desks. A group of parents line the wall adjacent to the coat closet. Following the lead of the other adults I help Gracie find her name on a desk and get situated.
"You good?" I ask.
"Good," she says. "Are you picking me up after school?"
"Just like we talked about. I'll be at the flag pole right at 3, OK?"
"OK."
I turn to leave and see her teacher is addressing the parents. She's thin, with shoulder-length black hair and quite the figure. She's wearing a conservative black cotton dress that hugs her in all the right places. I feel like a perv for ogling Gracie's teacher—Ms. Dixon—as I step in line with the parents to hear what she has to say.
"We'll be sending home a folder each day that includes . . ."
But I don't hear a word she says. Her name isn't Ms. Dixon—it's Michelle. Michelle Sherwood, the girl I was madly in love with for two years in high school. The girl who endured endless grilling from my mother to stay in a relationship with me—even a silly adolescent one that didn't go anywhere.
She glances toward me, noticing another adult has joined the collective and continues to talk. She doesn't recognize me? It hasn't been that long, has it? Of course I don't look the same.
I wait until she's done giving her speech about folders or whatever she's talking about. I'm not actually listening. The group disbands to say their final goodbyes to their kids. Ms. Dixon remains behind by the door fiddling with a clipboard. My legs are glued to the floor and I stand there, trying to remember every little detail about this woman with whom I experienced several "firsts."
She sets the clipboard down and turns to face me. She grabs my left hand. Specifically my ring finger. I don't know why. Then she lightly brushes my facial hair, the way Santa Claus does when he's thinking hard on something.
"It's good to see you Billy," she says. "You need a shave."
Michelle leaves me standing there and directs the kids to take their seats. The first day of school has begun. I glance at my watch before leaving Gracie's classroom. Six hours until I need to be at that flagpole to meet Gracie. Maybe I'll stop in a little early and ask her teacher how her day went.
Chapter 19
I really was madly in love with Michelle in high school. We attended junior high and high school together—six years, four of which she didn't know I was alive. Michelle was a soprano in the all-girls competition choir and a star on the stage for every school production of just about anything. She was tall and lean, but as stunning as any high school girl could be back then. She had a presence that announced her when she walked into a room. At least she did for me. I was secretly dating her in my own mind since the seventh grade, which sounds
super creepy, until you yourself admit that you, too, probably had a secret crush on someone who didn't quite know about it.
It started with us early one morning—before regular classes started during my junior year—on one of the weeks we were supposed do the pre-SAT tests to get ready for the real SATs the next year. I was sitting in the back of the school auditorium, the only place I could find that morning that wasn't already crammed with other kids trying to study in silence. The only light was this little pen light I had and the green exit sign above me, which shone just brightly enough to allow me to see my prep book. It wasn't ideal, the darkness was the reason why, when Michelle flipped on the bright stage lights and walked slowly to the center of the stage, she didn't see her secret crush—me—hidden in the back row of the auditorium. I flipped off the pen light to remain hidden.
She proceeded to sing some song—and give the performance of a lifetime. I don't know what song it was. I can only assume given the theatrical movements that it was something she was practicing for one of her school musicals. Her voice filled the room and touched every bit of me. I felt like a voyeur watching her in secret—seeing what no one else had. It was at that moment that I finally decided to ask her out. I would tell her how beautiful her song was and she'd be putty in my hands—but just as I stood to reveal myself hiding in the shadows, she turned toward the wings of the stage, flipped off the lights and left. My one chance gone forever.
No. I couldn't miss my chance, I thought. The hallway behind the stage ran down the back of the theater and wrapped around the band and choir classrooms. If I could make it to the top of the steps that led down to those classrooms, I could head her off as she left. We'd be in love before the first bell even rang.
I scooped up my books and bolted out the back of the theater and raced down the main hall toward the steps. The school vice principal, Mrs. Gortsema, who roamed the halls in the early hours of the day, shouted in my direction, "Where's the fire, Redmond?!"
