by Dan Kolbet
"Not exactly," I say.
"Then why do you want talk to her?"
"It's more than that," I say. "Libby was just a kid. She can't answer the questions I have about her mom."
"And you shouldn't put her in the middle of it either," Michelle says. "That's not fair. She didn't choose this."
"I know. You're right," I say. "And neither did you."
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Only that you have been wonderful to me, dealing with my problems and family and not asking anything from me. If you only knew what a pain in the butt I'd be."
"You think I'd have turned you down when you asked me out? Yep. I would have run for the hills. Oh, no. This man who cares about his family! Whatever shall I do?!"
"You're mocking me."
"Yes, I am," she says. "This is what partners do. We help each other out when things go sideways. And just wait, I've got a whole train of crazy coming into the station any time now. You'd better be ready because then it'll be your turn, mister."
"I'm ready," I say. "I think I can handle anything after these last few months."
"I'm sure you can," she says.
We kiss and it feels good. I love being with Michelle. She feels like home. Like I could be anywhere in the world, but when I'm with her I'm where I'm supposed to be.
"You've got a good kid there," Michelle says.
I blush, but I of course know that I had no hand in making her that way.
"After being a teacher for as long as I have, you get a sense for kids, even ones who are a little older," she continues. "She's bright and adores you."
"I feel incredibly lucky; like I've got a second chance."
"You do have a second chance, no question about it," she says. "And I know what you're going to ask me, so I'll answer it for you. You should go to Minnesota. Because I know what's what you're going to do anyway."
"It doesn't bother you that I want to go?" I ask.
"It would bother me if you wanted to stay," she says, laughing. "So, don't go house hunting. OK?"
"That's fair, but I hear it's beautiful there this time of year," I say.
She gives me a dirty look.
"Don't be a jerk," she says, laughing. "I might make you stay there."
She playfully punches me in the ribs and we wrestle like teenagers on the couch until Libby comes back in the room and clears her throat.
"What's the Wi-Fi password?" Libby asks, holding up her phone. "My cell connection stinks."
"Honestly, I have no idea," I say.
"OK, I'll ask Kendall."
And just that quickly she's gone down the hall toward Kendall's room. Fitting into our little family mix with no hesitation.
"They're getting along then?" Michelle asks.
"Like they've known each other their whole lives, which really surprised me. I think Kendall likes having another girl her own age in the house. Especially someone who is family."
"I bet she does," Michelle says. "That's good to hear."
Libby returns and plops down on the chair across from us.
"Her door was locked," she says.
"Did you knock?" I ask.
"No, I think she's in there with someone. I didn't want to interrupt."
I flashback to the morning I caught Ethan in her bedroom and stop myself before bolting to her locked door and ripping it off the hinges. I haven't seen Ethan around much at all lately, but I haven't asked her about him either. I don't know if it's normal for uncles to talk about boys with teenage girls, but my first instinct tells me that he's in her room behind that locked door doing . . . well, stuff I don't want to think about her doing.
I leave Michelle and Libby in the living room. They're already talking about cell phones anyway. Michelle gets along with everyone. It's amazing.
I knock on Kendall's door.
"Kendall?" I say.
"Um, just a minute," she says in a hurried voice.
He must be in there.
"Just open the door Kendall," I say, annoyed.
"I said just a minute," she says, opening the door.
I step through and look around. No Ethan. I'm an ass. I try to cover interruption.
"Why did you lock the door?"
"Because Gracie has no concept of boundaries and she's always coming in my room without asking and I just wanted to be alone for a while," she says.
I notice a stack of blue notebooks next to her open laptop. She follows my eyes to the desk.
"It's not what you think," she says, stepping in front of them.
"What do I think then?" I ask.
"I don't know. What?"
"What are you doing with the notebooks?"
"I thought I'd surprise you with them," she says.
"How's that?"
She picks up a stack of four notebooks bound together with a rubber band.
"You don't want to show anyone your work," she says. "You're a wacky hermit from Montana with a narrow view of the world."
"Hey," I say, not necessarily disagreeing with what she said.
"There's no way you're going to be able to publish any of your stories if you only have them written down by hand in those notebooks."
"That's kind of the idea," I say.
"But it's a bad idea, Uncle Billy," she says.
She hands me a stack of white printer paper, with a thick black coil holding the pages together. Printed on the cover is "Your Loss by Billy Redmond." It's the same story she was reading on my deck at the cabin last summer, the one about the medical supply sales man whose wife leaves him.
"You said this one wasn't finished. That it wasn't ready for public consumption. You lied."
"Honey, I didn't lie. I wrote that so long ago, I can't remember if it's completed or not and it needs work."
"It's done. I know this because I read it and I typed it on my laptop," she says. "It's good and I think you need to stop being afraid of what you wrote, because I cried my eyes out when I read that one, and I don't cry when I read. Ever. This isn't the only one either. I've read all of the notebooks. You've got seven finished books and another ten that are nearly complete."
I lost count of how many drafts were in there. Seventeen books? I just wrote one and picked up another when I finished the last. I guess over 12 years, that's not that many, really.
I flip through the pages of Your Loss, looking at scenes at random. It all seems new, like the words were never mine to begin with. Over time you forget what you write, so it seems new when you pick it up.
"You need to publish that," she says.
"No way," I say.
"Why?"
"It's not that easy," I say. "Even if I wanted to—which I don't—you've got to get represented by an agent, who has to sell it to a publishing house who then wants to edit it, which strips it of any originality. Then if you finally get it published with some ugly cover they pick, it's two years from now and doesn't look or sound at all like the book you wrote in the first place."
"You're so old," she says, rolling her eyes. "While you were eating bark off the trees in Montana, the world evolved. People don't just read paper books anymore. They read on Kindles and iPads or on their phones. E-books are just as popular and you don't need all that stuff you mentioned to get your book published."
She calls up a webpage on her laptop listing dozens of independent authors who wrote books that landed on the New York Times Bestseller list. They were titles I recognized, but never knew they were independent authors.
"They published their books themselves. You could do that too. It's easy."
I'm ashamed to say I didn't know E-books were so popular. I've seen people using them before though.
"Is Isolated Highway an e-book?" I ask.
"Yes, an overpriced one. Your publisher sets the price and to make sure they don't steal sales away from the print books, they jack up the cost to keep the playing field even. There have been several lawsuits about it. But if you publish your own stuff, you don't have to worry abou
t any of that."
I sit down on her bed, a little overwhelmed. Part of my fear of jumping back into the publishing business is the business side of it. Plus, my history with Monique and having to jump through all those hoops to get a story out there just made it seem impossible. To think that I could do it on my own is an intriguing idea, but impossible.
"How many of my books did you type out?" I ask.
"Don't be mad. I typed seven. All of the finished ones."
"How long did that take?"
"Let's just say that my hands are permanently cramped."
"Just because you typed it, doesn't mean it's finished, you know," I say. "It still needs to be edited, fact checked, reviewed for clarity—all the stuff the publishing house does."
"I did that when I typed it."
"That's good, but there's a reason they hire professional editors," I say. "People can't stand to see any little mistake."
"OK, I'll figure it out, because if I leave it to you, it'll never get done."
"That's probably true," I say. "Let's make a deal. I need to go out of town for another few days. When I get back we'll sit down and figure all this out."
"So, you'll do it? You'll publish the book?"
"I didn't say that. I said we'll talk about it when I get back.
"You're really leaving again?" she asks. "You just got back."
"I just have something that Libby and I need to do."
"I'm not sure I can stand to be here with Grandma any longer," she says. "She's driving me nuts. At least when you're here, she focuses her attention on annoying you instead of me."
"How sweet of you to say," I say with a grin. "I don't think we'll be gone long."
"And then we'll publish this book when you're back," she says.
"And then we'll talk more," I say.
"You're no fun."
"That's what I hear," I say, giving her another goofy grin. "You know, you're a pain in the butt, just like your dad."
"Now, who's being sweet?"
"But I loved your dad for it," I say. "And I love you too."
I raise my arms slightly and Kendall comes in for a hug—tears filling her eyes.
"I miss him and Mom," she manages to get out. Her eye makeup runs down her cheeks. "Nothing is the same. Nothing."
I realize that neither of the girls have talked much about their parents. I should have had these conversations with them a long time ago to help them through the mourning process. I make a mental note to set time aside for the girls—even if it's just to share stories about their parents. Trevor and Jennifer were good people and need to be remembered.
"I know, sweetie. I'm sorry," I say.
"I don't want you to leave," she says. "When they left us, they never came back. Just stay."
"That's not going to happen again. I'm not going to leave you forever. We can't limit ourselves in life because of the 'what ifs' that come up," I say. "Otherwise we'll never experience anything. We can't live afraid."
She hugs me tighter, but doesn't look up.
"I know, I'm just . . . scared, that's all," she says.
"It's going to be fine, I promise."
She wipes away the tears and releases me from a hug that must mean something powerful deep inside her.
"Three days? That's all? "
"Three days. I promise."
* * *
Talking about the New York Times Bestseller list got me thinking. I make my way to the garage to the stack of boxes Libby and I pulled out of Frank's barn. After finding the right one, I open it and remove the pile of old newspapers. Before I had no idea why Jane had kept them. Now I do.
I turn to the books section and look at the listings. Right there on the chart is Isolated Highway at number one. I open another newspaper from months later. The book is still listed, just a little farther down the fiction list. It's the same on each paper, just a different date and a different ranking for the book.
She was keeping tabs on me.
Chapter 42
"I've never been on a plane before" Libby tells me when I say I want to go to Minnesota and talk to the woman she calls Aunt Ella.
"Never?" I ask.
"We never went on vacation," she said. "At least not anywhere that we had to fly to. We always drove everywhere."
"Well, flying is a lot faster," I say.
I'd already tried to find Aurella Mackey or Ella Mackey, plus many iterations of those names online, but came up short. A phone call would have been quicker than flying in and trying to find her. A part of me thinks that seeing her in person is best anyhow. What pressure can I put on her to answer any questions if all she has to do is hang up on me if she gets bothered? Much harder in person. Libby also assured me that if Aunt Ella still lived in the same house, that she'd be able to navigate us there easily.
"The house is on the Watab River that feeds in to Rassier Lake. I know that for sure. If we get to the lake I know I can pick out the house. Besides, it's a small rural area, very pretty. We can just ask around too."
"When was the last time you were there?" I ask.
"I think I was eleven. I'm not sure."
So, we set off for the airport, trusting the instincts of an eleven-year-old to get us to some river near some lake in the middle of winter in somewhere central Minnesota.
This should be a snap.
* * *
You know when you're sitting on a plane and you have to decide from the very first minute if you're going to talk to the passenger next to you during the flight or just ignore them? This decision could be a mistake you have to deal with the entire flight. Some people are terrible bores. Others have bad breath or are just extremely fidgety or annoying. Then there are those people who are just "bad flyers." Put Libby in this category.
Every pilot announcement. Every bump of turbulence. Every lazy turn of the plane meant fingernails into my forearm as she yelped in terror.
"What's that?!" she'd say, panic stricken by the littlest of events on the plane.
"It's perfectly normal," I told her.
"But why can we take our seatbelts off now?" She asked, when the little yellow seat belt light blinks. "Are we supposed to do something?"
I explained that you're supposed to keep it on even though you're allowed to take it off. She didn't like that.
She never got airsick; I'll give her that. But she was far and away the worst traveling companion I've ever had. When the wheels hit the runway in Salt Lake City, ending the first leg of our trip, she practically jumped out of her seat and ran to the exit door before anyone else had even stood up to clog the aisle. If I wasn't so concerned with the practice of being a good dad and being sensitive to her feelings, I'd have laughed. OK, I did laugh, but not loud enough that she heard me.
* * *
"Do they have trains from here to Minneapolis?" She asks during our layover in Salt Lake City.
"We're not taking a train," I say as we walk to our next gate.
"I don't think I can do that again."
"This next flight is on a much bigger plane," I say. "The ride is smoother and we go a lot faster, so the flight won't seem as long."
"Bigger? Faster?" she asks, wide-eyed.
This back and forth continues after we find seats outside of our next gate. We depart in 40 minutes, which seems days too long. When Libby goes to the restroom a woman sits down next to me and holds out her hand. This woman had presumably heard our entire conversation about Libby's flight jitters and I figure she's about to give me some sage advice. But it's more than advice.
The woman and her four kids had been sitting across from us in the waiting area. Her three boys had managed to spill all three of their drinks and were currently having a competition to see who could jump the farthest from their seats across the floor. Her youngest, a girl who couldn't be more than three, has pulled off her pull-up diaper and was waving it over her head. It's pure chaos.
I thought I had it rough. Not like this lady.
She opens her outstr
etched hand.
"Give her one of these," the woman says. "I can spare one."
"What is it?" I ask.
"It's one of my Xanax pills. Works like a charm. I just took one. Again."
I notice the glossy look in her eyes as she stares at her brood of children. A look of calm rests across her face. The stares of fellow travelers and the shouting of her children are of no concern to her.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she says, patting my leg and standing up. "There's a reason God made pharmaceutical companies. Miracle workers, they are."
When Libby returns I show her the pill and tell her what the woman said.
"I wonder if she has any Valium? Mom used to take that," she says, downing the pill without hesitation. "I've had one of those before."
"Um, I'm not sure," I say. "What did your mom take Valium for?"
"I don't know. She took a lot of stuff," She says, downing the Xanax with a swig from a bottle of water.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. She just had a box of pills. She took some every day. I never asked her what they were for."
"Was she sick?"
"No. I mean, she got sick and stuff, but just colds and allergies—normal things."
I file away this information, wondering if Jane was self-medicating with anti-depressants. She never took those before. Not anything I saw at least. Maybe her actions did weigh on her to the point of having to use something to feel better about it. It's sad I guess, but she chose it and I'm determined not to feel sorry for her.
As we board the plane the lady with the kids gives me a wink. I nod an appreciative thank you.
Minutes after we take off, Libby is sound asleep. Her panicked behavior and worry gone. All thanks to a little pill. I say a silent thank you to the Xanax lady for helping calm Libby. I'm not sure how I would have handled another stressful flight with her. Not because she's so incredibly difficult—that's part of it—but because I'm feeling the stress too. Going blind into this conversation with Aunt Ella worries me. What if she won't talk to us? What if she's gone or dead? She was old, right? And of course, she could tell me terrible things about Jane that I just don't want to know. Any number of things could make this trip a complete waste of time or a continual nightmare.
