Our Heart (11 page)

Aunt Marcie hugged me close to her, until my trembling and sobbing abated and I regained my composure. She took my arm and led me out the door into the hallway. Instead of turning left toward the waiting room, she guided me down the hall, to our right. I didn’t have to ask where we were headed. I was thankful for what she was trying to do. She was saving me from having to face the rest of the family, only to be buried under a new avalanche of emotions. I was spent! It was Aunt Marcie to the rescue. She offered me the sympathy and understanding I needed badly. After winding through several twists and turns, we exited into the fresh air outside of Mercy Hospital. She must have been planning to take control of me, just in case, for it was a very short walk to her car. I got in on the passenger side and readied myself for the forty-minute drive back to Cedar Junction. I could only stare out the window, as my aunt drove through town. She got back on the highway, heading the car towards home…for better or worse.

I watched the scenery along the roadway pass by, as I stared out the window. It was more of a non-seeing than seeing trip. The trees and houses were where they should be, but that was all that registered in my mind. I’m not sure if I would have noticed anything out of the ordinary. The wheels of the car made a rhythmic drone and further pulled my mind inward. The sun had begun its decent in the west. The car’s shadow stretched out far on the highway ahead of us and along the ditch as we drove. My attention seemed to lock on the car’s shadow as it raced ahead of us. Always there, never stopping or causing destruction, as it went through first one and then several mailboxes along the road. I wished I had the shadow’s ability to pass through obstacles in the same way. I held on to this intrepid thought, as we swung into Grandpa Jake’s driveway. Aunt Marcie had to open my door and gently stir me back to the land of the living. It took all the fortitude I could muster to get out of the car and enter my grandparents’ house.

I moved with heavy legs. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete blocks. The twenty paces to the front porch might as well have been an uphill climb toward the summit on top of a mountain. Each step became harder than the one before. After the endless climb, we managed to reach the top of the mountain and move from the porch to the inside of the house. The interior was deafening in its quietness and was nearly too much for me to bear. I began to wobble, and Aunt Marcie held on to me with firm hands, guiding me to the steps and the nearly impossible ascent to the top. Turning into my old room, I made my way across the familiar floor and worn carpet. I didn’t even bother taking off my shoes. I went straight to my bed and fell heavily onto it. I sought its comfort like a much needed best friend. Before Aunt Marcie could cover me with an afghan, I was lost to the world of the waking and wandering the roads of unfulfilled dreams.

I woke up from my heavy sleep the next morning to the sounds of life within the house. I almost forgot when it was as I lay in bed. I knew exactly where I was, just not when it was. The comfort of my old bed and the safe feelings from familiar surroundings had washed over me like a favorite warm blanket on a cold winter’s day. The reality of
when
began to invade the serenity of my room. I listened to the sounds of movement coming from the kitchen below me and, for the briefest of instances, I thought it was Grandma and Grandpa milling around, just like I had heard them do so often before. I tried to hang on to that thought, but it quickly evaporated to be replaced by all of yesterday’s emotions. I raised my eyes to the ceiling. I searched out the old patterns, etched within my mind, from so long ago. Many nights, the moonlight would shine through my window and give the speckled formations dimension beyond the room itself. As the moonlight danced across the ceiling, the glossiness of the paint would create a sparkling effect. When I partially closed my eyes and stared into the multiplex of sparkles above, I could almost swear I was racing throughout the universe, amongst the stars.

On many nights, I would lie in bed and stare into the mysteries of the great unknown. Worlds beyond imagination would be opened to me. I could lose myself in distant places and the troubling thoughts of the day receded into the magical worlds of make-believe. In my heart and head, by concentrating on the landscape of my ceiling, it helped to clear my head of my troubles. Before long, I would fall into a peaceful sleep.

Today, in the morning light, I looked around my old room, taking in all of the things that still remained from my childhood. I looked at my old desk, in the corner, where I had written more than just homework on its well-worn surface. Inside the drawers of the desk, I had hidden away many childhood and early adult secrets. Everything that had ever meant something to me had a special place in the back of the bottom right-hand drawer.

Grandpa Jake had given me my first journal as a fifteenth birthday present, and I thought it was one of the dumbest gifts ever. He knew by the look in my eyes, as I opened it, that I was disappointed. He never flinched or said a word, but I could tell he was hurt. Later that night, after all of the festivities of the day, he sat with me on my bed and tried to explain the power locked within the journal. I have never forgotten Grandpa Jake’s words and what a special gift the journal had one day ended up being. He told me with such seriousness that I would have times in my life when I needed to talk to someone and the person I most needed to talk with would be me. When my head was so full and it was too hard to think straight, the journal would come in handy. Using it, I could sort out the insistent thoughts remaining in my brain. I could release some of the clutter in my head by writing my thoughts down and putting them aside for another day. I know Grandpa Jake meant every word he said to me, but I wasn’t able to show any enthusiasm for his wisdom that night. It didn’t matter, he knew, somehow, that I would come to understand the value of his gift when the time was right, and eventually I did. The journal became more to me than a book filled with pages of scribbles. It became the keeper of all that was good and bad in my young life.
Later, I would return the great favor he had bestowed on me and give him a very special journal as a gift.

The year before I left home, I made a special trip into the city, to an upscale store that specialized in writing supplies. I spent my small stash of savings buying Grandpa Jake a leather-bound journal. I had it engraved with his name in gold letters on the cover. It was perfect because of the intricately cut and raised design on the front, a depiction of a tree that took up the majority of the cover. The journal could be expanded with new inserts or the insides replaced as the pages became full. I also bought him a pen and pencil set to go along with his new journal.

Grandpa was going to be seventy, and I wanted to do something really special. I could think of nothing better than to show him how much his gift had meant to me by giving him a fancy journal in return. When he opened his gift a few days later, he was overwhelmed. He had trouble maintaining his composure as he delicately ran his fingers across the outer cover of the journal. His fingertips followed the outline of his name and the tree displayed there. As he opened the journal, we could all hear the soft crackling sounds of new leather. In the end, it was the pen and pencil set that did him in, Grandma too. Grandpa Jake stoically sat there, holding both the journal and pen set in his lap. As he looked up at me, his eyes were moist.

I couldn’t have been any happier with my choice in gifts, as he said a simple and touching, “Thank you.” Grandma Sarah leaned over and threw her arms around me, giving me a great big hug. After kissing my cheek she whispered in my ear. Her breath warmed my insides as she told me I had given Grandpa the perfect gift. She added an extra hug, then reached for a tissue to wipe at her eyes. We sat there for a minute or two more, content in the moment and blissful in the silence.

Grandpa carried his new journal around with him everywhere he went, writing in it more than I’d ever seen him write in any of his other diaries. On occasion, Grandma and I would hear him laughing to himself or catch him blowing his nose and wiping tears from his cheek. I asked him several times what he was writing about. I’d tease him about writing the same thing day after day, “I got up, Grandma made me eggs and toast, went for a gander around the town. I ate lunch with Clyde and Vic at Bill’s, picked up some milk for Grandma Sarah at the Supermart…took an extra long nap, then a short nap later before super. After a busy day, I watched some television and took another nap before heading off to bed.”

Grandpa would laugh along with me and sometimes it was more than me he was laughing with. I believe he was laughing at the world too. He’d tell me how I was too smart for my own britches. Next, he might say something about adding a story to the journal about the time he slew the dragon and rescued the princess. I must have caught him in a somber mood one day, and when I asked my usual question about what he was writing, all he said back to me was, “Answers.” Being who I was at the time, I merely shrugged off his response, without any thought, and left Grandpa Jake to his own business.

Today, as I lie in bed, that day has made its way into my consciousness for some reason. I am unexpectedly drawn to his comment about answers. My thoughts are spinning with the possible and relative meaning behind his statement. Whose answers? What questions? What was really the intent behind his reply to me? Was he trying to tell me something, and I didn’t take the time to listen, shrugging off his reply? Should I have pressed him further back then? Had I once asked him a question and he had felt the need to put the answer in writing? Listening to the morning sounds outside of my window, my mind churned with another missed sign from my past. Another puzzle piece was missing and maybe Grandpa Jake’s journal could be its hiding place.

I looked over at the alarm clock, still in the same place it rested on the day I left. The old style flip numbers read 8:45. The night’s sleep had made me feel mentally better, but my body still cried out for more time to rejuvenate. Some time today, I would begin a search to find Grandpa Jake’s collection of diaries and look for the answers my grandpa had commented on years ago. Hopefully, the answers would not be to questions I might have been better off not knowing. For now, I was content to let my head rest on my pillow, warmed by a night of sleep and still holding the memories of my past. My thoughts wandered back to that first encounter with Allison so long ago, but forever fresh in my dreams.

Chapter 8

“I can’t wait to see what’s next,” became a song that was stuck in my head, refusing to be let free. My once agile body had become stuck in the thickest mud, unable to move without great exertion. The excitement of the baggy war was left behind and replaced with the electricity of Allison’s kiss. It had been so quick and carefree, but at the same time exhilarating, sending shivers throughout my entire body. The world around me dimmed, and the loud beating of my heart muffled sounds. In my clouded vision, I could clearly see Allison. She was standing a few feet away from me and moving in slow motion. She had her arm stretched out, her hand reaching for mine. I caught her beautiful smile smack in the middle of my heart. I couldn’t think, let alone speak. I opened my mouth and barely managed to say, “Oh, man.”

My world began to have edges again and the sounds returned. I raised my hand and tested the strength in my legs as I took first one, then two baby steps forward. Allison never lost that enticing smile. A new wave of rippling electricity raced through me, as I touched and then interlocked my hand in hers. We walked around Main Street, stopping to get an ice cream cone at one of the stands. Zach was serving up the cones and smiled at us, as we stood in line. He must have run home and changed clothes in superman speed, because he looked pre-flour-war clean. The three of us laughed and exchange barbs back and forth about the baggy war. Allison always found the right words or right touch to keep me tingling all day long. The city had printed up flyers, showing all of the events of the day. Allison spent a fair amount of time asking for my opinion on which things to do or not do. I would have been happy to just walk with her all day long, holding her hand, lost amongst the clouds. Today could last forever, and I wouldn’t have minded one bit. There would be time to think about tomorrow and the day after. I was content living a lifetime just in today.

I wanted to go home, shower, and change clothes, but she made it clear I should wear my flour like a badge of honor, showing the victorious battle scars to all who would gaze upon us. She tried to brush off some of the loose dust around my shoulders and neck. As her fingertips touched my bare skin, I erupted in goose bumps. I caught a sweet look in her eyes and my heart skipped another beat. She smiled serenely at me, and I added hot flashes to my list of sensations. We both took a much-needed break to use one of the public restrooms. I did my best to clean up what I could around my face. When she came out, I was in the hallway waiting for her, resting with my back against the wall, trying my best to strike a nonchalant pose.

When she exited the restroom, Melissa Chambers had her arm interlocked with Allison’s. They were deep in conversation and their faces were animated. No guy in the world likes to see two girls immersed in a conversation without wondering if he has become the topic of interest between them. It’s easy to feel that way when they simultaneously look up at you, look at each other, and then smile that gut-wrenching smile. I could feel my emotions begin to slide into the land of bewilderment as that “don’t you wish you knew what we were talking about” smile spread across both of their faces. Melissa broke her grasp with Allison and headed toward the door to the street, but before she opened it she took one last beautifully scripted moment to stop and make her dramatic exit. Turning to face us, she called back to Allison, letting her know, and me, that she would hook up later with Allison, to chat about the events of the day. Melissa looked directly at me and gave me one more smile. A machine gun, emptying a complete round of bullets couldn’t have wreaked as much damage.