The Art of Holding On and Letting Go (22 page)

I didn't know what to say.
Who knew?
I guess there had never been a reason for my mom to bring it up. But now a light flickered in my mind trying to reveal something to me, like the glowing circle of a campfire. I knew this was important somehow, that there was meaning there, but it remained hidden in the shadowy trees beyond the campfire's reach.

“There's the Ambassador Bridge to Canada,” Grandpa said. “It's pretty when it's lit up at night.”

He was right. It was pretty. “Just go a little farther, then we better head home before Grandma gets worried.”

Ahead, the highway rose up. Down below, off to the sides, were row upon row of factories. Yellow-gray smoke billowed against the purple-rose sky and flames burst out of pipes. A rotten-egg sulfur smell filled the car and stuck in my nose and throat.

“The Rouge plant,” Grandpa said.

“It's disgusting,” I said.

Grandpa closed the car vents to block the smell. “I saw a photo documentary once. This man had taken pictures of the Rouge at interesting angles. Some of the shots were at this time of day with the sunset as the backdrop. He was able to make it beautiful in a way. To turn it around into something positive.”

He directed me to get off the highway, drive over the overpass and back on, heading north. Heading home.

We were quiet for a while, the sky darkening, red brake lights glowing in front of us, headlights zipping by on the other side of the highway. My ears filled with the lulling, steady sound of the tires on pavement. I felt so tired, drained. Grandpa must have been feeling the same way because all of a sudden he sat up straighter, rolled his window down halfway, leaned his head out, and sucked in the sharp cold air.

He rolled the window back up, shook his head and said, “Brrrrr. Thought I was going to nod off a minute there. It's time for some tunes.”

He switched on the radio and punched the preset buttons, passing up talk and jazz, stopping at classic rock. “This is what we need,” he said, and turned up the volume.

Bob Seger's scratchy voice filled the car.
Sunspot baby, we sure had a real good time.

Grandpa joined in,
I looked in Miami. I looked in Brazil. The closest I came was a month old bill …

My Brazilian acai bracelet from Tom was on my wrist, and I couldn't help grinning. Grandma was bebopping in the kitchen, now Grandpa was rocking! Bob Seger was one of my mom's favorites too. The bass thumped in my chest, and we sang along. Grandpa swayed in his seat. I got off the freeway at our exit and followed the suburban roads home, the stores and houses decorated with wreaths and garland and a rainbow of lights. More lights twinkled in the trees.

If only there was snow. And mountains.

The day before I left for Ecuador I awoke with a jittery stomach. It wasn't right to feel nervous about seeing my parents, but I couldn't help it. I felt like something important had changed, the thousands of miles of distance between us were like an actual physical barrier to be broken down.

I opened my window shade to gray skies and brown earth, no sign of a white Christmas yet, but on the nightstand next to my bed was a Christmas cactus, bursting with coral-colored blooms. A flat, rectangular-shaped object wrapped in shiny red paper was in the middle of my floor. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands; it felt like a book. I opened my bedroom door and found another wrapped book at my feet. A trail of shiny, red papered gifts led down the hallway, into the living room.

“Santa came early,” Grandpa said with a wink. “Come see what else he left for you.”

I followed him into the basement. Hanging on the wall was a campus-board, wooden rungs lined up vertically for climbing training.

“Wow! How'd you know how to do this?”

“I remembered seeing one at your house in Tennessee. Amazing what you can find on the Internet. Give it a try,” he said.

I jumped on, maneuvering from bottom to top then back down again. I hopped down and shook my stinging hands.

“No more hanging from the door frames, okay?”

“Okay,” I said with a grin.

Grandpa and I sneaked a couple Christmas cookies out of the tins while Grandma cooked a French toast brunch, cinnamon scenting the house. I cleared the dishes afterward, while Grandpa retreated to his chair with a book. Grandma picked up the phone to call friends and relatives out of town. I kept looking at her, trying to picture her with a soldier husband and then as a pretty bank teller with long hair instead of her short curly mop of gray.

I stood at the kitchen sink, enjoying the warmth of the sudsy water on my hands, looking out the window at the heavy gray sky.

If only I knew what awaited me tomorrow. Christmas in Ecuador just felt wrong. But it was my best chance for convincing my parents to come home.

It finally snowed later that afternoon, and I perked up at the first sight of those fat, swirling flakes. I pulled on my coat and mittens and stood on the front porch. Grandma's goose was dressed in her red coat and Santa hat. After all the gloomy gray days, the world was white and magical. A silent, fluttering storm of down feathers. The sky lilac. So quiet, a hush settling in all around.

The snowflakes dusted my mittens long enough for me to study their star shapes before melting. They brushed my nose and cheeks, clung to my eyelashes, mixed with my tears. I had been closing my mind and heart trying not to think about what had happened to Uncle Max. Tall and strong, lean, ropy muscles, his face etched from sun and laughter. I couldn't help imagining him dragged under the snow, buried, suffocating, freezing. His face frozen in horror. Frozen in time.

The next morning, snow covered the rooftops, cars, and trees like frosting. My flight to Ecuador wasn't until later in the afternoon, so I helped Grandpa shovel the sidewalk. We turned in opposite directions, working our way to the neighbors on either side.

Splat! A snowball nailed me in the back of the head.

“Hey!” I whirled around, the snow dripped down my neck.

Grandpa laughed. “Sorry, I was aiming for your back!”

I scooped up a handful, packed it into a ball, and chucked it at him.

He ducked just in time, but I was quicker with the next one. Splat!

It smacked him on the chest, exploding, right where he had unzipped his coat.

“Oh, no fair!” Grandpa shouted.

“Gotcha!”

“Got you!” he said, whizzing another one at me, catching my leg.

I wound up to throw another, but he held up his hand. “Mercy. I need some hot cocoa.”

Now that we had stopped, my fingers and toes were stinging with cold. My jeans were stiff and wet.

We picked up our shovels and returned to the house.

I lingered in a hot, steamy shower, the water pounding my shoulders, but I still felt chilled. I cringed against the cold blast of air as I stepped onto the bath mat and dried my goose-bumpy skin. I shivered and grabbed a second towel. A headache lurked behind my eyes. My throat felt parched and scratchy. I was about to leave for an exotic trip, to finally see my parents after four months apart. I should have been happy, but my feelings were all tangled up. I just felt tired, drained.

I curled up in my bird's nest chair and realized for the first time that it was like a scallop shell—my own shell of quiet here in Michigan. I tried to read, but couldn't focus. A snowplow rumbled down the street. Snow was clumped on the twiggy bushes like big, white blooms. Unless we went high into the mountains, I wouldn't see snow in Ecuador.

Grandma's music drifted out of the kitchen.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
It didn't feel right to be leaving Grandma and Grandpa alone for Christmas. I didn't even know what they usually did; we hadn't seen them in so many years. They hadn't said anything about going to church. I never went with my parents either. Dad used to say he felt closer to God when he was on top of a mountain than he possibly could in any church.

It was almost time to leave for the airport. My lunch churned in my stomach. I curled up tighter. I couldn't get warm. I wrapped a fleece blanket around myself, but still, I shuddered, my skin crackling with goose bumps. I longed for the toasty warmth of the fireplace in our cabin. I crawled out of my chair, heading to my room for a heavier sweater. My legs wobbled, and the floor tilted.

“Cara?” Grandma said. “Are you okay?”

She was by my side in an instant. I wrapped my arms around my body, squeezing. My teeth chattered. Why was it so cold in here? A chisel chopped at my skull. I closed my eyes against the pain.

“Your cheeks are flushed.” Grandma's hand on my forehead was like an icicle. “Oh dear, you're burning up.” She called to Grandpa, “She's burning up, Norman.”

The weight of blankets on my bed kept me still, but I trembled inside. Every muscle ached, every inch of skin felt bruised. My eyes scalded behind my closed lids. Yet I felt like I was on an icy mountaintop, snowy wind whipping all around me.

I woke to the sound of Grandpa's voice. “Good morning, Carabou.”

I squinted against the hazy daylight filling my room. Grandpa was sitting in a chair near my bed. My head was full of grating rocks. I tried to talk, but was overcome with coughing. A razor blade was lodged in the back of my throat.

“You slept all night. How are you feeling?”

I groaned. “I missed my flight?”

He nodded.

I groaned again. “What am I going to do? I need to get to the airport.” I tried to sit up, but the pain behind my eyes knocked me flat.

“Sorry, Cara, you're not going anywhere for a while. We called your mom.”

“I shouldn't have stayed out in the cold yesterday.”

“Nah, that's a myth. Can't catch the flu just from being cold. Grandma and I got our flu shot, so we should be safe. But you, you're going to be under the weather for a few days.”

Grandma appeared in my doorway, carrying a steaming mug. “Sorry you're sick, Cara.” Her voice was gentler than I'd ever heard it.

I pushed myself up in bed, slowly this time, and Grandpa propped my pillow behind my back.

“I wasn't feeling good yesterday, but I thought I was just nervous about my trip.”

“That's the way the flu hits you, all of a sudden.” Grandma handed me the warm mug. “Old family recipe, sip it slowly, and it'll make you feel better.”

I sipped the golden liquid. Sweet and citrusy, spicy and more, it lit a path down my throat.

“What is this stuff?” I rasped.

“Dandelion wine,” Grandpa answered.

He chuckled at the confusion on my face. “You never read that book? Ray Bradbury. I'll have to dig it up for you.”

“It's tea, lemon juice, honey, and a secret ingredient,” Grandma said. “Now that you're awake, I'll make you some toast.” She felt my forehead again. “And get you some ibuprofen for that fever.”

“I never get sick,” I grumbled. Another round of coughing racked my ribs. I took another sip of the soothing liquid, and asked Grandpa, “What's the secret ingredient?”

“Whiskey,” he whispered with a grin.

I slept on and off throughout the day. Coughing left me gasping for breath with tears in my eyes. Shivering, I let myself feel pitiful.

I shuffled into the living room when my fever moderated, then retreated to my bed when my temperature soared, burrowing under the mound of blankets. My parents had called, but I slept without even hearing the phone ring.

Grandpa found his copy of
Dandelion Wine
and left it on my nightstand next to the blooming Christmas cactus. For the next two days, I read and slept, hardly leaving my bed.

Kaitlyn stopped by when she returned from Colorado.

“Enter at your own risk,” I croaked.

She brought my Christmas present, a pint-size stuffed Husky dog, white and silver gray, just like Tahoe.

“Ooh, she's wonderful,” I said, cuddling the plush dog.

I gave Kaitlyn a book of poems and hot chocolate mixes that I had found for her.

“Thanks! Perfect to curl up with before we go back to school. I'll save the Baileys for another night when you're recovered, so you can reveal more of your deep, dark, Indiana She-Jones secrets.”

She backed away from my hacking coughs and retreated home as my fever spiked again. I tucked my new, plush Tahoe dog under the covers beside me. Even my dreams were feverish that night.

I struggle through the freezing, blinding, white wind. I reach out and pat Tahoe's damp fur. Up ahead, a wall of darkness. I trudge closer, closer. Clutched in my hand, a tiny bottle of golden nectar. The air turns warm, heavy. I want to stop, rest, let the warmth seep into my bones. But the darkness beckons. It hums. Alive. My heart pounds, or is the sound coming from the murky dark? We're at the edge now, peering down. Tahoe's pink tongue curls out, panting. Moisture seeps from the swampy ravine, sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Uncle Max's voice. Tahoe barks once. She leaps. No! The darkness reaches out, and I slip, falling …

I woke up on fire. I tossed aside the layers of blankets and swiped damp strands of hair away from my sweaty face. The fever had broken, and I drifted back to sleep, floating on the cool night air.

The next morning, Mom was sitting in a chair beside my bed.

“Mom!” I sat up in bed and kicked myself free of the tangled sheets.

She laughed. “Don't get up, you're sick.”

“I feel a lot better,” I said. My words came out in a rush. “I didn't know you were coming. When did you get here? Where's Dad?”

A fit of coughing stopped my stream of questions.

“You still
sound
sick,” she said. “I wanted to surprise you. Your dad's not here, just me. You know how he is about coming here.”

Grandma had made it clear plenty of times how she felt about my dad. But still, he would be coming to see me—who cares if Grandma made him feel welcome or not.