The Winner's Game (9 page)

Seething, Dell turns back to Cade, who shrugs innocently. “What? She was picking at her face in the mirror again. Besides, before I said that, she told me I need to see a therapist.”

Again, Dell raises his eyebrows. “Care to explain that one, Bree?”

She shrugs too. “He sticks his finger in his belly button and sniffs it. Don't they have therapists for that?”

“They have therapists for overeaters,” comments Ann under her breath.

By then Dell is so red that the blue carpet nearby is giving off a purple glow. “Stop it! Everyone, just stop!”

I'm standing in the middle of the living room with my arms crossed. Frankly, I'm glad he's getting to experience the vitriol of his offspring firsthand. “See what I have to deal with when you're not around? They've been at each other's throats all week.”

“Well, it better end. And I mean
now.
” He waits to make sure no one is going to contradict him. “If there's any more behavior like this, there will be severe consequences.”

Ann raises her hand. “What sort of consequences?” The way she says it, it's as if she needs more details so she can make an informed decision about how she's going to respond to the threat. Her response completely catches Dell off guard.

“Well…
bad ones
,” he replies, somewhat flustered.

She doesn't let up. “We've already been cooped up in a tiny house for days on end with nothing to do, and have spent the last several hours in time-out. What's worse than that?”

Glowering, Dell folds his arms. “How about we cancel the trip and go home?”

Excuse me?
“Oh, don't even think about it, Dell,” I quickly interject. “The summer just barely began.”

“You're the one who's been struggling with their constant fighting. I'm just looking for a solution. If they're not going to behave, why should they get to stay here?”

“Because we're here for
your daughter
. Remember? The one who needs a heart transplant! For crying out loud, don't waltz in here and threaten to take away this trip when it might be the last one she has!”

Did I just say that?

My hands instantly fly to my mouth to cover it up. Then tears begin streaming down my face. As everyone watches, I just stand there bawling, horrified by what I let slip out.

I want to take it back, but even through the tears I know I can't. With my whole face now buried in my hands, my mind starts questioning what's really behind my emotions. Am I still mad at the kids for fighting? Absolutely. Am I also upset at Dell for the ongoing rift between us? Certainly. But on top of all that, I'm a mother trying to cope with the fear of losing my daughter. I've tried so hard to be brave in the face of Ann's trials, yet it is now painfully clear to not only me but the whole family that the thought of Ann's heart not holding out until her transplant…well, it breaks my heart too.

“I'm so sorry,” I say through choked gasps, looking straight ahead at Ann. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“No,” Dell whispers, “you shouldn't have.” He isn't crying, but in his own way, he looks broken too.

Ann graciously steps forward and puts her arms around me. “It's OK, Mom. It's OK.”

“Nothing about this is OK, sweetie.”

“I'm sorry for our fighting. We'll try harder.”

“Thanks. But I see your point too. I know you've been cooped up, and I know that's hard. Maybe that's why I'm so frustrated, because I wanted you to have this idyllic summer, and it's turning out to be anything but.”

A few seconds pass, then Bree asks, “Does this mean we're not in trouble?”

“Nice try,” Dell replies. “There will still be consequences if you guys don't shape up. But Mom's right, it would help if you weren't stuck inside all day getting in each other's way.” He pauses. “Tomorrow is a new day, and I hear the weather is going to improve. We've got all weekend to be together as a family, so can we all agree to get along?” He pauses. “This is the only family we've got. If we can't get along with each other, who can we get along with?”

My arms are still wrapped firmly around Ann, not wanting to ever let her go. “I ask myself that same question every day,” I whisper.

W
ELL, THAT WASN'T
exactly the reception I was hoping for after being away from you all week,” I say, trying to lighten the mood as I peel off my shoes and set them next to the door.

“It was only three days, Dell,” replies Emily instantly.

Why does she have to correct me like that?

“Right. Well, now that hopefully we've got all of the fights settled, who's hungry? That pizza buffet place up the road didn't look too crowded when I drove past.”

“Sweet,” remarks Cade. “I'm starving.”

“Me too,” says Bree.

Emily, however, is frowning. “Do none of you smell dinner cooking? I've been slaving away all afternoon to prepare a nice meal.”

“Oh, whoops. Sorry, kids. Looks like Mom already has plans. We'll have to eat here tonight so it doesn't go to waste.”

Her face turns a little pink, but she doesn't say anything else. She just turns to go finish her preparations.

The conversation over dinner centers mostly on bringing me up to speed on how boring everything was while I was back home in Portland. Everybody except Emily has examples of how awful it was. I also grill Ann on how she is feeling, going down my usual checklist of worries. Are you getting enough rest? Do you feel tired? Any pains in your chest?

As always, she says she's fine. I hope that's the truth.

When the conversation wanes, I remember something I left in the car. “Who wants to play a game tonight?” I ask. On Monday, when we first arrived, I noticed that there weren't many board games in the house. When the kids were younger, whenever we went to the beach, we would play lots of games, especially when it rained, so after work today I went back to the house and picked up a few of the family favorites. Immediately after dinner I grab them from the car and ask Cade which one he'd like to play.

“The Game of Life,” he replies instantly. “I rock at it.”

“Emily,” I call from the living room, “the kids and I are going to play Life. You want to join?”

“I'd like to,” comes her response, “but I've got to clean up from dinner.”

“OK. We'll just wait until you're ready.”

It takes her another fifteen minutes before she finally leaves the kitchen, wearing the crab apron and a matching scowl.

“About time,” I mumble.

Emily turns pink again. “You know what? I think I'm just going to go read. You guys go ahead and play without me.”

“We've been waiting here, just for you, and now you're not even going to play? That's perfect.”

“I'm sorry, Dell. But I'm not in the mood to play anymore. You go ahead and enjoy Life without me.” Her pink is turning red, more like the lobster. She leaves without saying another word.

“Ah crap,” I mutter, “it's going to be another one of those nights.”

“Can we just play?” asks Bree.

I let out a long breath. “Yes, Breezy, you go first.”

The game goes along fine for the first little while. But as it progresses, Ann starts looking more and more uncomfortable each time she spins the dial to learn her new fate in the game. We're maybe halfway around the game board—and she's in the lead—when she stands up and announces that she is quitting.

I'm just as confused as Cade and Bree by her behavior. “What's going on, Ann? I thought you liked this game.”

“Yeah, when I was their age,” she replies, motioning to her brother and sister.

“What's changed?”

“I have.” She appears to be on the verge of tears.

“I don't get it.”

In a mad flash of emotions, Ann bends down and plucks her game piece off the board. “You see this, Dad? My little car has
five
people in it! I have a husband and three kids in this stupid game. On my very first turn I went to college, and on my next turn I got married. Now I've got a career and I'm worried about buying a bigger house.”

“Oh, I see,” I say gently. “I'm so sorry, Ann. I didn't even think of that.”

“You know what this game needs? How about a card that destroys your dreams? Where is the cancer card or the miscarriage card or the divorce card? And where is an avert-disaster space? There should be a space that if you land on it, you're suddenly free and clear of life's most unfair circumstances. I don't want the six-figure income or the mansion, I just want the get-out-of-death-free card!” She pauses, narrowing her focus on me. “I hate The Game of Life. I'm going to bed.”

“I understand,” I say softly as she walks off. “You're right. It's not fair.”

After that, the evening sort of fizzles. Bree eventually heads upstairs too, and the pair of them read books until they fall asleep. Cade and I stay up late watching television. It isn't optimal, but when Cade stands next to the TV and holds the antenna just right, we're able to follow along with
Survivor.

At eleven o'clock, with Cade yawning every five seconds, I concede that I've been stalling.

Be a man, Dell. You can't avoid her forever…

Cade makes his bed on the couch, and I finally make my way to the bedroom. “Good night,” I say, ruffling his hair. I wish talking to my wife was as easy as talking to my son.

I slip inside and close the door behind me. For a few minutes, the room is silent. She's on the bed, reading. I know she knows I'm there, but she's actively ignoring me. “So,” I venture, “are you going to tell me why you're mad? What'd I do this time?”

She pretends to still be interested in her book. Doesn't even bother looking up. “I'm not mad.”

“Of course you are. You're sulking. This is how you act when I've done something wrong.”

“Well, you should know what you did. Why don't you think about it…”

I let a little time pass to see if she's going to give me any clue. She doesn't. “So you're not going to tell me?”

Another silence. Then she finally looks up from her book and stares me down. “Do you know how long it took me to make dinner? Three hours! I spent all afternoon working on it, so it would be just right. I wanted to start cleaning up Grandma's room today, but I didn't have time because I wanted to have a nice meal for you when you arrived.”

“And I appreciated it.”

“No you didn't! That's the thing, you didn't even say thank you! If you'd had your way, we would have wasted our money on some pizza joint. I made Chicken Divan, Dell—
your favorite dish
—and not only did you not bother to thank me, but you didn't even comment on how it tasted. Then afterward you go off with the kids to play the game, and nobody even bothers to help clean up the kitchen. You all sat in there on your rears waiting for me to come, when we could have started the game much sooner if you'd just thought to help me out a little.”

“You should've said you wanted help.”

“I shouldn't have to! I
always
want help. We're supposed to be a team, remember?”

“Fine. I'm sorry. I should have thanked you. And helped you. And whatever else it is that you think I should have done.”

“Don't get smart with me. It's very unattractive.”

“Don't worry, right now I'm not trying to attract anything.”

I know that last comment was hurtful…but it was meant to hurt.

It doesn't surprise me at all when she starts to cry. I let her cry it out for several minutes without saying anything. Finally she wipes her eyes and says, “The night you left, Bree was so worried about us that she came down in the middle of the night to ask if I still loved you.”

“And? What did you tell her?”

“What do you think?”

I know that's a loaded question, so I don't respond.

“What about you, Dell? What if she'd asked you if you still loved me?”

“I do love you,” I say flatly. “Even if you don't love me, I still love you.”

“No you don't.”

“How can you say that? If I say I do, then I do.”

“Words alone are hollow. It dawned on me when I was talking to Bree that we don't love each other anymore. We used to love each other. I mean really love each other, fiercely. And I think we still
want
to love each other. Maybe we both still feel that sense of commitment and obligation for the other, but you don't actively love me anymore, Dell, and I'm probably guilty of the same thing. We're hoping for the noun of love, but not applying the verb.”

“Honestly, I don't even know what that means.”

“You would if you loved me.”

“I do love you!”

“Then show it, Dell. That's all I've ever wanted.”

“Yeah, well, it goes both ways,” I say angrily. “You get what you give, I guess.” I hesitate briefly, wondering what I can say now.
Nothing
.
Stop before the hole gets deeper.
“This conversation is getting us nowhere. We should stop now, before one of us says something we really regret.”

W
HEN DAD SHOWED
up yesterday, he said the weather was going to get better.

He was wrong.

It's still as rainy as last week, and I'm really getting tired of it. I want to be flying kites and building sand castles and feeding seagulls; instead I'm stuck inside doing nothing but adjusting rabbit ears above the television.

I wonder if it's rainy like this back in Portland? I bet not. My friends are probably having the best summer ever, while I'm stuck here with nothing to do.

After lunch Mom and Dad make us go visit Grandma Grace again. I haven't been around a lot of old people, so maybe my opinion is wrong, but I don't think she's doing so hot. She looks so weak, like the smallest movement might break her. It's really a bummer, because she's always been really cool to us kids. Now she's just sort of there, if you know what I mean. Like in limbo, waiting for something else to happen.

It's kind of sad—Grandma Grace would probably like to die, but Ann doesn't want to and doesn't deserve to. I don't understand why Grandma should get to live so long but my sister could just drop dead tomorrow, without warning.

I don't want my sister to die. I don't want anyone to die, but especially not my sister.

Anyway, when we get to the place where Grandma is at, I have to plug my nose. I really don't like the smell. I'm convinced it's the old people who smell, but Dad says it's the smell of all their medicines. Maybe he's right, because I spot a nurse going from room to room with plastic cups loaded with humongous pills for everyone.

How the heck do their old throats swallow those things?

“Speaking of medicine,” says Dad, “Ann, you're looking kind of pale today. Are you keeping up on your meds?”

She rolls her eyes. Ann hates her pills, but she has to take them every day or she gets really weak. “Not because I like to, but yes.”

When we go into Grandma Grace's room, it's nice to see that she still recognizes everyone. Mom wasn't so sure she would. But today her speech is really jumbled, like she's chewing on marbles. On several occasions she says things that we can't make any sense of.

The worst is when Mom tells her we're going to start organizing the things in her bedroom so we can give the walls a fresh coat of paint. Grandma gets a distant look in her eyes, then says something that sounds to me like, “Down throat way the score chards.”

“What'd she say?” I whisper.

“Down through the way to score charts,” chirps Bree.

Huh?

“Right,” snickers Ann. “That clarifies things.”

Mom leans in closer. “Grandma, I didn't catch what you said. Something about scorecards?”

Every wrinkle on Great-grandma's face pulls together into a massive frown. “The
nude books
,” she whispers slowly. Or at least that's what it sounds like. “I won the nude books.”

The way Dad and Mom look at each other, I suddenly have a feeling they are going to sort through Grandma's stuff in private before they let us in the room to help.

Sure enough, when we get back to the beach house, they tell us we'll be called to help once everything is “safe.”

The good news is that we don't have to help right away with the work. The bad news is that we now have more time to kill on our own, and the weather still stinks.

“I know,” I tell my sisters while we're trying to figure out what to do, “how about we play Twenty Questions?”

“How about not,” replies Bree. “You don't know the difference between a vegetable and a mineral.”

“What about the games Dad brought?”

“No thanks.”

“There are cards. We could play Hearts.”

Ann looks up. “I don't think so, Cade.”

“Why not?”

“Really? You want me to play a game where the loser is the one who collects the most hearts?”

OK, so she has a point. “Uno, then?”

“No.”

“Charades?”

“No.”

“Mancala?”

“Double no.”

I'm running out of ideas fast. “Hide and Seek?”

My sisters glance at each other. “Yes!” says Ann. “Great idea. I'll be it first.”

“Cool,” I tell her. “Count to a hundred.”

“I'll count to
three
hundred, just to make sure you have time to get really well hidden.” Ann closes her eyes and begins slowly counting.

Bree picks up her art pad and tiptoes to the top of the stairs. I follow her up. When she gets to her bedroom, she whispers, “I'll hide in here. You have to hide somewhere else.”

I nod.
Why would I hide with her when I already have the perfect spot in mind?
I tiptoe a few steps farther and twist the handle to the attic door.

It is darker than I thought it would be, even with the light coming in from the hallway. There are six steps leading up to a loft area beneath the roof. For a second or two after pulling the door closed behind me, I am in complete darkness, but then my eyes begin to adjust. There is a light switch on the wall, but I know if I turn it on, Ann will find me in a snap.

Like a wraith, I move up the stairs without making a sound. The higher I go, the more I can see in the dark. The attic platform is right below the sloping roof, so while it is nearly head-high in the middle, toward the sides there is only a couple feet of clearance. Using all my senses, I creep farther into the black, climbing over and around a lifetime of boxes and clutter, most of which I have a hard time identifying with the tiny sliver of light coming in through an air vent. Halfway to the back of the platform I find what feels like a string of Christmas lights; my next step confirms it when I step on a bulb—I freeze, praying that Ann didn't hear it. As I make my way closer to the rear wall, I also come across what I guess to be a set of golf clubs, a Christmas tree stand, an open box of hats, a bag of sweaters, and either a broken globe or a very smooth basketball.

Finally I drop down behind a large box at the very back. Then I wait.

And wait.

After like ten minutes, Ann yells, “Three hundred! Ready or not, here I come!”

Then I wait.

And wait.

And keep on waiting.

What the heck? Is she really this bad at Hide and Seek?

After another fifteen minutes, I realize that I'm probably the only one playing the game. No one is coming. I snuck into the attic to hide, and they are perfectly happy letting me stay here by myself forever. In frustration, I stand up to full height and kick at the box in front of me, but the spot where I stand is too short for a nearly sixth-grader like myself. I cry out in pain when my scalp digs into a series of roof staples.

Twenty seconds later, the attic door swings open and the overhead light flickers to life. “Found you!” says Ann.

“You weren't even looking,” I mutter, squinting while my eyes adjust to the light. I'm still rubbing my head, feeling for blood.

“You were just really well hidden.”

“Liar.”

“Seriously. But I knew you'd give yourself away sooner or later.”

“I poked my head on nails or something.”

“Ouch. You OK?”

“I'll be fine. I just need to—” My eyes latch on to something a few feet away. “Oh my gosh! I found it! I totally forgot!”

“Found what?”

“Great-grandpa's metal detector! Aunt Bev told me it was here. She said there was treasure buried out back.” I step over a weathered brown box and pick it up. “I can't believe we've been here a week and I just remembered this now.”

“Does it work?”

The handle-end has a silver switch on the side, which I assume is the power. I flip it on, and then hold the scanner-end upside down against the roof staples. It instantly starts going nuts.
BZZZZZZZZ!

“Sweet!”

Finally, no matter what else happens this summer, I have found something to do. I am going to find a buried treasure!

I practically run downstairs to go find my fortune in the rain, only to be stopped by my parents just as I'm opening the back door.

“C'mon, kids!” Dad shouts from Grandma's bedroom. “Everyone come help. The coast is clear. There's nothing bad in here.”

“No nude books?” replies Ann with a giggle.

I poke my head through the master bedroom door and beg them to let me go outside with my new toy so I can find the wealth that must surely be waiting for me.

I'm going to be rich!

“After the work is done,” Mom says.

“How about I share my treasure with you if you let me go?”

Dad laughs. “How about you give me
everything
you dig out of the dirt unless you dig in and help us here first?”

It's not even worth arguing; with both parents taking the same side, there is no getting out of it now. I set down the metal detector and head to the closet to help Bree box up clothes. “What if Grandma Grace needs these when she gets out of the hospital?” I ask.

Everyone goes quiet for a few seconds, like I said something wrong.

“We're not getting rid of them,” Mom explains. “Just boxing them up for now so they're out of the way while we paint. Don't worry, Grandma's things are safe. If she comes back home, everything will be right where she left it.”

“So you're not selling this place?” asks Ann.

“Not right away, no. It wouldn't be right. We don't want to do anything until we see how things go with Grandma.”

Bree yanks a blouse from its hanger. “But…she's probably not coming home…is she?”

Mom is kneeling beside a box of papers she pulled from underneath the bed. She leans back to rest on her heels. “No, sweetie. Probably not. As sad as that is to think about, just keep in mind that the sickness she has…well, it's painful. It's hard on her physically and mentally. So we may be sad to see her go, but it will probably be a blessing for her. Plus, she's lived a good long life, so I'm sure she feels like it's time.”

Bree nods that she understands.

I nod too.

But Ann? She looks mad. “So it's OK for her to die because she lived a long time?”

“That's not what I meant,” Mom says, backpedaling.

“It's what you said. ‘She's lived a good long life.' Well, what if you haven't lived a long life? Does that mean it's not OK to die?”

Mom sits back on her heels again, and then drops all the way to a sitting position on the floor. “Ann,” she whispers in a voice that says she might start crying, “please don't twist this around. I truly didn't mean it that way. In fact, we shouldn't measure lives by their length. There's nothing that says eighty years is better than fifty years is better than fifteen. It's
how
we live that counts. Yes, Grandma Grace has lived a long time, but it was how she lived each day that made her life special. Made it ‘
good.
'” She hesitates, then says, “I'm sorry. I should have been more careful with my words.”

“So you'll be OK if I die young?” It's an awful question, and the room goes deathly quiet.

“Like hell we will,” replies Dad before Mom can respond. “And that's not going to happen, Ann. You're going to be fine. You hear me?”

Ann is still waiting for Mom to say something.

Now the tears begin to trickle down Mom's face. “If you were to die young, I'd be so proud of the life you've lived. And I would come to accept that your time was done, that you did what you came here to do. But would I be OK? No, Ann. Losing you would be the worst day of my life. You know that, right? And though lives can't be properly measured in years, I promise, I would do
anything
for you to be able to live a long, long life.” She stops to wipe her sleeve on her face. “Have I ever told you about the train engineer who realized the tracks were broken?”

“No.”

Mom tries to smile, but she's not very successful. “I don't remember where I read this, but there was once a man—a train engineer—who was stationed at a fork in the tracks. The electric switch was broken, so he needed to be there to make sure the trains stayed to the right, because the tracks to the left were under repair. If a train went to the left, it would immediately run off the tracks and crash. So the engineer was waiting, and he hears a train whistle blow. The noon train was coming around the bend at full speed. As he should, he pulls on the lever to manually switch the exchange to the right, toward a narrow train bridge. However, as he pulled the lever, he looked up and saw that his own little boy was crossing the bridge to bring him his lunch. At the rate the train was coming, it couldn't stop in time, nor could his son get off the bridge in time to avoid being hit, so he knew if he kept holding on to the lever and sent the train to the right, his son would die. If he let go of the lever and sent the train to the left, all of the people on the train would die.”

“I don't like this story.” Ann's voice is numb. Looking a little whiter than normal, she sits down on the chair next to Grandma's queen-size bed. “Did this really happen?”

Mom shrugs. “I don't know…but I think so.”

“What did the engineer do?”

My mother is quiet for a second, then says, “He held on to the lever.” After another moment, she explains, “The story was told as a metaphor for God's love. The engineer willingly gave his son so that others could live.” She pauses again, looking down at her lap. When she looks up, there are more tears running down her cheeks. “Ann, maybe this makes me a terrible person, but I don't think I'd think twice about it. If it were you, Bree, or Cade out there on that bridge, I think I'd let go of the lever and send the train to the left.” She sniffles once, then stands up and picks up the box in front of her.

There's a whole lot of quiet in the room after that. It's all I can do to get the image of a little boy being struck by a train out of my head. What finally does the trick is Ann's snicker and then goofy laugh and then, “I found the nude books!”