Three Bird Summer (9 page)

“Only if you promise not to tell why.”

“Deal,” I said.

We passed through the marsh into the open water, which had filled up with fishing boats, sailboats, and even a couple of pontoon boats. It felt like a crowd after the emptiness of the river, but Alice didn’t seem to mind. She gave a friendly wave to the occupants of every boat we passed.

“Do you guys ever water-ski up here?” she asked me.

“No way,” I said. “Grandma hates speedboats. She says they’re so noisy she can’t hear the loons.”

“Well, that’s true,” Alice said. “I never thought about that before.”

When we reached Alice’s dock, both of her parents were there, scrubbing the steps even though there didn’t seem to be anything on them.

Mr. Jensen stood up. “Hello, sailors!” he called cheerfully. “We thought maybe you two had paddled to Lake Superior!”

Mrs. Jensen gave us a smile, but there was a worried look in her eyes. “You must not have had cell service out on the lake,” she told Alice. “I called half a dozen times.”

I felt like I should make excuses and explain where we’d been, but Alice just laughed. She hopped out of the canoe, then knelt and held it for me while I made my way to the bow seat.

“See you, Memory Guy,” she whispered.

“Later, Duck,” I whispered back.

I gave her parents a polite wave and headed home.

“THERE YOU ARE,”
my mother said when I finally arrived back at the cabin. She was shelling peas at the kitchen table. “I would have gotten worried if I still thought you were out there on your own.”

I poured a glass of lemonade and didn’t say anything.

“Mrs. Jensen called midday when she couldn’t reach Alice on her cell phone. You didn’t say you were paddling with her.”

“You didn’t ask,” I said. I put the glass down on the counter and started to walk away. “Did Dad call while I was out?” I asked.

“I thought he called you already,” she said.

“He missed this week,” I told her.

“Surprise, surprise,” Mom said, shelling away.

I hated the sarcasm in her voice. “He probably had to work late,” I said. “Not everyone gets to work when and where they feel like it.” I headed back to my room before she could say anything more.

To my dismay, I spotted another note in the mirror over my dresser. I opened it and began to read.

The note drifted off like that, and this time she hadn’t even signed her name. What year did Grandma think this was? She’d made those eagle hats as a teenager! And did she really think she’d go back to the Fourth of July parade next year . . . with my grandfather?

I threw the note in my sock drawer, wishing I’d never seen it at all.

After dinner, Grandma and I played checkers while Mom finished up the dishes. Grandma had been so much more animated with Dottie around — as if seeing an old friend had really woken her up. But in her notes, she seemed to be reliving the sad times when my grandfather was away, or the moments when her life wasn’t settled. If her brain was wandering back in time, why didn’t it wander back to the best and happiest moments, like the ones Dottie loved to talk about?

“Grandma,” I said as I slid my checker piece forward, “was Dottie Lewis at your wedding?”

“Dottie?” she asked. “Of course she was. She was one of my bridesmaids!”

“So she knew my grandfather,” I pointed out. I hardly knew what to call him.

Grandma looked at me like I was the crazy one. “Well, if she was one of my bridesmaids, you would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m just asking, Grandma,” I said. “I thought you said something once . . .” I hesitated.

“What?” Grandma asked.

“I don’t know. Something about how you couldn’t tell Dottie about the two of you and your plans.” My voice tightened. I was wandering out onto thin ice.

“I wonder where you heard a thing like that!” Grandma said. “Dottie Lewis introduced me to your grandfather — they were second cousins. Of course, that doesn’t mean I told her all the little details of our courtship. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t. But why would you care about a thing like that?”

“I don’t know. Never mind,” I said. Grandma jumped two of my checker pieces. I looked up at her. “But those must have been happy times. When you were getting married to your best friend’s cousin. It’s almost like you and she were becoming family!”

“Of course,” Grandma said.

“Did you do crazy creative things? Like at the Fourth of July parade?” I asked, still determined to help her remember the good stuff. But Grandma just shrugged.

“I’m not sure we were very crazy or creative by then. But the wedding cake was delicious,” she said, which should have come out sounding like a happy memory but somehow did not.

“Did I hear someone say wedding cake?” my mother asked as she strode in. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing at all,” said Grandma. “I’m tired. And I’m going to bed.” She stood up creakily and headed off to her room.

My mother looked at me for an explanation, but I just folded the checkerboard into a
V
and concentrated on sliding all the checkers back into their box.

“ANYONE FEEL LIKE A WALK
in the woods this morning?” Mom asked at breakfast. “There’s a nice breeze coming across the lake. It shouldn’t be too buggy.” It had been two days since Dottie’s visit, but Mom still sounded cheerful, and she and Grandma were getting along better. Maybe we needed to invite visitors over more often.

“Sure,” I said.

“I think my old bones can manage a little mosey,” Grandma said.

We started out down an overgrown path that led past a forgotten outhouse.

“You really used that thing?” I asked Grandma. It was hard to imagine having to make such a long trek in the dark of night just to pee.

She gave me one of her looks.

“We all did,” Mom said. “Especially when we had lots of family visiting. I always ended up out this way in a tent with a bunch of cousins.”

We crossed a broad grassy clearing that looked out on the lake below. Butterflies spiraled among the tallest flowers. Grasshoppers sprang out of our way as we walked.

“We should have picnics here or something,” I said, admiring the view.

“It’s where Grandma had her wedding reception,” Mom said.

“That again,” Grandma said, almost to herself.

There didn’t seem to be any obvious path out the other side of the meadow, but Grandma acted like she knew what she was doing. She stepped over a fallen log, and soon we were back under the trees.

“There used to be a slew of trails out here,” Mom said. “Ma and I kept them clear all summer. What was that stuff we sprayed on the poison ivy?”

“Something you can’t buy anymore,” Grandma said.

“Probably totally toxic,” Mom said.

“You turned out OK,” Grandma retorted.

Through the trees, we heard the drumming of a woodpecker, and it grew louder as we continued on our trail. “Where is it?” I asked.

Grandma pointed her hand up ahead to the right. I saw a flash of red, then something popping around the trunk of a tall red pine. “Is it a downy woodpecker, Grandma?” I asked.

“Hairy,” she corrected.

“I don’t know how you keep all those birds straight,” Mom said, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

“When you really care about something, you don’t forget,” Grandma said.

“I wish that were true for me,” Mom said. “I’ve forgotten so many things I used to know.”

“Like what?” I asked.

My mom thought for a moment. “I can’t remember!” We all laughed.

I was afraid Mom was going to start a serious conversation about my grandmother’s memory, but instead she said, “Think you can get us back to our road, Ma?”

Grandma nodded and tromped on. I wasn’t sure she really did know her way. We were out there for a long time, stepping over logs and through brambly shrubs, weaving in and out among the trees before we finally hit the dirt drive. But I liked her confidence. It was like watching an old dog in the woods: she seemed perfectly happy to be wherever she was in that moment. When we reached the road, Mom breathed a sigh of relief.

“Phew! It’s getting warm again!” she said, pushing up her sleeves. “How are you doing, Ma?”

Grandma didn’t say anything. She looked completely exhausted now that we were on the open path. It was hotter with fewer trees overhead, and though the footing was easier, she moved much more slowly. When we reached the cabin, Grandma sank into the built-in bench on the deck. Mom brought us all lemonade.

“I hope I didn’t wear you out too much, Ma,” my mom said.

“I love those woods” was all Grandma said in response. After she drank her lemonade, she leaned her head back and stared out at the trees, not saying a word.

Still warm from the walk, I changed into my swim trunks and went down to the lake. Instead of walking the length of the dock and jumping in, I waded straight in from the shore. I swear I could feel the water making contact with every bit of my skin, pore by pore. Then I dove under and let myself be enveloped and buoyed by the cool lake water. I swam and somersaulted and dove some more, feeling like I might never want to get out of the lake again.

A pair of loons was swimming along the long edge of Grandma’s property. I swam over toward them, keeping my head above water and moving as slowly and quietly as possible. They knew I was there. Periodically they’d dive underwater and reappear in some unexpected place, swiveling their heads each time to see where I was. But they didn’t seem terribly concerned. Probably they knew a scrawny city kid was no real threat. And, in fact, the third time they popped up, I could have sworn they’d come closer. I could see individual feathers and water droplets glistening on their backs. The loons’ bodies seemed more massive and barrel-like up close than they did from a distance. We bobbed along for a while at the water’s edge, diving and resurfacing, eyeing one another with curiosity.

Finally the loons had enough of me. They dove down and resurfaced far out in the lake, and I made my way back to the dock. As I pulled myself up the ladder, I spied what looked like a giant black donut making its way in my direction across the shallow water. It was Alice, lying in her inner tube and kicking her way over from her dock to mine.

“Ahoy!” she shouted. She was holding a parcel in one arm, keeping it raised above the water.

When she reached the dock, she handed me the bag and slid off the tube into the water. Then she popped up again and pulled herself up onto the dock.

“What’s this?” I asked, peering inside.

“More cookies. From my mom!”

“What for?” I asked.

Alice shook the water off her skin. “I think she was just so relieved you got me home alive!”

“Wow. She has seriously low expectations,” I said.

Alice sat down on the edge of the dock, and I joined her, passing the bag of cookies over in case she wanted one, too.

“Didn’t you get any grief for being gone all day?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said. “Your mom called, so my mom knew I wasn’t out there alone.”

“Your mom is so cool,” she said.

“Er,” I said. “Not so sure about that one.”

“I like your grandma, too,” Alice said. “Although she’s a little intimidating. My mom wasn’t at all sure about introducing herself the first time. She’d heard the stories. . . .”

“The stories?” I asked. I hated to think what stories people were telling about Grandma.

“Oh, nothing bad, really,” Alice said. “I guess she used to give the neighbors a hard time when they cleared their trees or bought big motorboats. But I think she has a point. She just wants things to stay nice, right?”

“Sure,” I said. “But she needs to remember it’s not the 1950s anymore.”

“Oh, come on,” Alice said. “She’s not that bad.”

“I’m serious,” I said. Then I hesitated. I hadn’t meant to come so close to the truth.

“What is it?” Alice asked, looking at me with curiosity. She didn’t miss a thing.

I glanced behind us to make sure Mom wasn’t coming down the dock, and even then I spoke in a low voice. “I’m not so sure my grandma knows what year it is. Not all the time, anyway.”