You Only Get So Much (20 page)

Chapter 41

"So you think this
Ella woman knows why Jane left you," Michelle asks after Libby excuses
herself to clean up after our day of touring the city.

"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 about 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 outstretched
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.

I lean back in my seat
and try to close my eyes. I wonder if the Xanax lady as any extras?

*
* *

We land in Minneapolis
around 6:00 in the evening, which in January means it's pitch black outside and
freezing. As the plane taxis to the gate the icy landscape is illuminated by
the blinking lights on the wings. Heavy snow comes down in icy pin drops that
melt on the plane's hot engines. I'm glad Michelle had the forethought to look
at the weather and remind me to pack for the extreme cold. My parka is in my
carry-on and I already feel the need to zip it on.

"Welcome to
Minneapolis," a flight crew member says over the intercom. "The local
time is 6:02 p.m. It's a balmy 22 degrees out there . . ."
 

I wake Libby, who
managed to sleep through the entire flight and landing, which was probably the
best for both of us. We collect our carry-on bags and head to the rental
counter where we procure a four-wheel drive SUV for the next few days.

"Do you want to
drive out there now, or find a hotel and go in the morning?" I ask.

"I'm not sure if
I'd be able to sleep if we waited until the morning," she says.

"Can you find it in
the dark?"

"That's a good
question. I think so."

"Good enough for
me," I say, because there was absolutely no way I was going to be able to
sleep either.

We drive north for about
an hour and a half on Interstate 94. The highway is clear. The snow has stopped
and I can still see the lines on the shoulder where the plows recently passed.
The land is flat, at least the parts I can see from in my headlights.

We pass the exits for St.
Cloud, finally taking Exit 160 at the city of St. Joseph and begin driving
through the small town.

"The buildings you
can see lit up over there are from the college," Libby says. "They're
a lot taller than anything around here."

I see a sign for the College
of St. Benedict and conclude that's what is slowly fading away from view in my
rearview mirror. I make a mental note of the landmark so I can find my way back
to the highway, just in case Libby can't find the house.

We drive down several
narrow roads, following signs toward Rassier Lake. Tall trees, encapsulated in
heavy snow block any view from the road.
 

"Turn here,"
she says after a few miles.

"There's a road
there?"

"Yes," she
says. "See the little shelter off to the side? That's a school bus stop.
That's where I'd get picked up for school."

"There's no
sign."

"Trust me, it's the
right spot," she says.

We pass several large
homes with three-car garages before crossing a single lane bridge.

"That's the Watab
River, but it's really just a little creek most of the time," she says.

The bands of trees
lining the road become more dense as we snake our way back over the unplowed
and seemingly abandoned road. The SUV slides from one icy rut to the next. The
fresh snow masks any previous tire tracks. We round a hairpin turn at a
turtle's pace to ensure we don't slide off the road and into the ditches that
run adjacent to our path.

The trees part and a
clearing comes into view. At the far side of the clearing, backed by a forest
of trees, sits a small brick rancher with an attached single-car garage.

The lights aren't on. My
heart sinks. She must not be home.

I park in the driveway
behind a silver Ford pickup that's covered in six inches of snow.

"Is this it?"
I ask, but I can tell from the expression on her face that we're in the right
place.

"Yes. This is Aunt
Ella's house."

"Doesn't look like
she's home," I say, disappointed.

But just then a flash of
light comes through one of the basement windows. It flickers, then fades again.
We glance at one another, but neither of us comments on it. My first thought
was that a burglar was prowling around the basement of the unoccupied home with
a flashlight. But before I can say anything, Libby opens the door and steps out
of the SUV. I follow into the winter wind and shin-deep snow.

The porch light is off
and I can't see any lights or motion on the first floor, but again the light
flickers from the basement. Someone is here.

Libby knocks on the door
and after just a few seconds I hear a clanging sound like a frying pan falling
to the floor.

The noise doesn't faze
Libby, who continues to stand at the doorway.

The basement light
disappears and then suddenly reappears to the left of the doorway. Whoever was
in the basement is now headed toward us.

"Maybe we should
wait until morning," I say wondering why a burglar would answer the front
door.

Before Libby can reply,
the front door opens.

In the pale moon light,
obscured by the cover of the porch stands a white-haired, elderly woman in
sweatpants holding a flashlight toward the ground. She's completely soaking wet
from head to toe and a puddle is forming on the tile floor below her. In her
other hand is a large empty cooking pot.

"It's about time
you got—" she says, before stopping herself mid-sentence. There's a
long pause before she whips the bright light upward to Libby's face, then to
me, then back again.

 
"Lib?" the woman asks.

"Aunt Ella, what
happened?!"

The flashlight glare
returns to my face.

"Not who I expected,
but I wondered when you'd finally show up here," Aunt Ella says, handing
me the cooking pot.