What Holds Us Together

by Sandi Ward

  The man’s previously hopeful expression turns pained. I think she has insulted him. “What? Are you serious? They’re classics. Absolute classics. They’re both fantastic. ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ was a great choice.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The man tips his head, clearly fascinated, as if he has never seen this type of human before. I can see his breath in the air when he exhales. Strands of dark hair poke out from under his hat, and his face is turning a deeper shade of red. Because he’s wearing heavy layers, I assume he is both freezing and too hot as my woman keeps him standing on the front step. I saw the same thing happen to the twins when they were younger. They would play outside in the snow and get overheated from the layers of clothes Annika forced them to wear.

  “Because,” he finally sputters out, “Annie. Because. Look. Think about the lyrics. They mean something. That song is about realizing the outside world isn’t all it promised it would be. It’s about returning home. Like both of us, finding ourselves back here in Manchester after going off to college and the years passing. Right?” He suddenly looks surprised all over again. “I can’t believe you’re here. If your parents moved, why are you here?”

  His face brightens, waiting for her answer.

  Annika stares back. Her face is blank. I’m not sure what she’s thinking.

  He squints at her. “Come on. I know you remember. We danced to—”

  “Sam.” She shudders, as if coming out of a trance. “Why are you here again? Why are you looking for my dad?”

  He sighs. Stuffing his face mask in his coat pocket, he says, “Yeah. Sorry. Okay. Forget it. I suspect the deeper meaning would be lost on you, anyway. You’ll never appreciate classic rock, right?” He chuckles. “Well, I’m just here to see if you want your driveway serviced. My dad’s company has a standing contract with Rich—I mean, your dad—to plow his driveway, and I was checking in. I had no idea he moved to Maine. He never ended the contract. But I guess he knew you’d be here and need plowing out. They say it’s going to be a blizzard with hurricane force winds, so there will definitely be drifting.”

  “A blizzard? That bad?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say. It could be two feet of snow, maybe more. So the way it works is, we’ll get everyone done repeatedly on a rotating basis. You might hear us at 11 p.m. tonight and then again at 11 a.m. tomorrow. It all depends on when the snow starts and how fast we can rotate around. We’ll plow the driveway and then shovel the walk by hand.”

  “I’m just staying here for a while. I mean, we might be gone in a month or two. I don’t know yet.” Annika shivers as the one cloud in the sky begins to cover the sun and the whole day darkens by a shade of gray. “But the plowing sounds fine. I don’t care what you do, or how you do it.” She wraps her arms around her torso. “I mean—it’s not that I don’t care. I do care. What I meant to say is, I don’t mind. I’m glad. I can’t shovel the whole driveway myself. Clearly.”

  “Okay.” The man pulls at his gloves, as if they’re not on tight enough. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, and I can see he’s feeling the cold right through his thick boots. “Yeah, believe me, you want help for this one. Otherwise you could be trapped here for days. You’ve got a really long driveway, and that Volvo you’ve got sitting there isn’t going to get far if it’s buried in snow. You should put that car in the garage. Didn’t you hear the forecast?” He looks around, as if it’s already starting to snow and he’s trying to show Annika that she just needs to focus in order to see it. But the day is still silent and dry and beautiful, the ground bare with dead leaves and pine needles.

  “The car won’t fit in the garage. It’s full of old junk my parents never got rid of. And yes, I heard the forecast.” Annika leans against the door. It’s a red door, flawless and shiny, with a brass knocker in the shape of a whale. “I know all about the storm. It sounds nice.”

  The man’s head snaps back to look at her. “Does it? But what—”

  “Mm-hm. I’m really looking forward to it. It sounds peaceful. I’m going to take the time to relax and catch up on my reading.”

  I agree with her! It’s going to be wonderful. Snuggled up in the soft blue fleece blanket. Sitting by a roaring fire. Listening to the reassuring drone of the television.

  But when I look up at Annika, she actually doesn’t look so happy about it. Instead, she suddenly looks rather lost.

  In fact, I highly doubt she needs to “catch up on” her reading. She reads all day, every day.

  I think the man sees what I see, because he stops fidgeting. “Well, I just hope you’re prepared,” he says in a gentler tone. “You went to the grocery store, right? Do you have enough milk and bread for a few days?”

  “Sure. I have plenty of food. And I love the snow.”

  The man stares at her, and his eyes soften, as if he’s suddenly reminded of something. “I know,” he says quietly. “I know that.” He opens his mouth, as if he wants to say more, but nothing comes out.

  “I’m sure you’re really busy, with this storm coming. Thanks for letting me know you’ll plow the driveway. And thanks for coming by, Sam. It’s good to see you.” Annika shuts the door, turning her head away from him and not bothering to wait for the man to retreat down a step or two.

  Annika pauses, leaning back against the closed door and putting a hand over her stomach. Her eyes fill with tears, and her nose crinkles up. I wait, unsure if she feels unwell, or perhaps is about to cry. But then she takes in a sharp breath, thrusts her shoulders back, and looks at me.

  “‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,’” she mutters, shaking her head and dabbing at her eye. “That’s nonsense. I mean—it was, Luna, wasn’t it? Total nonsense.” I follow her as she strides back to the kitchen.

  I agree with her. I don’t know what in the world that man was talking about. I don’t know what he was trying to pull.

  Although . . . it’s also true that my woman was the one asking most of the questions. I feel sorry for that man. She kept him standing there in the cold too long. He was slow and obviously confused.

  When we get to the kitchen, we stare out the sliding glass door to the backyard. The woods look frozen. The maple trees are bare, the pine trees appear brittle, and the world is still. This must be what the humans mean by the “dead of winter.”

  It’s unnatural, and makes me terribly nervous.

  And that’s when I feel it. I bristle, realizing that Peter’s spirit hovers behind me. I turn to look at him. I mean—at his ghost.

  Peter is watching Annika with clear blue eyes. He’s wearing a worn-out T-shirt and comfy shorts as if it’s a lazy summer Sunday instead of the middle of winter. I suppose that’s what he was wearing the night he died, in the heat of July. He’s also missing his leg, and yet not leaning on his crutches—he’s standing as if on two legs!

  Lines form on his forehead as he frowns. I bet he’s not happy to find himself here, in this cottage in the woods. Peter loved our big house by the sea. He probably doesn’t understand why Annika moved. Maybe he’d like us to go back.

  “Nineteen degrees, Luna.” Annika glances at a small box just outside the door. “That’s colder than it was a few hours ago.”

  Hmm. I crane my neck up and try to catch her eye, but she’s scanning the backyard. I wonder if she senses what I do: the danger. It is going to be a terrible storm. I can feel it all over.

  But now that Peter’s ghost is here, I feel a little better, so I stand my ground. Peter will keep an eye on us, I’m sure of it, but I also know from listening to Peter’s stories that there’s only so much a ghost can do. A ghost is not capable of the same actions as a living human.

  I guess I don’t actually know what a ghost can do. Anything helpful? I know that they rattle chains and moan, which are things that I seriously cannot imagine Peter doing even for a minute. But what else can a ghost do? I wish I could ask Annika.

  Maybe I can ask Peter.


  Why are you here?

  He turns and looks at me, which makes me jump.

  Annika is holding me here. She’s been thinking about me a lot lately—more than ever, now that she’s back in Manchester.

  Where’s your prosthesis?

  He smirks. In my casket? Donated somewhere? I don’t know. But I don’t need it where I’m going.

  But you’re standing without crutches.

  Yes, I am. Strange, isn’t it?

  Why yes, it is.

  Before I can ask him more, he fades from view. I look around, but sure enough, he’s gone.

  It occurs to me that although that man Sam was an unwelcome distraction, perhaps it’s best that he will be back. If this storm ends up being fierce, it would be good to have another human know that we’re here.

  Just in case. Despite the fact that Sam looked like a scruffy troll.

  The fact is, our home is in the woods, and the neighbors are not close. We can see the lights from other houses at night, but during the day the houses are hard to discern through the hills, rocks, trees, and brush.

  Will Sam definitely come check on us, though? I wonder. My woman did close the door in his face rather abruptly.

  I trot to the front room and stare out the picture window until the sun finally sets, melting pink behind the trees, and the sky takes on an eerie glow. My eyes wait for the flutter of a wing or the flick of a chipmunk’s tail, but there’s nothing to see.

  The twins stay up late watching movies and stuffing their mouths with buttered popcorn, as they have already learned they have a “snow day” tomorrow, which means no school. Annika and I go to bed before they do, Annika under the comforter and I on top. Just before sunrise, I wake.

  And, I realize with a fluttering in my heart, it has begun. While I cannot see it or hear it, I know the snow has started to fall.

  The Sea Serpent

  LUNA

  While I wait for Annika to wake up, I think about how Peter’s spirit spoke to me yesterday. I believe his soul was supposed to leave the earth when he died.

  So what’s gone wrong?

  I remember the stories he told to try to figure it out, thinking back to the days when the children were small.

  * * *

  I jump up on Delilah’s bed to hear Peter better. This is my favorite time of night, when the children get comfortable so they can listen to Peter tell a story.

  “What does Death look like, Daddy? Is he a scary skeleton?”

  Peter scoots closer to Delilah. His crutches lean against the wall, nearby. Delilah is wearing a long, red flannel nightgown and has kicked off her white comforter.

  “Death?” He kisses her forehead. “Are you thinking about Snowball?”

  She nods, sticking her thumb in her mouth. We found Delilah’s rabbit dead in her cage one morning last week.

  Peter takes Delilah’s hand away from her face with the utmost care and holds her hand. “Don’t worry about Snowball. She’s in Heaven, eating carrots and lettuce.”

  “But what does Death really look like?” Donovan chimes in. He’s wearing striped pajamas. Both of the children have straggly hair that won’t stay in place and a variety of odd-sized or missing teeth.

  Peter pauses. “No one knows. You see, once you meet Death for the first time, it’s also your last time. Because, of course, you’re dead! And then your soul is whisked off to Heaven. No one has ever come back from Heaven to tell us what Death looks like.”

  Donovan rolls around on the foot of the bed. “Everyone knows Death looks like a skeleton. Come on, Daddy.” His voice drips with frustration. “Everyone already knows that.”

  “Well.” Peter raises an eyebrow. The glow from the bedside lamp is dim and yellow. “Some say Death looks like a skeleton, cloaked in a black cape and hood, carrying a scythe.”

  “A what?” the twins ask in unison.

  Peter holds his arms up over his head and brings them down in a broad, slicing motion. “A sharp blade for cutting down wheat.”

  Delilah opens her eyes wide. Donovan’s mouth drops open.

  “But no, no, no. Personally, I think that’s totally wrong.” Peter rubs his eyelid with one finger. “Look. If you’re going to Heaven, why would God send this character Death who looks like a monster? That makes no sense at all. I think Death must be absolutely beautiful. If you can picture the most amazing, kind, and loving angel in your mind—”

  “Boy or girl?” Donovan interrupts.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Peter lifts his chin. “Just imagine a very sweet and benevolent—”

  “Bene-what?” Delilah scratches her elbow.

  “Someone generous and friendly,” Peter continues. “Then that would be Death, I think.” He peers at Delilah. “You aren’t thinking of Mommy, are you?”

  She giggles.

  “Because Death doesn’t look like Mommy. Just picture a different nice person.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Donovan howls. “I’m tellin’ Mommy you think Death looks like her.”

  “Nooo,” Delilah squeals, but she is not upset. She clenches the material of her nightgown in her fists. “Don’t say that. Please. I’m just picturing a sweet angel.”

  I get up from where I sit near Donovan and walk over to Peter to take my place in his lap. Sometimes, I climb on his thighs. But tonight, since he is not wearing his mechanical leg, I curl up at the end of his stump on the bed.

  He runs a steady hand down my back. “You know, the ancient Egyptians worshipped cats. They turned cats into mummies when they died, just like they did to people, wrapping them up before burial. And they would mummify mice to leave with their bodies.”

  Excuse me?

  I look up at him. Is this true? I always assume everything Peter says is true. I suppose it must be.

  “And,” he goes on, “humans mourned their deaths just as they would if any family member died.”

  “But, Daddy!” Delilah is quick to grab his arm. “Of course they did. Who wouldn’t?”

  Peter shrugs. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

  “Can we mummify mice for Luna?”

  He laughs. “Maybe. Maybe we should.”

  My goodness! Perhaps the Egyptians worshipped cats, but I certainly worship Peter. He is so smart and knows so much about the world.

  “Daddy . . .” Delilah looks up at the ceiling. “When you lost your leg, did you think you might die?”

  Peter grows quiet, and for a moment he looks inward and his face shuts down. But he quickly recovers. “No, no, sweetheart.” He ruffles her hair. “I lost some blood, and I wasn’t thinking straight. I was in pain for a while. But I never thought I would die. I really, really wanted to live. I wanted to marry your mom and meet you guys.”

  Donovan nods at his father. “Sorry, Daddy.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  Delilah grabs Peter’s hand. “Can’t you ask a nice witch to make a spell and give you your leg back?”

  “Ah.” Peter swallows and takes in a breath. He reaches down to move me out of the way, handing me to Donovan. Then he pulls the comforter up over Delilah’s legs and his own, so she’s not looking and comparing their legs anymore. “But you see, sweetheart, there’s no spell that works like that. I’m sorry if it makes you upset.”

  Her lip trembles. “It doesn’t make me upset, Daddy,” she whimpers, starting to tear up. “I don’t care if you have a stupid leg or not.”

  There’s a pause. Delilah reaches to hug her father first; then Donovan scrambles over. I jump to get out of the way. I don’t want to get hit by little human knees and elbows.

  “It’s funny,” Peter says, “it still feels like my leg is there. I don’t remember it’s gone until I look down or try to stand up. And I always have two legs in my dreams. I think about playing soccer on a huge green field. But, you know, having two legs? It’s not really that important.” He holds both children in his arms. “In the big picture, it’s just a nuisance not to have it. You guys are what’s important.”

>   “Yeah,” Delilah agrees. “You don’t need it.”

  “You’re still a strong man, right?” Donovan looks up at Peter.

  “I can do what I need to do.”

  “He’s strong!” Delilah scolds her brother. “Daddy, squeeze him tighter and show him.”

  The children start bickering and laughing, but I’m still thinking about Death. I wonder, is that what will happen when I die? God will send a lovely angel, and the humans will wrap up mice for me? Hmm. Interesting. Very good, then! I settle down by myself at the end of the bed, curling up for a nice purr to think about it.

  Once they’re done being silly, Delilah sighs and lies against her father. “What about ghosts?”

  Ghosts? I pick up my head. I don’t know what that means.

  “Yeah, Dad,” Donovan cuts in. “Tell us a ghost story!”

  Peter hesitates. “Well, ghost stories can be a little scary sometimes. Maybe I could tell you a great love story instead. Love stories are better, in my opinion.”

  “Love story?” Donovan starts to gag. “Blech. No way. Just a ghost story.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” the twins yell at once.

  And so, I hear my first ghost story.

  * * *

  A few weeks later, Delilah asks again how Peter lost his leg. He’s told the twins the story many times.

  “Daddy. Will you tell us the story about the sea dragon?”

  I stretch out, front legs sunk into a soft pink blanket on Delilah’s bed. I start to knead my claws to keep them sharp.

  Left paw, right paw. Over and over.

  Peter puts his crutches aside and sits next to Delilah, and she slides over. He’s wearing his favorite sweatshirt, the one that reads BOSTON COLLEGE across the front. It’s blood red with rich gold lettering. Peter likes to point out to the children that these were the colors King Arthur used to wear, maroon and gold. Sometimes I wonder, could Peter be a descendent of that king? He knows so much about the Knights of the Round Table, it’s almost as if they are members of his own family. We have heard the stories about Camelot and Excalibur many times.