We stayed there the whole morning—talking, laughing, snacking on raisins and granola bars. We made chairs out of snow.
After an hour, Nick rubbed a stick of sunscreen all over his face and said, “Trivia time: What does ‘Okemo’ mean in Abenaki?”
“Stupid colonist?” Terry said. He rested his head on Gail’s lap.
“Nope,” Nick said. “Gail? Guesses?”
Gail rolled her eyes. “Zell, got’ny trail mix?”
Nick threw an arm around me, pecked my forehead, and sighed. “‘Okemo’ means ‘All Come Home.’”
REAL TIME. REAL SPACE. On the bathroom wall, against the mountains, are four empty spots where Terry, Gail, Nick, and I, as happy and exhausted as sled dogs, will finally appear.
“Hi,” I whisper. My hand fills the white space for Nick’s face. My forehead touches the spot where his forehead—damp, wrinkled from squinting—belongs.
I hear my sister clear her throat. She pokes her head in and talks softly. “Before you get started, and before I forget, I just wanted to show you something. Remember that hot priest in the Muffinry?”
“Father Chet?”
“Sweet Father Chet.” She slides into the bathroom. “Remember he whispered something sexy to you in French? And I wrote it down and said I would translate it on Babel Fish? Well, I finally got around to it, and here’s what I came up with.” She shows me the wrinkled, coffee-stained napkin.
Underneath the phonetically spelled French words is Gail’s translation—a statement I remember from one of Nick’s e-mails, a statement that frustrated him, because Father Chet never offered a concrete explanation:
WE ARE ALL CONNECTED.
I PAINT ALL DAY. The next morning—after my parents leave to take in the annual polo tournament—I work for another two hours or so. Until the mural is complete.
That’s it. I feel no sense of ceremony, not even a real sense of accomplishment. The mural was something that needed doing—an unfinished project. And I finished it, and . . . that’s it.
Nick looks just as he does in the photograph: sweaty, eager. Except he’s life-size, and shinier, and somehow seems touchable.
After I wash up, I summon Gail and Terry, who hold hands and observe my art with wistful expressions on their faces. Tasha totters in and points. “Uncle Nick?”
Terry crouches and tucks an unruly curl behind her little ear. “That’s right, love,” he says. “Uncle Nick.”
I LACE UP MY HIKING BOOKS. I zip Ahab’s fairy charm into the pocket of my shorts. And in the passenger seat of my car, I buckle the seat belt over the LOVE canister.
It’s the best kind of summer day in Vermont: cloudless and dazzling and almost warm, and I head toward Mount Holly, where you can access that old overgrown trail that goes practically straight up the back of Okemo. Okemo’s butt crack, Nick used to say. The same overgrown trail we snowshoed that winter day, he and Gail and Terry and I.
But this time I hike alone, the LOVE canister tucked under one arm. Its contents are surprisingly heavy.
It’s a beautiful hike. Everything around and underneath me—trees, leaves, dirt—is damp, warm/cold, and becoming new. There is practically no breeze whatsoever—the air seems so still. And I meet no other people as I climb, which is fine with me.
Huffing and puffing, I hike straight up. No stopping. Briefly I search for the hidden vista Terry discovered on our winter hike, but I don’t find it.
At the summit I expect to see some other hikers, but it seems I’ve got the place to myself. I approach the rickety, defunct fire tower, where a NO TRESPASSING sign is chained across the first step. But I say, “No trespassing? Whatev” (I actually say this aloud), and vault right over the chain.
Up, up, up the tower. Twisting, winding up. The higher I get, the more the tower sways and groans, and I think maybe I shouldn’t have trespassed. But I keep going: five stories up.
When I reach the top, I catch my breath a moment and wish I’d carried some water with me. I suck fresh mountain air through my nose to clear it of the residual smell of paint and closed-up bathroom.
I fish in my pocket for the busted charm, pull it out, and finger it. Its fairy wings and one remaining foot flash in the sunlight. I cock back my arm and I’m about to fling the charm into the woods—but I hear something. An animal? A person? It approaches the tower. Twigs snap, leaves crunch. I search the ground far below, but can’t detect the source of the noises.
Ahab? I wonder, and my chest leaps at the thought. I imagine him appearing at the edge of the trees, sniffing the air. In my fantasy, Ahab’s collar is gone, porcupine needles protrude from his side, and his eye-patch eye is swollen shut. He’s suffered, but he’s survived, and he’s as self-possessed as an old sea captain. That’s his greyhound style. I imagine climbing all the way down the tower steps to bury my nose in his neck, where the fur smells like spring; like dried sylvan blood; like indelible, unknowable adventure.
“Yarr!” I whisper, watching the trees where the twigs and leaves continue to crunch. “A noggin o’ rum’s what I need!”
Finally the creature appears—a fox. It’s still for a moment, just long enough for me to admire its daintiness. Its white cheeks and chest blaze in the bright sun. It continues past the tower, unaware of my presence.
I remember Terry’s prediction that Ahab simply “went off on a toot” and is sure to return, and Ingrid’s classmate’s uncle, whose dog walked to Kentucky.
I pocket the charm—I’ll hang on to it for a bit more. Just a little while longer. What was it that Nick wrote? There is disappointment, but there is also hope. Something like that.
I give the LOVE canister a big old two-handed shake. I don’t say anything, and I don’t even really think anything. No prayer, no song, no reflective good-bye pause. I simply whip the LOVE lid off and, as if splashing a bucket of water on a soapy car, I toss Nick’s ashes to the blue sky—try to coat the sun, the tips of the pines, the peaks of the mountains, with him. He is in this spot forever now, and yet, at the same time, gone.
Neither here nor there.
Tears rise, and somehow a laugh, too. That old pinprick sensation plucks my chest. But it’s not one tiny, distant puncture; it’s a thousand of them, making me feel like I’m contained and bursting, hot and cold, happy and sad, all at once.
June 29, 2008
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Nick,
Thank you for my Polly Pinch canister and my new heart. It’s a beautiful heart. A wonderful replacement.
Speaking of hearts, I have finally discovered what is wrong with mine.
Since you died, my cardiologist’s office left about a million messages on my answering machine. I never called back. I didn’t want to know what was wrong with me. I didn’t care. Or maybe I was afraid nothing was wrong with me. I wanted my heart to be fubar, and I wanted it to kill me, so that I would be reunited with you in heaven. Yeah. That’s how pathetic I’ve felt.
Then just a few days ago, after I got home from Vermont, my doorbell rang. I figured it was Ingrid or Garrett or Russ or Gail. But it was Dr. Fung, with her silky chin-length hair and dewy black eyes.
She told me one of her office assistants somehow knows Pastor Sheila. Via that social chain, Dr. Fung learned that you died on a mission trip in New Orleans, and that ever since, I’ve been hopelessly depressed. And so, when it became apparent that I would never answer the phone, Dr. Fung took it upon herself to call on me personally.
I thought she was going to tell me that I suffered broken heart syndrome. That’s a real thing, you know. Something about the stress hormones released when you get shocking news—the stress hormones stay in your system indefinitely, straining the heart. But then I remembered that I’ve had my weird heart thing since before you died, so it couldn’t be broken heart syndrome.
“How many cups of coffee do you drink a day?” asked Dr. Fung.
“Three. Sometimes more.”
“Like how much more?”
“Like three,” I said. “Or seven or eight.”
“Drink less coffee, Rose-Ellen,” Dr. Fung said. She smiled.
Drink less g.d. coffee.
“That’s it?” I said.
“That’s it.”
“You’re saying jack-crap is wrong with my heart?”
“Yes. I believe you’re just overcaffeinated. Some people are extremely sensitive, so knock off the caffeine, and we’ll see what happens.”
So, that’s the story of my heart. How do you like that one? All that drama, all that worry, for nothing. I could have come on The Trip with you after all.
Imagine if I did. Imagine how different our lives would be.
Maybe that morning you wouldn’t have agreed to tour the construction site of the big new church they were building on the outskirts of town. Maybe EJ and you and me, the three of us, would have taken a morning to ourselves, gone to Charlene’s café to hang out and discuss things. The people, the projects, the work we did in New Orleans, and the work that still must be done.
Or, imagine if EJ wasn’t so courteous. What if he walked first, directly behind the construction manager, instead of letting you go first? Or, imagine if I toured the site with you, and I went first. Imagine if that scaffolding collapsed on me. Imagine if that beam landed on me. Crushed my hard hat, and underneath it, my skull, my brain, my spine.
I know all about the spine, how it’s constructed. Winged vertebrae protect the spinal column, and spongy disks between the vertebrae allow the spine to flex. Inside the sheath hum all those nerves. Thousands and thousands of nerves, fine as hair, alive with electricity, vibrating their messages, their commands.
When were you going to give me the presents? When you got back from The Trip? For Christmas? Were you going to call me from the road that afternoon, and tell me to open the oven?
As you always used to say, these questions are “neither here nor there.” They are inconsequential. With time, I suspect, they will simply blow away.
Anyway, here’s another e-mail I’d like you to see. I got it this morning. I think it’ll make you happy. It’s pasted below.
I don’t know when I’ll e-mail you again. This might be the last one for a while. But I still love you.
I’ll always love you.
~Zell
Dear Ms. Roy,
You might remember me: Hamill Harding from San Diego. I was glad to hear, through Polly Pinch’s assistant, Spike Miller, that the little girl made it through her horrible ordeal okay. I sure am sorry about that. If I had known about her peanut allergy, I would never have allowed her to eat a Hidden Cranberry Spice-eez.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what Spike told me when I was backstage, getting ready. The little girl told him that you planned on donating the prize money to a New Orleans charity, if you won.
That you were inspired by the e-mails your husband wrote while he was on a mission trip.
I did some research and found a couple articles online from this little newspaper, The Wippamunker, where, I gather, your husband used to work. I saw an archived article about how he died during the mission, and another more recent article about a public tribute his friends put together, displaying his photographs. And how that chain-saw artist donated a statue of him. My wife and I were very touched by the way your community came together, and by the impact one man seemed to have on so many people.
I found a link for making online donations to the interfaith group your husband traveled with. I understand that all donations help the people of New Orleans rebuild their city—their churches, schools, and libraries—and in turn, their lives, in the wake of the hurricane. My wife and I decided to donate half of the prize money I won in the Warm the Soul contest to the interfaith group. Mind you, money doesn’t solve all the world’s problems. But in this case, I think, it’ll go a long way.
Yours truly,
Hamill
BACK IN WIPPAMUNK, I don’t see Ingrid and Garrett for a few days. The truck’s gone, and their side of the house remains inactive. I’m a little lonely without them, but it’s probably good for me to spend a few days by myself, to catch up on work and even do a little spring cleaning. I find myself performing chores I haven’t done in years, like laundering the curtains in the living room and rotating the mattress. I even wash Hank head to toe with Windex and paper towels. And I take my little woven rugs out back and shake them. I swear when I reposition them on the floor, they look brand-new.
Then one late afternoon, as I’m upstairs putting finishing strokes on a patella, and Gladys is crooning away about peaceful waters and gentle breezes, I hear Garrett’s truck rumbling up the road. I skip downstairs to greet them on their side of the porch.
Ingrid runs to me and hugs me so tight, I have to take a couple of steps backward to keep my balance.
“Whoa,” I say. “Hi there.”
“I haven’t seen you in, like, forever,” she says. “Were you drawing? You smell like pencils.”
“It’s my new perfume.”
She giggles. “We spent three days in Boston.”
Carrying a little suitcase in one hand and Ingrid’s backpack in the other, Garrett pauses on the steps. I glance at him and smile. He mouths “Hi,” not wanting to interrupt Ingrid’s story.
“Trudy came out one day, and we rode the swan boats in the Public Gardens,” she says. “And another day when it rained, we met my mother at the science museum. They have a lightning show there, and my mother screamed because she was really scared by the crazy loud lightning noises. It was funny. But I wasn’t scared. And at Fenway Park I ate vanilla ice cream from a little plastic batting helmet. And there’s a red line painted on the sidewalk that leads you to Paul Revere’s house. Did you know that? It’s called the Trail to Freedom.”
“She means the Freedom Trail,” says Garrett, laughing. “Come on in.”
He leaves their things by the stairs and follows Ingrid into the kitchen, where she roots around in the fridge. “What’s for dinner, Dad?”
“I don’t know yet, boo-boo.” He opens the curtains over the sink and pushes up the window, grunting a little when it gets stuck. And I realize, I’m not just watching him trying to get the window unstuck. I’m admiring him. I admire the muscles in his back, working under his T-shirt, and the fact that he thinks to open a window, first thing, after a few days away.
“OMG.” Ingrid whirls around and slaps the side of her head. “Zell’s present! How could we forget?”
“It’s in the front pocket of my suitcase,” says Garrett. “Why don’t you go get it?”
She twirls away toward the stairs, and I sit at the kitchen table. “You got me a present?” I ask.
“Oh, just something small,” he says, and winks. He sorts through the mail, separating envelopes into two piles on the table. A warm breeze lifts the curtains and stirs my hair.
“While you took a little vacation in Vermont,” he says, “we decided we’d take one, too, in Boston. And we ended up hanging out with Ingrid’s mom for a bit.”
“How was it?” I ask quietly.
“It was . . .” He trails off and crashes into the chair opposite me. “Awkward. But awkward’s better than nothing, I guess. Right?”
“Right. It’s a start.”
“A start,” he repeats, and I remember that night at Tunkamog Lake, the feeling of his fingertips threading through my hair, the warmth that enveloped me when he pulled me close. I flash him a half smile over the piles of envelopes. “Yeah,” I say. “A start.”
Ingrid sashays grandly into the kitchen, and Garrett and I share one last glance before giving her our attention. She hoists a flat object wrapped in a plastic bag. “Ta-da. For you.”
“For me?” I say, feigning surprise. Inside the bag is Scrumpy Every Time, Polly Pinch’s brand-new, debut cookbook. I flip through the glossy pages and see that she signed it, To Zell, who warmed my soul.
“Thanks so much, you guys,” I say. “I�
�ll definitely get a lot of use out of this.”
Ingrid claps and jumps around a little. “Isn’t that cool? I got one, too. Signed. Anyway, Dad, dinner?” She hops next to his chair and throws an arm around his neck. “I’m starving.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” he says, kissing her palm with a loud smack. “You’re not starving. You just feel really hungry.”
“Okay then, I feel really, really hungry.”
He gestures to the cookbook with Ingrid’s hand, which makes her giggle. “What should we have for dinner, Zell?” he asks.
“You’re asking the wrong person,” I say with a laugh. “But, okay.” I open to a random page, where Polly is shown barefoot in a sun-flooded kitchen, wearing faded denim clam diggers and fitting a lid on a lobster pot. “How about this?” I suggest. “Grilled Lemon-Pepper Lobster Rolls with Super Simp Caesar?”
“Mmm.” Ingrid nods.
“Sure,” says Garrett. “I’ll just go on out back and fish some lobster out of the ocean.”
“Dad.” She rolls her eyes, Ingrid style.
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