The drone of the airplane engine and the gentle bumps of ascending altitude lulled me into the waking dream state I loved. Conscious enough to observe mentally but unbound by time, perspective, and judgment, I had open access to an amalgam of memory, dreaming, and thought.
I began to dream of my father, and the days preceding his death. I knew how much he loved his life and those of us in it, and that he would not relinquish a single moment of it until his time came. His impending surgery had been minor, but the risk to him from failing heart muscle was not. Funny how the muscle failed long before the heart itself.
From childhood, I had rehearsed how to behave around things sad and painful—imagined the event, set up all the relevant characters, mentally executed the unhappy details, and then separated myself from the scene to orchestrate the correct response. When my father had to go, I’d rehearsed staying calm, focusing on organizing the necessary tasks, keeping the anguish within, caring for others.
So I wasn’t ready for the shock and distress that came from another quarter during my father’s final illness. Already navigating treacherous emotional shoals with Alex, I learned that in the final year of his Army Reserve duty he would be deployed to Iraq. Within weeks.
As had happened before, I grabbed on to the tail of this tiger and held on for dear life. I did not cry. I had practiced.
What practice did the dread in my gut require now? I didn’t know . . .
The days in Ann Arbor went well. Mail, family contacts, good dinners with Steven, and the organizational and seasonal chores of home and garden got done. I took my leave guilt-free. Steven looked forward to coming north for Thanksgiving in a week. Only my sleep had suffered; early-to-bed evenings had been stymied by a wakefulness that discounted the fatigue I felt. When I went to bed, a continuous movie played on the screen of my resolutely shuttered eyes in brick red, popping images, like slowly boiling soup. These images reminded me of an old-time science movie about cellular activity magnified many times over, like an India print pattern gone wild. Steven snored contentedly for the first brief hours that he could sleep, his apnea causing a clamorous struggle for oxygen. It seemed we each had a little shortage of some vital calming nutrient. I longed for the peace of the farmhouse.
The road back to Northport unfolded into bitterer weather than I’d left, but the beauty of an early snowfall and rare, brilliant sunshine dressed even the simplest farmland in enchanting sparkles, softening the harsh simplicity of lonely farmhouses and second-growth forest. But for the cold, the landscape begged to be touched, like the old German advent calendars my grandmother imported for us every year when I was young.
I marked the freeway exits that brought me closer to my refuge and wondered exactly when the center of my spiritual gravity came to rest at the top of the remote peninsula that forms the pinky finger of the Michigan mitt. There were the years of sailing and Nordic skiing, when my love of water, natural beauty, and the seasons found full expression in the Great Lakes northern woods and waters of Michigan, Wisconsin, and Ontario. But it wasn’t until Steven and I made a family and found the little corner of beach that we kept returning to year after year that I felt the deep, centering calm of a true home—one reliably able to bring me back to myself. Heading toward it now, head filled with ideas about hard apple cider, my satisfaction index mounted.
Chapter 11
The next morning dawned cool and cloudy, focusing my attention on the Thanksgiving countdown. Not unlike training for an athletic event, I planned for this holiday with a conscious delegation of time and energy, meted out over a number of days. I made shopping and to-do lists and a day-by-day timeline detailing the preparations on all fronts: sleeping accommodations, pantry stocking, baking, cooking, and entertainment. I scrutinized the farmhouse’s living space through the lens of other family members and decluttered stacks of reading material, knitting projects, extra layers of clothing, and the collections of objects and knickknacks I seemed to attract like a magnet. I rearranged a selection of photos to maximize their appeal to my husband and sons.
Greeting Steven Stone at our home in the north country was like trying to catch a whirling ball of barbed wire. The best strategy was to allow him to land and have some time to slow down. After a day or two he would become calmer, let go the stresses of work, and then begin seeing and doing useful tasks that I hadn’t.
A phone call from him mid-morning confirmed what I knew would happen; he’d gotten a late start and wouldn’t arrive until close to dinnertime. Andrew and Carrie would roll in tomorrow, and Alex and Seth would drive in early Thursday morning. Everyone had the weekend off, and the weather report was brilliant: sunny, with highs in the forties to fifties. The recent snow would soon be gone.
It had been years—three, to be exact—since our whole family (and just our whole family) had been together for Thanksgiving anywhere, and more than that, since we’d been able to celebrate together in Northport.
Untethered to religious observance or obligations and focused on home and family, Thanksgiving was far and away my favorite fuss of the year. I loved the food and never minded preparing it. I traced the origin of my gratitude to my maternal grandparents, who had always hailed this holiday as their particular welcome to America. Arriving in New York in November of 1938 after escaping Nazi Germany at the last possible moment, they found themselves whisked in a limousine to the home of the woman who had given them an affidavit to enter the country. She was the German wife of a vice president of Macy’s Department Store in New York, and she’d invited my elegant but penniless grandparents and my thirteen-year-old mother to a multi-course Thanksgiving meal, replete with white-gloved waiters, fine china, and classic American dishes. Then and there, my attorney grandfather, who would start his working life on this side of the Atlantic on the assembly line in a paper box factory, embraced America as a land of freedom and opportunity and converted the devastation of all he’d lost to pleasure and anticipation for what he dreamed lay ahead. As long as he lived, he retold the story of this first Thanksgiving each year at the family table, and I’d found a way to continue the tale long after he was gone.
My grandparents’ china and sterling were stored in their antique breakfront in my dining room downstate, but their ceramic turkey candlesticks, salt and pepper shakers, and table decorations had accompanied me on the trip north, and I lovingly unpacked them as I started readying the house for the family.
This would be a one-table Thanksgiving; all of us would fit into the dining alcove around the extended cherry table. I pulled the heavy leaves from the wooden racks Alex had built for me in the pantry so I could keep the huge slabs accessible without using up precious floor space. He’d also mounted birch-bark-framed photos of all the family pets, past and present, on the exposed undersides of the table leaves so that while stored, they were decorative. As I struggled with the thirty-inch bulk of one of the leaves, I marveled at the subtle ways in which Alex chose to express his artistry.
Next, I retrieved the cross-stitched tablecloth I’d found in a local yard sale from its drawer and shook it out over the table. Talented hands had devoted hours to the design that covered the extensive border. I’d spent some hours myself repairing a tear and removing most of the stains that bespoke other families’ celebrations. I fingered the gold threads of the embroidery and summoned the memory of the smaller, deep-blue work that had graced the tablecloth my grandmother made for my wedding and that we’d lost in the house fire. Even at twenty-two years’ remove, the loss of her precious gift, along with the innocence of dreams from that time, washed over me like an ill wind. With a final snap, I smoothed the cloth over the table.
The bay windows in the alcove that faced the lake were anchored with storage benches, and as I withdrew a basket from one of them I gazed toward the water. During the summer months it was not unusual to see morning walkers on the stony beach, headed a quarter of a mile to the northwest point that formed one “ear” of Cathead Bay. But now it was November, and I was surprised t
o see a lone figure jogging across the rocky shore, dark curls flowing in the sharp wind. Julia Reiss moved with the easy gait of a natural runner.
On impulse, I turned toward the patio door and stepped out into the bracing morning, watched as the girl approached, and then called to her. Wind and waves drowned my voice so I employed the fierce, four-finger whistle that had served me well in corralling the attention of years’ worth of boys’ soccer teams. If she’s not blasting hard rock through those earphones, she’ll hear that, I thought—and sure enough, she slowed and turned toward my exaggerated waving, pulling her earphones out as she trotted toward the house.
She could have just waved back.
“Morning!” I called. “You’re up and out early.”
“I told Sally I’d come in early today. She says it’s going to be a busy one. I guess people are already coming up for Thanksgiving and looking to beef up their knitting projects. A run felt like a good idea before I spend all day hunched over needles and yarn.”
I liked the way she thought. “You can run down the center road on your way back,” I offered. “It says it’s private, but you have my permission. Stop in for something hot if you want.”
Julia’s look of surprise turned quickly into a smile. “I don’t really have time this morning, but I would love to another day.”
“Ok, well, enjoy it out here,” I said as I waved her off. She resumed her run and picked her way back to the rocky shore, planting her feet with care between the boulders that increased in size as the point narrowed.
I turned back to my preparations. I pulled the giant branch of driftwood from the living room mantel and placed it in the center of the table. Alex had dragged it home years ago, and it had stayed with me since. In its center, the wood divided around a hole formed by a knot or burl that the elements had removed sometime in the branch’s watery history. It wrapped perfectly around an ivory pillar candle. The silver shimmer and downy texture of the piece, worn by sand, wind, and lake, added natural grace to the artfulness of the hand-wrought table linen, a duality of beauty I found particularly satisfying.
I continued to set the table. We were six people, unless, as often happened, I invited last-minute strays—like Julia.
A batch of brownies in the oven followed dozens of chocolate chip cookies. With the exception of the run I’d need to make to Leland for fresh-caught lake trout later in the afternoon, the shopping and gathering was complete. I opened the door to the second-floor staircase and made my way up to check the four bedrooms and three bathrooms we would occupy over the next five days. I was grateful for my longstanding habit of restoring clean linens and towels to all bedrooms and bathrooms after visitors left; it meant I had little to do on days like this one.
Opening shades and curtains to views of the orchard land, woods, and lake, I paused to once again consider the wisdom of pursuing the hard cider business. Steven had frequently suggested operating a bed-and-breakfast at the farmhouse instead. The six bedrooms and five bathrooms that had been built and renovated by previous owners made that a legitimate possibility, and I had seriously considered it as part of the business plan when we purchased the property. I’d told Steven the B&B idea remained an option, but hospitality wasn’t the business I wanted to commit to. As I looked around at the quilts, furnishings, and decorating touches I’d made to the rooms, however, I recognized that it wouldn’t be a bad way to pay the taxes.
I turned the thermostats to a comfortable temperature and returned to the kitchen, where, for the next ninety minutes, I worked like a machine to churn out the chopped garlic and paprika rub for the turkey, form dough balls for the crusts of the lemon meringue, pumpkin, and apple pies that were my various sons’ Thanksgiving favorites, peel sweet potatoes, trim green beans, and mix the doughs for whole wheat honey and cinnamon breads we’d be eating all weekend.
As a satisfying array of bowls and containers filled the refrigerator and oven smells filled the house, a nagging malaise settled into the center of my body, weighing in my chest and pulling at my guts like the fingers of an ugly scar.
Alex. Something is wrong with Alex. It came to me like this always, bubbling up from the ever-uneasy plateau of ignorance and denial that allowed me to think he was okay until he wasn’t. He’s drinking too much. He’s gotten into trouble at the hospital pushing some boundary too far. Something.
Breathe, Abbie Rose, breathe. I grabbed a bag of potato chips. No scotch . . . Float the duck. I called up a meditation I’d learned to quell my anxiety. In my mind’s eye, I put a duck on the November lake, calmer today than on most days, but vast and powerful. I would float the duck on the water of the many things I couldn’t control and not add my fear to the mix. The duck wouldn’t mind waves and would stay afloat. I could too.
Chapter 12
Andrew and Carrie’s late-model Ford Explorer passed between the stone pillars at paved road speed and never slowed on the gravel until it swung around the back of the house and lurched onto the grass near the kitchen door. Steven and I had lingered over our late lunch, hoping Andrew and Carrie would join us before we finished, and we both sprang toward the door to help them unload.
After scraping his way through high school, Andrew had found, in Carrie, the shy, pretty girl of his dreams. Her closeness to her large family still allowed for a warm relationship with us that was an enormous comfort to me. Andrew had always been independent and more emotionally reserved than our other children. I had long ago chalked up his distance from the family to a combination of a few things: suffering through a house fire; his older brother’s explosive ride through adolescence; having a younger brother to whom everything came easily; and, most important, finding himself with family members whose temperaments were wildly different from his own. I tried to celebrate the fun, distinctive, and deceptively intelligent strengths that Andrew possessed. I’d given up trying to mediate or fix his challenges.
With Carrie, I had proceeded slowly; I never wanted her to feel responsible for interceding with Andrew on our behalf. Her willingness to devote time and effort to a connection with us had helped us stay linked to Andrew, however, and for that I remained grateful.
“Hi,” Carrie sang as we loaded ourselves with bags and suitcases. Her natural beauty centered on her enormous blue eyes and infectious smile. Her features were wide and open, and though she was petite and fundamentally shy, she was formidable, and I found myself getting lost in her calm loveliness. She wore it like a fairy princess in low-rise jeans.
“Hi Mom, hi Dad,” Andrew chirped as he squeezed past me into the kitchen toward the hall and rear staircase. “We in the usual room?” I grabbed around his broad chest for a hug as he fumbled, trying to hold on to the bags.
“Yeah, but why don’t you leave your stuff for a few minutes and join us for lunch? Have you guys eaten at all?”
“We’ve been sitting for the last five hours and we stopped in Traverse City for something to eat. I think we’re good for now.”
“All righty then, up you go. Let me know if you need anything up there.”
Steven reached for Carrie and put his arm gently around her shoulder as he relieved her of her suitcase. “Here, let me take that.” The sounds of suitcases bumping against the narrow staircase walls receded as the three of them climbed the stairs.
When Steven reappeared in the kitchen, he hesitated.
“Let’s just finish eating and let them settle in,” I suggested.
“Right.” Steven sat down.
It wasn’t two minutes before Andrew and Carrie joined us.
“Hey!” I said, half rising as they entered the kitchen. “You sure you don’t want something? There’s lots to eat here.”
“No Mom, I told you, we just ate. Sit down . . . So, you guys want the good news or the better news?”
I felt myself flush. Surprises weren’t my favorite thing, but Andrew wasn’t often the bearer of any news at all, so I sat heavily and tried a bright, “Oooh . . . either one!”
“So Carrie
’s been asked back for a second interview with an anesthesia group at the University of Michigan. It’s not a sure thing—there were a ton of applicants—but she felt really good about how the interview went. And since she’s at the top of her class, we think it’s looking good. My boss has a good buddy in the sheriff’s department in Washtenaw County, and they think there’ll be an opening next spring, so there’s a good chance I could get that job too.”
The way he beamed at Carrie made me grin. “Wow,” I said, “That’s excellent. This is exactly what you wanted, right?”
“Yeah. None of it’s certain, but for our first round, it’s pretty encouraging.” Andrew sent a sidelong glance to Carrie, who was blushing furiously. “So that’s the good news. The better news is . . .” Andrew paused and then blurted out, “Carrie’s pregnant, so there’s going to be a little Stone running around here pretty soon!”
I was shocked into silence. Steven’s editor, meanwhile, failed to show up for active duty.
“Really? Are you guys ready for this yet?”
Nearly simultaneously, I jumped up and shrieked, “Yes! That’s fantastic!”
I certainly related to Steven’s concern. Andrew and Carrie had married very young and weren’t finished with their educations. The last months of Carrie’s clinical training would be grueling. On the other hand, Andrew had always had magic with children, and Carrie was the consummate mother type.
Andrew looked stricken by Steven’s reaction. His face hardened. “Well, that says it all, doesn’t it? Dad says, ‘Oh no,’ and Mom screams, ‘Fantastic.’”
“No, no,” Steven jumped in. “I’m just a little shocked. That’s great news. Did you guys plan this?”
Hard Cider Page 9