The Art of Holding On and Letting Go

by Kristin Lenz

  18

  “Cara? It’s eleven o’clock. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Mmmhmm,” I mumbled. I was stuck in that half-asleep, half-awake realm where I could hear everything going on around me but couldn’t seem to open my eyes.

  “Maybe you should get up now. Grandpa and I have something to show you. And you have mail.”

  I slowly opened one eyelid. Grandma waved a postcard in the air and set it on my nightstand.

  She shut the door, and I curled up on my side. No use. I was awake now. I rolled onto my back, stretched my arms and legs as far as they would go, and rubbed my sleepy eyes. Sunlight spilled through the slats of the window blinds and peeked around the edges.

  I slid the postcard off my nightstand. Peru. Machu Picchu.

  My birthday, of course, October 12. My parents had remembered, and they sent me a postcard. Big whooping deal.

  I knew exactly what Dad was referring to. Touching the Void was Joe Simpson’s memoir about a horrific expedition in the Andes in Peru.

  Joe fell down a crevasse, breaking his leg. It was this whole big ordeal where his climbing partner tried to help him, but then had to cut the rope to save himself. He was racked with guilt afterward, knowing that Joe didn’t have a chance.

  But Joe survived. He crawled for three days, starving and in excruciating pain, all the way down the icy, rocky mountain back to their base camp.

  I hated that book.

  My parents went to Machu frickin’ Picchu without me. I was spending my birthday alone not because Dad thought Max was alive but because of his guilt. The mountains held him in their thrall. Sure Dad, blame it on the mountains.

  “Cara?”

  God. “I know!”

  I shuffled out to find my grandparents fluffing the cushion on a huge, round wicker chair in the middle of the living room. It looked like a giant bird’s nest.

  “What do you think?” Grandma asked. “Have a seat.”

  I sank into the cushion. “It’s comfortable. But where are you going to put it?”

  “That’s for you to decide,” Grandpa said. “Happy birthday!”

  They grinned at me and beamed at each other. Tears swelled behind my eyes. In a backward way, I had almost wanted them to forget my birthday. Then I’d have another reason to feel sorry for myself.

  I smiled and blinked away the tears.

  “You look like a bird in a nest!” Grandpa said.

  Grandma chortled. “She does!”

  My smile grew, and I tucked my hands into my armpits to make little wings. Flap, flap. “Chirp, chirp.”

  “It’s called a papasan chair. The people at the store said they’re all the rage among you teenagers,” Grandma said.

  “We know how much you like to read, and this looked like the perfect spot for you to curl up with a good book,” Grandpa said. “We’ll find room in here if you want, or we can move it to your room. You could even have it outside on the deck for a while.”

  “Grandpa wanted to get you a hammock for outside, but we agreed you’d get more use out of this one.”

  “And we have another surprise for you, too,” Grandpa said. “Unless you already have something planned with your friend.”

  I noticed that Grandpa had said friend, as in singular. He knew I wasn’t becoming the social butterfly Grandma expected. “No. But really, we don’t have to do anything. It’s not a big deal.”

  “You see, Norman? She doesn’t want to go,” Grandma said. “Why don’t we just stay home and celebrate.”

  “No, no, no. You two need to get out of the house. I’ve been ready for this little trip for weeks now.”

  “Maybe just you and Cara should go. I’ll stay home. I still need to make Cara’s birthday cake.”

  Yum, Grandma was a great baker. Not that I didn’t want her to join us, but I could already taste that cake.

  “And it’s chilly out today.”

  “That’s what jackets are for.”

  I looked back and forth between Grandma and Grandpa. They were having a tug of war. Pull, pull. Grandpa won.

  “You’ll feel better once we get there, Margaret. And Cara, you’re going to love this place.”

  I grabbed my fleece jacket from my room. I hadn’t worn it since Ecuador. I pulled it on and slipped my hand into the pockets, rediscovering the smooth oval stone from that day on Mount Chimborazo. I pulled it out and traced the wavy coppery line running through it.

  Mom and Dad always got me a birthday gift, carabiners or quickdraws, a new pair of jeans, a book, but Max had even less money than they did. He was the one who started my rock collection. I never knew when or where he found the rocks; he always waited until my birthday to give me one. Shiny quartz crystals, a geode, fossils. I had them all lined up on my bedroom windowsill at the cabin. The golden nugget of pyrite had been a special gift just for the competition in Ecuador. How could I have lost it?

  After their Everest expedition, Max had strung Tibetan prayer flags from our cabin to his little VW bus parked in front. “Make some birthday wishes, Cara.” I don’t remember what I wished for. Everything was right in my world at the time. I just remember the brightly colored little cloth squares, flapping and floating in the wind.

  I know what I’d wish for now.

  Uncle Max handing me a dandelion stem, white fluff ready to blow. Skipping stones into the river. Opening his cupped hands to reveal a ladybug. Make a wish, Cara.

  I squeezed the stone in my fist, dropped it back into my pocket, and joined Grandma and Grandpa. Once we got in the car, I realized it was the first time I’d ever gone anywhere in the car with Grandma. Usually, I sat in the front passenger seat next to Grandpa. Now that was Grandma’s seat. She was unusually quiet, her eyes fixed straight ahead. From my spot in the back, I could see her left hand clutching the edge of her seat. I leaned forward and it looked like her right hand was gripping the other side of the seat. Like we were drag racing or something.

  Grandpa weaved the car through gently rolling suburbs that melted into one another. Smaller cookie cutter homes gave way to larger houses with expansive lawns. These cities and subdivisions cracked me up, Forest Ridge, Bloomfield Hills, Farmington Hills. These people didn’t know what hills were.

  “Here we are,” Grandpa called out as we pulled into a crowded parking lot.

  A red barnlike building was set back off the road, and a line of people waited to get in the side door. A hand-painted sign above the door read Mason’s Cider Mill, est. 1952. We walked across the lawn full of families at picnic tables and took a place in line. Even from outside, the smell was intoxicating.

  Grandpa was as giddy as a little kid. “Fresh apple cider and cinnamon-sugar donuts. I can taste it already.” He rubbed his hands together.

  Grandma, on the other hand, looked like she was about to puke. Or pass out. Maybe both.

  Grandpa put his arm around her shoulder. “Once you get some food in you, you’ll feel better. Do you need to sit down? You could wait out here, save us a picnic table.”

  Grandma shook her head and clutched a fistful of Grandpa’s shirt.

  “Are you carsick?” I asked. Mom got carsick, too. Unless she was driving. She had to drive every time we were on mountain roads, which was practically every day since that’s where we lived.

  Grandma nodded, breathing in and out of her nose, lips clamped.

  When it was our turn at the counter, Grandpa ordered a sack of donuts and a jug of cider. We grabbed plastic cups and napkins and took our goodies outside to nab a picnic table.

  First Doritos, now cinnamon-sugar donuts. I really had been missing out. They were heavenly. Crispy on the outside, warm and melt-in-your mouth squishy on the inside. My fingers were coated in cinnamon-sugar grease, and I licked every last one.

  Grandpa was licking his fingers, too. Grandma had taken one bite, then began swatting at the bees that buzzed around our table.

  “You’re just going to make them mad,” Grandpa said, as a bee dived into Grandma’s cu
p of apple cider.

  “I swear, will you look at that! Damn bees,” Grandma swatted some more. Guess she was feeling better. Car sickness replaced by her usual orneriness.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Grandpa suggested. “Let the little buggers enjoy their cider.”

  We headed to the back of the lot where it was wooded. Behind the barn, a waterwheel churned. The sound of rushing water drowned out the noise from the picnic area.

  “You can pick apples from the orchards at some cider mills, but not this one,” Grandpa said. “Those are farther away, and the drive would have been hard on your grandma.”

  We followed the small river, a creek really, walking quietly. It was the most peaceful I had felt since leaving my home in California.

  “Did you ever come here with my mom?”

  “Every year,” Grandpa answered.

  I thought so. I fingered the stone in my pocket and glanced at Grandma, hoping the quiet and fresh air was doing her some good.

  “These damn gnats,” Grandma said, waving her hands in front of her face.

  Too much to ask for.

  We drove home in silence except for the powerful purr of the Mustang’s engine. Grandma gripped the sides of her seat again; I was glad I hadn’t inherited the family car sickness gene.

  As he pulled into the driveway, Grandpa turned to look at me in the backseat and said, “How about you and I go for another spin. I need to fill her up with gas, but I knew Grandma wanted to get straight home.”

  Grandma sat in the front seat and waited for Grandpa to get out of the car and open her door. Then she waited for him to walk up to the front door of the house, unlock it, and hold it open for her.

  They were so old-fashioned! I hopped into the front seat, and we roared away. Grandpa’s driving was much zippier without Grandma in the car.

  “Does Grandma freak like that every time you go out?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘freak,’ but she does get quite nervous. It depends on where we’re going. Your grandma … It’s hard to explain. She’s having some difficulties. It’s not just that she gets carsick. The doctors think she’s having panic attacks, or that she has an anxiety disorder, maybe even agoraphobia. Often it starts with panic attacks, and then you become so anxious you’re afraid to go anywhere, especially out in crowds, where you might feel trapped. When she has these anxiety attacks, she feels very frightened. At first, we were afraid she was having a heart attack.”

  Grandpa slowed for a red light and glanced at me. The Mustang’s engine rumbled.

  “She likes to stay home. It’s not that she’s antisocial or anything. You’ve seen how much she talks on the phone. She likes when her friends visit. She just feels safe at home.”

  I was quiet, processing his words. I didn’t especially like crowds either. One of my favorite quotes was from the man who started the company Patagonia. He said something like, “I don’t like people. I like trees.” I thought it was my personality and the way I was raised. I never thought of it as a sickness.

  “Did she get her heart checked?” I asked.

  “Oh definitely. Her heart’s ticking just fine. Mine too. Let’s hope you inherited those genes from our side of the family and not your dad’s.”

  The light turned green, the Mustang roared and shot forward, pressing me backward into the seat.

  My other grandparents had both died of heart attacks. Dad’s dad had his first one at forty, then the one that killed him when he was only forty-five. I overheard Mom talking to her friend Susan about it once. Susan was suggesting that my dad was such a risk-taker because he knew he might die young, like his dad, and he was determined to live as much as possible while he could. That was one of the arguments with Grandma that left Mom in tears years ago. Grandma had said, “Mark may have a death wish, but he doesn’t need to drag you and Cara along for the ride.”

  Grandpa continued talking about Grandma’s anxiety problems. “It didn’t used to be that bad. She never liked driving on the highway, and she’s vowed to never set foot on an airplane.” He glanced at me. “We would have come to visit you more often if your grandma wasn’t so afraid to fly.”

  Grandma and Grandpa always drove down to see us when we lived in Tennessee, even though it was a ten-hour drive. Even so, how did Grandma manage that long of a drive?

  As if Grandpa read my mind, he said, “She never liked the drive down South, but she slept much of the way and it was worth it to her to see you and your mom.” After a second he added, “And your dad.

  “Then a couple years ago, she threw her back out. It was the beginning of winter and she slipped on an icy patch getting out of the car one day. I felt so bad that I didn’t catch her in time. Bruised her tailbone good, but luckily she didn’t break anything. Oh, she was miserable. And cooped up in the house for months. Afraid to go out even when her back was better, afraid to slip and fall again. Even when spring arrived, she was afraid to plant flowers. Afraid to bend over wrong and twist her back.”

  Grandpa pulled into the gas station and aligned the car with one of the pumps. He shut off the engine, but sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel.

  “I think that was the real start of her illness, that little accident. And then when your parents and Mr. O’Connor …” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Well, she’s just had a real hard time dealing with it.” His voice grew thick. “Everyone deals with loss in their own way, I suppose.”

  Loss. That was what I had been feeling. Like a wildflower dug up out of the woods and transplanted into a pot. I hadn’t really thought about my grandparents feeling sad about my parents and Uncle Max. I just thought Grandma was crabby and angry that I got dumped on her.

  Fear. Grandma was afraid to go out. I was afraid, too. Afraid for Uncle Max and what he must have gone through high up on the mountain. Afraid for my parents, who were still out there, tackling more dangerous climbs. Afraid for myself, unsure of what to do next, how to get back to my home. Afraid to climb again, to touch the rocks and have all of these fears spring to life, the earth tilting again.

  “Well now.” Grandpa turned toward me. “It’s time for part three of your birthday present.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re sixteen. It’s time you learned to drive.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Now?”

  “You missed the summer program, but I found a class that starts on Monday after school. No need to waste any time. Better to get some practice in before the winter weather hits.”

  He handed me a brochure about the driver’s ed class. The company was called Road Rules.

  “But I can give you your first lesson right now,” he said. “How to pump gas.”

  I laughed. It was true. I had never pumped gas before.

  Monday after school, Grandpa drove me to the driver’s ed class. He said he’d be back in two hours to pick me up.

  I expected to get in a dorky car with an instructor and practice driving around. But I was stuck in a classroom with a small group of students, all teenagers except for two older, grandma-looking women. So much for my private lesson. I slumped in a seat at the back of the class and spotted him in a seat near the front—Basketball Guy, Triple T.

  I leaned forward and craned my neck to see better. He was scrolling on his phone and hadn’t noticed me. It was definitely him. I sat up straighter. My knee bobbed up and down. When the instructor came in, he asked us to introduce ourselves. The two older women were sisters. And then it was his turn.

  “Hey, I’m Tom Torres.” He half-turned around in his seat and spotted me. He raised his eyebrows, surprised, then flashed his lopsided grin.

  I smiled back. Maybe this group lesson wouldn’t be so bad after all. And finally, I knew his name! My knee bounced even faster.

  19

  The notes stopped coming for a couple weeks, but on the last Monday in October, a tightly folded square of notebook paper fell out of my locker again. I opened it, square after square after square.

&
nbsp; A guy’s voice rang out in the hallway. “You think you’re hot stuff, don’t you? Big-time climber, California girl.”

  And another guy, “What, you think you’re too good to talk to me?”

  They were gone before I could even pick them out of the crowd.

  Two days later.

  And on Friday.

  At lunch, Kaitlyn’s french fries smelled much better than my bologna sandwich from Grandma. She pushed her tray toward me to share. I grinned and dunked a fry in ketchup.

  “So, let’s see them,” Kaitlyn said.

  I pulled the notes from my pocket and tossed them onto the table. Kaitlyn and I unfolded the squares.

  Nick nibbled his nails; he probably thought we were going to accuse him again.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” Kaitlyn said.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to have to go back to the climbing gym.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Not happening.”

  “Why?”

  I met her gaze and shook my head but didn’t answer. There was no answer. Half of me was itching to climb, but the other half wanted to run away.

  Kaitlyn’s eyebrows drew together in concern, and I could still feel her questioning eyes on my face even when I looked away. Even Nick was looking at me without his usual smirk, no dimples.

  I didn’t know how to explain. I just knew I wasn’t going to climb. It didn’t even make sense to me. That my fall in Ecuador was different from all my previous falls. That Uncle Max’s soul had reached out and left an imprint on mine. That one person leaving this earth could change how I felt about everything. I was left with a knot in my chest that wouldn’t be loosened anytime soon.

  Kaitlyn invited me to spend the night at her house. I was in my room packing my duffel bag when I saw the ladybugs. I had seen a couple here and there inside the house, and I had scooped them up and set them free out the window. But now, there had to be at least half a dozen of them climbing up the windowpane. Trapped.

  I raised the window and tried to shoo them out. “Go on, get out of here. You don’t belong in here.”