The Way Back Home

by Allan Stratton

  Don’t be scared, Granny. I’ll fix things. Promise.

  I start to hurt from where I fell on the gravel. There’s a bump on the back of my head; it must have bounced against the bridge. I listen to the creaks of the house, the party in the walls. Mice? Rats?

  Is somebody there? Why do I see those movies?

  I close my eyes. Open them right away. Close. Open. Close. Open. No way I can sleep. I stare at the candle on the night table. It’s where the family photos used to be. It’s where they should be. It’s where they’ll never be again.

  Uncle Teddy! His photo! Sorry, Granny. I forgot to get you another.

  I get up and pull out a row of musty cardboard boxes from under the bed. When I was little, we searched them for Dad and Uncle Teddy’s toys. We went through her boxes of albums, too.

  I take off the lids. The first three have board games, hand puppets, marbles, a baseball mitt and a Magic 8 Ball. The fourth has albums of Granny and Grampa from when they were kids. The fifth has their wedding photos, plus pictures of them dancing, bowling, having picnics.

  Fifty years from now will somebody see me in a random shot and wonder who I was?

  I open the sixth. Yes! On top is an album labelled The Boys along with a bundle of letters to Granny held together by an elastic band.

  The return addresses are from Toronto. The sender is T. Bird.

  22

  Life before texts and emails. Wow. I start with the earliest postmark. Ghosts fly up from the paper.

  Dear Mom,

  I’ve been phoning ever since I got back to residence, but Pop keeps hanging up. So — I’m sorry I wrecked Christmas. I know we wanted to visit Grandpa, but I had to get out of the Bird House and home to university.

  You say Pop doesn’t hate me. Well he does. I see how he looks at you and Timmy. I want that look so bad. But I’m me.

  Call me when you’re alone.

  Love,

  Teddy

  Weird. I don’t remember Grampa mean. He was frail on the comfy couch. Granny stroked his forehead. He tossed me peanuts. I was his little chipmunk.

  I open the next letter. It’s March. Granny’s visited. Uncle Teddy’s sent tons of photos. The best is of them in the scarves Granny told me about: orange and yellow with purple sunbursts, down to their knees! From now on, I don’t want Pop’s help with anything, he says. I don’t want to owe him anything. I’ll get by with my scholarship, shift work and student loan, I’ll be fine.

  He signs them all “Me,” which is kind of fun.

  More photos in the next letters. It’s his second year at university and he’s sharing a house with three friends: Bruce Izumi, Lincoln “Linc” Edwards and Susan Munroe. His best friend, Linc, has a dog called Mr. Binks. Uncle Teddy looks so cool: curly hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes as big as Bambi’s.

  No pictures in the next one.

  Dear Mom,

  You all moving to the Bird House is a good idea. Grandpa can’t cope without Grandma. Sorry, but I won’t ever be back. With Pop, there’s no way. Let’s just see each other here.

  Susan says when you visit in June, she’ll make a cheesecake in your honour. I’ll remind her to grease the pan this time. Tell Timmy I’m not like Pop says.

  Love,

  Me

  I skim over a bunch of letters, all after Granny’s visits. It looks like she saw him three or four times a year. No more photos, as if they’d been there/done that, or maybe Granny’s stashed them somewhere else. Anyway, Uncle Teddy never talks about Grampa, but he mentions Dad: Timmy’s little. He’ll understand when he’s older.

  There’re just four letters left — and a new address. The first has a snapshot overlooking a park that stretches behind a strip of low-rises, shops and restaurants. A park! Yes! Granny talked about him having a place across from a park! So she does know where he lives! Or lived.

  Hey Mom,

  This is the view from my balcony. Amazing, isn’t it? I loved sharing the house, but it’s great to be on my own. I’m still fixing up the inside. You’ll see it when you’re here.

  Love,

  Me

  Next letter:

  Enough with the guilt trip, Mother. I know it wasn’t about me. But it wasn’t about you and Pop, either. If you didn’t want me there, fine, but don’t pretend it was my fault.

  What’s that about? The next letter’s a week later:

  You’re upset? You think I’m not? You made a choice. Well so have I. My friends are more family than you.

  Oh my gosh! Uncle Teddy disowned Granny? I shake all over.

  His last letter’s been ripped open and sealed with Scotch Tape. I open it up. Hundreds of bits of paper fall out.

  What did Uncle Teddy write? Why did Granny rip it up and keep the pieces?

  I sweep the bits of paper back into the envelope, bury the letters back in their box and lie in bed: Granny … Uncle Teddy … Uncle Teddy … Granny … Grampa … Mom and Dad … me … me and them … me and Suckhole … me and …

  It’s night. I’m running through a snowstorm. Who’s chasing me? I don’t know. Their faces are covered in scarves. I get to the bridge. They push me off. I grab at a scarf. Suckhole laughs. It unravels — there’s no one there — I’m falling—

  I sit bolt upright. Light filters through the crack in the curtains. It must be Sunday morning. Ow. I’m so sore. And hungry.

  I go to the kitchen. The cupboards are empty, but Mom and Aunt Jess missed the Fig Newtons at the back of the top shelf of the pantry. I soak a couple under the tap till they’re soft enough to chew, then go back to Granny’s room.

  What now? I can’t stay here, but how do I face Mom and Dad?

  The front door opens. “Zoe?”

  It’s them.

  23

  “There’s no sense hiding, Zoe,” Mom calls out. “We’ll find you.”

  Oh yeah? I roll under the bed with the letters and pull the boxes in front of me, while my parents prowl around downstairs.

  “Come on out,” from Dad. “We love you. We’re worried about you.”

  Who’s the liar now?

  Doors bang open and shut.

  “Tim, what’s the lawn mower doing in the broom closet?”

  “You tell me.”

  More rummaging. They pull back furniture.

  “I should never have said she couldn’t come back,” Dad says.

  “She knows you didn’t mean it.”

  “Does she? If anything happens—”

  “Nothing’s happened. For all we know, she slept in the park. Or maybe she’s with that boy.”

  “Or maybe she’s gone.”

  “Relax,” Mom says from the kitchen. “There’s water in the sink. She’s here. Let’s look upstairs.”

  They come up. The floorboards creak outside Granny’s bedroom.

  “Zoe, you get out here now,” Mom says. “Enough of the silly games.”

  Silly games? This is silly games?

  “We’re not angry,” Dad goes. “We’re upset, but we’re not angry.”

  Yeah. Until you see me.

  “I’ll block the stairs while you check the rooms,” Mom says.

  “Fine.” Dad roots around like the Incredible Hulk, if the Incredible Hulk said stuff like, “Holy moly, there’s mouse poops under the vanity!”

  They come into the bedroom. Granny’s hope chest opens and shuts. Hangers clatter. I smell Mom’s perfume. She’s looking under the bed.

  “It’s nothing but boxes under there,” Dad says.

  Mom pokes at them anyway. They push tight against me. She grunts, stands up, and plops her butt on the bed. The metal slats press down hard along my body. Dad sits beside her. There’s a tiny crack between the boxes. I see his left shoe. They catch their breath.

  “She must’ve run out the back when we pulled up,” Mom says.

  Dad undoes his laces; I smell his feet. “Should we call the police?”

  “No. She’ll come home when she’s hungry.”

  “How do yo
u know?”

  “What else is she going to do?”

  “Who knows? Teddy never came back.”

  “Well, Teddy didn’t vanish, either,” Mom says. “Or do too badly, what with that condo. Morning coffees looking over a park. That’s the life.”

  So he’s still in his place by the park!

  “Teddy.” Dad rocks back and forth; the slats roll down over me. “I should’ve given Teddy’s number to Mother.”

  What?

  “Not this again,” Mom sighs.

  “I mean it, Carrie. Things might have been different.”

  “The past is the past.”

  Dad breathes deep. “The past is forever.”

  Oh my gosh. How long have they had it?

  “Enough about Teddy,” Mom says. “We need to think about Zoe. That boarding school.”

  Dad stops rocking. “You wanted that shop so much.”

  “Yes, well … The school’s her last chance. A mortgage on the house will cover the first school year. After that, we can talk to Jess and Chad.”

  “I hate asking them.”

  “You think I don’t? Anyway, time for church. Folks’ll be wondering what’s keeping us.”

  “What do we say if they ask about Zoe?”

  “She has a cold.” Mom pats Dad’s back. “Zoe’s fine, Tim. She was here till just now. She’ll come home. Relax.”

  They go downstairs. The front door closes. I get out from under the bed and shake my hands to get the tingles out.

  I’ll come home? And get shipped away to that school? I can’t. Granny’ll think I abandoned her. She’ll forget who I am. She’ll die in Greenview! What’ll I do? Where can I hide?

  Uncle Teddy’s! I’ll go to Uncle Teddy’s. He’s still by the park. His address is on his letters.

  Why would he want me?

  ’Cause he’ll understand. He had to leave home too. It won’t be just me, either. I’ll have Granny.

  Whoa! I can’t take Granny.

  I have to or she’ll never get out of Greenview. Once she’s with Uncle Teddy, my parents won’t get her back.

  He doesn’t want to see her.

  Oh yeah? On what planet does Uncle Teddy give Dad his number?

  Planet Nowhere.

  Right. Uncle Teddy sent Granny his number in case she wanted to call. But Dad picked up the letter. He has it, she doesn’t; he said so himself. That’s the only way it makes sense. No wonder Dad feels guilty. He’s kept Granny and Uncle Teddy apart. Well, not anymore.

  24

  I toss some Depends, clothes, Uncle Teddy’s letters and photos into a suitcase, leave it by the front door, and run home for Granny’s car keys. By the time my parents are back from church, we’ll be in Woodstock on the train to Toronto.

  I get to the Bensons’, our neighbours on the other side of the highway. What if they see me? Get real. Sundays, they’re wasted till noon. Besides, nobody knows I’m missing.

  I run across and slip in the front door, my heart thumping up my throat. The quiet inside the house is creepy: it’s like Mom and Dad can hear me. I tiptoe to their room and get Granny’s keys from Dad’s old cufflinks box in his bottom dresser drawer. I see my phone. I’m itching to take it, but leave it behind: can’t risk the cops tracking it.

  I check the train schedule on my computer. The one on Sunday leaves Woodstock in an hour and a half. Tight, but we can make it. I change into jeans and a hoodie, stuff undies and toiletries in my backpack, then go to the fridge where I fill a doubled plastic bag with cheese, bread, chips, Oreos, two Cokes and some paper towels.

  I forge a note for Greenview on Mom’s notepaper.

  Carrie’s House of Hair

  Have We Got A ’Do For You!

  #10078 Highway 8

  Dear Amy,

  Zoe will be signing Grace out of Greenview for Sunday dinner. Tim and I will have her back by eight o’clock this evening.

  Yours very truly,

  Carrie Bird

  I write another for Mom and Dad which I leave in the medicine cabinet, so they won’t see it till bedtime:

  Granny and I are fine. We’re going where we’ll never embarrass you again.

  Zoe

  Okay. Goodbye green bathtub. Goodbye owl clock. Goodbye hair dryers. I close my eyes and breathe in peppermint foot scrub, potpourri and henna. I picture Mom fixing her wig, Dad taking off his shoes.

  Shivers. Time to spring Granny.

  * * *

  I put the groceries in the garbage pail at the Greenview parking lot so Amy won’t get suspicious, then run happily to her desk.

  “Amy! Guess what? Mom and Dad are having Granny for dinner!”

  “Oh, she’ll enjoy that.”

  “I hope so. I’ve come to get her.” I give her my note. “Hey, great sweater.”

  Amy sets it aside. “Thank you.”

  Off the elevator, I head straight to Granny’s room. She’s slumped in a chair, staring into space, her bedsheet sack sitting beside the garden gnome.

  “Rhubarb, Granny. Pie,” I say, grabbing her toothbrush. “Let’s go. We’re off to Uncle Teddy’s.”

  Granny jumps up. “About time! Help me with my stuff.”

  “We can’t take anything. If anyone thinks you’re escaping, you’ll be stuck here forever. Trust me. Just smile, nod, and let me do the talking.”

  Granny grips my arm. “Lead the way, Detective Bird.”

  We march down the corridor, eyes focused on the exit door beyond the recreation room. We pass the nurses’ station and the wheelchairs at the TV. I tap in the code. The door opens. We take the elevator downstairs.

  “I hear this is an important day,” Amy smiles at Granny as I sign us out.

  “It certainly is,” Granny says. “I’m going to see my son.”

  “Enjoy yourself. We’ll see you back at eight.”

  “Oh you will, will you?”

  I wink at Amy, scoot Granny outside, and get our groceries out of the garbage pail.

  Granny looks in the bin. “Anything else worth taking?”

  “Not today.” I whisk us to Malcolm Street. “Now hurry. We have to be out of town before Mom and Dad get home from church.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “Uncle Teddy’s.”

  “About time.” She grips my arm. “Zoe, when I die, will you look after my bird nests? I don’t want them thrown out. My box with the robin eggs, too.”

  “I’ll look after everything, Granny. But right now, we need to speed up.”

  Granny walks faster. “Things are memories. I’m so afraid of losing my memories. If you don’t have your memories, what’s the point?”

  We turn onto Maple, get to the Bird House, go up to the veranda.

  “Would you like to have a swing?”

  “Not now.” I get us inside. “I need you to concentrate: Where’s your money stash?”

  Her eyes narrow. “The less you know, the less your parents have to find out.”

  “I know, but we need it. Now. To pay for the train tickets to Uncle Teddy’s.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case.” Granny closes her eyes. “Don’t tell me. I can practically see it. I check it all the time. What’s the name of that place where I sleep?”

  “The bedroom?”

  “No. The thing, you know, the thing you lie on. What’s the name of it?”

  “The bed?”

  “No. Not the bed. The other one.”

  “The comfy couch?”

  Granny’s eyes pop open. “That’s it. It’s in the comfy couch.”

  She marches into the den, reaches into the hole at the back and pulls out an old pair of pantyhose filled with money. “Count it. There’s lots.”

  “Mom thinks that hole was made by a squirrel,” I say, as I add it up.

  Granny snorts. “You mean your mother can’t tell the difference between a squirrel and a rat?”

  “That hole was made by a rat?”

  “Your grampa dropped peanut shells on the floor. What’d you e
xpect?”

  “Granny. You put money in a rat’s nest?”

  She looks at me like I’m stupid. “Floorboards and mattresses are the first place people look. Put it behind something, how do you remember where? But a rat’s nest — that’s not something you forget.”

  “Granny, a rat could eat this!”

  “Well, he’s not there now, for Pete’s sake. Do you think I’m crazy?” She holds out her hand. “So how much?”

  “Four hundred and change,” I put the money back in the pantyhose and hand it over.

  Granny puts it in her purse. “Told you there was lots.”

  I glance at my watch. “There’s just forty-five minutes till the train leaves. We have to go.”

  “No kidding we have to go. At least I do.” She scoots to the powder room, starts humming Elvis and pees and pees. Like, wow. The toilet flushes. The sink runs. Granny comes out wiping her hands on her sweatpants. “Why, Zoe! What’s the magic word?”

  “We’re going to be late.”

  “Late?” She blinks. “Then what are we standing around for?”

  I grab the suitcase I packed her, plus the groceries and my backpack, and hurry us outside. Granny hops in the car while I toss our stuff in the trunk.

  “Where to?” she asks as I hand her the keys.

  “The train station in Woodstock.”

  Granny rubs her thumbs on the steering wheel. “I don’t think I drive on the highway.”

  “You used to.”

  “No. Your grampa drove.”

  “That was before he got sick. Then you drove all the time. Come on, it’ll be empty. It’s Sunday morning.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”

  “But you’re the one who said you’d drive!”

  “I must have been joking.”

  “Granny, remember when I was little, you told me the story of the little engine that could. Are you telling me you’re not as good as that little engine?”

  She thinks hard. “If you put it that way. But you have to tell me what to do.”

  “I promise.”

  We lurch onto the street. Granny makes all the turns to the highway without me having to say a word. She drives past my place: our car’s still gone. She drives past the park, the town sign — we’re into the country.