Everybody hugs in a lava tube moment of solidarity.
“You should be a preacher, Wes,” Bob says. “That was eloquent.”
“I need a little air,” Uncle Billy says. He disappears up the stairs.
Gram burns the letter with Jeb’s weed lighter. We surround it, mesmerized, as the yellowed page curls and disappears into ash. Gram kisses her book and leaves it in a dark space near the staircase. It’s a heartfelt farewell to little girl Astrid at the end of her long, fabulous life.
We find Uncle Billy sitting on a boulder with his face in his hands. He’s sobbing. Wes and Gram put their arms around him, and we watch from the Jeeps as the three of them hold one another under the changing Icelandic sky.
After the long ride back, I decide not to go clubbing with Helga and Magnus. I leave Jeb and Janie with their vodka shots and make my way down to Gram’s suite.
Gram is tucking Aunt Rose in, so Bob and I order pastries from room service. While we were gone, Mom took Aunt Rose to a clinic and got her antibiotics for a urinary tract infection. They said it was good she went in, because people her age die from urinary tract infections.
Bob tells me about his four kids and seven grandkids and seventeen great-grandkids. All but two have the music gift.
“What do the ungifted do?”
“One’s a banker. One’s a lawyer,” Bob says. “We’ve got the United Nations in our family. Two kids converted to Islam, we have one Buddhist, and one atheist by marriage. And I love the whole bunch of them.”
The pastries arrive, and we spread them out on the coffee table.
“Hey, Gram. Remember when we used to play that game where we would say a word and you would connect it with one of your adventures?”
“Of course, Maddie girl. Let’s play. Bob, you’ll love this. Go ahead. The first word that comes to your mind.”
“How about parade?”
“Let me think.” Gram’s lips pucker as she sifts through volumes of memories. “Got it. One time Martin and I went skiing in Switzerland and ended up walking around a darling little town. A parade popped up out of nowhere with the horns and floats and people marching. After a few mulled wines, Martin had the idea to jump in and join the parade. And there we were, marching along. It was so unlike your grandfather to hoot and holler like that. What fun we had.”
“That’s a good one, Gram.”
“You’re a traveler, too, Bobby. Let’s give you one.” Gram slaps Bob on the arm. “How about noodles?”
Bob smiles. “Oh, I’ve got a good one. And what’s nuts is I haven’t thought about that night until this very minute.”
Aunt Rose shouts something from the bedroom: “Okay, babe! Okay. Okay, babe.” I jump up to see what she wants.
Gram follows me into the bedroom.
“What’s she saying, Gram?”
“She’s talking to Karl. She does this all the time.”
“She called Uncle Karl babe?” I whisper.
“Yes, she did.” Gram covers Aunt Rose with the puffy white comforter, and I softly close the bedroom door. “Go on, Bob. I want to hear about noodles,” Gram says.
“So I was in Hong Kong with the band doing gigs at big clubs. One night I had a craving for lo mein and I ended up at this dinky restaurant. The owner saw my trumpet and invited me to this dark, seedy back room where guys were smoking pipes, probably opium. They didn’t speak any English, but somehow they managed to belt out those Sinatra tunes in Chinese until sunrise.”
“God, you guys are soul mates,” I say. “Seriously.”
“One more, Mads. Your gram’s getting loopy.”
“How about the hind legs of a boo shoo bird?”
“You’re not going to stump me on that one! That’s the one Jebby made up when we were playing this very game many years ago. We were in stitches that night.”
I tuck Gram in next to a restless Aunt Rose and stretch out on the couch. I’m not ready to go to bed. I eat the rest of the pastries with warm Coke and write a bunch of Iceland postcards to my friends. I scroll through the volcano pictures and text the best to Paige and everybody.
Burt texts back right away, Those sheep better watch out with your crew. LOL.
Paige texts: Never have I ever seen the hairy ass of a guy named Burt five times in one week. (Insert jelly bean.)
I expected Enzo’s three things when I got back from the volcano, but all I had was a photo of Paige and Grace surrounded by Patagonian penguins. I sent my three things this morning, but I decide to send three more. Maybe he needs a reminder. 1. I just emerged from the Snaefellsjökull Volcano lava tube. 2. I love 80s movies and music. 3. I put a popcorn kernel up my nose when I was six, and it came out two weeks later.
It’s the middle of the night, and the relentless sunlight still streams through the heavy curtains. I’m tired and cranky and annoyed that Enzo’s blowing me off. I tiptoe out of Gram’s suite to crawl under my own fluffy comforter and get a few hours of sleep. With the swipe of a hotel room key, I walk into a live porn movie that might be called American Barbie Does Icelandic Elf. I close the door and slap my hand over my mouth.
I did not need to see that.
With no way to get back into Gram’s room, I’m forced to lie down on the leather lobby sofa, cold, exhausted, and cursing out my cousin. A text arrives as I’m drifting off with my face against a burlap pillow. 1. I’m very forgetful. For instance, I visited my cousins in Scotland and left my bee at home. 2. While in Scotland, I laughed out loud at the thought of our Wishwell conga line and my cousins thought me daft. 3. Caveman misses hot girl.
SIXTEEN
IT’S RAINING HARD as the plane touches down outside Venice. By the time we get to the gondolas, it’s hot and steamy. Venice would be romantic, if not for the stench.
Gram had texted us at seven in the morning with her not-very-mysterious clue. Gelato. Gucci. Gondolas. Guess where? I got to sit between Janie and Aunt Rose on two flights. I preferred Aunt Rose telling me about meeting Karl in Central Park and her dog, Tippy, to Janie’s sullenness and dry heaves. I don’t know if she saw me walk in on her and the elf. I hate to admit it, but Jeb was right. She couldn’t be faithful to Ty.
The canals stink of garbage bags filled with fish corpses. But it’s a pretty city, in an Old World, rusty antique kind of way. We snake around the buildings teeming with life. Clothes hang from windows where garlic wafts abundantly. I’m just hoping our gondola doesn’t tip me into this putrid water.
Janie and I waste our only day in Venice asleep. By the time we get our act together, it’s dinnertime and I’m starving.
We leave our ornate Renaissance-era hotel room overlooking the Grand Canal and make our way through St. Mark’s Square before dinner. There might be more pigeons in this Italian square than in all of New York City. The nasty birds have formed aggressive gangs to attack yelping tourists. Janie thinks they’re cute. Maybe she’ll hook up with them, too.
“Shrimp, please.” That’s what we say. We’re a family of hogs sniffing out the best food wherever we go. According to Gram, the food to eat in Venice is shrimp.
Wes makes us go around the table and say what we’re grateful for.
“I’m sorry. Is this Thanksgiving?” Uncle Billy says.
“No. I just want to say I’m grateful to be in this family, as high maintenance as it is, and I’m grateful for every minute I have with you, Assy.”
“And I’m ever grateful for my Wessy.”
“Who’s next?” Wes says.
“I’m grateful for the wisdom you have imparted as a mother and grandmother,” Mom says with a quiver in her voice. Gram blows her a kiss.
“I’m grateful for the ability to tune out this cheesy conversation,” Jeb says.
“Stop being a wiseass, Jeb,” Dad says. “I’ll go. I’m grateful for Mr. Bob Johns. Bro, you are my poker buddy, and I’m damn glad you’re here.”
“Thank you, Aaron. Same here. I’m grateful this family has welcomed me with open arms.”
Did he just call Bob bro? Jeb texts me. I laugh out loud and text back Aww. Dad finally has a friend.
The chorus of gratitude and snide comments continues through the piles of buttery shrimp and loaves of crusty bread dunked in olive oil.
“Maddie’s turn,” Wes says. His face is red from the wine. They all turn to look at me. I’m not feeling philosophical or particularly grateful. But I don’t want to be a douchebag like Jeb.
So I decide to sing. It only takes one line of Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” to get them going. We sing the song, beginning to end, in our terrible voices. The group of Bulgarian tourists at the table next to us don’t crack a smile, but that is their problem.
Gram motions to the waiter and hands him her Amex platinum card. Where will we be in a year, when Gram is no longer telling us to get our asses to dinner or brunch? Who will grab the arm of the maître d’ and whisper, We’d like a corner table and your best server, please? Who will make the reservation in the first place?
On the way to the hotel, we stop at a Venetian glass shop with a delicate menagerie of blown-glass creatures, each more exquisite than the next. I spot a marble-sized glass soccer ball hidden behind a school of orange fish. I buy it for Enzo.
It pours again on our walk through Pigeon Shit Square. The downpour has caused the bay to swell and flood the sidewalk in front of our hotel. I start to panic.
“Maddie, relax. Venice has been flooding for hundreds of years,” Gram says.
“Gram, do you seriously love this city?” My feet squeak on the marble lobby floor.
“I love the grand idea of Venice sinking before our very eyes.” She holds my arm and we shuffle toward the elevator. “It’s fascinating to think we might be part of the small fraction of humans who will get to enjoy this place before it returns to the sea.”
“Is that why you chose it?”
“That and because it’s on the way to our next destination. Also, I had my heart set on a fabulous Venetian dinner. But between you and me, I could barely taste the shrimp. My palate is gone.”
“I’m sorry, Gram.”
“It’s okay, honey. The company was good.”
We go to our rooms, and I sink into my gilded Renaissance bed, desperate for sleep. I try to think of clever things to write Enzo, but I’m too tired. So I wing it. 1. I had a plane dream that I forgot to take gym class and they wouldn’t let me graduate. High school forever! 2. My family is obsessed with food. 3. I liked you a tiny bit more when I saw your legs in soccer, excuse me football, shorts. Bonus Question (you know I like questions): Is there anything about you that isn’t perfect?
I hold the glass ball to my cheek and hope the flood doesn’t rise above the second floor.
I’m too tired to swim.
“Why the hell are we going to a place called Bled? Why don’t we stop at Clot and then Barf and maybe have lunch at Tumor?” Janie is in rare form. She sounds like Brit, the evil twin.
Dad keeps bugging us to move up a few rows in case we get rear-ended. We’re on a private coach bus, and the roads in Slovenia seem safe, but we humor him anyway.
“Who goes to Slovenia?”
“It’s still the Alps. It can’t be that bad. What is wrong with you, anyway? I’m just going to ask you one thing, and I don’t want you to get mad.”
“What, Maddie?”
“Are you mad at me because I’m still a virgin?” I whisper, in case Dad is listening.
“What? That’s idiotic. I’m mad at you because you’re annoying.”
“Because I was totally about to have sex, and then I got my period.”
“I don’t care,” Janie says, picking at a split end.
I decide to blurt it out. “You saw me walk in, didn’t you? In Iceland.”
“I don’t want to talk about Iceland.” She turns away and presses her face against the window.
“Why not?”
She turns back and gives me a snide look. “Because I’m a slut, Maddie. I promised Ty I would be faithful, and I did way too many shots and slept with that guy, okay?”
“Stop doing this to yourself,” I say. “It’s not like you have a ring on your finger.”
“Did I tell you Ty’s mom died on the Wishwell? That’s why he became a doctor. And he cares about the environment and fosters pit bulls when he’s not on the ship.” She shakes her head. “He’s a saint. And I’m a horrible person.”
“Seriously, stop, Janie.”
She whips her head around and stares at me. “I made fun of his penis, and I slept with somebody else.”
“But you are not a slut. You’re just a sloppy drunk. It’s the O’Neill gene.”
“It doesn’t matter that I was drunk. I feel awful. Like, sick-to-my-stomach awful.” She pulls her hair out of the ponytail and picks furiously at the split ends.
I feel bad for judging her. “You know, maybe this trip would be a good time to turn over a new leaf,” I say. “Everyone has a slutty phase. There’s plenty of time to become a big sober prude.”
“That’s easy for you to say, virgin.”
Janie rests her head on my lap. I play with her hair and remember the days when our biggest problem was where to set up our Barbies. When did life get so complicated?
I lean down and whisper, “I’ll stop being a virgin if you stop being a slut.”
“That’s why I love you so much.” Her voice softens a little. “You come up with crazy deals that I can’t refuse.”
Enzo texts me: I am far from perfect. 1. I am an insufferable slob. 2. I didn’t learn to read until I was 8 and as it turned out I had a learning disability. 3. Every now and again I go through a dark period where I sit on the chair in my briefs and count starlings at the bird feeder. I’m sure there’s more. So there. You’re the perfect one.
We stop at a red light in a sleepy village where three girls around my age are dancing up a steep hill. I wonder what the E’s are doing right now. It’s late in Connecticut, so they’re probably sitting on the lifeguard chairs, making fun of Abby’s obnoxious burps. Maybe there’s a party and they’re all hooking up. They’ve probably recycled some boys already.
The bus rolls into a fairy tale.
“I think this is where the snow globe makers get their ideas,” Mom says as we drag our luggage off the bus. “It’s breathtaking.”
The town overlooks an island in the middle of a pristine Alpine lake, below a cliff where an actual castle sits suspended in time. Gram sends Wes and Uncle Billy into a store for food and leads us all down to the lake. Flat-bottomed boats glide back and forth to the island. When we get to the end of the dock, Gram takes Aunt Rose’s hand.
“Rose, do you remember this place? It’s Bled. We came here years ago with Karl and Martin. Look at the castle, Rose, and the island. Does this ring a bell?”
“Yes. It’s lovely,” Aunt Rose says. But there’s no recognition on her face.
“It’s Bled, our most special sister place on earth, remember?” Gram’s getting frustrated. “You must recognize it. It hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Astrid, come. The boys are here with the food,” Bob says. He leads Gram and Aunt Rose to a table under a tree. Wes spreads out napkins and sandwiches while Uncle Billy sets down a box of cream-filled pastries covered with powdered sugar.
Gram tells us all about her secret trip to Bled with Aunt Rose and Uncle Karl and Grandpa Martin, about how their parents didn’t want them to marry an Irishman or a Slav, so they sent them off to tour Europe and hopefully forget about their boyfriends. Their parents never knew Uncle Karl and Grandpa Martin went with them on their European adventure.
“How scandalous, Assy,” Wes says.
“Oh, it sure was,” Gram says. “We traveled all the way to Slovenia to meet Karl’s rather large-boned, brutish family. Then the four of us came here to Bled.” She pauses, as if she’s deciding whether to say what she’s thinking. “We did the old hotel key switcheroo, if you know what I mean,” she blurts out.
“No, we have
no idea what you mean, Mom,” Uncle Billy says, shaking his head.
“Oh, it was heavenly,” Gram says. “We were young and brave and glamorous, and the clothes were well made back then. And”—she points toward the island in the center of the lake—“Rose, it was right over there that Karl asked for your hand in marriage.”
Aunt Rose looks confused. “I, I don’t know. I remember Karl asking me in Central Park.” She taps her foot nervously and furrows her brow.
“That’s what we told Mother and Father, but it happened right here.”
We’re all feeling the tension. We know Gram wants to share this with Aunt Rose so badly. We just don’t know if Aunt Rose can do it.
“Come on, guys. Let’s take a boat ride,” Dad says, nodding toward the island and taking Gram gently by the arm. “Let’s take Rose back to your island, Astrid.”
The man rowing the covered boat speaks enough English to tell us the island has magical properties. Does every place have magical properties? We climb the steps of the old church and sit awhile, taking photos of the lake and the castle.
“Come, Rose. I want to show you something.” Gram takes Aunt Rose’s hand and leads her slowly back down the steps and into the forest. She opens her oversized pocketbook and pulls out a photo from a Ziploc bag.
“This is the spot where we took this.” She shows Aunt Rose a worn black-and-white photo. I’ve seen the photo many times on Gram’s bedroom wall. It’s Gram and Aunt Rose, joyful sisters in A-line dresses and starlet hairdos, with arms joined and legs kicking out.
Aunt Rose studies the photo intently. She looks at Gram. “We looked like Rockettes,” she says.
“We sure did.”
“Where’s the tree?” Aunt Rose cranes her neck toward the water.
“What tree, Aunt Rose?” Mom says.
Aunt Rose wanders toward the lakeshore, thick with trees and brambles. We all follow as she walks down to a tree hanging over the water. Jeb holds her around the waist and she steps into the water in her orthopedic shoes. “Here it is.” She tries to move some brush aside.
The Loose Ends List Page 15