Still, though, there’s that mouthful of a name. I hope he grows to bear it well.
In December, I drove down to Lansing to give a videotaped statement to the Michigan State Police about the threatening emails I’d received in the fall. They’d arrested a graduate student in the Computer Science department at Michigan State, Viktor Tereshenko—also going by the name of Victor Tesh—who, along with some online associates in a hacking collective known as “TeshCo,” had admitted to waging an electronic vengeance campaign against me by breaking into the Port Manitou School District #1’s computer network and flooding me with abusive messages.
TeshCo’s motivation to harass me was unclear at first. I had lived in East Lansing for a great portion of my life and the video had received a lot of press there; Viktor sometimes claimed, according to the police, they’d barraged me with emails and images to rectify a great injustice. Other times, he said they’d acted just for the fun of it, ‘for the lulz.’
When Tereshenko’s sister, Irina, was arrested at her job as a Certified Nursing Assistant in Port Manitou, Michigan in January, his true motivation began to make a little more sense.
Their trial is scheduled to start in October.
The Port Manitou Girls Cross-Country team had a stellar season. Counter to my earlier predictions, however, they did not win the state championship, finishing instead in third place. Cassie Jennings had a personal best performance, taking first place individually, but Amy Vandekemp, having suffered an ankle injury the week before, was not able to compete, and we lost on points. It will be tough to lose Cassie, but we’ve got deep talent for next year’s squad.
Entropy in the system is constant. But there’s always next year.
A few days after the state championship, while Chris and I were working on installing our fireplace, I got a frantic call from Kristin Massie. “Neil, please, come quick, it’s Alan, come quickly!” I ran to their house as fast as I could, certain, for some reason, that my friend had suffered a heart attack. I flew through the front door to find Kristin sitting on the floor cross-legged and crying; Alan, on his side with his knees pulled up, had his head resting in her lap.
“What happened?” I said, kneeling in front of them. Alan blinked and looked at me, and when I saw the absolute sadness in his eyes and the lamp that had been knocked from the end table, I knew my friend had not experienced a cardiac event. I also knew he would never sit in the captain’s seat of an airplane—commercial or otherwise—again.
“I had another,” he said quietly.
“Oh, Alan,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Jesus. Alan, I’m sorry.”
Theo is six days old when we bring him to see Carol. It’s a gray spring day, and the sky seems low as we arrive at the place we’ve moved her. My mother-in-law’s condition has declined and her needs have become too great for in-home care. She understands this; the great paradox of her fading life is that as her body has become frailer, her mind has gone the other direction and opened up with clarity. I think she’s happy that she’s clear-headed as she approaches the end. She has a lot to remember as she goes. The memories keep her company.
I also think she was holding out to see Theo.
We visit her—Chris, Lauren, Theo and I—at the nursing home, in the hospice wing where she’s been living for nearly the past two weeks. The staff, none of whom I know as well as the gang in Long Term, gathers in around the baby’s car seat to coo and take in the tiny joyous thing that, for a moment at least, has superseded the usual grim nature of their work. Theo wakes and starts to fuss and squawk at all the attention, and Lauren takes him from his carrier to nurse him in a chair in the corner of Carol’s room. After a few rough days of struggling at it they’ve both figured out the feeding routine, and Theo calms down quickly. Chris kneels next to Carol’s bed.
“How are you, Grandma?” he asks.
“Oh….” It takes a moment for her to work up a reply, and her voice has the weak rasp of a dry leaf blown over pavement. “I’m not so bad today, Christopher.”
“That’s good.”
“How do you like that little brother of yours? He’s got…a strong cry. Have you changed a diaper yet?”
“I changed him just before we came over,” Chris says, and I laugh.
“He was scared of that more than anything,” I say. “But he did a good job.”
“I imagine you might have been a little rusty yourself, Neil. I’d like to see the baby, when you’re ready to bring him over.”
Lauren buttons herself up and wipes Theo’s contented little face with a cloth, and she rises to bring him over to the bed. She holds him over Carol so she can see.
“Bring him here, Lauren. Bring him close to me. Oh, what a fine baby boy. What a good boy. I wish Dick were here to see this baby. You’ll show him things, won’t you Chris? You help him grow up the right way, like you have.”
“I will, Grandma.”
“Show him the orchard. All the good places to run and hide. Take him to the beach. He can play in the sand. You keep a good eye on him when you’re with him on the beach. That river in the woods. Your mom played there. You did too, when you were a little guy. Keep a close watch on him there.”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“You’re such a good boy, Christopher. Bring this baby a little closer.” Carol lifts her wavering hand, and her fingers brush over Theo’s head on the way to her own face. She tugs at the oxygen line with her crooked fingers.
“Help me with this, Christopher. Bring him closer.” Chris helps pull the clear tubes up and out of the way as Lauren holds the sleeping baby up next to Carol’s face. She closes her eyes and presses her wrinkled cheek to his head.
“So sweet,” she says. “So sweet. Oh, Lauren, I’m so happy for you. What a perfect little boy.”
“We’re going to see Wendy,” I say. “Carol, would you like me to get a nurse so we can bring you over with us?”
Carol is quiet, her eyes closed, as she breathes in the closeness of my infant son.
“No,” she finally says. “No, that’s okay. I have my memories of my little girl. And that’s good. That’s how I’d like to keep it now.”
The orchard is staying with our family. I told Leland last fall I wasn’t sure I was ready to make a decision on selling, and as months passed, he became less interested. I think things have slowed at the resort. People aren’t buying; he’s given me hints the couple times we’ve gone out together. We’ve met up here and there: Leland has a beer, I stay with water, and we catch up on things. He tells me people haven’t been able to commit, but he’s pretty sure things will pick up someday. Absent his interest, I’ve looked into having our property protected from development in the future by a conservation easement.
As it is, we aren’t so worried about finances. We rented out Lauren’s condominium at the beginning of the year, and we’ve still got my paycheck. Lauren will finish up her studies at the beginning of the summer when I can watch Theo full-time, and she’s planning to go back to her job eventually. Most of farmers working the orchard have renewed their leases too, so we’ve got some income there. We’re doing okay.
On top of all that, the Tate family, possibly overestimating my appetite for litigation, worked out a preemptive settlement with me over the whole mess with their son. Alan thought I could have got more, but I didn’t really care. They wrote me a check, and I put it straight into Christopher’s college fund.
He’ll be going to culinary school in the fall.
Theo is a great hit with Shanice and the other nurses over in Long Term, who crowd around Lauren as she brings the infant carrier up to the main desk. I am planning to run home after this visit, and a bag with my things hangs from my shoulder.
“Look at that baby!” Shanice gasps. “That is the most gorgeous little baby I’ve ever seen!”
It’s Saturday, visiting day, and a handful of family members hear the commotion and come from their rooms to see what’s going on. Everyone smiles, tired, wistful smiles
, reminded perhaps that the ones they’ve come to visit here were once perfect babies too. Undamaged, and ready for the world. Theo is that. He is perfect, and he carries our hopes.
A man I don’t know pats me on the back and shakes his head in a daze.
“Wow,” the man says. “Wow.”
The attention gets Theo worked up again, and when his little mouth puckers and trembles and finally erupts with an outsized wail, the spell over the gathered group is broken and we emit a collective “Aww!” Everyone laughs after that. Everyone but Chris, that is. My son has fervently embraced his position as elder brother, and he holds out his hands to Lauren.
“Let me take him,” Chris says. “I know how to calm him down.”
“He can’t be hungry again,” Lauren says.
“Here.” Lauren lifts Theo to Christopher’s hands, and, cradled there, the baby’s crying stops.
“He likes pressure under his feet,” Chris tells me as the observers return to whatever they were doing before we interrupted. “I figured it out yesterday. He likes to be held like this.” Chris brings Theo close to his chest, and I raise my eyebrows.
“When did you learn so much about babies?” I ask.
“It’s not that hard, Dad. You just try whatever and go with what works.”
Inside Wendy’s darkened room, Chris holds his little brother close to his mother’s face. He leans down close to her.
“Mom,” he whispers. “This is Theo. He’s just a little baby. I never really even held a baby this small before Theo was born. He’s so awesome, Mom. He’s incredible.”
I have to turn away as he says it, and Lauren presses her hand to the small of my back.
“He’s like…I can’t even believe it, Mom. He’s my little brother. I love this little guy. Can you believe it?”
This is too much for me, and I go to the restroom to change into my running things. My phone drops out of a pocket as I fold my pants, and when I pick it up and cradle it in my hand I feel the reflexive urge to tap out a message to my former wife. If Wendy really was somewhere on the other end of the wire, waiting to read and waiting to reply, what would I tell her?
I think I’d just write: We’re okay. And I’d mean it.
Everything is okay.
But there will never be a reader, never a reply. I know this now. The phone is stowed in with the rest of my clothes, and Lauren meets me in the hall and takes my bag.
“You all right?” she says. I nod, and she gives me a quick kiss. “Have a good run. I’ll see you back home.”
I wave goodbye to Shanice and head out into the spring air. A light drizzle has started, but it’s warm outside, almost humid. Summer is not far away. I start to run, and my nose fills with the smell of rain and wet earth. I run along the shoulder of the highway in an easy rhythm, and the rain gathers up on my forehead and eyebrows; it flows down my face, it drips from the tip of my nose. There is wet dirt, a puddle in the gravel, new grass pushing through old in the ditch. Violets grow along the edge of the road. To my right, the Little Jib River flows brown and swollen to the lake. The water moves ceaselessly, and I move along with it. To my left, across the road, the rain strips wilted cherry blossoms from the rows and rows of trees, and drops them to the ground. I see all of this. The smell of rain and earth, the smell of growing things, my feet on the pavement, they’re the only things I know.
How many times have I known these things?
I know these things. I remember them all.
And able to remember, I know that I’m alive.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of the Midwest, Jon Harrison currently lives and writes in the Northern Rockies.
To learn more, visit www.thebanksofcertainrivers.com
Copyright © 2013 by Jon Harrison
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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