Grandma glared at me, but then she cracked a big smile—and that helped my hair settle down. I was smiling too. We started laughing when we heard Anna let out a sigh of relief. She must’ve thought we were really going to go at it.
Once we managed to get ourselves under control, Grandma got around to telling us what was going on. “Tonight when I was leaving my meeting at the church, I noticed Mr. Terupt was there lighting a candle. I didn’t stop to talk to him because it’s not the right time or place to interrupt a man when he’s having a word with God. All’s I know is people don’t tend to show up and light a candle unless there’s something pressing in their life.”
Anna and I exchanged nervous glances. Why would Mr. Terupt be doing that?
“Let’s pray,” Grandma said. “That’s the best we can do right now without knowing anything.”
She was right, the Spy Sisters didn’t have a clue. We closed our eyes and bowed our heads and then Grandma began.
Dear God,
I’m here with the girls, and we have something important to ask of you. I saw Mr. Terupt having a word with you tonight, and it’s got us nervous. We know people come to you when nothing’s wrong, just to ask for support and a watchful eye, but we also know people come to you because something’s got them worried or scared. We’re not sure what the case is for Mr. Terupt, but we’re asking you to take care of him. Take care of his lovely wife and unborn baby, and keep all of them safe and healthy.
Amen.
Dear Journal,
The last time my body felt this way was when Mom and I climbed into the car and started our trip from the West Coast to the East. We had a destination, but what lay ahead after that was a mystery. It was the most frightening ride of my life.
Sitting on the train today, I raced toward the city, but what waited for me after that was another mystery. My mind kept going back to Mom, and how I had deceived her. When we made that trek across the country, Mom had traveled beside me. Today, I was on my own, and I worried I could be without Mom forevermore if she didn’t forgive me for what I was doing. My heart beat faster than the train carrying me.
I reached for my book. I needed comfort. I opened the novel Mr. Terupt had given me, and as I read about this young boy, Jonas, I found myself pondering the power of memories along with him. I was reminded of happy times and sad times. My thoughts drifted back to Mom, and to what used to be my friends. As I turned the pages, Jonas and I grew to understand that we had a choice and that this was something wonderful. His dilemma was different from mine, but we both had something we could do—it was our choice.
Before I could finish Jonas’s story, my train slowed to a stop. I slid The Giver back into my bag and then continued on my way. When I reached the building where the retreat was taking place, I left Jessica standing outside and walked through the doors as Alexia. Inside, I glided through the registration process with ease; I was off to a good start as an actress. That was about as far as my talent carried me, though. During our first theater session, it was obvious that I was out of my league. I don’t want to make it sound as if I’m a terrible actress—I’m not—but in the company of such gifted students, I stuck out like the ugly pumpkin. I had our extraordinary instructor talking under his breath, and my classmates whispering to each other. I feared that I would be asked to pack my bags and head home early because the fact that I had even received an invitation was most definitely a mistake, so I didn’t return to my acting class after taking a bathroom break. Instead, I snuck my way into the writing group and found the biggest surprise of my life. Standing before me was the last person I thought I’d ever see again. He stopped midsentence when I stepped into the light….
“Alexia, Ms. Writeman’s here,” Mom called out in a weak voice.
I was hiding in my bedroom, dreading this moment. I hugged Margo. Mom had been napping in her chair when Vincent dropped me off, so she had no idea. She’d started chemotherapy earlier this week and it had left her wiped out. I walked into the living room, cradling Margo.
“Hi, Lexie,” Ms. Writeman said. “Where’s Jessica?”
I steadied myself. “Um…she’s not here.”
“What?” our moms said together.
“Where is she?” Ms. Writeman asked.
I swallowed, and then let the truth all out in one breath. “New York City,” I said. “I like, gave her my invitation to the weekend drama retreat. I couldn’t go, and she wanted to go so badly, so like, she went as me. We got the idea from a book we were reading. Ms. Writeman, she just had to go.”
“Alexia, you were invited?” Mom said, showing the most energy I’d seen from her all week. “I didn’t know. And honey, you didn’t go? I’m sorry.”
Ms. Writeman hadn’t moved. She wasn’t freaking out about her daughter taking off. She wasn’t demanding answers. She wasn’t doing anything I thought she’d do.
I started to cry. My tears came out of nowhere, and I couldn’t stop them. I was a designer bag of emotions these days, and after telling the truth to Jessica’s mom, my bag ripped open. I spent every day worrying that my mother could be taken from me, and here I was telling Ms. Writeman that her daughter had taken off.
“Ms. Writeman, I’m so sorry. Jessica should’ve been invited. There must’ve been a mistake. I had to help her.”
“She was invited,” Ms. Writeman said.
My crying stopped just as quickly as it had started. “Wait. What?”
“She was invited. I hid the invitation from her.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But…why would you do that?”
“Because her father is one of the professionals at the retreat.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Dad?”
“Jess?”
“Dad?”
His room full of students stared at us. “Class, let’s take a ten-minute break,” he announced abruptly.
We waited for the room to empty, all those eyes pretending not to look at us when they were, all those ears pretending not to be listening when they were. My heart wailed against my rib cage. I didn’t know whether to stay or run. I wanted to do both.
“Look at you,” my father said. “You’ve grown so much. You’re so beautiful, the spitting image of your mother when she was young.” The man I hadn’t seen or heard from in over a year started toward me, lifting his arms.
“Don’t,” I said, putting my hand out and taking a step back. “Don’t.”
He stopped. “I didn’t think you were coming,” he said. “I saw your name on the list, but you weren’t signed up.”
“What list?”
“The list of people who received invitations. I had no idea you were one of the recipients when I signed on to do this, but then when I got here I saw your name. I was thrilled, and then devastated when I learned you weren’t coming. I thought you had declined because you knew I was going to be here.”
“What are you talking about? I never got an invitation!” I said, my voice rising. Even after all this time, he was still lying to me.
“Jessica, I promise, you were mailed an invitation. I don’t know what happened, but if you didn’t get it, how are you here?”
I was supposed to have an invitation? And didn’t get one? “How was I supposed to know you were going to be here?”
“There was a pamphlet listing all the instructors that was included with the invitations.”
I never saw the pamphlet or the invitation. “Are you here with what’s-her-face?” I said.
“No, things with what’s-her-face ended shortly after you and your mom left.”
“Then is there someone else?”
“No.”
“You called for the divorce papers. That’s all you cared about.”
“I tore them up.”
“What?”
“I tore them up. Your mother and I aren’t officially divorced.”
“Then what are you? You’re not married.”
“Technically, we are married; we’
re just not together. That’s my fault.”
“Then why didn’t you ever call again? You just erased us from your life!”
His gaze fell to the floor. He couldn’t even look at me. “I was ashamed.”
“That’s it? You were ashamed? That’s the best you can do? You should be. You blew it.”
“I know.” He sounded choked up. His shoulders slumped. He looked so defeated.
“And you never tried to get us back.”
“I wanted to,” he said, looking at me. “I wanted to so badly, but I was afraid.” His gaze fell to the floor again. “Your mother is a much stronger person than I am. I’m glad you’ve got more of her in you.”
“Me too,” I said. I turned and ran.
“Jessica, I’m so sorry.”
His words chased me, long after I was gone.
Scared and confused,
Jessica
Mr. Terupt’s mysterious candle lighting had given the Spy Sisters something to think about around the clock, but Mom and Grandma hadn’t forgotten about me. They were constantly checking in. Constantly asking me about my sugars.
I prayed to God every night and asked him to take care of Mr. Terupt and his family, and I asked him to help Mom and Grandma relax about my diabetes. I asked him to help them see that I was being responsible and taking care of myself and doing my best to keep my sugars under control. I wished Grandma would stop her worrying altogether because it wasn’t good for her heart, but getting her to stop that was like asking the sun not to come up. To compromise, I asked God to consider giving Mom and Grandma something other than me to think about for a change.
I’m not sure if it was God answering my prayers, or Mother Nature, but one of them went ahead and cooked up a devil of a snowstorm, and if there’s one thing we farmers never grow tired of talking about, it’s the weather. The February blizzard that barreled down on us gave Mom and Grandma something else to think about for several days. We were hammered by snow. So much that it was measured in feet, not inches. Four times, Dad and Charlie had to get the tractors out to plow the driveways. School closed for not one day, but three. It wasn’t until midmorning on the third day that the snow finally stopped falling. If ever there was a winter wonderland, we were in it.
“It’s absolutely beautiful out there!” Charlie exclaimed, coming into the house having just finished the morning milking. “After I get cleaned up I’m heading over to get Terri and Anna, and we’re going to enjoy being outside—all of us. This is a day to remember forever.”
So after lunch that day, we went outside—all of us. Charlie had managed to plow a path to the back pond, which he had shoveled off. We got brooms down from the attic and managed to get Dad’s old Arctic Cat snowmobile running for the first time in years. There was a good time to be had.
The February blizzard dropped a lot of snowflakes, but it also delivered one big surprise. Not all of our snow memories need to go back to Mr. Terupt’s accident—not anymore. It turns out a winter wonderland is more than just beautiful, it can also be romantic. Now I sound like Anna.
With people trapped inside because of what the news was calling the Valentine’s blizzard, there were thousands of roses never getting picked up or delivered, hundreds of restaurant reservations being canceled, and who knows how many hearts broken. It was sad. There was to be no romantic story this year—or so I thought.
For two days, Mom and I hunkered down. We made the best of our situation by having a mother-daughter movie marathon. We cuddled and cried our way through sappy girl flicks like Sleepless in Seattle, Titanic, and The Notebook.
On day three of the storm, our knight in shining armor came to our rescue. The roads were finally clear enough for Charlie to reach us. He arrived, waved at us, and blew Mom a kiss from across the snowdrifts, then unloaded the snowblower he had on the back of his truck and got busy digging us out. Mom was at the door waiting for him once he finished. They hugged like they hadn’t seen each other in years.
After their movie embrace, Charlie told us to bundle up because everyone was waiting at the farm. “It’s a winter wonderland out there,” he said. “You don’t want to miss it. It’s the sort of day you’ll want to remember forever.”
Mom and I got our stuff on, and then we climbed into Charlie’s red truck. Never had I experienced so much snow. The roads were lined with white mountains, making it feel like we were visiting the North Pole. It was incredible.
Once we reached the farm, Charlie told me to hop out and get on the snowmobile that was parked nearby. “I’ll be back to get you in just a minute,” he told Mom.
Charlie gave me a ride on that machine that I won’t soon forget. He bounced me out across the pasture over and through waves of snow. I squealed and laughed and held on to him tighter than Mom did during their hug. The only thing going faster than that snowmobile was my heart—and Charlie would make that go faster still before the day was through.
After reaching the pond, I discovered that everyone didn’t mean only Danielle and her mom or dad, as I was expecting, but the entire family—even Grandma and Grandpa. Charlie dropped me off and then zoomed back to get Mom.
“About time you got here,” Grandma Evelyn barked. “My old bones were getting cold from standing around and waiting for you. Let’s get playing.”
Danielle walked over and handed me a broom.
“What’s this for?” I said.
“Broomball!” Grandma cried. “A Roberts family tradition. You ready for this old lady to show you a thing or two?”
Grandpa snorted. “You better save all that hot air you’re spewing,” he told her. “You’re going to need it once we start sliding around.”
“You hush up,” Grandma told him.
The two of them had all of us laughing again.
“Broomball is a game we sometimes play when winter rolls in like this and the pond freezes over,” Danielle explained to me. “We haven’t played it the last few years, but Charlie told us this was a day to remember forever and that we had to get out here.”
“He told me the same thing,” I said.
The Spy Sisters looked at each other, each of us wondering if there was anything more to that, or if it was just a coincidence.
“Broomball is just like ice hockey,” Grandma said, “except you don’t need skates, and we knock around a ball with brooms instead of a puck with sticks.” She passed the ball and shuffled out onto the ice. “Let’s practice while we wait for your mother,” she said.
I slid around on the ice and batted the ball back and forth with Danielle and Grandma. A short while later we heard the whine of the snowmobile engine approaching, but instead of parking alongside the pond as he’d done with me, Charlie zoomed past us and stopped farther out in the pasture. We all turned to see what in the world he was doing. We watched as he took Mom’s hand and led her over to a nearby snowman—a snowman I hadn’t even noticed until then. A snowman with one arm raised and extended straight out. And Mom seemed to be taking something from its palm.
I gasped when the object she held sparkled in the sun. And then Charlie pointed toward the hill at the back of the field. Written in the snow in huge letters were the words I’d been praying for him to say: Will You Marry Me? It was so romantic. They kissed and hugged—and it blew those movie ones away.
After all this time, I could hardly believe it. We were going to be a real family now.
Danielle might tell you it was God or Mother Nature that dished out that Valentine’s blizzard, but I think it was Cupid. It was a sweet and lovely storm, one full of romance and snowflakes—and a diamond ring!
Dear Journal,
It’s taken me a while to tell you this; I’ve been scared to write about it. The memories and feelings you keep inside are yours—and yours alone. But if you only keep them in your head, you are bound to lose pieces of them over time. Memories swirl around like colors mixing on a painter’s palette. After enough swirling, they begin to change, and a once-clear image can become blurred. Then on
e day, you might find it is gone forever.
Our memories are important for the future, which is something the Giver shows Jonas. I can’t pass my stories on to others like the Giver does in that book, but I can put them down inside you. By putting myself down on your paper, I have a place to take root and become permanent. My memories and feelings will be there for you until the end of time, and for all those that come after us. And maybe if I share myself with you first, I’ll find the courage to tell Mom.
I didn’t stay for the drama retreat. I didn’t belong in the acting class—pretending to be Lexie—and I couldn’t stay where I belonged—pretending the teacher wasn’t my father. That would’ve required better acting than impersonating Lexie. As much as I ached to be there, I needed to go home. I called Mom.
The thought of calling her had me shaking uncontrollably, but I knew I could do it. Mom had made sure I was listening when she told me I could always call her if I ever ended up in a situation where I needed help. “Maybe you wind up at a party and find out there is alcohol there and you want to leave,” she said, “or maybe you and your friends end up drinking at that party and need help getting home.”
“Mom, that’s never going to happen!” I’d said.
“I hope not, but it’s not always easy, and sometimes people make mistakes,” she had told me, “and I need you to know that you can always call me—no matter what.”
Remembering her words, I fought to steady my hands and pushed the numbers on the keypad. She answered on the first ring.
“Mom?”
“Jessica, are you all right?”
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she said. “So am I. I should’ve told you.”
“I want to come home.”
“I’m on my way.”
We didn’t talk about it the whole ride home. We didn’t talk about it after we got home. We still haven’t talked about it. We haven’t talked about him. There wasn’t supposed to be anything Mom and I couldn’t discuss, but we never talked about Dad.
Saving Mr. Terupt Page 14