This week we learned how to give shots and start IVs. Guess who we practiced on. Each other. I have more needle holes in me than a pin cushion. I don’t mind telling you that I am sore! My partner blew my vein at least three times. I’ve never had an uglier bruise in my whole life.
I tried getting sympathy from one of the nurses here. But she said an angry bruise didn’t warrant a date off-base. Strike out for Mikey. I never did have much luck with the ladies.
Sorry, Joel. I’m afraid the lack of wooing skills is hereditary. You can thank Frank for that.
We’re on to splints and fixing dislocated shoulders next. Let’s just hope we don’t have to put a shoulder out of socket to learn how it feels. Now that I think of it, that might be a way to convince her to let me buy her a bottle of Coke.
They show us a lot of films here as part of our training. Just not the kind you’d want to eat popcorn while watching. I think they’re trying to get us ready for what’s coming, but they’re scaring me half to death. I guess I’m in the right place if eventually I get scared all the way to death. I’d bet these guys would love a little real-life opportunity to try out what they’re learning.
Don’t worry, Mom. The worst that’s happened so far is me getting sick in a garbage can.
One of the guys I met here said he’s been at Fort Sam for three months and hasn’t gotten his orders yet. He’s working in the hospital they’ve got on base. He said if I’m lucky, maybe they won’t send me to Vietnam after all. Wouldn’t that be something?
Would you all do me a big favor when you think of it? Go see Grandma a little more. Would you? She sent me a letter and I could tell she’s lonely. I know she’s not always the nicest, especially to you, Annie. But just pop your head in for a minute here or there. You’re all she’s got right now. We all know that Aunt Rose isn’t making any extra trips from Grand Rapids, don’t we?
Write back soon and tell me how it’s going. Joel, I bet you start school soon, huh? Eighth grade, right? Can’t believe how fast this summer went by.
Love,
Mike
25
My alarm clanged a full hour earlier than it needed to. As fast as I could, I turned it off for fear of waking Joel or Mom. Looking out the window I saw that Jocelyn’s bedroom light was already on, and I wondered how long she’d been up.
For all I knew, she might not have slept at all. If I’d been her, I wouldn’t have been able to the night before leaving for college.
Mrs. Falck let me in after I tapped on her kitchen door. She was wearing a pale pink bathrobe and slippers and had rollers in her hair.
“She’s upstairs,” she told me. “Just getting the last few things in order. You can go on up.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’m making coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Oh yes, please.”
“I’ll bring it to you,” she said. “Now, go on.”
I climbed the steps, not needing to guide myself to the room that was Jocelyn’s. I knew the way as if I were going to my own bedroom. Her door was open a crack, and I pushed it to find her sitting in the middle of the room, half the books from her shelf on the floor, encircling her.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“How will I ever decide which ones to take?” She wiped under her eye. “I don’t want to leave any of them.”
“Do you even have room in your dormitory for them?” I stepped carefully over a row of books, joining her in the circle.
“I don’t know. Most likely not.”
“You’ll probably get more books for your classes, don’t you think?”
“Oh, you’re right.” She frowned. “But what am I going to do with all of these?”
“You can leave them here, can’t you?”
“But they’ll be lonely.”
Had Jocelyn said that to anyone else, they might have questioned her sanity. Or laughed at her. Or told her to stop being so sentimental. But I understood exactly what she’d meant. Any true reader would. Within the pages of each book in the ring around us was a friend, fictional or not. The March sisters and Miss Maude, Charlotte and Wilbur, Jem and Scout, Cosette and Anne Shirley.
To leave the books behind would be to depart from a good friend.
“I can take care of them for you,” I said.
“I know I’m just being silly.”
“You aren’t.” I picked up a copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. “Can I help you put these back on the shelf?”
It was short work, putting the books where they belonged, and Jocelyn only cried once. I’d determined that I wouldn’t cry. Not when we carried her few crates to the trunk of her father’s Ford or when I hugged her good-bye. I wouldn’t break as they drove away, leaving me in their front yard to wave until they were out of sight.
Instead, I cried all the way on my walk to work, glad for the dark morning.
The lunch special was spaghetti and meatballs with a side of garlic toast and boiled broccoli. It was the first time David opted for something other than what was written on the chalkboard.
“You don’t like spaghetti?” I asked.
“Is that strange?” He grinned.
“A little bit.”
He leaned his chin on his fist, raising his eyebrows at me and smiling.
“What would you like instead?” I asked, looking down at my order pad and feeling strangely flushed.
“Do you think Bernie could make me a grilled cheese?” he asked.
“I think he could.” I jotted it down. “Anything else?”
“Some chips and some of that broccoli, please. And a glass of milk too.”
“Sure thing.”
When I got to the pass-through window, I noticed Bernie looking out at me, a big goofy grin on his face.
“What?” I said, handing him the order slip.
“Nothing.” He shook his head and laughed. “Nothing at all.”
“Bernie . . .”
“Grilled cheese coming right up.” He turned for the grill, still shaking his head and laughing.
An elderly couple from church came in for a pastry and cups of coffee. They asked me how Oma was and about whether or not Grandma Jacobson was all right.
“We’re praying for Michael,” the woman said, patting my arm. “We pray for him every day.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Don’t stop, please.”
When Bernie called out that the grilled cheese was up, I excused myself and went to get the plate. But instead of one, there were two.
“Take a break,” Bernie said. “You haven’t had your lunch yet.”
“But I . . .”
“Take a break or I’ll fire you.” He smirked. “Go have lunch with him.”
“With who?”
“Him.” He nodded in the direction of David.
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I tittered and picked up the plates.
“Don’t drop them,” Bernie called after me. “Oh, and you’re welcome.”
I took the sandwiches to David’s table, putting one of them in front of him. “I don’t know how to say this,” I started. “But my boss told me I have to eat lunch with you or else I’m fired.”
“We wouldn’t want you to lose your job, would we?” David asked, leaning forward, hands on his thighs.
“Not over something like that.”
“Well, do you want to have lunch with me?”
“Only if it’s okay with you.”
“I cannot think of anything I would be more okay with.” He motioned to the seat opposite him. “Please eat lunch with me, Annie.”
I put the plate down before sliding into the booth.
Dear Annie,
Of all the people I write to, you’re the only one who writes back every time. It makes me think maybe everybody else hates me. Everybody but you.
Thanks for sending me letters.
Do you remember when we were kids and I told everybody to stop being your friend because your dad left? Mike punched me in
the face for it. Did you know that? He broke my nose. It’s been a little crooked ever since.
Well, anyway, I’m sorry I said mean things about you. I’m even more sorry I said them to you. Being out here and seeing what I do makes you think about things. I’ve been thinking a lot about the ways I’ve been a bad person. I guess I’m not good enough to have anybody write me letters after all.
For all the mean things I said or did, I feel worse about having done them to you. You never deserved it and I’m sorry.
Forgive me? Please.
Your friend (I hope),
Walt
Dear Walt,
I wish I could say that I don’t remember you ever being mean to me. But that wouldn’t be true. Although I do remember, I don’t hold it against you. Golly, it really did hurt at the time. I can and have forgiven you, though.
You aren’t a bad person. Not really. You’re just somebody who did the wrong thing a few times (or more than that). We’ve all fallen short. The mean things you did? They aren’t what makes you who you are. As my oma would say, who you are is God’s child. That’s all.
Sorry for the sermon. I hope you didn’t mind it too much.
Mike is, without a doubt, sorry about your crooked nose. That’s a drag. I never noticed, though.
Your friend (why not?),
Annie
26
For nearly two weeks my visits with Grandma Jacobson consisted of me bringing food that I knew she wouldn’t eat and asking her questions about how she was that I knew she wouldn’t answer. In fact, she rarely said more than “hi” and “good-bye” to me.
“Take your oma with you,” Bernie had said after I told him about it. “They’ve been through the same kind of loss. Your oma will know how to help.”
So, the next time it was my turn to drive out to Grandma’s house, I took Oma along. She’d brought with her a pot of homemade soup and a loaf of fresh-baked bread. Grandma was too polite to tell her that she wasn’t going to eat. She even let us wipe the dust off the dining room table and set it with her pretty plates and bowls. When I brought out the linen napkins, she didn’t put up the slightest fight.
It had ended up being a stroke of genius, bringing Oma along.
“Would you like me to say the blessing?” Oma asked, reaching for our hands on either side of her.
I took hers and watched as Grandma contemplated it. After hesitating, she gave in, just letting Oma have the tips of her fingers. But she didn’t reach for my hand. I tried not to take it personally.
“Dear God,” Oma began, her eyes closed tight. “We come to Thee to thank Thee for Thy many blessings and to ask for Thy forgiveness for our many sins.”
I lifted one eyelid to look at Grandma, whose forehead wrinkled at the last sentence. Her Methodist roots had often been at odds with Oma’s Reformed background.
“Remind us of our errors,” Oma continued. “And remind us that, without Thee, we are but dust. We can do no good thing apart from Thee. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” Grandma repeated, her eyes on the napkin she was busy spreading on her lap.
Oma served Grandma, ladling the steaming soup into her bowl and cutting off a chunk of bread to go with it. I passed the butter to Grandma, and she took a good-sized pat.
Her veiny hands still possessed their gentle grace, and she held her knife properly as she smoothed the butter onto the bread. She’d always been a lady. Even in grief, she still was.
“This is good,” she said after swallowing a spoonful of soup. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Oma blew over her bowl, sending steam rising in a beam of light. “It’s one my mother made often. We call it erwtensoep.”
“How interesting.” Grandma took another bite. “My mother made it too. She called it split pea with ham.”
Both ladies smiled, Oma with a sparkle in her eye. “Perhaps our mothers had the same recipe book. Ours must have been the Dutch translation.”
“Maybe.” Grandma was still smiling when she bit into her bread.
“When did Great-Grandma come from England?” I asked.
“Right before the turn of the century,” Grandma said. She turned to Oma. “She and my father eloped.”
“They did?” I put my spoon down. “I didn’t know that.”
“You never asked before.” Grandma blinked at me. “They were young. Sixteen or seventeen, if memory serves. She found herself in a family way. You know what that means, don’t you?”
She raised her eyebrows at me, and I nodded.
“I’m glad. I’d hate to be the one to have to tell you about all that.” She shrugged. “Her father threatened to kill them both. From what I’ve heard, he wasn’t a kind and understanding man.”
“I should say not,” Oma said.
“The two of them stole money from their respective parents and bought tickets to America.” Grandma lifted her hands as if to say what-can-you-do before taking a drink from her water glass. “Of course, that baby was my elder brother Alfred. I was born within wedlock.”
“Did they ever speak to their parents again?” I asked, putting my hands in my lap.
“Why would they have?” Grandma shook her head. “They had a new life. There was no use going back to a family that didn’t want them.”
We finished our soup and bread, Oma and Grandma sharing stories about the different meals their mothers prepared. I couldn’t follow their conversation, my mind wandered too much for that. All I could think of was my great-grandparents sneaking off together and boarding a boat to put an ocean’s distance between them and their families.
Grandma hadn’t said anything about what her grandmother had been like. I wondered if she’d been as mean as her husband or if she felt powerless to resist him. On a normal day, I might have asked Grandma about it. But Grandma hadn’t had a normal day in too long.
There was one thing I learned from the story, though.
Ours was a history of running away.
Stacking the bowls and plates, I cleared the table and insisted that I could do the dishes by myself. Neither lady argued and I was glad. It seemed Grandma enjoyed visiting with Oma. I guessed it was just what she’d needed.
It didn’t take long to wash and dry the dishes and wipe down the counters, so I took a rag to the windowsills and the hutch, the crystal glasses and the shelf of cookbooks. My last chore was to bundle the trash and take it to the garbage can in the garage.
Outside, I listened to the neighbor kids playing in the yard next door to Grandma’s house. One of them was counting “One-Mississippi-Two-Mississippi.” Hide and go seek, I was sure. Trash in hand, I opened the garage door and stepped inside to lift the lid off the garbage can.
The small windows let in just a few squares of orange sunlight. It was enough, though, for me to see Grandpa’s tools still laid out the way he’d left them on the night he’d last wandered off.
Letting go of the trash, I stepped in farther, lifting my hand as if I could catch the dust motes as they danced in the beams of sunshine. Breathing in the smell of gasoline fumes and rubbery tires, I remembered being small, barely able to see over the workbench.
Grandpa had lifted me to sit beside his screwdrivers and wrenches and drill bits, warning me not to get them mixed up.
“You don’t want to confuse me, do you?” he’d asked, a sparkle in his eyes.
I’d giggled in a way that only he could conjure out of me.
“What are you doing?” I’d asked him.
“Mikey and I are going to change the oil,” he’d answered. “That all right with you?”
I’d nodded and watched the two of them lie on their backs and shimmy up under the car’s engine. He’d told Mike different names for the parts of the car, but I hadn’t been listening. I’d just sat on the workbench, watching the two of them. All I could see was their legs, knees bent into peaks.
Before I left the garage I arranged his tools in the way he would have liked them, trying with all
of my might to remember where they should have gone. Wishing that he was there to tell me if I was right.
I didn’t have it right. I knew I didn’t. So, I stepped out of the garage, shutting the door behind me. The kid next door was still counting, and I wondered how many times he’d lost track.
Grandma’s voice was more hushed than usual from the other side of the kitchen door. I pushed it open and saw that she and Oma still sat at the dining room table.
“I don’t know that I have much choice,” Grandma said.
“Of course you do,” Oma answered. “You must make the decision for yourself.”
“It’s no good, me living here alone.” Grandma shifted in her seat. “I’m not sleeping well. This old place makes too many noises at night. And, darn it all, I’m lonely.”
“Would you feel welcome at your daughter’s house?”
I eased the door closed again, still listening.
“I suppose so.” Grandma’s voice was higher than usual, more uncertain, I thought. “Rose has always been good to me in her way.”
“Do you want to be with her?” Oma asked. “Do you think that can bring you joy?”
“I think I do.”
Leaning back against the kitchen wall, I tried to imagine Grandma gone too. All I could think of, though, was that the hole was just getting wider and deeper.
“I’ll miss the kids, though,” Grandma went on. “Gloria has done a good job with them.”
“She certainly has.”
“I want to thank you for being a good grandmother to them. I couldn’t always be, I don’t think. Especially not when Rocky was sick.”
“You did your best, Mabel.”
They were quiet for longer than a minute, and I pushed the door open so I could see them again. Grandma had her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking from silent mourning. Oma had her hand resting on Grandma’s shoulder.
“We built this life,” Grandma managed to say between gulping breaths. “It took us so many years. And now it’s all gone.”
“No,” Oma said. “No. It is not gone. It remains. Believe me, I know. It is not gone.”
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