The Weight of Memory Page 5

  So I did. We left the road.

  What if we hadn’t?

  My Own Flesh and Blood

  Grampy! Your tea is getting cold again.”

  I raise the small, empty plastic cup to my lips and take a long drink. “That is delicious,” I say with a smile.

  You look at me with sincere eyes. Those eyes. They’re so expressive, so open to the world and eager for whatever it might have for you. I worry for the one thousandth time about you, about what will happen with no one here to care for you. No one here to find you when you run away, no one here to drink your tea or hear your stories or read your maps.

  That is why we’re going back. That is why I have to take you there. There must be someone where I grew up who can watch over you. My parents are gone. My friends, the few I had, are as old as me. But there has to be someone.

  For a brief moment, I think about your father. My little boy. Where is he?

  How he has failed you. The depth and width and breadth of that failure are a weight on me. It would be so much easier for me to leave if he had not fallen apart, if he had not left you with me. I think of him a million times a day. I think if he had died, I would know, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I feel it in my bones? My own flesh and blood couldn’t pass away without me knowing it any more than I could lose a finger or chop off a toe without noticing. Right?

  “Will you take me to the stream when we’re back in Nysa?” you ask. “Will you show me the stream where you used to play, the one in the field?”

  “How do you know these things?” I ask. For some reason I feel so, so sad.

  “What?”

  “The stream. The field.”

  You smile patiently. “Grampy, you’re so forgetful. I told you. That woman is helping me with my map.”

  “Ah, yes,” I say. “The woman with the silver hair.”

  Crossing Over

  You’re right. There was a stream, and we came to it in the dead of night. I knew we needed to hurry so that we would get home before my parents left to pick me up at the party they didn’t know I had already left. They wouldn’t mind if I brought friends home; in fact, they would probably be pleased. They didn’t think I had any friends. I mean, I guess they were right. I didn’t. Until that night.

  There was something there with Mary and Tom and Shirley, something I hadn’t felt before. They seemed to actually like being with me. They were happy welcoming me into their group. I fit. There was something about fitting that felt very nice. And it happened so quickly, without any effort. As I consider how we came together, something about it feels predestined, as if it couldn’t have happened any other way. I don’t know what to think about that.

  “Jump over?” Tom asked. The four of us were standing there staring at the stream.

  “It is kind of a big jump,” I admitted.

  Surprisingly, Mary was the one to insist we cross. I would have expected it if it came from Tom—brash and assertive Tom. Or even Shirley—she could have pressed us to do it in her laughing way. But Mary?

  I shrugged. “Don’t fall in.”

  The water swept away from us. It was five or six feet wide and murky in the night.

  Tom, full of nervous energy, shouted, scaring us, and suddenly took a quick run up to the stream and jumped. He sailed over, his foot landing at the edge of the water on the far side, and he stumbled forward.

  “Whoo!” he shouted. “That’s how it’s done!”

  I could feel the girls’ nervousness coming off of them in waves.

  “I don’t mind walking you around,” I said. “I really don’t.”

  Mary pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “It’s okay. I can do it.”

  “Let me go first, please?” Shirley begged.

  I laughed. “Go for it.”

  Unlike Tom, she backed away from the stream quite a ways in order to get a running start.

  “Get a good jump in, Shirls!” Tom shouted, and even I could hear the nervousness in his voice. But to her credit, she was fast. That was something I’d learn about Shirley in the coming years—she could run when she had to.

  She flew right up to us, running barefoot and clutching her ruby slippers, one in each hand. Her last step splashed at the edge of our side of the stream, and she launched herself across. She landed in the water on the far side and started to slip backwards, but Tom reached out and grabbed her, lifted her to safety.

  “Yes!” I shouted. “Nice one, Shirley!”

  The two of them were close in the dark. They stood there, him holding on to her for an extra second.

  “Get a room!” Mary shouted, laughing.

  They glanced over at us, each taking a half step away from the other.

  “Very funny,” Tom said. “Very funny.”

  Mary whispered, “Do you mind walking me around? I don’t think I want to try after all.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Shirley made it.”

  “Barely! But I mean, if you don’t want to . . .”

  “No, no,” I said. “I don’t mind. I’ll walk you.”

  “I don’t think I want to jump,” she said to Tom and Shirley. I expected them to protest, but they didn’t.

  “It’s okay,” Tom said.

  “We’ll wait here,” Shirley added.

  “Actually,” I said, “do you mind going on up to my house? It’s the only house up there, with the lights. Tell my parents I’ll be home in a minute. I don’t want them driving all the way over to the party to get me.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, and he and Shirley turned and started walking up the hill through the brittle stubble of harvested cornstalks. My house felt like a long way off from there. The front light was a lonely star.

  “You sure?” I asked Mary again.

  She nodded, and the two of us turned and walked along the stream, toward the road and the bridge. The space between us felt charged by something, like there was an invisible force there, pulling us together, pushing us apart.

  “What’s your story?” I asked her. The night seemed less dark as I walked there beside Mary.

  She smiled at me bashfully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me something about you.” I felt brave, unabashed. This was not my normal, intimidated self. In the darkness I found a kind of courage.

  “It’s my mom and dad and me. Mom works at the Nysa Diner, usually from around four in the afternoon until late, two or three in the morning. Dad works night shift at the warehouse over by the highway.”

  “That’s far,” I said.

  She nodded. “I spend a lot of evenings at home on my own.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s okay. I like it. I like the quiet. Why do you think I chose to walk this way? It’s a chance for some quiet.” She smiled.

  “I’m sorry. I’m asking too many questions. Messing up your quiet time.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. The bridge was up ahead of us, and far off I could see the headlights of a car on a different road. The stars still shone. The dark profiles of the surrounding tree-covered hills rose around us like massive waves in the middle of the ocean.

  “Have you lived out here for long?” she asked me.

  “My whole life.”

  “In the same house?” She sounded incredulous.

  “Yep. Same house. Same parents. Same everything.”

  She laughed, and it was light in the dark.

  “How haven’t I seen you before?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I’ve only lived here for a year.”

  “Still. Strange I’ve never seen you around.”

  We got to my road and walked up the hill, crossing the tiny bridge that spanned the stream. In the part of the field that lined the road, ten or twelve rows of corn still stood unharvested—the edge of the field the farmer hadn’t yet worked—and they ran along the road all the way up to my house. They seemed to move even when the wind wasn’t blowing, their voi
ces dry and raspy.

  Nysa was a beautiful place in the daytime, all rolling hills and patches of forest and that never-ending, crystal lake. But when the sun wasn’t shining, the whole island turned dark and gave off this aura of something asleep in the deep places of the earth. It’s hard to explain, but even with Mary that night, even feeling the approach of something like love, Nysa still gave me the chills.

  Our feet were quiet on the road now that it was only the two of us. We barely made a sound. The night was somehow brighter each moment, illuminated by the stars, and our shadows stretched out in front of us.

  “Shirley was fast,” I said, chuckling nervously.

  Mary smiled. “She’s quick.”

  We both laughed.

  She stopped.

  I walked past her, turned. “What?”

  She reached out and grabbed my arm, pulled me back. I could barely breathe. She held me close and huddled against my body. I thought she was going to kiss me.

  “Who’s that?” she whispered.

  “Where?” I took a step back, pulling her with me. I didn’t see anything.

  “Right . . . there. That person in the shadows.” She pointed up the road, into the darkness that rustled alongside the rows of corn.

  Mary screamed.

  I felt a pulse of energy, and my heart pounded so hard I thought I might have a heart attack. I wanted to run. Mary folded, put her hands over her face.

  “Mary, I still don’t see anything,” I hissed.

  “She’s gone,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”

  We stood there completely still, terrified. Had this person Mary saw circled around behind us? Was she still waiting in the dark rows ahead? Could it have been one of my parents walking down the long lane?

  “Who was that?” Mary hissed.

  I had no idea.

  The high rows of dry corn beside us exploded in movement, and three or four stalks fell down, bending out onto the road.

  Mary screamed again.

  It was Tom, followed by Shirley.

  “What happened?” Tom asked, bending over, breathing hard. Shirley gasped for air beside him. “We heard you scream. Is everything okay?”

  “There was a person standing in the road,” Mary said, her voice hollow. I could tell she was still thinking about it, imagining it.

  “A man?” Tom asked, concern in his voice. He spun around, took a few steps up the road. I admired his courage.

  “A woman. She pointed at me,” Mary whispered.

  “What?” Tom asked.

  “She pointed at me,” she said, but this time she stared at me. “She pointed. She had the whitest hair, like moonlight.”

  Headlights wound down the road. It was one of my parents, on their way to pick me up at the party. I ran a hand through my hair.

  Tom laughed nervously. “It was probably just some lost trick-or-treater.”

  “Are you okay, Mary?” I asked. Her screams had shaken me. My heart still pounded.

  She didn’t say anything. Shirley walked over and hugged her. Tom put his hands on his hips and stared up at the stars.

  As my parents’ car came closer, it baptized us in light. I stepped slowly out into the road and waved both of my arms over my head, relieved when the car eased to a stop.

  My dad wound down his window and poked his head out. “Well, well, well,” he said, grinning. “And who do we have here?”

  I saw Mary clearly for the first time. Her hands were shaking, her eyes were wide, and when she glanced up at Shirley I thought I saw her jaw tremble.

  And she was beautiful.

  A Place in This World

  What does the woman look like?” I ask you.

  “Drink your tea, Grampy. It’s getting cold.”

  I lift the cup, take a long sip, and put it down. “Why won’t you tell me more about her?”

  “I already told you, she’s very kind. She’s tall. She helped me with the map. She wanted to see you in that old building, but you walked right past her.” You shrug. “She said she needs my help. She’s lost something very important to her. That’s all.”

  You remind me of your grandmother, with your dark hair and your dark eyes.

  “We’re going to leave for Nysa in the morning. Are you okay to pack a bag?”

  “How many days should I pack for?”

  “Bring a week’s worth of clothes,” I say, offering a resigned smile. “We’ll go from there.”

  Later, after you’re in bed and asleep and I’ve seen your breath raising and lowering your tiny rib cage, I sit at the edge of my own bed. I take a wooden ruler and thin shoelace from my bedside table and wrap the shoelace around the circumference of the knot on the side of my head, marking the circle’s endpoint with my thumb and forefinger. I stretch out the shoestring along the ruler to get the length of the circumference of my knot, my tumor, my anytime-to-three-months lump.

  It’s quite a bit bigger than it was the day before, although I admit my method is not exact. I stare at the shoelace, consider measuring again, think better of it, and stash both tools back in my drawer. I turn out the light and lie down on top of the covers, hovering there in the darkness.

  I think about going home. Is Nysa home? I find it strange that I still think of it that way. Even now. It is a good idea, I know that much. It would be a safe place for you, I think, not like the city. The country would let you air out a bit, spread your wings, have some freedom. A nice family could raise you in a nice house with nice trips to the shore and vacations and all the trappings of a small-town school with football games and new No. 2 pencils. I hope Nysa hasn’t become too snooty in the years since I was there, that there’s still a farming element, a hardworking blue-collar section.

  I have to find you a place, Pearl. I have to find you a place in this world, before I leave it.

  Leaving

  Morning breaks. I spend forty-five minutes on the phone with the lawyer who recently helped me write up my will, filling him in on my plans, giving him added instructions on what to do with the house if I don’t return. It’s a strange conversation. I feel like I’m talking about someone else’s impending demise, someone else’s house, someone else’s granddaughter. When he asks about your guardianship, I tell him I’m working on it.

  “You’re working on it?” he asks.

  “That’s what I said. I’ll straighten it out and be in touch.” I hang up without saying goodbye.

  You and I drive out of the city, and it’s a strange thing to think I may never return. Never come home to the house I have lived in for so long. Never walk the alley to your school to pick you up. Never sit on the front porch, taking in the street, waiting for John to come back. Never sit on the floor in your room beside your bed until you fall asleep. I arrived in this town with your father when he was only a few months old. Now I am leaving with you. Sometimes the sadness and beauty of life are unfathomable.

  You roll your window down, and the crisp autumn air floods in, whipping around us, holding little of the summer heat of yesterday. I feel one of those moments of true melancholy mixed with happiness—that aching combination of thankfulness and sadness and a sharp sense of being—right there in the moment.

  The morning air is chilly.

  “Pearl, keep your window up,” I say, finding myself growing emotional in that moment of leaving. I try to cover up the emotion in a voice with hard lines and sharp turns, but I don’t like the sound of it now that it is out, swirling in the air around us.

  You start to put your window up, but I reach over and touch your shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Don’t worry. The air is nice.”

  You smile that entire-face smile of yours, your hair is dancing around like wild black thread, and you turn to the window and put one hand out, wrestling with the wind. You reach across your body and take my hand resting on the center console.

  “Feel how cold,” you say, your eyes wide.

  Cold. Is that what death will be like? Is that what waits for
me on the other side—a long sleep? A never-ending dream? Or something else, something better? Or nothing? I have thought about this often since the diagnosis. What, if anything, waits for me on the other side? I feel like a kid on his first roller-coaster ride when it begins click-clacking its way toward the top of the initial hill. What will greet me on the ride down?

  “Will I go to school when we get to your hometown?” you ask.

  I reach up and touch the tumor on my head. It’s on the left side, facing out my window and away from you. It feels tough, like a tree knot. I can feel it against my skull, and I imagine that I can feel it growing into me, lodging its roots, like an acorn pushing into the earth. I wonder when it first began, when that first cell appeared that would send everything else into blooming chaos. Was it there fifty-eight years ago when I was born? Forty years ago when your father was born? Eleven years ago when you were born? What strange things we carry unknown inside of us.

  “Can I be honest with you, Pearl?” I ask.

  You roll up your window so you can hear me better. The quiet that rushes in is almost too much, almost enough to make me ask you to put the window back down again so I can drown my senses in that peaceful roar.

  “You’re in love with Ms. Pena,” you say in a very solemn voice.

  “What?”

  “You’re in love with Ms. Pena. It’s okay. I’m okay with it.”

  I am caught completely off guard. That was the last thing I expected you to say. “Well, for one, no, I’m not in love with Ms. Pena. And two, if I was, why would we be leaving?”

  Your face twists in thought, so determined to connect the dots. “I’ve been thinking about this.”

  “I can tell.”

  “I think, well, first of all, you are in love with Ms. Pena, and everyone can tell. You’re worse than Stevie in my class who likes Monica. It’s so obvious, Grampy. But maybe you’re leaving because you’re still in love with Grandma, or you’re afraid Ms. Pena won’t love you back, or you don’t think I like Ms. Pena—even though I do—and so we’re leaving because you can’t bear to be around her when you’re so in love.”