Just One Thing (9 page)

“Inertia,” Sam said.

I nodded. I got that. More than most people would.

“Every day Grid came to visit and pushed and prodded. He had the therapist show him what to do, and then he did it. Over and over. He twisted my leg. He pulled at it, stretching the damaged muscles. But more than that, he twisted me and pulled me from wherever it was I’d been hiding . . .”

Two weeks after Grid arrived, he sat across from Sam.

“Do you remember that night they served hot dogs and you started rhapsodizing about Smith Hot Dogs? They’re a western Pennsylvania thing, and you went on and on about how no other hot dogs could compare?”

Despite himself, Sam was pulled into the memory. “Lyle said he was a hot dog expert because he’d competed in hot-dog-eating contests, and since he’d never heard of them, how good could they be?”

Grid nodded. “And you challenged him to a duel. The guys cheered and egged the two of you on.”

“Lyle won and I threw up.”

“But they cheered as you puked,” Grid said with pride in his voice. Then his smile faded. “What would they think if they saw you now?”

Sam didn’t answer. He was still in the middle of that memory.

“I’ve been here two weeks, Sam. You’re talking now, and that’s good. But it’s not enough. You’ve got to get up. It’s time. You’ve mourned them. Now it’s time to honor them. Get up.”

Sam remembered Lyle and their hot dog debate.

Ramsey, a family man, had four girls. He used to joke that being deployed was his only defense against all that estrogen.

Smith was a musician when he wasn’t fighting in wars. Even now, Sam could hear the soft refrain of
Red River Valley
.

Johnson was an outdoorsman. He swore when he got home he was heading to Alaska. He longed for snow and ice. He was going to fish and lose himself in the wilderness there.

And Lennon, who was just one of the boys, even if she was a girl. She could spit, belch, and tell a tall tale along with the rest of them. But sometimes, there was a softness that crept around her rough edges. That little girl on their last trip. She’d held her as if she were the girl’s mother.

Sam felt the weight of their loss. It pressed on him, driving him back into himself.

Grid seemed to sense it. “No you don’t,” he said, and punched Sam in the arm, not as hard as he could, but hard enough to remind Sam he could still feel.

“Get up, Sam.” Grid’s voice was fierce. “You know they all would be pissed if they could see you here, wallowing. Just get up. That first step is always the hardest.”

Without a word, Sam reached down and fumbled with the brakes on the wheelchair.

He reached for the walker.

“Just one step, Sam. Once the first one’s over, the second will be easier, and then the third, then . . .”

Sam threw his weight forward and let momentum do the bulk of the work. He rose, unsteady.

“Just the first step,” Grid whispered.

And Sam reached his right leg forward, and set it inches in front of the left.

It wasn’t much of a step, but Grid was right; it was the hardest.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Me, too,” Sam echoed.

That was all. Maybe it didn’t seem like much to Jerry, who was nursing his beer at the end of the bar, probably listening to us again.

But I knew it was something big.

Something huge.

That week, things felt different. Somehow lighter. Sam’s friend’s words resonated with me. Sometimes you needed to take time to collect yourself.

The first step is the hardest.

I’d taken a year and wasn’t sure I’d collected myself very much. I still felt . . . adrift. Lost.

Then I thought about it, and realized maybe I had taken a first step. I had friends now. Someplace to go every Monday. I felt as if I managed to reconnect with the kids.

I had the tapestry.

How had that very imperfect piece of cloth on my loom become so important? I wasn’t sure, but it was.

I took Angus on a long walk on Tuesday. I owed him after last week’s neglect. It was cool enough that I needed a jacket. I wore an old black-and-red flannel shirt that had been Conner’s, once upon a time. He’d left it when he went to college, and I claimed it.

Even though it had been years and it had thinned after repeated washings, I swore it kept me warmer than my fleece jacket. And it reminded me of my son. The boy he was, and the man he’d become.

He was a cop.

How an accountant and an art teacher had produced a law enforcement officer boggled me, but we had and he was.

He’d been a good kid, and now he was a good man, keeping people safe in Erie. He believed in what he was doing. I envied him that. I was no longer sure what I believed in.

Angus bounded through the woods, barking wildly at everything and nothing.

“Come on, Gus,” I hollered. We walked and I waited for inspiration to claim me. That’s how it was when I walked. I’d think about my current project and I’d suddenly know what came next. Or I’d have a design for some pottery.

Now, I wanted to know what I should stitch into my tapestry next. What I should work on between my Monday excursions.

My life had settled into a rhythm. Mondays, then work until it was Monday again. I needed something to work on this week. Angus and I walked for hours that Tuesday morning waiting for direction for this week to come.

But nothing came.

With or without inspiration, it was time to go back. It really was cold.

It took me more than a minute to realize that it was October.

The summer had well and truly left.

“Gus.”

There were leaves that had already surrendered to the inevitable and fallen. My Wellingtons crunched against them as I walked. Hickory nuts littered the path too. My boots crushed them into the soft earth. Some might sprout into seedlings next spring.

And now that I was noticing things, I noticed that the leaves that remained in the trees were red, gold, and orange. The few remaining evergreens provided a touch of green that would accent the dark brown limbs throughout the winter.

And then I knew. I absolutely knew with certainty what I needed to add next.

I was anxious to get back to the workshop.

I worked hard that week, but not with the same manic need as last. Telling Sam about Gracie had been some sort of hurdle, I realized, as I added a swatch of water and sand next to the horse and orange blanket that week. Then, I ringed the tableaux with fall flowers. I was starting to say good-bye to Gracie, my peacemaker. My heart. Finally. Years later I could say good-bye.

I had hoped and prayed for that miracle, but it never came. Gracie had died. It was a Sunday morning, still dark and quiet. The newspaper boy who tossed our daily paper onto the porch—I’d learned the distinct sound of that thud—still hadn’t come by.

I was bone weary. I’d had Lee help me move one of the family room recliners into Gracie’s room. My asking, “Could you help me move a recliner?” was the longest conversation we’d had in days. Ever since our miracle disagreement, we’d stopped talking altogether.

I spent most of my nights in Gracie’s room in order to hear her whenever she needed me.

But that night, she’d asked me to hold her as she slept. I’d snuggled next to her in her bed for a very long time, until I was certain she was sleeping. Then I moved over to the recliner. She hadn’t called. I’d woken up and realized that she’d finally had a peaceful night’s sleep. Maybe she was better. Maybe I had my miracle.

I’d given her the morphine about midnight. It supplemented her pain patch. She’d slept quietly after that.

I remember thinking that maybe Gracie had turned some corner and would be better. I’d watched her from my recliner vantage point. Her expression was peaceful and I’d wondered what she’d dreamed about. Then I realized, her chest wasn’t rising or falling anymore.

Horror sank in. Sometime after midnight, as I slept, she’d quietly left.

Even all these years later, I felt the stab of pain again. I’d lost Gracie.

I think that’s when I started losing myself as well.

Maybe I’d started when my father died.

But now, sitting in my studio, working on the tapestry, I finally started letting go of Gracie.

No, that was wrong. I could never let go of her. But I could let go of the pain of her loss and remember the joy and the grace of my youngest daughter.

That week I felt as if my baggage was lighter.

I bundled up before I walked to The Corner Bar on Monday. I walked slower than I normally did because I knew what part of my story I had to tell next. I didn’t want to, but I knew it had to be the next one.

The bar seemed warm and inviting as I entered.

“Colder than a witch’s tit,” Jerry called jovially as I entered. “’Course, I have no idea how cold that would be, but this is colder.”

He laughed and took another sip of his beer.

Jerry was a sipper.

Over the last few weeks, as I started coming back to life and began paying attention, I’d learned that he came to the bar for company more than to drink. It was as if I was suddenly noticing that the bar had more occupants than just Sam and me. It came as a surprise. I realized that I’d become a bit myopic, focusing on just a few things, not the world in its entirety. I was going to try to change that.

I waved at Joanie, the waitress, and as I passed Jerry, I asked, “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Sure did. Got every leaf on my lawn raked up. Of course, I came out this morning, and there was a whole new batch waiting for me to rake ’em.”

“Leaves and laundry. You never entirely finish either,” was my sage response.

Jerry laughed as Sam came toward me, my Killian’s in its iced glass in his hand, and said the words that had become my permission to seek release. “One thing.”

“My miracle never came. Gracie’s miracle. It wasn’t long after I lost her that I lost everyone else.”