On the Divinity of Second Chances (21 page)

“Hello,” he whispers to me.

“I’m Jade’s mother,” I say.

“Josh.” He shakes my hand. “Pleased to meet you. She’s sleeping.”

I step inside and go to her. I brush her braids away from her face. “Oh, little girl,” I whisper to her. “Will you let her know I stopped by?” I ask Josh. “I just got back in town.”

He nods. He looks friendly. I like him.

I continue home, drive into the garage, park, and wonder if I should even bother going into the house. Why? So I go directly to the backyard. First, I notice a flat of red poppies, and then a swing with wilted carnations tied to the rope. There’s a card tied to the rope as well. I read it. Wow. Not a Shop-Vac. I look up into the tree at the branch where it hangs, and that is when I notice a tree house. I follow the ladder with my eyes, down from the tree house near the trunk of the tree. I climb the ladder, and sit on the deck at the top. I take a moment and look around before I go inside. Inside, another card. Phil, you have really outdone yourself. But wait, the card says, “Mom.” Jade? I open it.

Forrest. Forrest is alive and nearby. I sob. My little Forrest . . . My heart aches as the tears that I was so sure had run out spring up and flow again. My precious Forrest . . .

When I am finally able to compose myself, I descend the ladder and sit on the swing. Though wilted, the carnations still smell fragrant, like my senior prom corsage from Phil. I kick off and swing. Forrest. Phil. Clearly things that appeared dead are not.

Since it’s obviously a time of unimaginable possibilities, I go inside and call the number Jade gave me for Martina.

Phil on Big News
(July 7)

Jade doesn’t want to continue searching today. She won’t even look at me. She only wants to lie in a little hole outside her condo.

“Here, I have a list of places we’ve called. Up on top are dates. I’ve put check marks in the corresponding boxes to show who we contacted on what day so it will be easy to see who we need to continue to follow up with and when. Now, here is a map I copied from the phone book. Yellow represents the areas we plastered with flyers. Each little black
X
represents a reported sighting. A box around the
X
means it was a confirmed false alarm. Plain
X
’s then, represent unconfirmed sightings.” She still doesn’t look at me. Her eyes drop big tears that moisten the gravel under her.

“We could go to these isolated neighborhoods today and put up flyers,” I suggest, but she just lies there. She reminds me of Anna during the weeks after Forrest disappeared—devastated and inconsolable. Just as I didn’t know what to do then, I don’t know what to do now either. I rest my hand on her shoulder. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to go check the animal shelter today. They’re very busy and might not identify Aretha right away if they did admit her. Then I’m going to go for a walk and keep an eye out. Call me if you want to join me.”

She gives me a little tiny nod, as if to say thanks, and I head off to the animal shelter.

As I walk among the outdoor kennels, most dogs bark excitedly and some jump up on the fence. Some of the barks are ear-piercing. I check each and every kennel for Aretha, but she’s not in any of them. My hopes drop. I would have loved to have brought Aretha back to Jade and to have made everything in my little girl’s world okay again.

I return home, defeated, and decide to prepare a sandwich before my walk. I walk into the kitchen, but before I reach the fridge, movement outside the window catches my eye. It’s Anna swinging.

I go outside and cautiously approach her. Her eyes are red and swollen like she’s been crying. Great. I still decide to break my news. “Aretha’s missing.”

“Yes, I was just there. I saw the flyers as I rolled into town. I stopped by to check in. She was asleep. You know how she sleeps. She had a friend with her,” Anna replies.

“Oh.” I walk behind her and give her gentle pushes.

“Thank you for the swing,” she says tenderly. “I went out to the old swing while I was in Summerville. It was broken.”

“Oh,” I say, and smile. “You’re welcome.”

“I have some big news,” she tells me. “Two pieces. I’m not sure which is bigger, or which to tell you first.”

“Good, I hope?” What if she’s about to break it to me she’s leaving me for good? I can’t see her expression from back here, so I can’t begin to guess.

“Incredible.” She takes a piece of paper from her pocket and hands it back to me. I stop pushing her and unfold the paper. “It was up in that tree house. Our boy’s alive, Phil. He’s alive. . . .”

I feel like the wind has just been knocked out of me. I read the poem. “Why won’t he just come talk to us?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping this is a sign he’s moving in that direction,” she says.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe this is stupid, but I feel like going for a walk and just looking for him. Would you be interested in that?” she asks.

“Sure,” I answer. “We could look for Aretha, too.”

“Before we go, are you ready for the other big news?”

“God, I don’t know,” I reply.

She turns the swing around so the ropes cross. She looks at my face as if she’s looking for something . . . something she loves, something she recognizes, I don’t know. “Olive’s going to be a farmer, and we’re going to be grandparents.”

Huh?

Phil on Holding On
(July 7)

I have been staring at the phone for a half hour now. I know I want to say something, but I’m not sure what. My little girl is going to be a mother. Would I have chosen these circumstances for her? No, but still my heart overflows. I just want to give her my love. Does that sound sappy? God, I’m getting sappy. Actually, being sappy feels pretty good. I’m going to like being a grandpa.

I pick up the phone and slowly dial. My heart races as the phone rings. I can’t stop smiling.

“Hello?” It’s her. It’s my girl.

“It’s Dad,” I say.

“Dad? Dad. Dad, I’m so sorry I let you down. I know this isn’t what you wanted for me. I know you raised me to have more common sense than this . . .”

“Olive, stop.” I take a deep breath. “I just called to tell you I love you. I can’t wait to be a grandpa. You’re a smart girl, and I know you’ll take care of things just fine.”

I hear muffled sobs on the other end. What do I say now?

“I’ve started graphing market trends in the minor oils for you. I’ll e-mail you weekly updates. As farmers go, you’ve got a lot going for you. You’ve got no debt, good water rights, good soil, and a good head for business. I don’t see why you can’t be one of the ones that make it.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I hear her blow her nose.

“You know, when my family lost the farm, I never really felt right after that. There is something about a farm.”

“Yep.” Sniff.

“I’m proud of you, Olive.”

Oh, there goes the crying again. What is needed here is a strategic subject change.

“Now, Olive? My sources say that flax is going to be hot this year. My two cents is to gamble on a little more flax than you otherwise might have.”

“Thanks, Dad. Thank you so much.”

“Okay, check your e-mail now. I sent you this week’s graph.”

Anna on a Home of Her Own
(July 8)

When I wake and survey my surroundings, I smile. At last, I am home. A place all my own, oh, what a delicious experience it is! I feel safe here—safe from ridicule, safe from invasion, safe from judgment, safe from displacement. There is nothing to make a woman feel more youthful than waking up in her very own tree house.

Light filtering in through the branches streams through the east window and dances on the floor next to me as leaves quake in the morning breeze. The patterns of light remind me of water, and fireflies, and kaleidoscopes. Being inside the tree house while little branches blow around me reminds me of being in the safety of a mother’s womb, in the womb of a dancing woman. The tree strikes me as so feminine, the curves of her trunk, her delicate branches, and her leaves like a wild hat or a feather boa or precious jewels. Or maybe this beautiful woman tree is cradling me in her arms.

I see myself in the woman tree. I see within the tree, my family tree, each strong branch a child, and myself, the trunk, holding everyone up. In the youthful leaves that tremble with the slightest wind, I see my children, vulnerable to the world and always reacting to it. In the leaves, I come to see the chaos of my children’s lives as natural. I am the trunk, where people cut hearts, like the painful experiences of motherhood, that eventually come to appear as beautiful. I am what anchors my family in the wind, in the chaos. I cannot still my children, but I can anchor them.

The bark on the young branches is thin and vulnerable, whereas the bark on the trunk is strong. Deep cracks in the bark, the woman tree’s stretch marks and wrinkles, give it texture and beauty. I feel the lines in my own face with my fingertips and think of that beautiful bark. Silvery lichen grows on the bark of the tree, like the silver that creeps into my hair.

I take out my sketch pad, but instead of raisins, I begin an intricate close-up of bark, and eat the raisins. I am no raisin. I am a beautiful, glorious tree.

Phil on His First March
(July 8)

“Phil, that is one shiny wedding ring still on your finger. Honestly, Phil, I think you have set a new record,” Al says. “I trust things must be adequate?”

“Better than adequate—I’m going to be a grandfather!” I announce.

“Well, that is cause for celebration. Phil, have a drink with me.”

“Nine o’clock is a little early for me, but thank you very much for your offer.”

“My pleasure.” Al pours some scotch for himself. “Phil, listen closely and abide by this: Never, under any circumstances try to play a lullaby on the pipes to a small child. This is a recipe for disaster and inner ear damage. I rue the day I had a mind to try it.” He glances at a picture of a child dressed in pink, presumably his daughter, on a shelf. “Well, then, let us celebrate you marching into grandfatherhood by marching around the neighborhood. Let’s keep your drones corked so you can keep your focus on your coordination. I believe that by parade time, you’ll have your drones uncorked, but for now, we can’t afford to lose you to hyperventilation. It’s important to learn to breathe properly before you apply maximum pressure. I have an Uncle Bert, who blew out his sinuses playing the pipes. Poor guy. Had to take up the strings after that. The man plays a mean fiddle, Phil, but make no mistake. No fiddle holds up to the pipes, and Bert knows it. ‘Amazing Grace’ does not sound right on the fiddle. This was a tragic event to say the least.” Al takes a generous gulp of scotch, stands, and leads the way to the front door. “I trust you have the fingering for ‘Amazing Grace’ memorized?” He raises one eyebrow at me.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Then let us commence.”

Al and I blow up our bags. He applies pressure to the bag with his arm, causing the drones to sing above his head. His face turns red. He looks at me and gives me a little nod, so I play the first note of the melody with him. He takes the first step, and I follow a fraction of a second behind until I am able to synchronize my steps with his and not mess up the melody. We play and march a total of four blocks, plenty for me, until at last we return to Al’s living room, breathless.

“Phil, you did not pass out. It might surprise you to know most of my students do. Phil, we can begin to prepare for the annual Labor Day tradition of the Trailing of the Sheep Parade.”

“Great!” I’m going to be a grandfather and play the pipes in a parade; retirement is looking better all the time!

“Phil, at this time, I recommend ordering your traditional dress.” Al looks up a number in his Rolodex and scribbles it down. “Ian there is very helpful. You tell him what clan you’re from and he will find your tartan. They even carry baby kilts, in the event you would like to pass this family pride on to your grandchild. Now, measure yourself metric before you call, Phil.”

“Will do, Al. Here.” I hand him his thirty bucks. “See you next week!”

“Sure thing. Tell Ian I say hi.”

My own kilt. Maybe I’ll get one for my grandchild . . . and my son . . . For the first time, I truly feel rich.

Forrest on Phil’s New Hobby
(July 8)

“Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, and a pair is six. . . . God, the bagpipe guy is at it again.” Lightning Bob moves the peg in the cribbage board, sets down his cards, gets up, and looks around with his telescope. “There,” he says and stands back so I can look. Wow . . . I close my eyes for a moment, then look again. I borrow a pen and scribble a poem on the back of a soup label.

“Really?” Lightning Bob asks. “That’s your dad?”