The Christmas Sweater (11 page)

I steadied myself and looked deep into my grandfather’s eyes. “You gave me that big
speech about God and happiness before, but look at you; you’re not happy. You’ve been
fooling everyone for the last year, but not me. I see right through you.” I wasn’t
about to let go of my guilt and anger so easily, and I certainly wasn’t about to share
it with the person I had convinced myself was causing most of it.

Grandpa looked stunned. I went for the knockout punch. “Mom would be alive if it wasn’t
for
you
making us leave that day.”

Now it was Grandpa’s turn to be speechless. I sensed his vulnerability, and it made
me even stronger. “You can go to church all you want, but none of the people there
are really happy, so stop your preaching. Stop telling me how great things are because
‘Jesus loves me,’ and how happy
we are because ‘God is with us’ and how ‘we’re the perfect little family.’ It’s all
a lie.” I was virtually shouting now. “Do you know why it’s a lie? Because there is
no God. Jesus doesn’t love you.
Jesus doesn’t care.
”

My words hung in the air, as if caught in the dusty rafters of the old barn. Tears
once again began to run down my grandfather’s cheeks. I went in for the kill. “I’m
the only
real
one in this family. I know who I am. I will be happy when I’m far away from here,
when I don’t have to worry about other people doing stupid things, like making their
tired daughter drive.”

I ran from the barn with unseen tears running down my cheeks. My grandfather was left
alone with a bicycle and the yarn of a hundred unmade sweaters.

I stared at my bedroom ceiling, its smooth white plaster standing in stark contrast
to the cracked, water-stained ceiling of my bedroom at home. Home, where I belonged.
I felt like I should be crying, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t sad.

I thought about the bike and all that it symbolized:
hope and happiness; death and despair. Grandpa’s words flashed through my head.
You have to share your burdens; you have to lean on other people…We are all meant
to be happy.

They were nice sentiments, but they were just words and I was done talking; my snowball
had grown too large. Russell was right—figuring out the
who
would lead to the “what” and the “where,” and now I had all three answers: My grandparents’
farm was the “what” and it was part of “who” I
used
to be. Now it would soon be time to show everyone the “where.”

I got up from my bed and went over to the dresser. It had five drawers, only four
of which I ever used. My sweater was in the fifth drawer, at the very bottom. It was
the only thing in there.

A mirror hung on the wall just over the dresser, but I avoided looking myself in the
eyes. Something inside was telling me that I was going down the wrong road and that
I needed to start over with my grandparents—but I ignored it. It was easy to fool
other people, but, for some reason, the mirror made it harder and harder to fool myself.

I took the sweater out, held it to my nose, and took a deep breath of my mother. I
felt completely, utterly lost. My old life and the old me were gone, and she was gone
with it. I was filled with regret.

I never even had a chance to say good-bye.

M
y grandfather wasted no time in picking up right where we had left off in the barn.
After breakfast the next morning he followed me into the living room as Grandma cleared
the dishes. “Who do you think you’re hurting?” he asked with a carefully controlled
voice. Yesterday’s old, tired eyes were now steely blue.

“I’m just trying to get out of here.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. You’re going to be here for a good while. I told
you yesterday, I’m not going anywhere, and, son, neither are you. In the meantime,
you and I need to come to an understanding. This is not nego
tiable: You will obey me and respect your grandmother. She is the kindest, gentlest,
most giving person you will ever meet. She has suffered enough. I can handle all of
your selfish hatred, but I swear, if you break that woman’s heart anymore, you’re
gonna have to answer to me.”

I looked into the kitchen. Grandma’s back was to us as she worked over the sink. For
an instant I felt guilty for adding to her burden. It passed quickly.

“Just stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours,” I snorted.

“That’s not going to work, Eddie. I’m going to love you no matter how much you fight
me. I wish it wasn’t that way. I’d much rather laugh and go get ice cream at the hardware
store again. I want Grandma to ask us where we’ve been for the last three hours. I
want to show you the rest of the Christmas hiding spots I’ve found over the years,
but most of all, I just want my best friend back again.”

I couldn’t believe it—another lecture. And he wasn’t done. “If you want to keep going
down this self-pity path, that’s your choice, but it’s the wrong one. Either way,
I’m
not moving on. I’ll always be here with open arms, ready to show you how good life
can be if you just let someone else into it. But until then I’ll be watching you like
a hawk. You don’t fool me, Eddie. I understand you better than you understand yourself.”

“Watch me all you want. I don’t care. Maybe you’ll learn something. Besides, there’s
only one person around here who even comes
close
to understanding me—and it isn’t you.”

Grandpa looked confused for a second, then glanced into the kitchen.

“It’s not Grandma,” I answered with more contempt than I felt. “I’m talking about
Russell!”

“Who?”

“Russell. The man who lives next door.”

“Eddie, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you can stop with this Russell
nonsense. I went over there with some of the neighbors a few times and we didn’t see
anyone, nor any sign that the Johnsons ever sold the place.”

“Well then you obviously don’t all know each other as
well as you thought. Russell lives there, and he
gets
it. He knows who I am.”

Grandpa glared at me. “I don’t even know who you are anymore, Eddie. I don’t know
if you really saw someone or if you’re making all of this up as part of some sort
of escape plot you’ve hatched. If that’s the case, it’s not going to work. Either
way, just stay away from the Johnson farm. You have no business going over there without
me.”

“Fine,” I replied, though I knew it was anything but. In that instant I realized how
far my relationship with my grandfather had deteriorated. He couldn’t even trust his
own grandson anymore.

In what had become my normal routine, I did exactly the opposite of what my grandfather
told me to.

I walked to the Johnsons’ farm, through the scrub and past the corral. The mare was
outside. She watched me go by and greeted me with a snort and a flick of her tail.
The same horse that had been so ornery before was now so gentle. It was like a completely
different horse.

The bottom step leading to the porch was gone, and I had to half jump to reach the
next step. Once on the porch, I stopped and listened to the tarnished copper wind
chime hanging near the door. A gentle breeze forced it to surrender a few clicks and
a couple of unimpressive tones. I wondered if I shouldn’t just turn around and go
home.

What home?

The torn screen door opened with a squeak as the spring stretched out for the millionth
time. I hesitated, then quietly knocked on the door. Small chips of ancient paint
came away with my knuckles. I reached out to try again, thinking that there was no
way anyone could have heard my knock. Then a gentle voice came from behind me.

“Hello, Eddie.”

I should have been startled, but I wasn’t. “Hi, Russell.”

“I was just going to take a break. Come and sit with me a while.”

He led me through tall dead grass to a big tree with a park bench under it—a real
park bench. It still had a faded advertisement for the Yellow Pages.

“Auction,” he said simply, answering my question before I asked it. “This is where
I come to think after more than just my fingers have done the walking.” He smiled.
“Everyone needs a place where they can go to just ponder for a while. Silence is important;
it’s the only time you can hear the whispering of truth.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I didn’t say anything.

Russell let out a deep breath. “It’s funny,” he continued, his voice barely audible,
“how many people just look at the surface and never ponder the deeper meaning of things.
I guess maybe it’s easier that way, because when you skim the surface you blame your
problems on the first person you find—and that’s never yourself.” He paused as if
to underscore what he’d just said. “Maybe that’s why people aren’t comfortable with
silence. Silence makes you think, and thinking makes you realize that not all problems
are caused by someone else.”

Russell had his eyes closed. I was sure he would sit there in silence for a month
if I waited for him to speak again. The silence was awkward and uncomfortable.
“Aren’t you afraid your horse will run away?” I asked. “Your broken fence sure isn’t
going to keep her here.”

Russell kept his eyes closed as he considered my question. “If you treat an animal
right, they don’t run away. They’re not like us. They run away from people they don’t
trust; most times we run away from ourselves.”

More silence.

“I suppose I’m just about done with this old girl,” Russell continued. “I think she’s
pretty much remembered who she is. And she is happy. There’s not much more for me
to do. I’ll probably give her a few more days, and then I’ll be hitting the road again.”

Figures,
I thought to myself. Everyone else I’ve ever been close to has left. Why wouldn’t
Russell?

He lifted his head and looked deep into my eyes. It felt like he was looking through
me. “What can I do for you, Eddie?”

“Nothing. I just came over to say hello.” Lying was becoming second nature to me.

Russell turned his head and picked up a small stick
from between his feet. “You know, Eddie, sometimes we get so entangled in life that
we miss the obvious. We just get so caught up in our own problems that most of the
time we fail to see what’s—”

I finished his sentence almost by rote. “Right under our nose?”

“Yes, we fail to see the things that are closest to us. It’s like the old expression
‘You can’t see the forest for the trees.’ You’re in the forest right now, Eddie, but
you’re too close to the trees to realize it. Maybe you need to step back and see the
bigger picture.”

I nodded my head in agreement: I knew Russell would understand. He already seemed
to know exactly what I planned on doing—seeing the whole picture by getting as far
away from this godforsaken street as possible.

Russell continued, “See, we’re all made up of two parts. There’s a part that
thinks
and there’s a part that
feels.
Usually, the two parts work together and everything is fine, but sometimes life hits
us hard and one part overtakes the other. For example, you miss your dad terribly,
right, Eddie?”

I wondered how he knew about my dad, but at that point I was more curious about where
this was heading. “Sure,” I answered cautiously.

“Well, you
think
about him plenty, but how often do you remember the
feelings
you had when he was around? When you
think
about him now, you picture him in a hospital bed or in a casket at his funeral. You’ve
replaced dreams with nightmares.”

It was hard to argue with that. I looked at the horse.

“You’ve done the same thing with your mother. You’ve replaced good memories of pancakes
and laughter with bad memories of an argument and a car wreck. You have to stop thinking
so much and instead start
feeling
again, even when,” he paused, then said, “no,
especially
when it hurts.”

A vision of Mom lying in her casket involuntarily popped into my head, as it had done
so many times before. But now, for the first time since her death, I was able to force
it out and replace it with how I felt. I felt happiness and warmth, joy and sorrow—but,
most of all, I felt a longing to see her again. For the first time, I
felt
how much I missed her.

“Eddie, your parents did a good job trying to teach you how to live your life. They
showed you that no matter what happened, all would be well in the end. But look at
what you’ve done with those lessons; you’ve crumpled them up into a ball and tossed
them onto the floor.”

I looked away. I knew he was right.

“You’re not living in the present, Eddie—you’re living in the past. Life is here to
be shaped and molded into what you want it to be, but you’ve done exactly the opposite;
you’ve let life shape and mold you. You don’t know
who
you really are because, right now, you’re no one. You’re empty inside.”

What?
I was fuming. How could Russell say that? I knew exactly who I was. I was about to
remind him of that, but Russell wasn’t interested in my feedback. He continued, “The
two most powerful words in any language are ‘I am.’ Those two words contain all the
creative power of the heavens themselves. It was God’s answer from the Burning Bush
to Moses’s question ‘Who shall I say sent me?’—‘I am that I am.’ It is the name of
God.”

“I don’t believe in God.”

Russell considered me for a second. “He’s sorry to hear that. Maybe it’s because you’ve
invoked his name to create something that you’re not—a reality that exists only because
you have made it so.”

I didn’t even know what he was talking about. He must’ve seen the confusion in my
face.

“Eddie, when was the last time you honestly thought, ‘I am happy; I am strong; I am
a good person; I am worthy’?” His voice was powerful, commanding.

My silence said more than I ever could.

“You’ve spent far too much of your time turning yourself into something you are not:
a victim. No one can
make
you into a victim; only
you
can do that…and you have. But there’s another choice you can make as well—you can
choose to be a
survivor
.”

A flood of memories came rushing back to me.

Dad trying to teach me how to fly a kite in the street outside our house. Every time
he’d get it going, another car would come around the corner and the kite would nosedive
into the asphalt.

I tried to push it away.

Dad and I playing football in the backyard. He could throw the ball so far that I’d
have to run to the neighbor’s yard to catch it.

“Feel, Eddie,
feel
.”

Dad and I walking down the middle of the street in the snow, the streetlights making
his face glow.

Suddenly I felt a pit in my stomach.

“Don’t think yet, son,
feel.
”

Dad’s face was glowing again, but now it was under the bright white lights of his
hospital room. He looked tired and frail. A flash of darkness. I was at his funeral.
By His counsels guide, uphold you; With His sheep securely fold you; God be with you
’til we meet again.

As hard as I tried, I
couldn’t
feel. I was inundated with thoughts. Wave after wave, memory after memory.

I couldn’t fight it anymore—it all seemed so overwhelming. I am not.

I let go. Russell had his back to me. The horse was eating gently from his hand. “You
have such a bright future,” he said. “You just have to believe in it.”

“I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Russell never turned around. “Oh, that it is, Eddie. That it is.”

This time, I didn’t say anything to Grandpa about Russell. It didn’t matter. We stopped
talking any more than we absolutely had to. He’d decided that everything I did was
selfish and manipulative, and his growing distrust gave me the excuse I needed to
be the bitter and disrespectful thirteen-year-old that I was beginning to believe
I really was.

Rather than faking a normal, happy relationship, we set in motion a nasty cycle that
was sucking every ounce of goodness right out of our home.

Grandma deserved better.

It’s not that Grandpa was mean to me; he just quit trying to be nice. Maybe he was
just waiting for me to grow up, or maybe he’d just had enough of it all—but, whatever
the reason, Grandpa answered my constant abuse with indifference. Harsh words and
restricted privileges were reserved for when I broke rules or crossed the line by
taking my anger out on my grandmother.

Unable to get sympathy at home, I looked for it at the Ashtons’ instead. “I can’t
stay there anymore, Taylor,” I said over lunch at school one day.

“Where will you go?” he asked, just as I had hoped.

“If I could just get a break for a while, maybe things would settle down.”

“Let’s talk to my folks,” he offered.

Finally.