Our Heart (16 page)

The kitchen had become silent, and I heard the footsteps of someone coming my way. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the scene before me. What my grandfather had accomplished was nothing short of amazing. If you started with the three pictures in the center of the heart and worked out from there, you realized he had not only created a picture within pictures, but also tried to tell a story. All of the pictures within the heart showed the deep love between each couple. The pictures that framed the heart and gave it shape on the wall were all pictures connecting the three couples together. The more you looked from one photo to another, the complexities and interwoven patterns became clearer and more defined. It was beautiful and amazing to behold. I was awestruck. I couldn’t move and had to mentally tell myself to let out the breath I still held in my lungs. It was mind-boggling to imagine the time and effort my grandfather must of put in to arrange this beautiful tribute.

Great Aunt Vicky slid her arm around my waist and said nothing, as I continued to just stare. I could hear her sniff, and I knew without having to look, that she too saw the same things I did. We stood there for a few moments longer, lost deep in thought and marveling at Grandpa’s artistic achievement. I felt a slight tug on my side, and I followed Aunt Vicky the rest of the way down the hallway into the kitchen. I knew I had heard voices earlier and assumed that it would be Justin or Aunt Marcie in the Kitchen. I stopped halfway in when I noticed my father seated at the kitchen table. Our eyes connected, and I stared at his tired looking and somber face.

Randall Jesper Owens, my father, sat with both hands tightly wound around one of Grandpa Jake’s extra-large coffee cups. He looked exhausted, and I was actually beginning to care about how he might be feeling. In the recent past, coming in on him like this would have caused one of us to leave the room. The anger would instantly consume me, and I would have to turn around to avoid conflict. My father would leave to give me space and not upset me. I vividly remember Dad and Grandpa sitting at this same table many times, talking over their cups of coffee, always black and the stronger the better. I broke the silence, allowing a couple more bricks to fall from my internal wall, as I asked if the coffee was good and strong.

My father looked up at me, then down at his coffee, as if it would somehow provide him with the answer. After a short pause, where his mouth opened and closed, he hoarsely said, “Not Grandpa Jake strong, but it should do the trick!”

I couldn’t stop myself, and I smiled at him. “Guess I won’t need a fork then.”

I could see the hesitation in his eyes, and I didn’t give him a chance to dwell on it. I went to the cupboard by the sink and grabbed a big mug of my own. I filled it to the top and did a tiptoe to the table without spilling any. Great Aunt Vicky refilled her cup, and I noticed she added plenty of sugar to it. I looked over at my father, and he returned my look with a semblance of a smile, pushing up at the corners of his mouth. I could see his eyes brighten ever so slightly, and for once, I found it meaningful to me.

I think we were both glad to have Aunt Vicky there to direct us and lead us down the path to what needed to be accomplished. Surprisingly, she had already made several of the contacts, and much of it was well under control. Our little group meeting took on more of a “this is how it is” activity, rather than us wondering, “what do we do now?” I’m sure every family has that one person who just knows what needs to be done and does it. Great Aunt Vicky was our family doer.

As she informed us, the visitation would be on Thursday, three days from now; she reached over and put her hand on mine. “I’m sorry it has to be on your birthday, but the alternative was to have the funeral then and the visitation on Wednesday instead. I figured I should choose the lesser of two evils,” she sympathetically told me.

I just looked down, into my coffee, much like my father had been doing when I entered the
kitchen. As
it had for him, it offered no suggestions or help with my reply. “Whatever needs to be done,” was all I could manage to respond with.

There was a lot of conversation, but very little between my father and me. Most of the time, we just answered the questions Aunt Vicky asked, our personal conversation limited to one of us wanting to know if the other wanted a refill of coffee, and then getting up to grab the pot. We had already drained the first pot of coffee and were deep into the second one. The phone interrupted us, and I sprang from my chair, startled by the first ring. With a meek attempt at composure, I announced to all present, and those who still might be sleeping in Alaska, that I would get it.

Howard Kittelson introduced himself on the phone and asked to talk with either Randall or Jason Owens. I let him know who I was. I then asked what I could do for him. First, he said how sorry he was for my grandfather’s death and offered the family his condolences. I thanked him for all of us. He went on to say that he was Jake Owens’ lawyer. He inquired if it would be possible to have a short meeting with the two of us later today or tomorrow, at his office in town. I put one hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and looked over at my dad, repeating to him the question Mr. Kittelson had asked. My father very slightly shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head in a gesture suggesting that whatever I said was okay by him. We agreed to meet at one o’clock the next day, and I hung up the phone, returning to the table.

Great Aunt Vicky started another round of questions. She wanted to know what the lawyer had to offer and if I knew what the meeting was going to be about. After I said, “I don’t know, he didn’t say,” she moved on to other topics.

The visitation was going to be from three to eight, on Thursday night, at the Stratton Funeral Home. The burial service would be held at ten o’clock, on Saturday, at the church.
Pastor James Richardson
would preside over the service. There would be a graveside ceremony to immediately follow the church service. After the burial, the ladies of the church’s funeral committee would have a meal ready for all mourners in the basement of the church.

My great aunt expected Grandpa’s funeral to be large and well attended. She let it be known to my father and me, “It would be proper and purposeful to have several people give tribute to Jake at the church service. Herb Jackson and Samuel Preston have already agreed to be speakers. I talked to them last night,” she informed us.

I caught my dad’s eye and a silent understanding passed between us. I had an inkling of what Aunt Vicky was going to say next, which is exactly what she did say. “It would be nice and respectable if one of you two would speak. I plan on saying a few words myself, as his sister, talking about his youth, but one of you two can give meaning to his life as both a father and grandfather.”

This time, my father and I both sought solace from the inside of our coffee cups. Neither of us spoke, and Aunt Vicky was prepared to wait out the silence. I finally broke the stillness and told her I would do it, as long as I got to go last; she agreed. When I looked up, my father was still examining the depths of his coffee cup.

I was pretty sure my father would have been willing to do it if I had not offered. I believed he wanted me to have the first opportunity, but I also could sense his sorrow at not being able to be the one to speak. I could sense it by the way his body language conveyed his inner emotions. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Great Aunt Vicky and my dad hadn’t already discussed it, prior to me getting up this morning. Great Aunt Vicky elaborated on the general procession of the service and who all the important players were, as if she were the director of a Broadway production. I was glad she had taken control of all the arrangements. If it had fallen to me to plan, I wouldn’t have had a clue where to begin. While she continued to outline the production and who the supporting cast would be, I found it harder to pay attention. I began to think about what words and memories I’d use to eulogize Grandpa with.

Great Aunt Vicky must have determined that I had drifted off and suggested we should meet later that afternoon, over at the funeral home, to finalize the rest of the arrangements. I must have looked pretty pitiful, because Dad offered to do it for both of us. I was grateful for his offer and content not to be included in the decision-making process. I seriously contemplated going back to bed upstairs but chose to go outside into the fresh air and sunshine.

I dropped my coffee cup off at the sink and gave Great Aunt Vicky a hug, as I told her, “Thanks for doing everything that you have. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here to help.”

She patted me on the back. “You’re more than welcome.”

I had no plans, just the need to sit somewhere in solitude for awhile. My grandpa had hung an old swing he’d made from a scrap piece of wood, from the branch of the largest oak tree, in the backyard. It was simple and just the spot I needed to go to.

There were many days in my childhood when I would swing away the hours trying to capture that wonderful feeling of lightness. I would listen to the wind rushing by my ears, my eyes tightly closed, and imagine I was soaring over the tallest mountains. The creaks and groans coming from the old tree would emphasize the imaginary world I had submerged myself in. I sat on the swing, testing the old wood plank seat. It was worn smooth by years of use. It still fit my adult body, and somehow, miraculously, the tree supported my much-increased weight, with neither a whimper nor a noticeable dip. I began to slowly swing.

At first, I merely pushed myself back and let my weight and physics propel me forward. When I came to a stop, I’d do it again, continuing the pattern over and over. As I swung, my mind began to release the weight of all the burdens I carried, with every back and forth swoosh of the swing. I closed my eyes and let the inner child take over. I began the familiar pumping motion with my arms and legs, sending the swing higher and higher with every pass. Like a child, I prayed to God to allow the swing to become a time machine and send me back in time, so I could fix all the wrongs of the past. I’d save my mom from her terrible accident. It was that one moment, surely a great error God had unknowingly let happen, which had started the decline of all that was good in my life. If I could put it right, everything would change for the better, and those I loved would still be here. I would wake up tomorrow in the life that should have been and not the one I suffered through today.

I just had to get high enough and with enough speed I could make it happen. The swing climbed to the peak and held an instant, before gravity pulled me down and the swing raced back the other way. Just as my feet brushed the ground, I tried to time it, like I did as a kid, and push back with all of my effort. I had to gain that extra lift or all would be lost. The tears were streaming down my face, and I kept my eyes closed tight, willing the swing to go higher and higher. The tree would moan louder with every extra effort, and I felt the give and take straining its old branches. The sounds the tree made, as the ropes pulled taut with the weight, became a chant, “Not yet. Higher. Not yet. Higher.” Faster the tree chant came and higher the pitch became as I swung to a crescendo. I chanted with the tree, using the power of the words to propel myself back and forth. I had to reach the top or all hopes of regaining the past would disappear forever.

My heart could stand no more and, from deep inside, the inner voice of reason took hold. I quit my irrational effort and let the swing’s own momentum eventually bring it to a stop. My eyes slowly opened, and I used my fingers to wipe away the remaining tears. With semi-blurred vision, I gazed across my grandparents’ backyard into the Dittmers’ yard next to it. It hadn’t changed, and I could still picture Allison lying out there on her big beach blanket with her CD player and favorite book. She was once a dream that had somehow become real, until I let her slip away and plunged myself into the bottomless depths of a nightmare.

Chapter 10

After spending enough time outside, my heart and head started to settle. I found a small amount of will and fortitude to concentrate on the important matters at hand. Mustering as much courage as I could, I headed back inside to talk to my father. It was time…time to open the way so that each of us might be able to concede to some form of restitution. It wasn’t easy to take the first step forward. It was then I realized my father, not so long ago, had already tried to take his first step, when he came to see me in California. It was my turn now to take the next one.

I couldn’t help myself, and I took a last look over at the Dittmers house, hoping maybe, to see them standing out in their yard. It was quiet and peaceful, and I so much wanted to run to its shelter. They had once been a source of strength and happiness. After all that had happened, I worried about what they really thought of me now. I drew in a deep breath and mounted the steps, up to the back door, and went in.

The kitchen was empty and the table cleared. I could see the dirty coffee cups washed and left to dry on the dish rack in the far sink. I stood there for a moment and listened to the sounds of the house. I heard nothing that could be attributed to the people within. I was seeing all the things around me with a different perspective. The last time I was home, it was for my grandma’s funeral. Going back to San Diego had seemed like the cure for my suffering. Now, San Diego was the place I wanted to run away from. I wasn’t living, but avoiding life there. I wondered what was going to happen to the house and all of the things in it. I assumed my dad would be left everything and, for a brief moment, that old hatred tried to regain its foothold in my brain. I fought it back with the realization he had more right to everything here than I did. He had many more memories tucked away in this house than even I did.

I walked down the hall past the picture wall, crossed in front of the staircase, and entered the living room. No one was in there either. I didn’t walk through the living room to the back dining room. I knew it would also be empty. Turning around and retracing my steps, I stopped to look upstairs. I considered checking the bedrooms to see if Great Aunt Vicky, Aunt Marcie, or Justin were around. I hadn’t seen Aunt Marcie or Justin yet today and I needed to thank Aunt Marcie for everything she had done for me yesterday.

I opened the door into the room off of the entryway. At one time, it had been a bedroom, but long ago, it had become Grandma’s studio and craft room. It was perfect spot to catch the afternoon light bursting through the windows. Over the years, Grandpa had found a way to penetrate the sanctity of Grandma’s little corner of the world. With Mr. Dittmer’s help they had built my grandma a beautiful book shelf and matching display hutch. The hutch was perfectly lit inside and stuffed full of memorabilia my grandma had collected over the years. The bookshelf was home to all of Grandma’s art and craft books. On the bottom two shelves, my grandpa managed to confiscate a little space and stored his ever-growing collection of journals. I tentatively walked around the room, afraid of stirring up any old ghosts that might be lurking.

I stopped in front of the display case and casually glanced at the stored pieces inside. They were as beautiful as they were mysterious. I had no idea what many of them were or what they represented. It was an empty feeling to understand I might never know any of the stories behind the precious pieces on display. On the walls were hung several of my Grandma Sarah’s paintings. I stood in front of each one and tried to remember the stories Grandma had once told me about them. It brought me some comfort to realize that as long as the paintings were around, there would always be a testament of her life on display.

She was so very good and could have been a celebrated artist. I remembered the story she told me, long ago, for setting her talents aside and wondered if there might have been other factors in her decision. Her story had been an emotional release, and I had been immensely affected by her revelations. It was one of the few, brief looks into my grandparents’ past which I had been privy to. Looking around inside the room, now, brought more questions than answers. Maybe someday I would find an opportunity to learn more about the history of my grandparents. They had shared a lot of surface stories but always steering away from the early part of their lives. My grandparents weren’t gossipers when it came to their own stories. They never spoke of why things went this way instead of that way. To them it was “the way it is.” As you get older, you begin to appreciate the paths that other people have taken in their lives, all the trials and tribulations that bind them and make them who they are. All I really knew about my grandparents’ journey was their end result, and I wanted to know the entire story, not just the bits and pieces of which I could call to memory. It was a story I now felt I might never get to hear. I was hopeful my Grandpa Jake might have shared something in his journals and I was glad to have his recorded thoughts.

For now, I was alone in the house and surrounded by the memories of my grandparents. Memories so vibrant they were like lost spirits trapped and unable to move on. From deep inside, I knew it was really me who was the ghost, and I was the one
who needed to move on. I wandered around the house completely and utterly lost in time. I would find myself staring at Grandpa’s bed one moment and then standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the window into the back yard at the tree line surrounding Harden Creek. I could just make out the path that led up to the old oak tree. I had no doubt that, very soon, I would make the familiar trek up the path to visit with the grand tree. It was a certainty I felt resounding within my very soul.

I made my way down into the clutter of the old basement. Many people try to make their basement a livable space with family rooms or play areas for the kids. My grandparents used their entire basement to store the discarded and impractical. To the naked eye, it had an air of haphazardness, but Grandpa Jake knew exactly where everything was and everything had its own specific place down here. There was a smaller room sectioned off from the wide-open basement, built by my grandfather many years earlier. In it, he had a workbench to use, when there were minor projects to complete around the house. He kept all of his tools purposely organized. If you wanted to incur Grandpa’s wrath, leave a wrench or pliers lying around instead of returned to its proper slot. He was more than gracious in loaning his tools out, just make sure they were returned in the same condition and specifically, for the members of the house, Grandma and me, put them back where we got them.

Most of the furniture from the sale of my parent’s house, which my grandparents had once stored, was now gone. You wouldn’t know it by looking around the basement. The space had long ago been filled in with boxes and shelves containing priceless artifacts. It would be like an archeological dig to someday root through everything stored within the basement. To put it mildly, my grandparents never met a garage sale or an estate auction they didn’t like. When they passed away, I’m sure the local auctioneers permanently retired their bidding numbers and placed them in the Hall of Fame.

It was a sad moment, realizing the old furniture and the memories they held of my childhood home, were now completely gone. I didn’t know if my father had come for it or if my grandparents needed to dispose of it to make room for their ever-expanding collection of “might need this someday” items. It was more likely that my father had come to retrieve the furniture; it belonged to him. It dawned on me that I didn’t even know where my father lived or anything about his current life. I tuned out to every conversation attempted over the years, by anyone who tried to bring it up. I racked my brain for the slightest insight as to where he might be. The only thing that would come to mind was a very uncertain notion he currently lived in Minnesota. A state was all I could come up with, and it was not a good feeling at all. I had nearly succeeded in the very worst of ways; my father had come so very close to being erased from my present.

My arms and legs felt too heavy to move, and I just stood in the middle of the basement waiting for something, anything, to give me a reason to get moving again. With one large and determined breath, I willed my legs forward and headed towards Grandpa Jake’s workroom. The door was closed and, to my utter surprise, a new latch had been installed. That by itself wasn’t what shocked me; it was the heavy-duty padlock staring back at me. Grandpa had never locked the door in the past, and I even remembered times when the doorknob itself had been missing. It needed to be replaced for nearly a year while waiting for Grandpa to check it off the to-do list. A cold chill crept throughout my body, and I suddenly felt the urge to walk away, back upstairs, and into the sunshine and fresh air outside.