The Winner's Game (10 page)

Almost instantly, Dad blurts out, “Close your eyes!”

Ann is all smiles and keeps her eyes wide open. She reaches into the box she's been working on and pulls out a handful of small, spiral-bound notepads. As the family gathers around, she flips through several of them quickly. “I think I just figured out what Grandma Grace was trying to say.” She opens one of the pads to the first page and shows it to everyone.

In handwritten pen, at the very top, it reads,
1986—Round #1.
Below that, the page is split into two columns. Grace's name is at the top of the left column, while Alfred's—Great-grandpa—is on the right. Below their names is a page full of small tally marks. Lastly, at the very bottom, is a sum of the tallies:
Grace = 74. Al = 61.

“‘Don't throw away the scorecards,'” Ann says slowly, translating Grandma's earlier instructions. “‘I want the notebooks.'”

Down throat way the score chards. I want the nude books.

There is no doubt that we've found the notebooks, and they definitely look like scorecards. Now there's only one question:
What the heck are they for?

After a couple of hours of gutting Grandma's room, Dad finally lets me head out back with the metal detector. The steady rain has slowed to a bearable drizzle, so I lug my device to the edge of the beach and power it up.

The red indicator lights up instantly…and fizzles out thirty seconds later.

I turn it on again to the same result.

Five tries later, I carry the thing back inside.

“Done so soon?” asks Mom.

“The battery is dead.”

“Probably from sitting in the attic so long. Did you see a power cord while you were up there?”

“No, but I'll go look.” Sure enough, the cord is in the attic. I plug it in, and in an hour I'm ready to give it another try. Before heading outside, I stop to examine a picture of Great-grandpa hanging on the wall. I never met the man, but I've seen enough pictures of him that he's familiar. In this photo, he's holding up a salmon by the gills, and there's a fire in his eyes that makes me think he really enjoyed life. Or at least enjoyed fishing. I bet he was an adventurer, like me, and that he and I would get along quite well. So well, in fact, that he'd be proud that I'm continuing the search for his buried treasure. “Don't worry,” I tell him. “If your treasure is out there, Cap'n Cade will find it.”

I didn't realize Bree was standing behind me, watching and listening. “You're not going to find anything,” she says. “There's no buried treasure out there. If there was, it would have been discovered years ago.”

“Aunt Bev says I will, if I try hard enough.”

“Well, you won't, so don't get your hopes up.”

“Will too.”

“I bet you fifty bucks you don't find anything valuable.”

“Deal.”

Just then Mom comes walking by and sees me with the metal detector. “The rain is picking up again. You sure you want to go out in this weather?”

I smirk at Bree. “Yep. I have a bet to win.”

As I step from the kitchen to the back deck, I remember what Aunt Bev told me about hunting for the treasure:
Your great-grandfather believed there was treasure buried out behind
the house…he'd spend hours and hours out there…A good pirate doesn't give up until his treasure is found…

“‘Behind the house,'” I tell myself, not really wanting to go too far away in the rain. “Maybe the treasure isn't on the beach at all, but right here in the yard.”

With the flip of the switch I power up and begin tracking back and forth across the lawn, swinging the device in low, smooth motions. In the first thirty minutes I get six blips on the scanner, and each time I dig in that spot I end up finding something: a dime, two pennies, and three bottle caps.

A little while later, once the rain has slowed to a mist, I spot Bree sitting on the back porch under the cover of the roof, sipping a cola. “Any luck?” she asks.

“Twelve cents.”

She returns my smirk from earlier. “See. I told you there's no treasure.”

“Don't be so sure. I'm just getting started.”

“Search all you want. You're still going to owe me fifty bucks.” She smirks again, then stands up to leave.

Right then my buzzer starts going off like never before. I'm standing in the bark dust, just off the edge of the lawn, near the fence that divides our house from the next. “I found something else!”

Curious, Bree wanders down from the deck to check it out. “What is it?”

“I have to dig first. You want to help?”

I give her the hand trowel and I use my hands, and together we brush aside the mulch and begin digging through the dirt. Within a minute we've got a hole a foot wide by a foot deep, but we haven't found anything. I sift through our dirt pile to see if we've missed something, but still nothing. Just to be sure, I scan the pile with the metal detector, but no alarms go off.

“Scan the hole,” suggests Bree. “Maybe it's still down deeper.”

Sure enough, when I scan the bottom of the hole…
BZZZZZ!

When we start digging again, we take great care to make sure we aren't missing anything. Carefully, we take a scoop of dirt, sift it in our hands, then sift it once more as we deposit it on our growing pile beside the hole. At about sixteen inches deep we finally strike gold. Well…probably not gold. But something.

“What is it?” asks Bree again.

“I don't know. Dig a little more.”

Bree jabs the point of the trowel under something hard and pries it loose. When she gives it another firm pop, a white-flecked object, smeared with dirt, comes flying out of the hole at Bree's face, hitting her right on the mouth. “Oooh!” she screams, spitting like mad. “What is it?”

I pick it up to give it a closer look. “I think it's a skull.”

She spits at least five more times and then wipes at her lips like crazy. “That is so gross!”

It's impossible not to laugh. “Yeah, you just kissed a dead cat!”

She wipes once more, going all the way up her sleeve. “I thought your thingamajig is only supposed to find metal.”

“It is.” I take the tiny shovel and begin poking around in the hole again, in the area where the skull was. It doesn't take long before I uncover a leather collar with a stamped metal tag attached. “
Mr. Skittles
,” I say aloud, reading the name on the inscription. “That should make you feel better.”

“Why?”

“At least your first kiss was a boy.”

She punches me as hard as she can in the arm, but I don't care. From now on, no matter how she teases me, I will be able to tell people that a dead cat named Mr. Skittles kissed Bree on the lips, and that's easily worth a bruised arm.

“This is so stupid,” she hisses. “I'm going inside.”

“Great,” I reply with another laugh. “I'll be in as soon as I find a treasure.”

For the next hour, I venture farther out on the beach, again swinging the metal detector low across the sand. After a while my arms feel like they're going to fall off, but I continue on, because I can't let Bree win.

Because I don't have fifty dollars to pay her!

As it starts getting dark, I begin slowly back toward the house. I don't want to give up just yet, but I know finding treasure in the dark would be hard, even with a metal detector. As I approach the property line, the sun is so low that my shadow in front of me is twice my size.

That's when it happens.

Maybe ten feet from where the edge of the beach meets our lawn, the device starts buzzing again. This is the loudest buzz yet!

Worried that I might uncover another dead something-or-other, I dig carefully, lifting out each handful of sand with care, then letting the grains strain through my fingers until there is nothing left. After twenty scoopfuls, my fingernails scrape along a flat metal surface of something nearly as big as my hand. It isn't big enough to be a treasure chest, but this is definitely the biggest thing I've found so far.
At least it's not some stupid bottle cap!

Eagerly, I trace around the edges of the whatever-it-is, like an archaeologist uncovering bones. At last, the object takes shape. I dust away the thin layer of sand covering the inscription, salivating over what it might be, and then, just like that…the thrill is gone. “
Altoids
,” I mumble, reading the top of a rusty tin box. “
Curiously strong mints.
Gosh dang it! Bree was right. There's no treasure out here.”

I'm about to toss the stupid thing back in its hole and bury it, when something rattles inside the tin. Though I don't expect to find more than a rock or a shell, I blow off the remaining grains of sand, open the lid…and gasp.

T
HE GIRLS ARE
upstairs entertaining themselves. Cade is playing techno-pirate on the beach with Grandpa's thingamajig. That leaves Dell and me, alone, finishing up the work in Grandma's room.

Which means it's awfully quiet in here.

We share lots of awkward glances, and occasionally he asks me where to put something, but that's about it.
Why is it like this?
Lately it feels impossible to just have a simple conversation without him reading something into every little thing I say. I'm sure he feels the same about me. It used to be so easy to talk to him, but now it's easier just to go about our business with as few words as possible, because the more we say, the more our words are scrutinized, and the more likely it is that we end up feeling hurt.

Sometimes silence between spouses is a blessing. Sometimes it's a curse. And sometimes it's interrupted by the bloodcurdling scream of a child…

“Mom! Dad! Hurry!”

Dell and I look at each other for a split second, then race for the bedroom door. Cade never calls for help unless he's hurt, and even then not always.

“Everybody! Come quick!”

“What's going on?” I ask, panicking, as I turn the corner to the living room. “Are you OK?”

Dell is right beside me. Bree comes bounding down the stairs, with Ann trailing closely.

Cade ignores my question. “Ha! Bree, you owe me fifty bucks!”

“Shut. Up. There's no way you found something out there.”

“Oh yeah? Check it out!” In his palm is an old Altoids can.

“That's not treasure,” she says. “It's junk.”

“Hey, one man's junk…” remarks Dell.

“No,
for real
! Open it up!” Cade hands it to me to do the honors. Skeptically, I lift open the rusty lid. The first thing I see is a ring. Not a real ring but a plastic one, like you'd get from a bubblegum machine. On top of the ring, affixed with some sort of hot-melt or glue, is a blue candy heart with the inscription
MISS YOU.

Beneath the ring, folded in fourths, is a piece of paper, which I gently remove. I read the first few lines silently, and then gasp as a chill courses through me. “Oh my gosh…”

“What does it say?” asks Ann.

It's rude, I know, but I instinctively shush her—and everyone else—so I can read without interruption. Mesmerized by the handwritten words, I continue on. By the time I reach the end, there are warm tears streaming down my face. When I look up, the whole family is staring at me, but the only face I can focus on right now is Cade's. “You found this on the beach? Where?”

“Right out back, just past the lawn. It was buried like a foot and a half down.”

“But it's still not a treasure,” says Bree adamantly. “Right?”

I glance at her, then at Cade, and then I fold it up and return it to the can. “That's not for me to say,” I tell her, choking slightly on the words. “But I bet Grandma Grace might be able to tell us.”

“But what does it say?” asks Dell.

I smile at him as best I can. “Come with me to see Grandma. I'll tell you there.”

He seems instantly put off. “Why don't you just tell me now?”

“Because it wouldn't be right if Grandma were the last of us to know what this says.”

He turns to Cade. “Will you tell me? You read it, right?”

Cade shrugs. “The handwriting is cursive; I only got little bits.”

“Just come with me, Dell. Everyone can come. It'll be worth it, I promise.”

As we're driving to the nursing home, I keep checking my watch. Visiting hours are almost over. My bigger fear, though, is not that they won't let us in to see her but that Grandma won't recognize us. What if she's in the middle of one of her spells and we're just a motley bunch of strangers to her?

Not now, God. Please, not tonight. Let her be her, just long enough to hear this…

It looks like she's asleep when we enter her room, but her eyes flutter open at the sound of our whispers. “There you are,” she says while taking a large breath through the tube in her nose. “My fam'ly.” Her voice is soft and slow, but the words deliberate, which means she's still having a good day.

“We're back again, Grandma,” I tell her. “Two visits in one day. Aren't you the lucky one?” As soon as we've given hugs all around, I take a seat at the edge of her bed and hold up the Altoids can. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Grandma's ocean-blue eyes seem to double in size. She nods eagerly, then asks, “L-l-letter?”

“Yes, there's a letter. Would you like me to read it?”

Grandma Grace's expectant eyes fill with moisture as she nods once more.

I open the lid, unfold the letter, and clear my throat, then read as clear and sure as I can, wanting her to savor every last word:

The tiny pools of water that were previously in Grandma's eyes have migrated to the cracks and crevices of her cheeks. A loving smile adorns her aged lips. She seems completely at peace. “R-r-ring?” she asks.

How could I forget!
“Yes, I'm so sorry. There is a ring.” I hold up the plastic ring with its blue candy heart.

She squints, but can't make out the words.

I gently reach out and touch her hand. “It says, ‘Miss You.'”

She nods again, then lifts her eyes to the ceiling and repeats the phrase to someone she can only see in her mind. “M-miss you.” Another tear escapes her wrinkled eyelids and plummets down her face. With a hint of a smile, she drops her gaze to meet mine.

“Grandma, I hope you don't mind me asking, but what is the Winner's Game? Is that what all your scorecards were for?”

She nods. “In g-gurnels,” she whispers, sounding suddenly exhausted.

“Come again?”

She takes a deep breath and tries her darnedest to re-form the word. “Grrr-nels.” A look of frustration flashes across her face. Followed immediately by something else. Something awful. Fear, I think. And incredible pain. A second later she winces, then cries out, then gives a little moan and closes her eyes.

In the same instant, one of the monitors near her bed begins flashing wildly while a low-grade alarm screams out for help. We barely have time to register that something is wrong when two nurses come running into the room. Everyone backs away from the bed so the nurses can work on her.

Half a minute later another nurse runs in with an external defibrillator. I hear the word “arrhythmia” used three times before they finish adhering electrical leads to her chest and rib cage.

“Close your eyes, Cade,” I shout across the room as Grandma's naked torso jumps on the bed. He doesn't obey. His eyes, like all of ours, are fixed. I wish I could reach across the room and shield his view. I wish I could shield my own view! I wish to God I could
un-see
what is happening, but my grandmother's life is teetering precariously between this one and the next, and I have to know which way it is going to fall.

Ten seconds later, the buzzer stops sounding and the nurses take half a step back.

“Is she…gone?” asks Ann.

Before the nurses reply, the ECG monitor provides the answer when it returns to its normal rhythm. I watch as the line on the chart bounces between peaks and valleys, measuring the revived beats of a weary heart.

“She's stable,” the senior nurse says. “Lucky, but stable. An ambulance is on the way to get her to the hospital. After an episode like this, she'll need to be monitored there for a while.”

As I continue staring at the ECG, I can't help but wonder if, in addition to measuring Grandma's heart, the machine is also magically graphing our lives—high and low, high and low, like a roller coaster ride. Is that what life is supposed to be—a roller coaster? Always up or down, but never steady? Our family has had a lot of lows lately. When do we bounce to the next high?

Part of me wishes there were never any lows, but that's just me being selfish. And unrealistic. Maybe jumping from high to low isn't all that bad, because as soon as you're stuck in a spot where the line goes flat, the thrill of the ride is over.

Thankfully, Grandma's ride is not yet done.

After the kids are all in bed, and Dell is asleep, I wander up to the attic on a hunch. Grandma Grace seemed so set on telling me something before her heart stopped, that I think I owe it to her to look. For nearly an hour I sift through boxes upon boxes of old junk, some of it dating back to when I was still a little girl. But just before midnight I crack open a particularly heavy box that Grace has marked,
Important!
It is filled with carefully stacked books, all of them different colors and sizes. I flip a few of them open to find that they are written in Grace's distinctive handwriting.

Amused and delighted at what I've found—the second treasure of the day—I take one of Grandma's “gurnels” downstairs on the couch and read until dawn.