Words and Their Meanings (19 page)

45

G
ive me your keys,” Nat snaps without looking at me.

It takes a minute to dig them out of my still-soaked pocket. She taps her foot and snatches them away. They disappear inside her purse.

“You are coming with me.”

These are not requests. I'm too wet and miserable to argue. Nat slams her door hard. She slams a pair of sweatpants and her
Oklahoma!
cast T-shirt into my lap. She slams her seat belt buckle into its holder. She's basically one giant SLAM! right now.

I frown and sink low in the seat.

Nat starts the car, turns down the radio, checks her rearview mirror. What she isn't saying drums a furious beat in my ears.

“I killed my Gramps this morning.”

“No, you didn't,” Nat seethes back.

I swivel around to stare at her.

“What are you talking about?”

“Seriously, Anna? I mean, seriously? Do you really think just because you got a nurse to shut off the alarms in his room it meant no alarms would go off at the nurses' station? Your mom called my mom ri
ght away.”

Nat stops and shoots me an I've-already-been-down-this-road-once-with-you stare. It isn't full of pity or understanding, either.

“By the time she got back to the hospital, they already had him breathing by machine again. The nurse told your mom what she thought happened, and that you had disappeared, and my mom made me talk to your mom to swear I hadn't seen any change in you or any new ‘suicidal tendencies.' Those were the exact words they used. By the time our moms hung up, mine was crying and I kept calling but you didn't answer because you were too busy trying to finish what you started a year ago.”

A ripping pain stabs into my chest, black spots dot up my eyes. I keep gasping.

“Breathe,” Nat commands.

I hang my head between my knees like airline stewardesses suggest in case of an emergency landing. It takes a few minutes, but the throbbing cry for air begins to subside.

“I was not trying to kill myself.”

Nat gives me an exasperated look.

“I just needed everything to stop for two seconds,” I whimper. “My dad, and the baby, and Gramps, and then I found out Mateo is a total—”

“Stop right there. I also know all about what happened with him.”

Puke rises and falls in my throat. My nose starts running. I'm gagging too much to tell Nat she has no freaking clue.

“I talked to Mateo.”

“You what?”

“I know about art school, and how you found out, and about what he said to his family after you ditched out on dinner, I know all of it.”

Nat clenches her jaw tight enough to show off every muscle.

“I can't go home,” I start to say.

“Shut up.”

“Nat, I'm serious. I can't—”

“Where, exactly, would you like me to take you then?”

“Did you already call my mom?”

“No.”

Relief spills out in a long, exhausted sigh.

“Can we just … drive for a few minutes?”

She doesn't answer. I turn off the radio. Turn it back on. Hug my knees to my chest.

When Nat pulls into Leibniz's Bakery, she takes a deep breath before talking.

“Can I trust you to stay put if I run inside?”

The front of the bakery is all glass. A long counter runs along the windows. It has '50s barstools, and there are two people sitting two seats apart, sipping drinks and staring outside. One, I decide, looks like an over tired young mom. Maybe she needs a break from her kids. Maybe she just left her husband. Maybe she left them all. The other guy is old. He has wrinkles in his wrinkles. I bet his eyes are milky. He looks over at the young mom and smiles.

Gramps is alive.

Nat waits behind four people, and she's gesturing as she talks on her phone. My stomach lurches. She glances back and I drop my eyes to my lap.

Gramps is alive.

An enormous sense of relief washes over me, same as light dancing deeper into the river. Even though it means Gramps is stuck between here and gone. Even though Mom might have to let him go. Even though I failed them all, again.

“Who was that?” I ask as soon as Nat gets back in the car. She shoves a white paper bag and cup of black coffee my way. “On the phone. Who were you talking to?”

“It wasn't your mother. Or your father, if that's what you're wondering. Eat, okay?”

My knuckles throb too much to dig into the bag. Nat notices. She pulls out a croissant and a napkin.

“You can take me back to my car. I'm not a fugitive, I guess.”

“Right. Like I'm going to leave you alone again?”

“I was only going for a swi—”

“Yeah. And only walking with stardust beneath your feet. Enough! I'm not doing this. So just shut up and let me figure out what to do with you.”

Nat's voice shakes in fury. Her cheeks burn. Her eyes are dry, but her mascara is smeared. I do what she says. I eat. I sip hot coffee. I stare out the window. I wait.

We drive the same blocks over and over and over again. I clear my throat.

“Can we, can I … can you drive me to Gramps? To his house, I mean?”

She doesn't acknowledge what I've asked, but she makes two left turns and one right. We pull into his driveway, and Nat clamps her hand onto my arm. Her fingernails dig into my skin.

“I'm going in with you, and you don't get to do anything alone. No going to the bathroom with the door closed, no disappearing into another part of the house, no messing around with kitchen knives.”

“I'm not a one-act play you get to direct, you know.”

“Oh believe me, I know. And you want to know why I know?” she says, barking every word. “Because any play you're ever in is written by, directed by, produced by, and starring
you
. We're all just in the audience. We're all just here to watch your performances and applaud and sigh and cry and scream at all the right places.”

I'm aware my mouth is wide open but I can't quite make it shut. Nat's never spoken to me like this.

“Listen,” she says. “We'll go in for a little while. Then I'm calling your mom and dad. Do you have any idea how scared they are? And how awful your timing is? Twenty minutes. That's all you get.”

It's my turn to refuse an answer. I dig the spare key from underneath a half-painted garden gnome. Late sun plays through the wood blinds; slants of light fall across the floor. Mom cleaned up the dishes I'm sure were piled in the sink, but she missed a full coffee cup on the kitchen table. It still smells fresh and I shiver before remembering Mom was here today. I sit where she might have sat. I cup my hands around the mug.

Nat stands near the door, biting her thumbnail.

“I don't know why I'm here,” I say, not looking at her.

“Maybe you wanted to be where you can really, I don't know, feel his presence?”

“That's not what I mean,” I say, pausing to choose each word with care.

Nat waits.

“I mean …” I suck air in. “I mean, I don't know why I'm here. I don't know why any of us are here.”

I lean my head back against the kitchen chair. These words have been pounding inside my head for a year. Th
ey've slipped under my skin. They've slithered like tentacles around every part of me. Now I've set them into the world. A single thought, multiplied a million times in my mind. It all whooshes out, leaving only empty space. A hush.

And that's when I remember. Gramps was making me a present. He was going to tell me a story.

I need to find those paper cranes.

46

I
hop up and start opening drawers. Nat is at my side within seconds.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for something.”

“What are you looking for?”

She grabs the drawer I'm about to slam shut and blocks my path.

“Paper cranes.”

“Paper cranes?”

“Wow. Good echo. Now could you move? Or help?”

“What am I looking for?”

“Oh my God. Forget it. I just have to find them. Please. Move.”

Nat steps aside, bewildered. I continue ransacking every space in the kitchen and living room. I'm about to t
ear apart his office when I see it. The bag. Its leather marked with wear and age. My mind flashes back to Joe's one-year deadaversary. To Mom being gone. To Gramps sitting at my kitchen table. Folding paper.

I almost don't want to look. I almost don't want to find them now. The last time I discovered words inside a crane, they were Joe's. They tasted like betrayal.

Still, I move closer. Sink to my knees. Shift, uncomfortable, until I can't stand it. I open the bag. Inside it sit four large paper cranes. Each one is numbered. 1. 2. 3. 4.

I hold number one in cupped hands and lift its beak to my nose before starting to unfold it. A dried flower petal falls out. It floats into my lap. It is pale pink.

Dear Anna,

He wrote to me. I study the slanted cursive before reading. His angles and lines fit, each letter connecting, cogs in a mach
ine.

I'm not the wordsmith of the family, so bear with me. I've been thinking about doing this for some time now. It isn't an explanation or a big life lesson, though I hope from it you will, indeed, have some new perspectives. Positive perspectives, even if I think you won't see it that way at first. What is it you call your friend? Your Keeper of Secrets? Well, I suppose that's what I'm doing here. I'm entrusting you as our family's Keeper of Secrets. As for why I'm doing it in a series of paper cranes
—
well, indulge an old man, will you?

Inside this crane, you found a flower petal. I know it doesn
'
t look like much now, but when it was still attached to the plant
–
my! It was glorious. Lots of things work this way. It
'
s like a tiny screw that went missing once on a big stereo repair job. I put everything back together, but it wouldn
'
t work without that single piece of metal. And I never would have figured out why, if I hadn
'
t known to look for it. I digress. The flower petal is from a Japanese orchid. I gave it to your Gran the day your mother was born.

Your mother was tiny. I held her in my palm. Like a squirming fish, but much more lovely. Or not, in the beginning. (Have you ever seen a seconds-old baby, Anna? They aren
'
t the most beautiful of creatures.) But oh, how I loved her. The very second I laid eyes on her. I knew the world had shifted. Powerful love does this to us. It shifts our gears and makes us understand words like
“
sacrifice
”
and
“
presence
”
and
“
hope
”
in ways you can
'
t yet know.

It
'
s no secret I adore my daughter. But this is a secret: Gran was pregnant when we got married. It
'
s best to just put that out there now. Your mother doesn
'
t know. She believes she was a wedding-night blessing, because this is what I
'
ve always told her. She believes the math because we said she was early. Your Gran was a wild, free spirit. We had some fun, and then she showed up at my doorstep sobbing. Her dream was to move to Paris. She was already 37, never going to be a mother. Never going to be a wife. We got married two weeks later, in front of a judge. Those first years were terrible. She left once, for a month. Took off God knows where and left your mother here, with me
—
with a note saying my literality suffocated her. My inability to understand symbolism made her artistic soul wilt. Her ridiculous notions did the same to me. I am not sure we loved each other back then. I am sure we knew the score.

Things aren
'
t always as they seem. But sometimes, when we wade through long enough, they become more than we could ever imagine. I still don
'
t understand what the hell any of your Gran
'
s paintings mean. But I understood her. And I loved her. I love her still.

“Anna?”

I nearly hit my head on the corner of the old metal filing cabinet that serves as one end of Gramps's desk.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, staring at the page. I glance to the second crane.

“Could you get me some water?” My voice is hoarse and shaky. Nat pauses like she's not sure it's safe to leave me alone. I reach for the second crane and she walks out the door.

Your Gran would be quite proud of me, I have to say! The crane is a symbol of long life and immortality. Did you know that? I didn't either. Sameera told me once. Smart kid. I want you to know I am writing this down because I believe you can handle it. More than that, I believe you will make connections. You will forgive. You will understand. I'm an old man. Not that old
—
no making dinosaur jokes at my expense
—
but old enough to have been to my fair share of funerals. And every single funeral is the same at its core. People stand around telling wistful stories and making the dead guy or gal seem like they ought to be on the right hand of God. There are times when I
'
ve thought about retelling a dirty joke the deceased loved or discussing their drink-by-noon habits and such. But I never do. I tell the good stories, like all the rest.

I flip the paper over, to see if he'd written any more on the other side. He hadn't. What the hell is all this about? I crumple crane two up in my fist and chuck it into the trash. I get up and almost run into Nat.

“It took me a second to find the cups,” she says, holding out a glass of ice water. In the corner, Morte, the dead stuffed German shepherd, stands guard. I tip him over.

“So what's up with the cranes?” Nat asks.

I just shake my head.

“You want me to wait in the hallway?”

I nod.

She goes.

I sit back down.

Pick up crane number three.