Seeing Things, page 16
Fletcher swirled the ice in his drink.
“Fletch?” I pleaded.
“No, Grandma. No. You’re not crazy. It’s just that I walk around on a certain plane of reality that’s full of jocks, dorks, and cranky teachers. I’ve dreamed of traveling through time and meeting people from history, but I never dreamed it would happen. So, like, this is kinda weird, is all.”
“It’s weirder than that when you consider Huck isn’t a historical figure. He’s the figment of Mark Twain’s imagination.” The breeze delivered a waft of hamburger to my nose. I pulled the plate back. “Besides, I like Huck’s visits. I like the unpredictability and the mystery of his appearances, but I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit to worrying about the state of my mind. You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“No way.”
“Not even Mi Sun?”
Fletcher leaned back in his chair. “She asked me to the prom.”
“And you’re going?”
“I don’t dance. She’s asking another guy from chemistry.”
“Finish your hamburger. You’re going to call Mi Sun the minute we get home to beg her forgiveness and accept her invitation. You’re a Wainwright, Fletcher, my boy. Dancing’s in your blood.”
“I think that gene must be recessive in me.”
“Not at all, not with your grandmother on the job. Lessons begin the moment you convince Mi Sun you’re her escort.”
Fletcher covered his face.
I scooted closer and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “You want to hold that girl in your arms, don’t you?”
“Do you know how to waltz?”
“I was born waltzing.”
FLETCHER DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH the business district, but then, he drove slowly everywhere. “I ate too much,” he said.
“You ate that whole order of—”
Fletcher braked hard. The seat belt pinned me to the seat.
“Why are you stopping?” I said, aggravated.
Fletcher leaned over the steering wheel. “There’s a pigeon crossing the street.”
“I’ll pay you fifty bucks if you can hit him.”
“Oh man, he sat down.”
“Offer still stands. For goodness’ sake, Fletcher, get the lead out.” Little did he know the Phillips Milk of Magnesia I’d taken the night before had finally kicked in. “I need to get home sometime today.”
Fletcher waited at the next intersection as a bevy of cars whizzed past. “Okay, okay.”
“I appreciate your caution, but keep in mind that you’re going straight across the intersection. You don’t need as much time as you think you do to get—”
Fletcher floored the accelerator.
The force pressed me into the seat. A flash of metallic blue. The screech of tires. The back end of the truck lurched. A shotgun? The world went white around the fog, and then trees, houses, and cars blurred. The world fell silent and still.
I tasted blood.
The air bag puckered and sagged like a spent balloon.
Fletcher moaned beside me.
“Fletcher!” I reached out, cursing the fog. Concentrate! Look! Blood ran through his fingers tented over his nose.
His palm came up, red with blood. “Don’t touch! My nose, it’s broken.”
“Are you hurt anywhere else? Don’t move.”
A rap of knuckles on the window. The man wore a big watch and sunshine reflected off the dome of his head. He shouted through the glass, “Are you all right in there?”
I lowered the window. “We need help. My grandson’s hurt.” I pulled up on the handle to open the door, which the man pressed closed.
“You shouldn’t move until the EMTs get here.”
“Is the other driver okay?” I asked.
“That would be me. I’m fine. Now sit still. Help is on the way.”
Someone yelled, “I hear a siren!”
A woman wearing a lab coat over navy scrubs shuffled through papers on a clipboard. Cinnamon hair spiked wildly around her face. “You were lucky, Mrs. Wainwright. Besides the bruising on your chest from the seat belt and the cut to your lip from the air bag, you’re in good shape. The cough is from talcum powder they use to coat the air bags. That will clear up in a few days. Drink plenty of fluids.”
Each breath burned.
She continued. Don’t people introduce themselves anymore? “A staff orthopedist looked at your x-rays. Your ankle held perfectly. No damage to the incision sites or to the hardware inside. You’re good to go. Do you have someone to take you home?”
Good question. After a cursory visit, I hadn’t seen Andy in hours. “My grandson was driving. I haven’t seen him since we got here. I’m sick with worry. No one will tell me anything.”
The woman moved closer. I caught MD on her name tag as she leaned in. She lowered her voice. “I’m a grandmother myself. As far as I’m concerned, HIPAA doesn’t apply to us. That kid’s gone through every test we have to offer, thanks to his mom.”
“Suzanne? She’s a plastic—I mean, cosmetic surgeon here.”
She straightened. “He’s had an MRI, x-rays, and ultrasounds. To his credit, he refused the rhinoscopy. Makes me cringe just to think about a hose snaking up a broken nose. There’s not enough Xylocaine in the world.”
“How is he?”
“Sore. But he’ll be fine. If he were my son, I’d send him home with an ice pack and Tylenol.”
“But Suzanne is overseeing his case,” I guessed.
“If his nose is the least bit off, he’ll have surgery.” She patted my leg. “Now, should I have the nurse call a taxi?”
I deserved to be banished from the family forever. Not only had I encouraged Fletcher to drive around the neighborhood at my bidding, I’d harangued him into rushing into traffic. The accident never would have happened if I’d done what common sense dictated and just sat in front of the television for six to eight weeks. On the other hand, Fletcher had developed confidence with his driving, and he’d helped a friend, who happened to be a beautiful and brilliant girl. That counted for something.
Besides, screwup or not, I was still his grandmother.
“Which way to pediatrics?”
I FOUND ANDY SITTING outside Fletcher’s room, head in hands. He looked up when I said his name. “Ma, I’m sorry. I should have been down to check on you. Your lip looks sore.”
“I deserve worse. How’s Fletcher doing?”
“They’ve been trying to get an IV in his vein for nearly an hour.”
“Who’s in there with him?”
“Just the nurses. Suzanne went to—”
“He’s in there alone?”
“I’ve never been good with—”
“Nobody is, Son, but this is your job.” I shooed him toward the door. “I’ll be in the waiting room when he’s ready for visitors.”
I nearly ran over an expectant mother, but I wheeled myself away from Andy and toward the waiting room. The doors of the elevator opened, and a woman rushed out in a flurry of chiffon. “Birdie!”
I recognized Ruth’s voice.
“Are you all right?” she said, bending to wrap an arm around my shoulders and kiss my forehead. Her kindness threatened to unleash the emotion I struggled to contain.
I swallowed hard before answering. “Fine, but how did you know?”
She crouched beside the wheelchair. “I still have my sources.”
“I’m just a stupid old woman. I don’t deserve the time of day.”
“What are you talking about? You’re precious in his sight. You know that. Now, what’s this all about?”
“I had no business taking the boy out to drive.”
“You stepped in to help your grandson. So he had an accident. Happens every day. No one was seriously hurt. We don’t know how the Lord will use this event in Fletcher’s life.”
“You don’t understand. I nagged him to be more assertive.”
“He’ll be more judicious about listening to backseat drivers from now on.”
“I should be taken out and horsewhipped.”
“It’s a wonder our children survive us at all, isn’t it?”
She rose and pushed me to a waiting room and parked me in front of a rocker. Big Bird and Mr. Snuffleupagus filled an entire wall. Across the room, a cluster of people hunched over coffee cups and talked on cell phones.
Lord, bring healing to their little one.
Ruth sat in the rocker. “There. That’s better. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
I knew better than to accept hospital coffee. “No, as soon as I see Fletcher, I’m going home to pack.”
“Pack? You’re not ready to go home.”
“I won’t hurt anyone in Ouray.”
“Birdie, you experienced a lapse in judgment, but your heart was in the right place. There’s a new lightness in Fletcher’s step as he walks by. I can see it. Besides, you don’t seem like the sort of woman who sidesteps difficult situations.”
Hurting my grandson undermined everything I’d believed about myself.
Ruth stood. “How’s our boy doing?”
“I haven’t seen him yet.”
Ruth pushed the wheelchair toward Fletcher’s room. “That will never do for a devoted grandmother like you.”
ANDY STOOD IN THE corner of Fletcher’s room, talking on his cell phone, head down, his other hand deep in his pocket. Ruth pushed me to the bedside and whispered in my ear, “He adores you. Call me when you’re finished. I’ll be outside the door.”
I wanted to argue with her, tell her to go on home, but I needed her. Nothing surprised me more. I felt for Fletcher’s hand and sandwiched it between mine. His fingers hung out of my hands.
“Hey, Grandma,” he said, sleepily.
“Oh, Fletcher, I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”
His speech was soft and slow. “They gave me something for the pain.”
“Good.” I dared not say more, or I’d blubber like a schoolgirl.
“Nice fat lip, Grandma. Does it hurt?”
“The lip’s fine. My chest feels like I’ve been kicked by a mule.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I squeezed his hand. “Fletcher, I am so sorry. I never should have urged you to take a chance.”
“Grandma, I was the driver. We’re cool.”
Andy stood over me. “I just got off the phone with the police. Fletcher won’t be getting his license for six to twelve months beyond his sixteenth birthday, thanks to this fiasco.”
“It’s no big deal. Grandma, I won’t need to drive anyway where they’re sending me.”
“What’s he talking about?” I asked Andy.
“Crashing my truck earned Fletcher enrollment in boarding school. Obviously, he has a good deal to learn about discipline and responsibility, something he’s been unwilling to learn at home. All that’s about to change.”
“We need to talk,” I said.
As we passed Ruth in the hall, I put my palms together for the international signal to pray. I directed Andy to the waiting room with Big Bird. The family that had occupied the corner had left, hopefully to a happy ending. Andy pushed me to a sofa and sat down. “I’m not in much of a mood to talk about Fletcher’s future.”
“I don’t imagine you are, not with a sorry excuse of a mother like me. Andy, I never should have taken the boy driving. I know that now.”
He stood. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I’d love to, but twenty-four hours provides too many opportunities to say or do something stupid. Or worse yet, say nothing at all.”
“I’m not a kid anymore. I think—”
“That’s why I’ll talk to you as a friend, not a son.” I took his silence as permission to continue. “You love your son. That’s very clear.”
“But not enough to make good decisions about his future, according to you.”
“If this is going to work, you have to listen like a friend—no looking for hidden insults and no interruptions. Does that work for you?”
He sat back down.
“You want the best for Fletcher. That’s love, Andy. You’ve provided a beautiful home, fabulous opportunities to see the world, a computer he dearly loves—he wants for nothing.”
“Except the good sense to say no to his grandmother.”
“That will come with time.”
“What is this leading to?”
“Children don’t always interpret our best intentions as adults do.”
“Ma . . .”
“Call me Birdie if it helps.”
He stood again. “This is craziness. I have a son facing surgery, reports to study, résumés to review. I’ve hardly slept for a week.”
“I’m almost done.” I patted the sofa and he plopped down. “From your point of view, sending Fletcher to boarding school will toughen him up. He’ll learn self-discipline and apply himself to his studies. I can’t argue with those goals, but Andy, darling, that’s not how Fletcher sees a boarding school. To him, he’s being sent to Elba. This is exile, plain and simple.”
Andy started to rise, and I touched his knee.
“His mother left him,” I continued, not sure where I was headed. “Some would argue her departure worked out for the best. Jeannine had her issues, but Fletcher knew her only as Mommy. As irrational and unwarranted as that title applies to Jeannine, that’s who she is to Fletcher. And she left. Mommies don’t leave. It’s counterintuitive. It’s written on every child’s heart that mommies are ever present, especially when you don’t want them anywhere near.”
Andy ran his hands over his face.
I kept talking. “Despite your best attempts to be everything to him—and you did a wonderful job—he felt like a puppy kicked out the door on a cold winter’s night. It’s not fair that he felt that way, given how hard you worked to make things right. It’s just the way things work.”
“He never said a word.”
“Maybe he was too ashamed.”
“That’s crazy. He had nothing to do with Jeannine leaving. She . . . she was just Jeannine.”
“Like I said, children don’t see things like adults do. Andy, I fear sending Fletcher away will make him feel like that rejected puppy again.”
Andy’s voice was flint. “There must be consequences for his actions.”
“Fletcher’s a smart kid. He knows he messed up, but sending him two thousand miles away will be received as a completely different message. Be sure it’s the message you want to send.”
“Suzanne says he wants to leave. That this is no big deal to him.”
“Yes, I suppose he did say that. But do you always say what you mean?”
“Yes. I’m quite deliberate that way. My success is built on the integrity of my word.”
“Then all I have left to say is this: Extend the same mercy you received.”
A clock ticked. A bubble glugged in the water cooler. Someone opened and closed the door.
“Mercy? Like when Dad found me in Tuolumne Meadows, when he took his belt off—?”
“He never!”
Andy stood in front of me, pulling his shirttail out of his pants.
“What is this about?” I said.
He grabbed my hand. “Feel that.”
Under my fingers, a jagged rise of skin interrupted the smoothness of his back. “How did this happen?”
“Belt buckle, I imagine. It all happened pretty fast.”
Chapter 26
I lay in the suffocating darkness, pulling memories out of dusty files. I’d already tried drowning the memories with the last chapters of Huckleberry Finn, but with Fletcher contemplating an uncertain future, for me, facing the past head-on seemed the most honest thing to do.
Andy, my firstborn, the tender one, had been the apple of my eye. Nine months out of the year, I waited for his bus to turn the bend along the river and stop at the shelter. We lived in a remote station in Yellowstone during his grade school years. With a new baby and plenty to keep me busy at the station, I relished my time taking Andy to and from school. When he saw me, his furrowed brow loosened and he smiled with teeth as big as movie screens. On the February afternoon I remembered most clearly, he held a paper bag decorated with construction-paper hearts and paper doilies against his chest, a formidable treasure for an eight-year-old boy. He’d already traveled ten miles on the stubby bus to the north entrance to Yellowstone. I’d left the snowmobile fifteen miles farther up the road where the road crews stopped maintaining the road once the snow piled chest high. We took the last five-mile leg to the station by snowmobile. Diane slept in a bundle of snowsuit and blankets on the seat between us.
One by one Andy pulled the Valentines out of the bag. He read the riddles and rhymes and shared his candy. He asked about my day, if the raccoons had gotten in the trash again. I said, “Not since you came up with the new lock.” We listened to the radio and sang along with the cowboy’s lament.
I drove clutching the steering wheel, shifting gears as smoothly as possible, and as tempting as the brake pedal proved to be on the tight turns, I resisted the urge to press down, all to avoid plowing into a snowbank. We didn’t go anywhere without a walkie-talkie, not in the isolated country we lived in, but I’d used it only once, to call in a fire crew. Sliding into a snowbank would feed the chatter of the airwaves for months, from Chuck and all the other rangers.
“Ma?”
“Yes, Andy,” I said, downshifting to climb a hill.
“I made something for you.”
“You did?” I’d baked a heart-shaped cake for him and Chuck back at the station. In all the years I’d baked with a wood-burning stove, this cake finally approached perfection. I’d spent most of the morning feeding the hopper with kindling and tempering the heat with cool water poured into the reservoir.
Out of his paper bag came a construction-paper card with macaroni flowers. “I wrote a poem for you.”
“I can’t wait. Read it to me, Son.”
He read:
