The Art of Holding On and Letting Go (21 page)

In Spanish class, I opened my notebook and found a new note, but it was folded like a paper airplane. This time, the handwriting was completely different than the others.

Small, neat printing, all in capitals, written in black pen. The person with the messy scrawl could not possibly be capable of this level of penmanship. I didn't think
I
was capable of this writing, so perfect were these letters. At lunch I flattened the note on the cafeteria table for Kaitlyn and Nick.

“What the hell?” Kaitlyn said. “That's all it says?”

“That's it.”

“Is someone asking you out, like to a movie?” Kaitlyn said. “What show? Where?”

“Maybe they're not talking about a movie.
The 7pm Show
is the name of a climbing route. Rifle, Colorado. My first 5.14a.”

Nick whistled. His brother Mike's hemp necklace hung around his neck again, replacing the dog collar he had been wearing.

“I am so confused,” Kaitlyn said. “What's it supposed to mean?”

“And how did it get in my notebook?”

“Creepy, creepy,” Kaitlyn said.

Nick recreased the paper airplane lines, propped it into shape, and sent it soaring across the row of tables. It plummeted to the ground a couple feet before Tom's table, but no one paid any attention. A girl almost always squeezed in next to Tom, and today it was Ann-Marie Fidesco, Kaitlyn's middle school nemesis. I fiddled with my beaded bracelets and gazed at Tom's back.

I'd finished driver's ed and was happy to have my learner's permit but bummed that I wouldn't get to see Tom anymore. I wondered how he was doing with his practice driving. The car accident he mentioned must have been pretty bad if it had made him so afraid. Maybe that was how he got that scar on his lip.

“Check this out,” Nick said and tilted his phone toward me and Kaitlyn. A snowcapped peak filled the screen. “Mike's in Colorado.”

His brother who had taken off with his family's cash had sent them all a text, saying thanks for giving him a fresh start, and he would repay them as soon as he earned enough money. Apparently, Mike had bought a snowboard from a local ski shop with his dad's stolen credit card. But that was all, no other charges showed up.

“Colorado, huh?” Kaitlyn said.

“They just legalized pot.”

“Right.”

Nick shrugged. “Maybe he's teaching snowboarding. He was really good.”

“Do you think your dad will try to track him down?”

“I don't think so. He didn't report his credit card as stolen, or even cancel it. My mom convinced him to wait and see what happened. Dad said he'd give Mike until the end of ski season to pay him back, then he's cutting him off.”

Kaitlyn was going skiing in Colorado with her parents for most of the school break. She'd tried convincing her parents to let me and Nick tag along, but no go. It was a family trip. And that was final. Nick especially wanted to go, hoping to find his brother.

“There are probably a hundred ski resorts in Colorado,” Kaitlyn told him. “What are the chances he's at the exact same one as my family?”

“Just keep your eyes out for him, will ya?”

Nick clicked his phone off and looked at me. “We gonna climb every day over break?”

“Well—”

“What? I'm not good enough for you?”

“I'm visiting my parents in Ecuador.”

“That's great!” Kaitlyn clutched my hands. “Why didn't you tell me?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. I just have a bad feeling, like something isn't going to work out.”

I couldn't explain it, but in my heart, I didn't believe the trip was going to happen. Or maybe I was afraid it wouldn't turn out as I hoped. That I wouldn't be able to convince them to come home. Even when the airline confirmation was e-mailed to me, and I had printed out the details on paper, I wasn't convinced. I touched the paper and examined the flight numbers and times. Maybe it was Uncle Max. Going back to Ecuador without him felt wrong, like picking the scab off a wound that doesn't want to heal.

The basketball group stood and piled up their trash, draining the last of their drinks. Tom picked up his tray and left with his friends, Ann-Marie Fidesco trailing behind him, the paper airplane trampled under their shoes.

I pulled on wool socks, laced up my hiking boots, and grabbed my coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. My boots thunk, thunked as I walked into the kitchen. Grandma and Grandpa were waiting for me, ready to head out for a Christmas tree. I was looking forward to tromping around a Christmas tree farm; it was the closest I was going to get to being back home in the mountains.

“Ready?” Grandpa asked.

“Yep. You got the hot chocolate?”

“You want to take hot chocolate?”

“Yeah, in a thermos. Isn't that what you do too?”

“Well, I don't see anything wrong with that. I'm always up for a warm drink. Hot chocolate it is.”

Grandma pulled the milk out of the fridge while Grandpa went in search of a thermos.

We all piled into the Taurus, Grandpa's winter car, and I was surprised that Grandma didn't object to going. It must be a long drive to get all the way out in the woods where there was room for a Christmas tree farm. Imagine that, the Christmas spirit was even giving Grandma a boost.

Grandpa found a radio station playing Christmas carols. We sang and hummed as Grandpa weaved his way through subdivisions and out onto the main drag of Woodward Avenue. He slowed down and pulled into a parking lot on the right. A huge blow-up Santa and a snowman flanked a banner that said Tim's Trees. Behind the banner were rows and rows of evergreens.

My jolly mood evaporated. This wasn't a Christmas tree farm. This was a parking lot! No wonder it wasn't a big deal for Grandma to come with us. We weren't even on the road for ten minutes.

And she didn't even get out of the car. She waited inside with the heat running while I followed Grandpa.

“What do you think? Is one of them calling out to you?” Grandpa asked.

I shrugged. My cabin and parents were as far away from this place as possible.

“You're going to make me choose?” Grandpa said.

“I don't care.” The faint tune of “Frosty the Snowman” piped from a speaker, almost drowned out by the roar of traffic. Grandpa was eyeing me, but I stared off into the rows of nearly identical trees. At home, we would have hiked into the woods and cut down our own tree, leaving gifts of pinecones smeared with peanut butter and bird seed.

A guy carried the Fraser fir to our car and helped Grandpa tie it to the top. “Now how about some of that hot chocolate. Glad you thought to bring it, Cara.”

“I don't want any. Let's just go.”

“Well, I'm going to have some.”

I could feel Grandpa studying me while he shared a cup of hot chocolate with Grandma. I turned away, hugging myself against the chilly air. I slipped off my glove and reached for the stone in my coat pocket, turning it around and around in my fingers.

Another guy hoisted a tree onto the minivan next to us. He stopped to debate with Grandpa about his choice of a blue spruce.

Blah, blah, blah. Who cared? The trees had been trucked from a forest a hundred miles away.

I dropped the stone back into my pocket and yanked on my glove. I kicked one of the car tires with the toe of my hiking boot.

Back at home, I helped Grandpa carry the tree into the house. I shuffled backward, carrying the heavier trunk end, then I went straight to my room. I knew I was acting rude, but I couldn't seem to make myself care.

Later that evening, Grandpa stopped in my room.

“You okay, Cara?”

“Sure.”

“Sorry about this afternoon. I wasn't thinking. I should have known that might have made you miss your parents even more. The holidays can be a tough time of year.”

“Is that where you always get your tree?”

Grandpa looked surprised at the question.

“For a while now, but not in the old days. We used to head out to the real Christmas tree farm. It was a whole day's adventure.” He stopped, then slapped his forehead. “What a knucklehead am I! The hot chocolate, those hiking boots. You thought we were going to a real Christmas tree farm!”

I couldn't help smiling as he face-palmed again.

“Nope, your grandma never would have made it all the way up there. But that's what we used to do when your mom was little.”

“That's what we did at home.”

“I'm sorry you were disappointed.”

“It wouldn't have been the same anyway.”

“No, I guess you're right. It probably wouldn't.”

The next morning, Christmas music drifted into my room. In the kitchen, Grandma had changed the radio station from oldies to Christmas carols. I peeked from the doorway and grinned. She hummed and swayed as she measured and stirred at the counter. She was even cracking eggs to the beat of music!

In the living room, Grandpa was surrounded by large cardboard boxes. He opened one and pulled out strings of Christmas lights. One by one, he plugged them in to see if they worked. They lit up the room, tiny red lights, just like we had at home. Mom won that argument years ago. Dad grew up with big multicolored flashing lights. Mom grew up with tiny red lights. Our tree and my grandparents' tree, the only ones I had ever seen with red lights. That warm feeling perked up inside me again, that little bit of holiday spirit.

When we'd finished decorating the tree, Grandpa asked if I wanted to get some practice driving in.

“Sure, I guess I should.”

“Let's take the Mustang out before we get snow. What do you say, Margaret? It'll be a pretty drive with all the Christmas lights.”

“You want me to go for a ride with Cara driving?” Her voice was incredulous.

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

“You just keep practicing with Grandpa, and I'll go with you when you officially have your license.”

“I'm going to hold you to that, you know.”

Grandma shook her head. “Oh go on, already. Shoo, you two.” She waved the feather duster at us, then turned to the curio cabinet of porcelain angels.

Grandma would be appalled at our cabin in California. We definitely didn't have a regular dusting routine. I cringed thinking about the smoke damage. What would our cabin look like when I finally made it back home? Charred and blackened, covered in soot? Neglected. Abandoned. And the forest? How many trees had we lost in the fire?

Driving took all my concentration. I was nervous driving the Mustang, but it gave me a spark of energy too. There was so much power in that engine.

Grandpa directed me toward the freeway ramp, and I held my breath at the sight of the speeding cars. I remembered Billy's words and merged onto the highway.

“Nice job,” Grandpa said.

I smiled and stomped on the gas.

“Ah, you've inherited the family lead foot, I see.”

I eased up a bit and glanced at Grandpa, but he was grinning.

“Just stay on 75, I'll give you a little tour of Detroit. This highway will take you all the way to Florida. Sometimes I get the urge to hit the road, just go and see where it takes me.”

“Road warrior,” I said, smiling. I cruised along with the steady pattern of traffic.

“What's so special about Grandma's collection of angels? Like all those babies?”

“Your mom never told you about the babies?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Well, maybe she was waiting until you were older. When it was time for you to have your own family.” Grandpa cleared his throat.

I had a moment of panic thinking he was about to talk to me about sex.

“When I told you about your grandma's problems with anxiety attacks, I guess I wasn't starting at the beginning. It goes way back to before your mom was even born. It even goes back to before me.”

Now he had really lost me.

“Your grandma married her high school sweetheart right before he got drafted to Vietnam. She got pregnant, but miscarried, and then her husband was killed in the war.”

Whoa
. My eyes widened and I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I wanted to look at Grandpa, but I was afraid to take my eyes off the road.

“I know. Terrible. Maybe I should wait and tell this story when you're not driving.”

I shot him a quick glance. “I'm okay, keep going. I never knew she was married before you.”

“We met a few years later. She was the pretty teller with long blond hair at my bank.” He grinned. “I always tried to time my spot in line so I'd end up at her window. When we got married, we wanted to start a family right away, but it didn't turn out like we hoped.”

“She had two more miscarriages before we finally had Lori. And it was a rough delivery. Truthfully, we almost lost her. Your grandma, not your mom. Lori came out healthy and bursting with life, but Margaret was rushed off to surgery. Needed an emergency hysterectomy. No more babies for us.”