You Only Get So Much (9 page)

The flashlight follows my fingers as I walk them across
the surface of the rafter. I can't quite recall what I'd written and now I'm
questioning if I'm standing under the right spot. The wood is covered with
knife marks and the spot I thought might stay undisturbed, is anything but.

And then I see it. Our initials "BR + JR
Forever," surrounded by a crudely etched heart. Trying to carve a heart
into a rounded piece of wood isn't an easy task with your arms stretched high
above your head—that much I remember.

But the carving—the one that in the back of my mind
was intended to last a lifetime and the thing that I sought out tonight isn't
what it once was. Sure, the letters I wrote are still there, but they have been
changed. Destroyed.

A thick "X" covers the middle of the carving, a
purposeful mark that was surely meant to destroy the sentiment under it. The
"X" goes right through Jane's initials—JR. But that isn't what
troubles me most. It's the words written along the lines of the thick
"X." It's an unbelievable coincidence or some indiscernible ridicule
by a stranger who couldn't possibly know the devastation their act has
caused.
 

"I'm sorry—EMM," the line along the
"X" reads.

Chapter 16

My heart pounds as a thin layer of sweat builds on my
forehead. It seems as though my breath has escaped me and I'm straining to pull
air inside my lungs.

Who would do that? Who is EMM? And why did they feel the
need to sign their vandalism? It's got to be some mindless joker who thought it
would be funny to destroy something special between two people. No doubt that's
what happened.

There are hundreds. No. There are thousands of other
carvings enveloping the entire structure. This must be repeated elsewhere. I
climb down from the table in search of a repeat event. I look for thick
markings crossing out others. I blaze past secondary markings that might be the
same type of postscript wording that denotes a reversal of opinion. But the
love proclaimed between the two carvers—thousands of them—remains
largely unaltered. I can't find another carving destroyed like mine.

I mount the table again to get another look. My original
carving is deep and weathered—it's got to be more than 15 years old. I
shine the light toward the roof and notice for the first time why the rafter is
so dark and damp—it's been exposed to the elements through a hole in the
roof. A trickle of water has worn a channel across the face of the
carving—both the original one and the blasphemy covering it. This tells
me one thing, but doesn't answer my real question.
 
It means the "X" and the "I'm
sorry—EMM," note is old—years old. Otherwise it wouldn't be
weathered in the exact same pattern as the original carving.

Does longevity mean anything here? Or am I grasping in
the dark for an answer that should be obvious. I should just let this go, but I
thought that one simple thing could be kept between us and some jerk defaced
it. And why "I'm sorry?" What does that even mean? This person
doesn't know me or Jane. EMM? I don't know an EMM.

* * *

The darkness of the night and the quiet of the Carving
Shelter are pierced when my phone rings and the bright screen shows the call is
Mom. Perfect.

I answer, still standing atop both soggy picnic tables.

"Hello."

"William, you've got to get home now," Mom
says. I can hear commotion in the background, but can't make out any of the
words. "Your sister is here and she's making all these crazy accusations
about you and Trevor's money. Kendall is very upset."

"Why? What did she say?" I ask.

"Just come home, William. We need you."

The phone goes silent as she hangs up.

Back to reality.

Chapter 17

"She's gone," Mom says moments after I arrive
home. The remnants of April's brief stay are still plastered on the faces of my
family. Whatever occurred here wasn't pretty.

"Tell me what happened," I say.

"William, I don't want to discuss your sister,"
Mom says.

"You called me to come home because she was here and
now you won't tell me what she did?"

"Some things are best left unsaid," Mom
proclaims, walking out of the living room and into the kitchen.

Well, that was useful.

Kendall is sitting on the couch by the big picture
window, her knees to her chest. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, pulling
them in toward her. She looks very young. Her eyes are puffy and I can tell
she's been crying. Her black eye makeup is smeared down her cheeks. She's tried
to wipe away the tears to no avail.

As soon as I glance at her, she looks away.

"What happened?" I ask.

She looks out the window and shakes her head.
 
I sit down next to her and place my
hand on her back in a gesture of sympathy for whatever occurred here moments
earlier. Her body jerks in surprise at my touch and she scoots away from me.
I'm not sure what to make of her reaction.

 
"Kendall, I don't know what you all are so upset about
and I have no way of helping if I don't know what happened."

"She was high," she says, pausing. "On
something. She was talking a mile a minute and fidgeting with her clothes like
always."

She must be on crank again.

"I'm sorry you had to see her like that," I say,
easily painting a mental picture from my own memories of April's drug-induced
benders.

"I've seen it before. It's not new," she says.

"Then what?"

"She said she wanted us back. And that you were
stealing Dad's money and living here when he never wanted you to be here."

"Honey, you know that's not true," I say.
"Yes, he named her in the papers, but she's in no position to take care of
you two. She can't even take care of herself."

"But what about the money?" she asks. "I
don't know anything about that. Why didn't you tell me?"

I immediately regret not telling her the whole story
about the money in the estate. I'd intended to do it, considering in a year she
would have a legal right to her portion of the money, but until then it was
under my sole control. I bite the bullet and tell her everything. The money is
in a trust and she can't touch it until she's 18. Same for her sister. And even
then, the money isn't for wasting. They intended it for college and other
things they wouldn't be able to provide. She takes it well.

"That's basically what April said; but are you
taking the money?"

"No. It's going to pay for this house and the bills
that go along with it. I'm paying them with the money, but I'm not taking it
for myself."

"What about Grandma and Grandpa?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Are you giving it to them?"

"No and I know my mother well enough that she
wouldn't take it if I gave it to her. She's too proud."

"But she's living here too."

"Out of necessity, not desire," I say.

The tears wash down her face, running through the lines
of eye makeup.

"Why did this happen to me?" she asks.

I'm not sure what exactly she's referring to. Why did her
father and mother die? Why did they want to leave her to a drug addict? Why is
Uncle Billy living here? Why did April accuse me of stealing?

It could be any number of things.

"Sometimes we get faced with things that seem so
entirely insurmountable that we don't know where to start or when things will
seem normal again," I say.

"Like when Aunt Jane and Aspen died?"

"Yes, exactly like that."

She stands up and wipes the streaks on her face,
effectively making them worse again.

"Well, I don't have the luxury of running away to
the mountains and living in a cave like you."

And then she's gone.

* * *

I go to the office and see Gracie asleep in the leather
chair. Dad, in his wheelchair is parked next to it. Her arm is draped over the
edge of the chair resting under my father's hand. He looks up at me but doesn't
move his head. I can't know how long they've been like this, but I can only
hope that whatever occurred in the living room with April didn't breach the
quiet sleep Gracie is having.

I lean up against the desk and blankly stare at the wall
opposite my father. It's the same wall he's been forced to stare at too. It
contains a picture of a birch tree with a pile of leaves at the base.

"I don't know what to do, Dad. I wasn't meant for
this," I say.
 

His index finger flicks upward. The motion catches my eye
because he never moves much at all. It flicks again and it seems as though he's
trying to point to Gracie's cup of water sitting on the desk.

"You want a drink?" I ask, but instantly regret
saying it because he doesn't drink anymore—not through anything but the
feeding tube that was placed in his side just over a week ago.

But his eyebrows raise, which is his sign for yes. What's
the harm? I raise the cup to his lips, which he parts slowly. I tip the cup
upward and let the water touch his lips before giving him anything close to a
drink. He doesn't rebuff the drink, in fact as I tip it up, he gulps it down as
if it was the best thing he's ever had. When he's had enough the water spills
out the sides of the cup and down his chin.

He clears his throat. A wet gargle of phlegm and years
gone by.

In almost in a growl he tells me what I need to hear. Low
and breathy, he speaks for the first time in months. It's slow and measured.
The effort clearly draining him.

"Be the . . . man," he again clears his throat
and pauses. "Be the man . . . I raised. Proud of you."

Chapter 18

The beginning of the school year came before we all knew
it. Considering I'd never bought school supplies or had to give a thought about
all that goes into getting a child ready for school to start, I think I did OK.
Kendall refused to allow me to accompany her to the mall to pick out new school
clothes to start her last year of high school. I just gave her cash. She came
home with bags from actual stores and I can only assume they contained clothes.
From the outfit she put together for the first day of school, I don't think the
money went too far. Red pants with rips from the knees down. A woven black
sweater over a green tank top. Black eye makeup? Of course. If this passes for
fashion today, then count me out.

Kendall also refused a ride to school, electing to get
picked up by Ethan, who's been making himself more and more scarce around our
house since Mom moved in and terrorized him with questions whenever the chance
arose. Honestly, I'm good with that. The fewer people around here the better.

Gracie, like always, was an entirely different story. I
quite enjoyed shopping with her; but I think much of that stems from her
ability to briskly walk through the tables at Old Navy and collect the
tee-shirts she wanted without ever really looking at them. My job was to double
check the size—usually a 6—and place them in the mesh bag. She was
in charge. No question. Try stuff on? Nope. The shopping took all of 20
minutes. We then grabbed frozen yogurt and waited for Kendall to finish her shopping.
As a guy, you can't beat that trip.

Today—the first day of school—Gracie emerged
from her room dressed in white leggings, black patent leather shoes and a blue
Old Navy shirt with a picture of a kitty on it. Pretty damn cute.

"Ready for your first day of school?" I ask.

"Yep. I already did kindergarten, so this will be
easy," she says.

"I admire your confidence, my dear," I say,
twirling her around like a ballerina. "I'm sure you'll do great."

"Yep. That's what I said."

There's no shaking this kid. I like it.

She downs a bowl of cereal and straps on her oversized
backpack full of school supplies and we jump in the truck for the short drive
to Five Mile Elementary School. I pull into the curve near the flag pole.

"Have a good day," I say, leaning over to give
her a hug. But she doesn't budge. She just stares out the window at the other
kids and parents.

"You're going to have a great time," I say.
"School is fun."

"Can you walk me to my classroom?"

"Of course," I say. "Why didn't I think of
that?"

"Awesome!"

I park the truck and we walk hand in hand into the
school. The odors of industrial floor polish, new paint and sweaty kids floods
my senses. I realize that I have no idea where she needs to go and which
classroom is hers. How was she supposed to know if I hadn't brought her in? I'm
a moron. Apparently I'm not the first bewildered adult standing in the entrance
of the school today.

A middle-aged man, who I can only assume has kids at the
school, points to a cluster of parents near at the far end of the corridor.

"Down the hall they post the kids' names with their
teacher and classroom by grade level," he says. "Your kid will be on
there."

Before I get a chance to say,
well, you see she's not actually my kid
,
the guy disappears and Gracie is dragging me down the hall.

I pick her up so she doesn't get trampled by the mob of
parents and kids. Gracie is assigned to Ms. Dixon, room 132.

"Come on!" Gracie says, once again dragging me
down hall, "We're gonna be late."

Room 132 is filled with nervous kids sitting quietly at
their desks. A group of parents line the wall adjacent to the coat closet.
Following the lead of the other adults I help Gracie find her name on a desk
and get situated.

"You good?" I ask.

"Good," she says. "Are you picking me up
after school?"

"Just like we talked about. I'll be at the flag pole
right at 3, OK?"

"OK."

I turn to leave and see her teacher is addressing the
parents. She's thin, with shoulder-length black hair and quite the figure.
She's wearing a conservative black cotton dress that hugs her in all the right
places. I feel like a perv for ogling Gracie's teacher—Ms. Dixon—as
I step in line with the parents to hear what she has to say.

"We'll be sending home a folder each day that
includes . . ."

But I don't hear a word she says. Her name isn't Ms.
Dixon—it's Michelle. Michelle Sherwood, the girl I was madly in love with
for two years in high school. The girl who endured endless grilling from my
mother to stay in a relationship with me—even a silly adolescent one that
didn't go anywhere.

She glances toward me, noticing another adult has joined
the collective and continues to talk. She doesn't recognize me? It hasn't been
that long, has it? Of course I don't look the same.

I wait until she's done giving her speech about folders
or whatever she's talking about. I'm not actually listening. The group disbands
to say their final goodbyes to their kids. Ms. Dixon remains behind by the door
fiddling with a clipboard. My legs are glued to the floor and I stand there, trying
to remember every little detail about this woman with whom I experienced
several "firsts."

She sets the clipboard down and turns to face me. She
grabs my left hand. Specifically my ring finger. I don't know why. Then she
lightly brushes my facial hair, the way Santa Claus does when he's thinking
hard on something.
  

"It's good to see you Billy," she says.
"You need a shave."

Michelle leaves me
standing there and directs the kids to take their seats. The first day of
school has begun. I glance at my watch before leaving Gracie's classroom. Six
hours until I need to be at that flagpole to meet Gracie. Maybe I'll stop in a
little early and ask her teacher how her day went.