There stood Grandpa Wilson, his old yet strong form slightly hunched over, while his gaze followed our car as we pulled up to the house. The light drizzle dripped off the old tweed cap he liked to wear. As I clambered out of the car, a grin appeared on his face and he opened his arms to hug me. As I wrapped my arms around him, I could feel his red woolen sweater scratching my skin. A few moments later, Mom appeared with little Betsy. My little sister charged Grandpa and allowed herself to be picked up in his strong arms and smothered with affection. “Come in, come in,” said Grandpa. “Grandma’s been hard at work all morning baking cookies for you.” “Yum, yum, yum!” shouted Betsy, who had immediately lost interest in Grandpa and desperately tried to get out of Grandpa’s arms and inside to the cookies. Inside the scent of homemade chocolate-chip cookies filled the air. “Hello,” shouted Grandma from the kitchen. “Who wants cookies?” “Meeeeee!” yelled Betsy at the top of her lungs. A few moments later, we were in the kitchen, stuffing ourselves with cookies. Betsy elaborated on and on about how tedious the car ride to Connecticut was. When I looked up from the vast plate of cookies, I noticed that Grandpa had disappeared. I knew that Grandpa was the kind of man who realized that arguing with his wife is pointless and for the most part avoided her by pursuing his interests—reading World War II stories and biographies of infamous criminals in the hut by the brook and repairing furniture and building bookshelves for his ever-expanding library in his workshop. I also knew that he didn’t like spending time with other people. Still, stunned that he would leave us the moment we arrived, I inquired about his whereabouts. A few moments later, we were in the kitchen, stuffing ourselves with cookies “He’s probably in his workshop; he’s got a bookshelf that he’s got to finish,” answered Grandma. “Why don’t you go and build something with him? He always wanted to make a model boat,” suggested Mom. I walked down the hallway, turned at the open door and peered down the stairs to Grandpa’s workshop. I could hear a paintbrush swishing over wood. I walked silently down the stairs and watched Grandpa staining the individual boards of the bookshelf. The evilly toxic smell of the wood stain flooded my nostrils and almost made me gag. Finally, he finished and set the pieces to dry. As Grandpa turned, he noticed me, sitting on the unfinished wooden stairs. “Well, hello Peter,” he mumbled, “what brings you down here?” “Mom said we should make a model boat together,” I stated awkwardly. “If you want to,” I added. Grandpa said nothing. He went over to the corner of the shop, mumbled to himself a bit and then appeared with several two-foot-long boards. I just stood there, not knowing what to do. “Come on, let’s get to work,” he ordered. We took the boards and cut them into thinner strips. Then, we started making the ribs of the boat. We worked until dinner in almost complete wordlessness. The Grandpa who had welcomed us was long gone; this new silent Grandpa seemed here to stay. As I went to bed, I made a wish that the old Grandpa would come back. The next morning, we were working on the boat bright and early. Around eleven o’clock, Grandpa was using the lathe to make the mast, and the wood molded perfectly under his chisel. When the mast was complete, he turned the lathe off and took the wood off of the spikes that held it in place. He started talking, loudly enough for me to hear but not looking directly at me. “What shall we call her?” He looked up after a moment and I grasped that he was asking me. I thought for a moment and then stated, “The Seadog, the dreaded ship of Pirate Captain Wilson.” “And don’t forget his loyal first mate, the swashbuckling Peg Leg Peter,” he added, showing a seemingly uncharacteristic smile. “They sail the high seas, robbing rich merchant ships and giving to the poor.” Grandpa seemed to have let a bit of himself out and I realized that Grandpa wasn’t the boring old man he seemed to be. Just then, Grandma called down that lunch was ready and we headed upstairs for our midday repast. After a delicious meal of grilled cheese with juicy tomatoes and smoked ham, we were back at work. Now Grandpa seemed to be more open, although he didn’t say a word. While fitting a miniature royal yard to the main mast, he spoke excitedly. “The Seadog is the fastest, most maneuverable, best crewed ship on the high seas.” “ “Wish her luck,” smiled Grandpa, setting our beloved model into the water And its crew is wanted by all the merchants in the known world,” I continued. “Why she once fought the Endeavor, flagship of the East India Tea Company, and came out victorious,” Grandpa explained authoritatively. “The freedom-fighting duo of Captain Wilson and Peg Leg Peter boarded and captured Blackbeard’s ship single-handedly.” As he spoke, he fit rigging to the already be-sailed masts. “Recently, though,” continued Grandpa, “the Seadog was forced to fight an entire column of British ship-of-the-line led by the HMS Victory herself. The Seadog suffered grievous losses but she will sail again someday.” At first it seemed as if his story was done, but as he attached a miniature pirate flag to the flagstaff, he made as if to say one more thing. “I believe, that day is today!” He picked up the finished boat and impishly motioned for me to follow him as he bore our precious cargo to the brook. I peered into the gurgling waters and worried for the Seadog on her maiden voyage. “Wish her luck,” smiled Grandpa, setting our beloved model into the water. As she floated and bobbed along, we
Family
Love—A Cursed Blessing
INTRODUCTION First of all, you must know that my story is not unique. It’s merely the same tale as millions, maybe even billions of human beings; a few thousand hearts broken every day the same way as my life was shattered. Shattered but able to be put back together, piece by piece. But keeping that in mind, this narration is not a happy one. It was the worst thing in my short life, and that life was in a ruin for a while. They say that for every good thing that happens, a bad, awful, miserable thing appears in the same story. Same story, same life. That’s the way they say it. But I take it the other way. I say the opposite; for every bad thing a good thing appears. I am not responsible for my life, my story, but no doubt I have changed it—after all, a writer is the owner, and the changer of his book, is he not? Change. A meaningful word, and rarely used correctly. Change makes things what they are; change creates, preserves and destroys everything. Everything except change itself. I have made up a phrase, and it is one of the few things to say and not be heard, only understood. “In every darkness shines a light within it.” That simple sentence is so complex because of its truth. I believe that in every life it is prominent. It is there, and in the light in the darkness there is another darkness, a smaller but darker one, in which there is a tiny but dazzling light, in which another even smaller darkness… and so on. My father had been working on his book for as long as I could remember But my story is not just light and darkness. It is also love and the breaking of love. It is, to name the affliction that blessed my life, my parents’ love that broke, and when the love broke, the people broke apart from each other, and that led to the creation of many things, including a small baby who is now almost fifteen months, a love between five people that could never be broken, even if the previous time my mother had a love that could not be broken it broke. I am sure, with every atom in my being, that the love we have now will be whole forever. Before I embark on the specifics of my tale, this must be known: I do not know, nor want to know, all of what happened in my parents’ marriage that made them miserable. I assume I will find out in later years, and tears will fall from my eyes again, and the grief that I had will be reborn, though I do not know if it will be greater or smaller than my grief when the breaking of the love appeared in my life. Because the love had broken before I knew it, but I was unknowing, and ignorance was a blessing. But sometimes I noticed small things, which leaked out like a hole in a faulty pipe, and I wondered. Thankfully, however, my small mind passed those things over without a second thought. But they were still there, and unknowingly I was scared. * * * CHAPTER ONE BEFORE My father had been working on his book for as long as I could remember. In total, it took seven years. Much more time then he had been allotted by his publishers. The book had somewhat shaped my early childhood, and if not that, it had somewhat shaped my father, and of course, I was shaped by my father tremendously. I remember clearly, how he used to sit there in his study all day, how after school I would come home, go to his office, talk to him about my day, and then I would leave, and he would be there for the rest of the day, and he came out at dinnertime, and he would cook, and I would eat, and I would talk, and then go to sleep. In the time after I had my after-school chat with him and before my dinner, I would be with my mother. We might go to a movie, or work on an art project, or go to a park, or do whatever activities a mother does with a child. My father would be uninvolved, and I would wonder what he was doing there, in his study, working all day. But of course, I know now. He was making money, the money which bought me an elite private-school education, the money that paid the health insurance, the day-to-day money that bought me ice creams after school, the money that paid the babysitter, the money that bought my clothes—all the expenses were bought by him sitting in his study, working all day. And often he would go on trips to places around the world, to India, the place where his book took place, for as long as two months. I remember how I and my brother tried to Scotch-tape the door shut, to stop him from going, and the Welcome Back signs we used to make for him. You see, we loved him. He was not very involved with the family, but we loved him just as much as any son could love a father. And yet, we were scared of him. He was frustrated with money, and money was what he had to sacrifice everything for, and money was a curse. And he had a temper, because a man who is frustrated with what he does, who finds life so hard, a man cannot keep all those rages bottled up inside him. He got mad, and we silently got mad too, but we were too scared to voice our anger. But we didn’t know the reasons, we didn’t know how hard life was for him, we didn’t know how much he loved us and how much he did for us, and we should have
The Blueberry Family
Two girls sat on a small, colorful carpet in the living room of their new house. The older one, a lanky seven-year-old redhead, sat up tall and poised, her feet tucked underneath her. The younger one, a chubby four-year-old with brown curls, was sprawled out on her stomach, paper dolls scattered around her. “Allie, play with me?” the little girl, Jessie, said. She was tired of all the moving boxes, and her parents’ distraction. Unfortunately, her parents loved moving and did it frequently, due to both their work, their spirit for adventure, and restlessness. But playing with her sister, the gorgeous, poised Allison, would make up for it. Allison smiled. “OK. Do you want to play with these paper dolls or with the new game Mommy brought us?” The little girl scrunched up her face in concentration. “Paper dolls,” she decided. “OK,” Allison said. “Now, who do you want to be?” “It’s a family,” Jessie said. “I’m the oldest child, um… Andrea.” Allison giggled. “And I’m the youngest child, Jenna. What’s their last name?” “Allie, play with me?” the little girl, Jessie, said “Um… Blueberry!” Jessie said, remembering the fresh, sweet berries they had tasted when they lived in Maine. Allison sighed. “That isn’t a real name. What about… Smith or something?” “No. Blueberry,” Jessie said, still able to savor the sweet berry. “OK, Blueberry it is.” And so the Blueberry Family was born. * * * I kneel on the hardwood floor, peering into a moving box with the set of paper dolls we used as the Blueberry Family. Allison and I are helping unpack in our new Connecticut home. I take out the packet of paper dolls and smile as I hold it up to Allison. “Hey Allison, remember these?” I call out, but Allison continues unpacking. Silent. I sigh and look down at the packet. I had actually never forgotten the Blueberry Family, where I was the bossy older sister and Allison the cute younger sister. Allison and I shared a brilliant imagination despite our three-year age difference. The story we made up was magical: in the Blueberry Family’s world, Jenna and Andrea lived at a magic amusement park near a blueberry field with their parents. At night, after everyone had left the park, the Blueberry Family tried out all the rides and even slept on the Ferris wheel. Sometimes Allison would draw pictures, illustrating our Blueberry Family stories. The Blueberry Family kept me stable through all our moves. “Allison?” I say again, louder. “Remember the Blueberry Family? Maybe we could play with them again one of these days? Hey, remember that one story we played with them when the merry-go-round…” She sighs. “Look, Jessie, I liked playing with you and everything, but we’re older now and I think we need to find our own friends.” I feel numb with hurt. True, I had seen it coming. The graceful, poised, child Allison has grown into an outgoing, social fifteen-year-old Allison, who isn’t interested in me. Once I had adored her, and that felt special, now it seems everyone adores her. Allison gets better and better at making friends, while I continually struggle to find just one. Worst of all, she’s too old for magic amusement parks and paper-doll families. One of the things I used to admire in Allison was her unique way of thinking, so unlike all the other kids her age. When she was nine, she told me that she never believed in magic as in flying, but magic as in friendship. Even as a six-year-old I recognized the wisdom and sophistication of the statement. But she hasn’t said anything like that for a while. I leave the room. She doesn’t seem to notice. “Jessica?” My mom looks over the staircase to see me. “Look at this house, Jessica. Can’t you just feel the spirit?” She takes a deep breath. I don’t respond. “No? Well, you will, soon enough. There’s everything we need here. This is a wonderful town. This is where we’ll stay.” Even though she says that every time, it gives me a boost just to hear it. Maybe Connecticut will be different. Maybe I’ll find lots of friends here, more than Allison. Maybe I’ll find a secret door leading to a magic amusement park… I’m not too old for those kinds of dreams. “Donna, you can’t promise that,” my father says, stepping over a moving box. The living room is cluttered with them. “Why not?” she demands. “Because of my job, and besides, that’s just the way we are,” Dad says. I sigh and edge back up the stairs. * * * On the first day of school, I decide to bike there instead of taking the bus. I want to be away from the prying eyes of children who tease newcomers. “So I’ll see you later,” I say to Allison as I take my cereal bowl to the sink. “Mhmm,” she says. “Maybe later we could play, um, do something together?” She stands up, almost knocking her chair to the floor. “Jessie, I’m going to the mall with Lucille after school. I don’t think there’ll be time for that today.” “Who’s Lucille?” “Oh, you haven’t met her yet? She has a sister just about your age, I think. She lives across the street,” Allison points, “and she’s the coolest.” “Right,” I say vaguely. I miss the days before “coolest” became part of Allison’s vocabulary. “Jessie, you need to get going. School starts at 8:20,” says Mom. She looks out the window and sighs. “Look at this town. We’re staying here, Jessie.” “Humph,” Dad says. “Well, we are!” Mom cries. “It’s best not to get their hopes up, Donna.” “What’s wrong with getting their hopes up?” Mom asks. Both of them have forgotten that Allison and I are in the kitchen too. I look at Allison, hoping to share an eye-roll, but she looks out the window. * * * Wearing my backpack, I dash up the old oak tree right
