|
Title: Shelter in a Time of Storm Summary: ...a rock in a weary land, a shelter in a time of storm. Archive: If you want to, I'd be delighted. Just let me know. Author's Notes: at the end. Skipjack Point, Eastern Shore, Maryland We're old friends, this boathouse and I. I used to come out here to think, to be alone when I didn't want to be disturbed. I would sneak out here when I was angry or afraid or ashamed, and didn't want to be found or to be confronted. I came out here with great fanfare when I was pouting or sulking and wanted nothing more than to be discovered, rescued from my mood. I'm not sure why I'm out here now. I know they saw my car pull up. They probably think I'm just having a look around before I come in. If only that were true. Those things I used to feel which would prompt me to retreat here? I'm feeling them all right at this moment, and I am in full retreat. I need to think but, shit, I can't think straight. Not about this. I'm angry, although I've no right to be. I'm afraid though they say there's no cause to be, everything is fine. That's what they always say, and smile when they do. I'm ashamed that I can't seem to face any of this head on, like they would have. Like they do. I know everyone inside is celebrating Dad's birthday, but, God help me, I'm not in a celebratory mood and I resent that they are. I guess that means I'm sulking, too. Well then, it's complete, my entire boathouse repertoire. I am adrift and definitely awaiting rescue. I'm just not sure by whom or from what. There are birds nesting in the rafters. At least, I hope they're birds. There was that Summer that a family of raccoons moved into the boathouse and protected their territory so fiercely that they evicted all humans who wanted to share the space. This place has seen its better days. No offense, old friend? No one's done any work here for years, at least since Uncle Bill passed. Maybe Matt will consent to helping me fix her up this Summer before he ships out. That is if we're speaking again by then. If not, then I guess it's up to me. Uncle Charlie has never been really handy with this kind of thing, although he's got more than enough enthusiasm. He's kind of like Dad in that respect. And I know Mom won't let Dad get within thirty feet of a ladder these days. Mom and Dad. Dad and Mom. Huh. With the exception of a girl or two in high school, they've always been the reason I've run out here. Isn't that funny? It shouldn't be all that strange. I mean what kid doesn't have problems with his parents from time to time? Well: me. No teenage rifts, not even so much as a rebellious weekend. It's not that I've been a dishwater dweeb, either. I had my moments, didn't I, old house? Those were the times I didn't want anyone else out here, but had to tell somebody about them, and you were a pretty good listener. At least while you were raccoon free. My folks have always been pretty cool about my life and the things that have happened in it. Don't tell anybody, but they've been great parents. I guess when you've gone through as much pain and horror as they have, nothing a child could get into ever really fazes you. Although there have been times when I wish it would have. They've always been different from most parents. Hell, from any parents I've ever known. They've always been okay with that. It's just that, sometimes, I haven't been. And what do you do with that, I ask you? August 9th, Twenty-twelve. What would have been Samantha's fourth birthday. My eleventh Summer. In the year of the Wish. In retrospect, it seems to me like I spent that entire Summer hiding out here. Yet, one day stands out from the rest, in hideous bas-relief on the terrible tapestry of those months. I'd killed my sister. I believed I'd done so, anyway, and no amount of coddling would convince me otherwise. Samantha's illness had been with her since birth, but she had done okay, so far as I could tell. She was just like anyone's pain in the butt little sister. But she was my pain in the butt little sister and I wished her gone. The entire Christmas season had been a total wash because she'd gone back into the hospital. No lights, no tree, no presents. When Sam came home, Mom said that we should be grateful she was home, that was the best Christmas present we could have received. I didn't see it that way then, not like I do now. Oh, Sammy. God, I've missed you. So many nights I've wanted to have you crawl into my bed again, because I was the only one who could seem to ease your troubled breathing. Just as many mornings I've longed to have you come bounding into my room at dawn to point out that the sun had, much to your delight, risen once more. That one selfish moment, in anger and self-pity, I wished you gone. And you died, not a month later, just before my birthday, the day after Mother's Day. Mom and Dad didn't speak to one another for a month after Sam died. They each spoke to me, of course, uttering not a single angry word, even though I was the one responsible. I thought they blamed each other. I was afraid they were going to get a divorce because of what I'd done. What did I know? I'd never experienced grief before, in myself or in others. It was another month or so before they started smiling again. I thought I might be out of the woods over my deed. But, this faint hope was to be crushed by a final, macabre straw. The Party. Clearly, what I'd done had driven my parents insane. They were planning to celebrate her birthday, Sam's birthday, the sister who'd died because I wished it so. "No, Wills, not her birthday," my mother tried to assure me. "We're going to celebrate her life, all of her time with us on this earth." It was just too creepy. They were insane and it was my fault. At first, I didn't know what to do, and then it hit me. I had to do the honorable thing. I tried to turn myself in. It's what Dad would do, I reasoned. Even if I regretted my actions, I had to bear the responsibility for them. The hitch was that the nearest police station is in St. Michael's, nearly nine miles away. On the day of the party, I set out just after breakfast and got about a mile and a half down the road before a neighbor spotted me and called my Grandmother, who came and drove me back to the house. I told her where I was going, that I had done something wrong which had driven my parents mad, for which I was doing the honorable thing. She seemed to accept that. (In retrospect, I marvel at the strength with which she kept a straight face.) I asked her to turn the car around, then, and take me to the police station. This she steadfastly refused to do. Instead, that afternoon, Gramma and I made our pact. I would confide in her and she would keep my confidence from anybody. You know, even a particular two anybodies. This boathouse became the place where our confidences lived and hung out. Gram was quiet for a long time after we walked down here. She sat on the edge of the quay, not right next to me, but close enough so that I knew she was on my side. She'd kicked off her shoes and hiked up her skirt before sitting down on the splintering wood, and was slowly kicking her feet in the water, looking at the ripples she sent out into the bay. Even then, I realized that Gram must have been pretty cool back when she was my age, whenever in prehistory that had been. I wondered for a moment whether she knew what the concept of "cool" was. "So, you've driven your parents insane, have you?" I nodded miserably. "And, since simply driving parents insane isn't a punishable offense, Lord knows, or else your mother would have gone to jail for life..." Somehow, I knew she was exaggerating for my benefit. "You must have done something pretty bad to become a wanted felon." I couldn't tell her. She'd be implicated, along with me. I tried to explain this, but stumbled over the word "accessory." She assured me that she'd willingly bear that risk. Still I refused. Sensing a stalemate, Gram tried another tack. "Will, come back inside, Beloved. Your parents need you." "No they don't, Gramma. They've barely spoken to me. They hate me." "William!" "What? It's true! It's because of Sam." She paused for a long time, looking me straight in the eye and never once straying. "Will, tell me what you think you did to Sam." The whole sordid story came out in a rush, along with a torrent of grief, fright, and guilt. Years later, Gramma confessed that the closest she ever came to breaking our pact was over the guilt I'd been carrying around, just like my father would. She saw it as a way to rid him and me of the Mulder curse once and for all. But she kept her counsel, realizing what a precious thing my trust was. Gramma is a lot like Mom. Dad, too, I guess. "They hardly talked to each other, Gramma. I knew it had to be because of me. I was so afraid." "Beloved," she'd scooted over so that she could put her arms around me, "you can always tell your mom and your dad anything. I know that's hard to imagine in this case, but it's true. But, if you ever feel like this again, like you just can't go to them, come talk to me. I'll listen, and I won't tell them what we've said. Is it a deal?" I'd needed them. It felt awful, unnatural not to have them to run to. Part of me wanted Gramma to tell them everything I would say. I'm glad the other parts of me prevailed. "Good," she said after I'd nodded. "Now, what are you afraid of?" Her voice sounded upbeat and gentle at the same time. She sounded as if nothing could happen in the world that couldn't be put right. I put my trust, shaky and new, in that voice. "I was afraid they were mad at each other. So mad they wouldn't want to be my mom and dad. So mad they wouldn't want to be together anymore." She sighed deeply, and hugged me tightly, pulling my legs over hers, as if I was a child, rather than an eleven-year-old. Truth be told, I liked it, craved it. "First of all, Beloved, there is nothing, absolutely not one thing that could happen which would ever make them love you one iota less than they have since each of them first laid eyes on you." I had no idea what an iota was, but I knew it had to be small because of the emphasis she put on it. I wouldn't understand the second part for another couple of years, until "The Talk." I almost wish that one had come from Gramma, too. Mom was too clinical, and Dad was way too personal. Way too personal. "Second, I am absolutely positive they will never leave each other's side." "But the kids say..." "Which kids, dear?" "Just some kids at school, Gramma. Nobody special." She nodded at this, so I continued. "They say Mom and Dad wouldn't even have to get a divorce because they're not really married. That's not true, is it, Gramma? They're just saying things to be mean, right?" Gramma answered without hesitation. This memory fills me with awe. I hope I've inherited some of that gift if and when I ever become a parent. "Marriage is so much more than a minister and a license, Will. It's a commitment to each other, through good times and bad times, to love and support and respect each other more than anyone else in the world. Neither a minister nor a license can give that to you, although people act as if it can. Your parents are more committed to each other than anyone I've ever known, maybe even more so than your grandfather and I." I guess I knew this wasn't a straight answer, but it made me feel good again, secure in my family in a way I hadn't felt since Sam died. "More than Grampa Ahab?" He was legendary to me. Even Dad would tell me tales, "twice told tales," he called them; stories of Ahab he'd learned from Mom. Ahab's grand portrait, in full dress whites, hangs yet in our living room. "Perhaps." Gramma allowed with a smile. "So those kids were wrong?" "Your parents will never split up, Will. I told you." Again, a non-answer, but one I wanted to hear. I kept prodding, nevertheless. "So they are married?" "More so than anyone I know. Why don't you ask them to see what they have inscribed on the inside of their rings?" Their rings. I wished that I'd thought of them to use as a snappy retort on the playground. I would be loaded for bear when the new school year started. There was just one more issue I hoped she might be able to help me with. "Gramma?" "Hmmm?" "What's a bastard? I now know that, among its several definitions, a 'bastard' is one who springs a question like that on his poor, unsuspecting grandmother. She brushed it aside, politely saying it was a question for another time. I made her promise that we would talk about it later. She agreed, albeit reluctantly. Our pact had withstood its first challenge. Neither issue, marriage nor bastardy, came up again for years. When it happened, it was because of a desperate love. Mine. Again, though I would have sworn on my oath as a teenaged adult that I didn't need or want to be rescued, it was Gramma who swooped in as silently as an owl and proved me wrong. "Will, we've been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?" I could hear that she was angry, even though she was whispering. It was her sign that she was not about to break our trust by "turning me in." "I've been out here all along, Gram. Not hard to find." I'd gained several inches in height over the year past. I was almost as tall as Dad. Lanky, Mom said. Gangly, I felt. I'd also gained an aloofness, as if I was growing apart from everyone as well as up. This time in particular I think I was especially sullen, with Gramma the unintended victim, while the real targets of my mood cleaned up the dinner dishes a handful of yards away. "We came out back and called. I'm sure you heard us." Nope. I tried like hell not to. Couldn't say that in front of Gramma, though. She hates the "H" word. So, I kept quiet. "What is going on with you? William Fox, you look at me." Mom does that, too. It's her "I'm through messing around, let's cut to the chase" voice. This voice even works on Dad, whether it's Mom or Gramma using it, and I'm far from immune to it, as well. So, I looked up. "There's still a ton of people in there, Gram. Nobody's even noticed I'm gone except you." "That's nonsense, Will, utter nonsense. It's your birthday, for crying out loud. You get yourself up and march right back in there." "No, Gramma!" Even at the height of my most sullen mood, I knew I'd stepped over the line, but I felt desperate. For the first time in years, I turned to her for help. "Please?" "Alright." She sounded dubious, possibly a little hurt, but sat down on one of the boathouse benches anyway. "So, I know you think this is probably none of my business. But you know that doesn't hold water with me, so spill it." Part of our deal: she keeps my confidences, I have to give them up to her. At that moment, I remember wondering why I ever thought this was a good deal. "Jenna." "Ah." If I could converse in single word phrases, obviously so could she. But, in a contest of sullen silences, I knew I could outlast her. "The young lady your mother invited to your party." "Mmmmph." It was a grunt masquerading as an answer. "Look, Will. I don't have all that much time left on this earth. So, let's not waste my precious time and yours forcing me to drag this out of you a syllable at a time, okay?" "Gramma, you know you're going to live forever, so..." "No, dear. That's your mother, not me." She would drop little nuggets like this from time to time, but I never knew which contained kernels of truth and which were just Gramma being, well, Gramma. Now, of course, with the help of hindsight, I wish I'd asked. "Okay, Will. Either she likes you and your not sure how you feel about her, or you like her, and aren't sure your affections are returned. Which is it?" "Gramma, it's neither. We both like each other. A lot. At least I think so. No, it's not that." I had to gather my breath for what came next. "She started asking questions about Mom and Dad." "What sort of questions?" At the time, Gramma kept her tone neutral but, now, I imagine that little warning bells were going off inside of her. She needn't have worried. "Mainly, she wanted to know why they both call each other by their last names. It seemed weird to her, and, well, I've got to agree. Why are they so weird sometimes?" That question was to the heavens, not Gramma. "This isn't just about the names they have for each other, is it?" "No, ma'am. I suppose not. Jenna said they seem less like husband and wife than they do friends who have yet to go out on a first date. They were flirting with each other in front of us, Gramma. For Christ's sake!" "William!" "I'm sorry, Gramma." Blaspheming would never be part of any deal involving my grandmother. "It just struck Jenna as strange that I don't question it. I don't know. Maybe I think I should be questioning it. Most 'married' people," I actually used that little quotation mark gesture, one I usually despise, just to underscore the irony of the situation, "don't call each other by last names. Normal people have pet names for each other, for crying out loud. Last names are for strangers. Why do they act like strangers?" Gramma put her hand on my shoulder, waiting until I had quieted down before she next spoke. "They've always called each other by their last names, since before they fell in love. I think that, in a way, their last names have become pet names for each other. Their last names contain all of the elements of their lives together. I'm not really sure they'd know who Fox and Dana are, if you asked them. Besides, would you really rather have your father flirting with your mother and calling her "snookums" in front of your girlfriend?" "No." Sulkier than I'd intended. "It's just that, well, Jenna started asking questions about their relationship. I guess she thinks I'm bound to repeat what my mom and dad do, so she's worried about what she's getting into." "My, my, my, Will. This sounds serious." "Gram, don't change the subject." "But I'm not. Look, Will, your parents were in love long before they could admit it to themselves much less to each other and, Heaven forbid, to anyone else. Their partnership, their jobs, rested on this willful bit of ignorance. They'd only just decided it was foolish to pretend that their feelings for each other didn't exist when you came into being. Your dad was kidnapped..." "Abducted," I corrected her, as both my Mom and Dad would want. "Not kidnapped, Gram. Abducted." "That's right, Will. He'd been abducted. And then, after he was returned, they'd had to set about making sure you could come safely into this world. I guess what I'm saying, Will, is that there was never a single thing about your parents' relationship that was normal, by any stretch of that word. In saying this, I think I ought to tell you that, at first, this bothered me. Now, though, I've come to look on what they've had, what they've built, as being better than normal. Far better." "Why, Gramma? Why did they never marry?" It was a guess, a shot in the dark, based on nothing more than a gut instinct. It was confirmed in an instant, however, by the look on her face. She was visibly uncomfortable with this question. I think she knew that she could no longer dance around it as well as she once had, although I hadn't the first notion about what part of this truth would make her so uneasy. "They did, Will. As surely as if they had done so in a church or in a courtroom. Those rings they wear are real signs of their commitment to each other. I should know. I handed Dana the one she put on your father's finger." She sputtered into silence as memory overtook her. But, thank the Lord and all the Saints, I found the reserve to keep quiet and let her tell this story at her own pace. This, finally, for better or for worse, was the truth, my truth, and the reason I'd always felt apart from other, "normal" kids. "They said their vows to each other, in the backyard of my house in Baltimore. There were only a select few friends and family in attendance, but it was done under the open sky, in the full view of God." I was stunned by this revelation. It didn't really matter to me where they'd gotten married, so long as they had. This would have been enough for me. I would have been a happy teenager. Okay, that's probably stretching it. But, Gramma must have thought I was still skeptical, because she elaborated. "They couldn't have a public wedding, Will. It wouldn't have been safe." "Not safe? What's that supposed to mean, Gramma? Unsafe from what? Unsafe for whom?" Do you have memories like this one? Memories where, if you could, you would just go back in time and slap your own smart-ass mouth into a proper silence? Well, I have several. "I don't know from whom, Will. I'm not sure either of your parents or anyone at the Bureau ever was certain of that. All I know for certain is the last part, the 'for whom'." "C'mon, Gramma. Out with it." I think I remember sitting up straighter so that my height advantage would convince her I meant business. Aw, man. Slap, slap, slap, slap, y'know? "It wouldn't have been safe...for you, Will. It wouldn't have been safe for you." Gramma's voice never rose above a whisper. I'd been stoking a boil over the possibility of being illegitimate and what that said about the true nature of my parents' commitment to each other and to me. I'd been chewing over how selfish it had been for them not to get married. Hadn't they thought of how it might look, of the pain it might cause me? How wrong could I have been? My parents had to avoid a normal wedding, a normal ceremony, hell, a normal life, just so that I could have one of my own. Jesus Christ. The first thing I felt was blinding anger, but that's only because it was the easiest to emotion to handle. Guilt felt like a dead weight that might crush me where I sat. All I knew is that I had to keep moving. As I began pacing, Gramma kept trying to calm me down, her efforts not even reaching my conscious mind. The boathouse no longer felt like safe harbor, nor my grandmother a confidante, for that matter. Her pleas followed me out of the boathouse and down the bay shore until I was consumed by the darkness. From what felt as safe a distance as possible under the circumstances, I watched as she peered after me then, giving up, stared up at the stars, uttering prayers I knew not for what. I'm a little early this time for a crisis of boathouse magnitude, I realize. That is, based on those two memories anyway, and they're the only ones that come close to what grips me now. That last one was five years after the first, but it's only been four and a half years since that one. I guess nature has its own ideas about what the timetable for the "natural order" of things ought to be. Coming down here has helped clear my head. I think I know now what I'm feeling and why. I just need to know what to do about it. "Hello, Beloved." I haven't heard her approach at all, but her gentle words don't startle me. I've been awaiting her arrival, and I wasn't even aware of it. Standing to greet her in the late afternoon gloom, a broad smile creases my face, but no words are needed in greeting. I bend nearly double to hug her, *my* beloved grandmother. She's eighty this year, and has come to live with us full time for all of the various reasons of common sense and advancing years. But she hugs me with a fierce strength belying her age. There was a brief period during my freshman year at Oberlin when I insisted on calling her "Maggie." She tolerated this, but only just. I've come 'round on that score, however. She is and will always be my Gramma, and this boathouse will always be our place. "They were worried, you know, when you pulled up and didn't come straight in." I nod with an apologetic smile. I try to convey that I needed to do this first. She understands. "I told them that I knew where you'd gone and not to worry. But, I wouldn't tell them where!" Her eyes sparkle in this light. They are not the same depthless brown/black of my memories. Age has conspired to cloud and befuddle them. Yet, life and wisdom, courage, love, shine through as they always have. I am not settled yet, but I know that, with Gramma here, I will be eventually. I will find the resolve to go forward. She knows that I have come out here for a more serious purpose than to wallow in nostalgia. She also knows that we will get to that in its time. "How's school going, Will? Have you talked to your parents about your declared major?" Minor in economics, Major in music with a concentration in voice. Neither my Mom nor my Dad hesitated for a second in supporting my decision to go to Oberlin, with the intention to study music. They were astounded that I showed any musical talent at all, a fact that vaguely disturbed them, I think, until Gramma reminded them that Ahab was quite a fine singer, as is Uncle Charlie. Dad eventually dredged up a welcome memory of Grandmother Mulder, as well, recalling that she had been headed for a conservatory to study piano, when she met and married my Grandfather. Of course, like all memories of his parents, he chose to let that one go as soon as he could. At any rate, I think they would have been relieved at any career choice I made other than government service, as they had done. I'd shed all pretensions in that direction after working as a volunteer on Mrs. Clinton's second campaign. I still admire her, but I couldn't stomach the Machiavellian machinations it takes to get even a good person through the electoral process. "No, Gramma, I haven't told them yet. With all that's going on here at home, I just haven't found the appropriate time." "William," she chides gently, stripping me of the illusion that this is a perfectly decent rationale. We've talked about this at length already by e-link. My roommate thinks it's very odd that the person whom I call most is my grandmother. So be it. "You know they'll be overjoyed for you, whatever direction you choose." She pauses for dramatic effect. My Gram would have been a wonderful actress. "It can't hurt to have that minor in economics, though, just in case." She nudges me, and winks as we finally let go of our embrace and sit down. Gramma's iron-gray hair tickles my neck as she leans on my shoulder. In some ways, like this, things have come 'round 180 degrees. I am the one upon whom she rests, now. In other ways, things never change. "Tell me what's troubling you, Beloved." "I'm afraid, Gramma. Of Dad, his illness. The changes that are occurring." Tears finally make a long overdue appearance, accompanied by a choked sob. I barely recognize this old recording of my voice. "I know Mom needs me to be strong, but I'm such a coward," I say, trying out a forced little laugh. It fails pretty miserably. Gram chuckles. "Oh is that all? Beloved, you don't know what he's like now. Come in and see for yourself..." "Gram!" My voice is a pathetic wail. "Early onset Alzheimer's is not some trifling issue. I've seen it for myself. I lived with him all this past Summer. I nearly dropped out of college to help Mom cope. I *know* what he's like." "Will, haven't I told you about the treatments your father has been getting? The part your mother's research has played in their success?" "Yes, you did. But, these are just experimental treatments. You said so yourself. We don't know what the ultimate effect will be. And, even if they do halt the progress of the disease, Gram, so much of Dad has already been lost!" I was sobbing, verging on incoherent babble, the vision I'd already constructed of our bleak futures taking care of the person who once was my father stretched out before me. Gramma simply stroked my hair, whispering "oh, my Beloved," until the last of my sobs had died away. "I was so angry with him this Summer, Gramma. As he got more and more confused, he became a different person, hard to reason with or manage. There were times when he was downright mean to Mom. Gram, I'm afraid I'm going to be angry with him still. I know it's not his fault, but I can't stand the thought of him being taken away from us. Even worse, how could he do this to Mom? How could he leave her again?" "Will, I understand that you're angry but, as you've said, this is not his fault. Your father would never have chosen this." "I know." Once, just before I was to go back to school, I walked in on Mom crying and mumbling something about this damned disease being the cruelest irony she could imagine befalling my father. I understood. The loss of his memory is tantamount to the loss of his self, his being. His soul. "I told you that the doctors think that your father's condition was triggered by a surgical procedure he was forced to undergo during his tenure at the Bureau." I nodded, not trusting my voice. "It's not a natural cause, per se. This is why they think these treatments are having such an unusually positive effect on him. Will, the changes since you left in August, well, they're remarkable! Oh, yes. He has his better days, and his poorer ones. But the poorer ones are getting fewer and farther between." I want to believe her. I can't tell you how badly I want to believe. I just can't. Her eyes twinkle again and she reads my thoughts, or something eerily akin to it, anyway. "Your mother believes it. She thinks he's headed for an almost total recovery." This time when I break down, it is not out of fear or anger, but because of the release of those feelings. I've had visions of my father's dignity being slowly eroded, of his memory stolen, then his speech, then incontinence, and, finally, utter dependence. I've feared the strain this would put on my mother. I have never been sure she would survive it. All of these visions, all my fears; I can let go of each and every one. With the onrush of this new wave of tears, I slam my head back against the wall of the old boathouse with such force that it startles Gramma. I take her into my arms, and we both cry out our relief. For her, these may be the only tears she'd permitted herself to shed. "You're not going to tell anyone about this, are you?" she asks, wiping the last of the moisture from her cheek. My Gram prides herself on putting forward a strong facade. "Nope. I won't if you won't." "I never have, you know." "I know." She smiles up at me, looks away in the direction of the house, and then back at me, the unvoiced question in her eyes. Yes, I am just about ready. "Gram, can I tell you something?" Her amusement and laughter at this are ageless. "No, I mean, I know that I can in general. But, can I tell you something before we go back up to the house?" She nods through her smile. "You know all the questions, all the struggles I've had with my parents' marital status over the years?" She only nods. Over the past few years, I've found out that their "ceremony" was somewhat more impromptu, less formal than Gram had described. Basically, it consisted of my parents gathering a handful of nearest and dearest at her house near the conclusion of the case that drove us into hiding for a year, and declaring before one and all that they considered themselves married. An evening's honeymoon followed, during which most of the assembled informed them both that they'd considered them married years before. "I don't know whether you ever got the impression that I questioned their love for each other," I start. Gramma seems to wait with bated breath for me to continue. When it was safe for us to come out of hiding, they'd quit the Bureau once and for all. Dad told me that, for him, quitting the Bureau was getting to be a habit. "Truthfully, I'm not sure whether I ever really questioned it or not. The concept was so frightening that I never visited it for more than a moment. But, something happened this Summer that has altered my thinking about their relationship irrevocably." "No, no, Will. You can't let what's happened in this past year affect..." It takes me a moment to silence her protests, for she doesn't know they aren't necessary. "It had been one of his bad days. Dad was furious with me that I wouldn't take him to the clinic to see Mom, even though it wouldn't be time to pick her up from work for hours yet. He stormed out of the house and started walking up the road. I followed as discreetly as I could. When he turned around and started heading back to the house, I sprinted on ahead to be there when he returned. "As he started back up the driveway, Gram, I was nervous, I have to tell you. He still looked pissed. I didn't know what was going to happen until he came up to me and said, 'Oh, Buddy, am I glad to see you. There was this guy here before who just made me mad.'" "I told him that all was okay now. It was just the two of us and, in an hour, we would get to go pick up Mom. He was delighted by this news, and the day got progressively better from there on in." "That evening, as Mom was fixing supper, Dad came up to me in the living room, agitated, pointing toward the kitchen. 'Buddy, that girl in there...' I asked him whether he meant Mom. 'Yeah, Mom. Do you think...?' He stopped to consider his question. 'she's really nice. Do you think I have a chance with her?' Gramma, I swear, I don't know how I kept from laughing out loud at that moment. I simply told him that he *was* married to her and that, yeah, I thought he had every chance in the world with her. 'Good,' he said, calming instantly, 'that's good, really good.'" "If I'd ever doubted their commitment to each other before, I have no doubts now. Not even a scourge like Alzheimer's can derail their bond, Gramma." I think I see tears glistening in her eyes again when I look down, but I'm not sure. She says, simply, "Not even death, Beloved. Not even death." We begin to head back up to the house. I stop to look around the boathouse for a final time, and then at my grandmother. The words to a spiritual I'd sung in a recital earlier in the semester come back to me. "My God is a rock in a weary land, a shelter in a time of storm." This little shed, and this proud, wonderful woman have been that shelter for me, as well. I put my arm around Gram as we walk slowly up the hill. Before us, the house looks warm, lived in, and well contented. -end- Author's Notes: Thanks to Tess for being my uber-conscience, and to Diana Battis (she'll know why). And Dad? You were and still are the only one who ever stood a chance with Mom. I miss you.
|