I LAUGHEDat Sam’s letter, and then Iwasn’tlaughing. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. I missed her so much, I almost couldn’t stand it. Visiting her twice a day at the hospital wasn’t enough. Reading her letters made me want to hear the sound of her voice, even if it was just one more time. I needed to talk to Sam about some things.
Like, who was Doc? Did I know him? Was he still alive, and if he was, wouldn’t he be visiting Sam at the hospital? Had I seen him there?
I remembered trying to stuff Lake Geneva into a mayo jar when I was five or so. But that Sam not only remembered but found it so meaningful had cracked me up, and choked me up, too.
I walked down to the lake and toed up a beautiful black stone with a few rough edges. I brought it back and put it on the growing pile of Sam’s mail on the coffee table.
Right next to my laptop, which was humming softly, waiting for me to start writing.
You have a day job, Jennifer.
The first thing I did was to dump the column I’d started that morning. I had a new idea, but for a long while I didn’t know where to start.
Finally I wrote:
The last time I saw my Grandma Sam at her house on Lake Geneva, we were saying good-bye at the end of a beautiful Labor Day weekend.
Sam looked healthy and happy, but as she hugged me, I got the feeling that something was on her mind and maybe she didn’t know how to tell me. The moment passed, and I didn’t ask her about it.
I got into the car and honked a little salute as I reached the end of her driveway. How could I have known that the next time I’d see my grandmother, she would be in a coma and that maybe she would never be able to talk to me again.
As I chiseled my column, the day disappeared into night. At one in the morning, I was still writing and rewriting about how lucky I was that Sam had put her thoughts down for me to read. How many of my readers were so lucky? How many of us know the true stories of our parents and grandparents? How many of us share the stories of our lives with our own children? What a loss to the children if we don’t. What are we but our stories?
Writing the column was like unraveling a sweater. I tugged on a thought and the words came free in a smooth, untangled line. I completely overshot the 750-word limit on my first draft and had to cut and rewrite and cut again.
When the piece was as good as I could make it, I ended it by inviting my readers to tell me stories about their loved ones. I was already anticipating the mail I’d get, the stories I’d be privileged to read, the family secrets that would be shared with me.
At 2:00 in the morning, just before I went blind from staring into the computer screen, I pressed theSENDbutton. A microsecond later, my story was in Debbie’s electronic mailbox at theTrib.
Then I went to bed and cried into my pillow. I wasn’t sad, not at all. It was just so beautiful to have an intense feeling and the right words at the same time.
What are we but our stories?
Twenty-eight
I WOKE UPexcited and kind of happy. My column was written—it was about as good as I could do—and I had the day off. Yippee!
My blue swimsuit was still inside the duffel bag, where I’d packed it back in Chicago. I put on the one-piece with the scooped neckline and quickly did a few chores. Then I did something completely unexpected. I went looking for Brendan.
His uncle’s house was sparkling in the morning sun, the light glinting off all that glass. Behind the house, the lake was calm and glistening.
I knocked on the kitchen door, but there was no answer. I finally cupped my hands and peered between them through the window.
I felt a little disappointed, I guess, because Brendan wasn’t around, and I wanted to play.
Then I saw him through the living-room window, and when I looked more closely, I was floored. Brendan was on his knees in the middle of the rug, his hands folded in front of him.
He was praying.
Twenty-nine
TOTALLY EMBARRASSED,I turned away and walked off the porch and across the lawn unnoticed. Suddenly the kitchen door whined open and slammed closed behind me. I looked around to see Brendan coming toward me.Oh no. Busted.
“Hey, Jen. I thought I heard somebody knock. You up for a swim?” he called.
“Umm, sure,” I said.
He flashed me a grin—a beauty, nothing self-conscious about it. Then he yelled a goofy challenge about rotten eggs and sprinted toward the lake.
