November 24, 2006
Chapter 21
(Filed under: The Novel)The question still rattled around inside Anwyn's head on Saturday morning when she jogged down to the bridge south of town again, with Charlie again panting at her side.
She remembered Isabelle waking up early on Christmas morning, waking up Anwyn and together the two snuck down stairs to check out the haul. They pawed the presents, inspected the stockings and climbed back into bed with their parents none the wiser. Of course it was obvious to their parents that something had happened when they weren't up at the crack of dawn to tear into presents.
Anwyn felt guilty and apologized to her parents, vowing never again to snoop around the presents. But Isabelle didn't apologize. She kept on playing with her toys, pretending she didn't hear Anwyn's apologies. She discovered her presents when she wanted to, and that's all there was to it. They were her presents anyway. No apology needed.
"There's our little runner," Mabel said when Anwyn came into the post office with Charlie after her run. Mabel had surely heard the news about Dominic and the rumors about Anwyn's sister, but she didn't act like she knew anything out of the ordinary. Anwyn just smiled and retrieved the mail without saying much.
"Hola, chica," Oliver said when she climbed into the truck for their usual Saturday drive in to Craver to visit Grandpa Frank and Guadalupe.
"Hey Oliver," she said. She felt quiet, which was beginning to become the norm for that week. Oliver noticed, but he was also used to being quiet himself, so he didn't feel the need to force a conversation. He liked that about Anwyn.
The questions that had haunted Anwyn all week were plainly on her face when she walked into Grandpa Frank's room and curled up in the chair opposite him. He set his newspaper down when she walked in. He looked a little tired and distant.
"Well, good morning," Grandpa Frank said.
"Hi Grandpa."
"You look like you've got a lot on your mind today," he said, trying to bring his wandering mind back to the present.
"Yeah, it's been an interesting week."
"What was so interesting about it?"
"I kneed a boy in the groin," Anwyn said, the thought of it still making her smile, though she didn't want to be mean about it. Her Grandpa Frank laughed out loud at that and slapped his knee.
"That's a good one," he said. "Wow. I didn't expect that kind of interesting."
"What kind of interesting did you expect?" Anwyn asked, suddenly curious.
"Oh, I don't know." Grandpa Frank said. "Teenage girl interesting."
"Well what's that?"
"Boys, I guess," Grandpa Frank said. "Hell, I dunno."
"Well a boy was involved," Anwyn said, looking sheepish.
"What did he do?"
"He called Isabelle a bitch." And then Grandpa Frank grew quiet. The story was a lot more interesting now, though in a more somber way. Though he knew better than to expect teenage girl interesting from Anwyn, he almost wished that's what it had been.
"And you reacted?" Grandpa Frank said. "I can understand that."
"He had some, um, history with Isabelle," Anwyn explained. "She had met him during one of our summer trips before. I wanted to ask him what he knew about her."
Grandpa Frank laughed again, a deep, gutsy laugh.
"I don't think he's going to be very likely to want to tell you now."
"No," Anwyn said, smiling at herself. "I don't think so. My friend Lynn thinks we could torture him."
"Well, you're off to the right start if that's your goal," Grandpa Frank said. "What did you think this boy was going to tell you, anyway?"
"I don't know," Anwyn said. "Something. I just wanted something. Anything."
"You're not likely to get much," Grandpa Frank said, offering his wisdom. "Unless he talked to her the day of—and even then it likely wouldn't tell you anything. I mean you talked to her the day of, didn't you? And it's not helping you much."
Anwyn shook her head. She did talk to Isabelle the day of.
"Ug," Isabelle had said as a song came on the radio the morning of her last day alive. "This group sucks. Bunch of aging rock dinosaurs." The song was an characteristic pop number from a band with decades of rock 'n roll street cred.
"I like it," Anwyn protested, eating her cereal at the kitchen table, glancing at the newspaper and listening to the radio. It was a pop number, and that's what made it so likable. The group of aging rocksters had figured out the secret to making a likeable song.
"Bah," Isabelle said dismissing her sister's opinions with a wave of her hand. "It's just tripe." Of course some thought that just because you knew how to manufacture a likable song didn't make it OK to do so. They apparently wanted something else, something more.
Thoughts on a random pop song didn't exactly say much about Isabelle's mental state. It was one of many completely ordinary conversations Anwyn had with her sister the day she died. None of them told her anything about why she did it or what she was thinking or when she first started thinking that way.
"Assigning blame is a net loss game," Grandpa Frank said. "No matter whose door you're able to lay that blame at, it won't change anything. And I'd guess the blame lies squarely on the hands of the ones who did it."
"Can it really be that simple?" Anwyn asked, picking at her shoe.
"Why not?" Grandpa Frank said. "Nobody labeled it a homicide, did they? There's no foul play afoot is there? It's just a teenage girl doing what she thought she had to do."
"But she didn't have to," Anwyn insisted, letting her feet fall from the chair and standing up. "She could have found another way out. She could have dealt with it somehow. She could have gotten help."
Grandpa Frank swallowed. He looked to the floor and to his faded bathrobe and to his granddaughter pacing around his room in a nursing home in Carver, Kansas.
"Sit down, Anwyn." She stopped pacing and sat tentatively on the edge of her grandfather's bed. She was angry, worried, and puzzled at the same time—puzzled as to why her sister was causing her so much concern so many months later. It's like it wouldn't go away. Her grandfather looked to the floor and then up to the ceiling as if wrestling with something, and then he finally looked Anwyn in the eye.
"Did anyone ever tell you about your grandmother?" Grandpa Frank began. Anwyn nodded. Her lip quivered and she was afraid to speak. Her Grandpa continued slowly, "Her name was Lily. I loved that woman."
Anwyn looked up and could feel a faint smile forming at the corner of her mouth. Hope. In her entire life she had never heard her grandfather say something so genuine.
"She died when your mother was real young," Grandpa Frank continued. "She was maybe 9 or 10. A young little girl. Robert was 12. It wasn't easy."
He paused for a minute, remembering those early weeks and months, having to be a dad and a provider and a counselor and so much more for his two kids. Those were hard days.
"Did anyone ever tell you what happened to her?"
"No," Anwyn said, emboldened by her grandfather's voice. "I remember my dad saying something about her dying while Mom was young, but Mom never told us anything."
"No, she probably wouldn't," Grandpa Frank said. "That's her nature, as you've seen, to avoid the tough things." He paused again. Reflecting on those days. He hadn't spoken with anyone about this in years. He hadn't actually spoken of the full details with anyone.
"You see Anwyn," he said, "I know you're not going to find any reasons or blame or anything to help you through this because there probably isn't any reason that will make sense to you for what Isabelle did. It's just what she did."
"I know this," he said, "Because Lily's death was a suicide."
Anwyn looked up from the bed, into her grandfather's deep blue eyes. He wasn't crying, but he could have been—she thought she could see the start of tears forming in his eyes. The tears were flowing from Anwyn's eyes. She couldn't help it and she really couldn't explain why.
"Forty years ago I came inside and found Lily sprawled out on the bed," her grandfather said. "I thought she was taking a nap or tired or something. I tossed my keys on the table and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. I thought she'd wake up and I went to put my hand on the small of her back and it was cold. Then I saw her face and her eyes were glazed over and I knew something was wrong. She was dead. I found an empty pill bottle on the nightstand and I could put two and two together."
Anwyn didn't say anything. She had put her hands to her mouth as soon as her grandfather started talking about how he found Lily. He didn't need to tell Anwyn that he'd never told that story before. If you asked around town you might found a few folks who knew the story, but none would volunteer it. Most would disavow it. Even Mabel, the woman who worked at the post office didn't know the barest details of the story.
Grandpa Frank sat back in his chair and ran his hand over his scratchy beard, just as he'd done when it dawned on him that his wife was dead.
"I asked myself the same questions you're asking. I searched for answers. I tried to figure out what I had done or what I had said that pushed her over the edge. I thought there most be some logical explanation. But in forty years I've found nothing but heartache. Looking for somewhere to lay blame is a fruitless game."
"All I know," Grandpa Frank said, "Is that I loved Lily. She decided to kill herself, and I wish she hadn't—obviously. But what's done is done. There's nothing I can do about it. I have to live my own life and not let her actions cast a shadow over mine. That's what I've tried to do anyway, whether or not I've been any good at it…"
"Oh, Grandpa," Anwyn cried out, throwing her arms around her grandfather's neck and letting the tears come. Her grandfather reached up with a weak arm and patted his granddaughter on the back, slowly. He remembered doing the same thing to his daughter some forty years ago, trying to comfort and reassure a mere child when her own mother had killed herself.
In such a situation there is so little you can do and Grandpa Frank felt lost to it all again as he held his granddaughter in his arms.
Anwyn, on the other hand, felt relief and hope and grace, all flooding in at once in unbreakable waves. Grandpa Frank hadn't told her anything that answered any of her questions, but somehow they seemed insignificant now.
Posted by kevin at November 24, 2006 2:05 PM
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