I'd Give Anything(73)
I got out of bed, and we walked together into her bedroom, tugged open her heavy, room-darkening blinds (once upon a time, I’d had high hopes that those blinds would magically allow Avery to sleep), and looked out into the backyard. The grass, the garage roof, the cable wire, the Adirondack chairs were bedecked with singing robins. Avery opened the window, and their flurry of whistles spilled over us like glitter.
Spring doesn’t arrive overnight, not literally, but, in my experience, it seems to. There is a moment every year when spring, however long it’s been stealing in, suddenly breaks like the cleanest, brightest wave, drenching the world in newness. That this moment should come on this particular morning felt to me like a personal gift to my girl, a benediction, and I closed my eyes and sent a message of gratitude sailing out into the fresh, song-spangled air.
We sat there for a long time, not speaking. I knew sometime soon we would need to talk about the blackmail rumors and about all the dreadfulness I knew my own mother must have unleashed upon the world, but neither Harris nor Adela had any place in this morning. Finally, I said, “What if we call Kirsten and see if she wants to go for a walk. We could bring lunch.”
Avery said, “Would it be disrespectful to eat at the Quaker burial ground?”
I smiled. “A while back, I spent quite a bit of time with those dearly departed Quakers. I think they’d be happy to see us.”
While Avery showered, I called Kirsten and filled her in on the events of the night before. I’d expected her to erupt into a profanity-laced tirade against Harris, but Kirsten had always had a lovely way of flaring out into empathy when you least expected it.
She groaned and said, “Oh, Harris, you have made our job of salvaging you in the eyes of your daughter pretty damn hard.”
“If anyone can do it, we can,” I said.
“Of course we can. We can do anything, especially for Avery.”
“Even have a picnic with dead people?”
“You know I have a strict no-eating-on-the-ground policy.”
“I do. And I also know that every one of your policies has an Avery exception clause.”
“True. Wine would definitely help. How long till Avery can drink wine with us?”
“Five years.”
“Fine. I’ll bring cake.”
We took our time and the scenic route, a path stitching alongside the river, through trees—some bare, some misted over with pale green—past the gorgeous, castle-like ruins of grist and powder mills and under the soaring stone arches of bridges. At Avery’s request, Kirsten and I told stories about high school in our jumbled manner, talking over each other, interrupting, correcting, finishing each other’s sentences, rambling off on tangents, bouncing from one story to the next. Avery was quieter than usual, but when she laughed at our stories, it was like coins falling from the sky.
By the time we got to the Quaker Meeting House downtown, it was nearly one o’clock, the Meeting House and the yard striped with sun and empty of Sunday worshippers. In a spot between the dotted lines of gravestones we spread our blanket, sat down, and like three sunflowers, lifted our faces toward the sun.
Later, when we’d finished the sandwiches and had started on the cake, Avery said, “This was your place, yours and Uncle Trevor’s.”
“It was. Holy ground. For the Quakers and for us.”
“Do you think you’ll be friends again, now?” asked Avery.
“I think so. I hope so. It hurts his feelings that I could have believed he’d set the fire,” I said.
“It hurt your feelings to believe it,” said Kirsten.
“A lot,” I agreed.
“Plus, he left and never came back. He could’ve tried harder to stay close to you,” said Avery.
“We could’ve both conducted ourselves differently,” I said. “But we’ve wasted twenty years. We probably shouldn’t waste more time on regret or might-have-beens.”
“I wish Grandmother had known that Trevor didn’t really do it. She died thinking he did,” said Avery. “That’s so sad.”
“It is. I’m not sure it would’ve made much difference in their relationship, though. They may have been beyond help or forgiveness,” said Kirsten.
“They were a bad match for sure,” I said. “But then Adela was a pretty bad match with everyone, with human beings in general. My mother just never got the hang of loving people. I don’t know why.”
“Remember how the other night Evan said something about how all of you have been carrying around secrets and stories?” said Avery. “Maybe Grandmother was, too. Maybe there’s a story that explains why she was the way she was.”
“Maybe,” I said. “If there is, I don’t think it’ll ever see the light of day.”
I looked at Avery, sitting eating her cake in the sun, and I was aware that our conversation had moved into dangerous territory: parents and secrets and forgiveness. I wondered where she stood now on truth-seeking, on bringing stories into the light.
Maybe because Kirsten’s thoughts were moving along the same lines, she changed the subject. “I wonder if we’ll ever find out who really set the fire.”
“The girl in white pants might have done it,” said Avery. “Whoever she is.”
Kirsten grimaced. “White pants in November. Yeesh.”