Still Waters - Couverture rigide

Lauck, Jennifer

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0743439651 ISBN 13 : 9780743439657

Editeur : Simon & Schuster, 2001

Synopsis

Book by Lauck Jennifer

A propos du livre

Extrait

Chapter One: Reno, Nevada May 1975

The bus pulls into the Reno terminal and I hold the dirty duffel bag in my lap. People stand on the sidewalk and all the faces are just faces with eyes that don't look for me.

Inside my chest is a heavy alone feeling. Maybe no one will be here for me. I get off the bus and look around and my eyes stop on Grandpa Ed, Daddy's daddy.

"There she is," Grandpa yells.

I squeeze my fingers around the bag strap and walk until we are face to face, me small, him tall. Grandpa has his hands fisted on his hips like he has something to say but he just looks at me and shakes his head.

"Well, give your old Grandpa a hug," he says, kneeling down, arms wide.

I drop my bag and hug around his neck, the smell of coffee mixed with peppermint. He's just like I remember -- round cheeks, wide nose, white hair, and bushy white eyebrows. Grandpa laughs deep and warm against my face and stops hugging first.

"My goodness," he says, hands on the top of my shoulders, holding me back, "you're a young lady now."

My throat hurts, a lumpy kind of hurt and I smile and nod since I don't know what else to do. My arms and body still feel Grandpa's hug. I wish I was still hugging him.

I look at my tennis shoes with the hole worn through that shows my big toe and the silver key for the pink trunk is tucked safe under the laces.

Grandpa picks up my duffel bag and stands up then. "Is this all you brought with you?"

"No," I say. "My trunk is under the bus."

"Under the bus?"

A man unloads suitcases and boxes on the sidewalk.

"There," I say.

My trunk is pink and silver with flecks of gray and inside is everything I could fit. There are the wedding photos of Momma and Daddy, her pearls and wedding ring, stuff from my princess bedroom and my books.

I run up the sidewalk, pat the side of the trunk and it makes the solid sound of something packed tight. I put my hands on the black handle and lift, cool metal against my legs. The trunk is heavy but it's not too heavy to carry.

"Hey now," Grandpa says, "don't go and break your back."

"I can do it," I say. "I've done it a hundred times."

Grandpa moves his golf hat around on his head.

"That may be so, Jennifer Lauck," Grandpa says, "but you put that darn thing down and let me get it for you."

It's funny how he says my whole name, all serious, and I roll my lips together to keep from smiling. Grandpa bends, puts his hand on the black trunk handle and lifts like it's going to be easy.

"Be careful," I say. "It's heavy."

He makes a deep grunt sound and lets go of the trunk, stands straight, hands pushed into the low part of his back. He looks at me, at the trunk, and then laughs out loud.

"You're right," Grandpa says. "It is heavy."

Maybe it's the way he says those words, so surprised, maybe it's how he looks at me like I'm crazy for trying to carry the trunk myself or maybe it's how long it's been since I've seen him and how good it is to know he's here. I can't help but laugh at Grandpa and the two of us laugh so hard right there in the Reno bus terminal, I think I am going to cry.

Reno air is so hot, it's like being slapped across the face and it is this dusty color, not brown, not gray, but in-between with the lightest shade of green from the sagebrush bushes that grow everywhere.

Grandpa and me ride in his big car called a Tornado. Grandpa says he just had it painted to match his golf cart back home. He calls the color metallic green.

The air conditioner is on full blast and the smell of the air is wet and cold.

I look out the window at everything, the wide blue of the sky, the sagebrush, the flasher signs with the names of casinos in bright lights. come to the mapes, win at the nugget.

I know I'm here, but I can still feel L.A. in my body, dirty pavement under my feet, homeless people holding up their cups and asking for a nickel and in my stomach, that hungry feeling that never goes away.

I can still see Deb with her green cat eyes and her angles and edges and I can still hear her kids laughing and calling me names, happy I was finally leaving.

I rub my hand over the goose bumps on my arm and look over at where Grandpa sits. He wears wrap-around dark glasses that go over his regular glasses and they make him look like a superhero. While he drives out of the bus station, he asks about the bus ride, did I meet anyone, if I ate. I tell him the bus ride was boring, no one sat next to me, and I ate a whole roll of hard cherry candies I bought when we stopped in Fresno.

Grandpa laughs when I say that about the hard cherry candies and it's nice to make him laugh. He drives under this big arch that says reno in big letters and under reads the biggest little city in the world. Grandpa stops at a red light and then looks over at me again, a funny tilt to his head.

"I'm just trying to remember the last time I saw you," he says. "Was it '71?"

In the reflection of his wrap-around shades, I can see myself shrug my shoulders.

"It couldn't have been that long ago," he says, rubbing his hand over his face and then pinching his wide nose. "Maybe '73?"

"I don't know," I say, tucking a bit of hair behind my ear.

"Hmm," he says, both hands on the steering wheel, lower lip pushed out, face set to thinking.

This is something grown-ups do, using the years to remember, but I don't think about time that way.

Time is the last big thing that happened, how it was L.A. this morning, one-way ticket and twenty bucks in my hand, good luck and good-bye.

"No, no," Grandpa says, "I think it was '74."

How I rode from L.A. to Fresno without anyone sitting in the seat next to me. In Fresno, I got off the bus, looked over the desert, and thought I could just walk down the road and disappear into that empty wavy space of heat on asphalt.

" '72?" Grandpa says, talking to the windshield.

How I got on the bus instead, hard cherry candies in my hand, nineteen dollars and some change in my back pocket.

"It had to be '72," Grandpa says. "The year your dad married Deb."

I kick my foot up and down on the floor mat.

"What?"

"The last time I saw you," Grandpa says. "1972, the house in Fountain Valley."

The light changes from red to green and Grandpa makes a left onto the freeway.

"That's it," Grandpa says, "I'm sure of it."

The only sound is the fan blowing cold air and out the window, Reno slips by at sixty miles an hour, sagebrush and blue sky. The air in the car is cold and I squeeze my arms around myself.

Grandpa's seat is adjusted so he sits straight up and close to the steering wheel, those funny glasses on his face. He looks down my way, smile on his face, and I see myself bite my lip.

"Something on your mind?" he says.

"I was just wondering," I say.

"What, honey?" he says, leaning toward me like he can't hear.

I sit up in the seat and clear my throat.

"What's going to happen now?"

"Oh," he says, leaning back to normal sitting, eyes out on the road.

"I'm going to take you home to Grandma," he says, "and then, well, we'll just have to see."

"See about what?" I say.

"Oh, this and that," he says, head side to side, "complicated things you don't have to worry about."

"Is Bryan there?" I say.

"At the trailer? No, no, he's over in Carson with Georgia and Chuck for a bit, but not for long."

"Why not for long?" I say.

Grandpa smiles then, something about that smile that makes me think of Daddy. He puts his hand on my leg, pat-pat the way grown-ups do.

"I forgot that about you," he says.

"What?"

"You like to ask questions," he says.

I bite the edge of my thumb, that soft spot past the nail, and look out at Reno again. It's true about the questions; Deb used to say I ask too many questions but I can't help it. Questions are like air, always there, even when you don't stop to notice.

Grandpa gets off the freeway, drives up a long road and ahead of us are rows and rows of mobile homes, metal siding shining under the sun. We go past the sign that says welcome and then up another hill past a pool so blue compared to all the dusty brown. Grandpa says the pool is for residents and their families, says I can swim whenever I want.

"You do know how to swim, don't you?" he says.

I watch out the window until I can't see the pool anymore and then shift in my seat.

"I can hold my breath under water for three whole minutes," I say.

Grandpa nods like that makes sense.

"That could come in handy," he says.

He makes a hand-over-hand tight turn, goes past one, two, three trailers. At number four, he makes another hand-over-hand turn, moves his big car in a narrow spot next to his golf cart painted metallic green.

He turns the Tornado off, says he'll bring in my trunk later, says to be careful getting out.

"Don't want to ding the paint," Grandpa says.

I twist to the side, slip myself between car and golf cart, shut the door extra careful.

"Is that my little girl?" a voice says. When I look up, Grandma stands on their porch wearing a long dress, fabric like I imagine Hawaii, flowers of pink and green and purple. She reaches out, loose skin trembling under her arms, and one hand holds a thin brown cigarette.

"Come here and give Grandma a big hug," she says.

I scoot sideways between the car and cart until I reach the chain-link fence and the gate. I push the latch up and swing the chain link gate open.

She's older than I remember, shoulders more sloped, more lines on her face, but the rest of her is about the same, white hair cut short like a man's, glasses on her face, bright blue eyes.

Grandma puts her arms around me and presses her cheek to mine. Her body feels so soft it's like hugging too hard would hug her apart so I keep myself to myself, my hands patting through her dress to the softness of her body.

She sets me back then and holds my face between her hands. The skin on her fingers is dry rice paper and I can feel the cigarette filter on my cheek.

"After all these years," she says, "as pretty as a picture."

"Doesn't she look great?" Grandpa says.

"She looks great," Grandma says.

"Hasn't she gotten tall?" Grandpa says.

"She is so tall," Grandma says. "What are you, eleven now?"

"Twelve," I say.

"You can't be twelve," Grandma says.

"It's true," I say.

She laughs a deep laugh that sounds rough, lets go of my face and puts the thin brown cigarette between her lips.

Grandpa comes up the steps, holds my bag out to me.

"We were just trying to figure out when we last saw this one," Grandpa says, winking like we have a secret. "Got it down to '72."

"That can't be," Grandma says, head back to blow a line of smoke up.

I take my bag from Grandpa, put it over my shoulder. He pulls open the screen and then pushes open the front door, the two of them debating the whole thing again.

"They were in that Fountain Valley house," Grandpa says. "We had a barbeque."

"I don't remember any barbeque, Ed," she says, going in first, one hand holding up her dress, bare feet under.

Grandpa waves me in and inside is a cool green world -- green plaid sofa, two green Barcaloungers, and a shiny green globe lamp on a table between. It's green carpet, green paneling and green plastic plants in green pots.

"It was the year he married that Deb," Grandpa says, closing the door on the hot Reno day. "I'm sure of it."

"Deb!" Grandma says, hand waving over her head, cigarette ash floating off the end of her cigarette and down to the carpet. "Worst mistake he ever made."

"Now, Maggie," Grandpa says, one hand to my shoulder, shaking his head on something.

She picks up an ashtray, jabs out her cigarette, mouth set up mad, pink color from her lipstick in the lines around her mouth.

"Your grandma is a little peeved at Deb right now," Grandpa says.

I look at Grandpa, at Grandma.

"It's okay," I say, "I'm always mad at her."

They both look at me, no expressions on their faces, and past that is surprise in their eyes like I'm not quite what they expected.

Grandma sets her ashtray down.

"Let me get a better look at you," she says and reaches one hand out, palm under my chin and fingers on the bones of my jaw to my ears. She moves my face side to side and her hand smells like cigarettes, coffee, and some kind of medicine.

Anyone else tried to touch me this way, I'd kick them in the leg, but she's held my face before; I can feel the memory of it under my skin. It's the memory of people who've known you always, even though you haven't seen them in a long time.

I hold my breath, arms against my sides, and wait.

"Well, one thing is clear," she says, letting go of my face just as quick as she got ahold of it. "You are too skinny, you need a bath, and your hair needs a trim."

I touch my fingers to the side of my face, just under my ear, the feel of her hand still on my skin, and I almost laugh out loud since technically, those are three things.

Grandpa puts his hand on my back, pats one time, and winks.

"See," he says, "Grandma is going to have you shipshape in no time."

After that, Grandma goes off to the kitchen to fix martinis for them, ginger ale for me, and Grandpa shows me to the guest room, where the fold-out sofa is already made into a bed.

"Just make yourself comfortable," Grandpa says.

The end of the fold-out bed is against a green desk and on top of the desk is a bunch of golf stuff. There are a handful of white wooden tees, white golf balls, and a tiny gold trophy with the words hole in one on the metal tag.

I come all the way into the guest room and set my bag on the floor.

"What's that mean?" I say. " 'Hole in one'?"

Grandpa takes off his golf cap, bald on top with some white hair around his ears and the back of his head.

"In golf," he says, "you get so many hits to put your ball in the hole -- usually takes three or four -- but a hole in one means you did it in just one."

Grandpa sits down on the edge of the fold-out and tosses his cap next to the trophy.

"It's an accomplishment," he says, "like bowling a perfect match or winning a race."

"Wow," I say, hand cupped over the gold ball on top of the trophy, the cool metal against my hand, "congratulations."

"It was a while back, but thanks," he says. "I understand you have a few trophies yourself, for running, right?"

I sit down on the edge of the bed, close to Grandpa, my hands on the end of the fold-out mattress and there's a strange feeling of how I know him but don't know him at the same time.

"Sure," I say, "but I never won first place or anything."

"Your dad told us you were a good runner," he says. "Olympic quality."

I laugh out loud in the quiet room.

"I don't think so," I say. "Maybe Deb's kids, but not me."

"Hmm," Grandpa says.

"Daddy was probably just being nice," I say.

Grandpa is quiet for a second and then puts his arm around my back, hand squeezing my shoulder.

"But you did go out there and run?" he says.

"Sure," I say.

"So you did your best?" Grandpa says.

I look up at his face, wide smile, wide nose, glasses with these gold metal frames.

I'm not sure I get what he means, "did my best." I did what I was told but the whole time I hated it and when no one was watching, sometimes I even walked. I'd think doing your b...

Présentation de l'éditeur

Clutching her pink trunk filled with the relics of a lost childhood, twelve-year-old Jenny steps off a bus in Reno and into the wide-open future. Separated from her brother, Bryan, and passed from caretaker to caretaker, Jenny endures as she always has: by following the inner compass of the survivor. But when Bryan chooses a tragic destiny, Jenny must at last confront the secrets and lies that have held her prisoner for years. Embarking on a search for answers, the adult Jenny discovers that the past cannot be locked away -- even when unraveling one's own anger and pain seems impossible. Now, in the warmth of her marriage and in the eyes of her child, Jennifer finds her own miracles. A hardened heart learns to love. A damaged soul finds peace. And life, once merely a matter of survival, becomes rich with the joys of truly living.

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Simon & Schuster
• Date d'édition: 2001
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 0743439651
• ISBN 13: 9780743439657
• Reliure: Relié
• Numéro d'édition: 1
• Nombre de pages: 419
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: non disponible