Chapter 1 #3
Wren suddenly realized that Laura was affectionately playing with her hair, running her fingers through, giving just the tiniest bit of scalp massage. It was heaven. It was all Wren could do not to start purring like a cat.
“No, sadly. They couldn’t come.”
Could be because Wren had chickened out of inviting them at the last minute, along with barely speaking to them for the last decade-plus of her life. She loved them, obviously, but there were a lot of bad memories there, and now was not the time to dredge them all up.
“Too bad. Because it is true what they say, about it taking a village. You need a strong community around you, one way or another. I hope you two have that here.”
Wren could only force a smile.
“Now.” Arthur’s mom peeked her head out the door, then led Wren farther into the room, sitting them both down on the bed. “I don’t know where the boys have gone off to, so I don’t know how much time we have.”
“For what?”
Later, they all stood outside in the parking lot, admiring the Petersons’ shiny Airstream trailer.
It was sleek and silver, modern but classic, futuristic but from an era when everyone thought for sure we’d have flying cars and robot butlers by now.
It was hooked to a beefy pickup truck, the tires sprayed with mud.
“You sure you guys can’t stay?” Arthur asked without much fight in his voice.
“No can do,” Neal said. “We’re on a tight schedule, continuing on to Acadia National Park so we can wrap up in time.”
Wren had heard all about their tour of national parks.
They’d seen dozens of them. There’d even been an agonizing slideshow presentation earlier, endless photos of mountain views that all looked the same.
The only thing worse than the photos was the apparently Herculean task of Arthur and his dad trying to stream the slideshow onto their horribly outdated TV.
But to be fair, that was at least entertaining to watch, Wren and Laura sharing private snickers as the men fuddled and failed.
It was beautiful, Arthur’s parents doing this together in their twilight years, but there was also something about it that bummed Wren out deeply.
Laura could whip up ten different kinds of chocolate chip cookies without once looking at a recipe book but had never seen the Grand Canyon until earlier on this voyage.
It added a frantic “Everything must go!” quality to their trip.
It felt like, now that they were in their late sixties, there was no guarantee how much time either of them had left, the grim reaper hot on their tail, riding a sick Harley, so best to keep moving and soak up as much as possible.
Still, for all the stories and the many, many photos of bison, they hadn’t mentioned their journey coming to a close anytime soon.
“Wrap up in time for what?” Wren asked.
“In time to meet our first grandchild, of course.” Laura smiled.
“Just a few more weeks,” Neal said. “We’ll be ready; just give us a call if you need anything at all.”
The eyes of all four of them, that is to say, eight individual eyeballs, were growing wet. Neal feigned a cough and wiped at his tears before they could form proper drops; Laura couldn’t hold hers back. Even Wren, despite her best efforts, was getting a little misty.
“We do have something for you, before we go. Neal?” Laura elbowed him gently, and he stuck his head inside the truck, rummaging around before returning with a cardboard box.
He handed it over to Arthur, who accepted it with a mix of pride and wonder, as if it were some great family heirloom finally being passed down.
“Been meaning to get this to you for a while,” Neal said.
“What is it?” Arthur asked. Maybe his father’s old toolbox, or some old children’s books Arthur used to love as a kid, Wren thought. Perhaps a sentimental something that Neal wore as a baby in the sixties; a onesie made of pure asbestos.
“It’s the last of the junk out of your room. Some stuff from college, I think. Figured it was time.”
“Can’t have you still tied to us when you’re getting ready to start a family of your own.” Laura sniffled.
“Aaaaand, we could use the space,” Neal clarified. “We’re turning the room into a gallery. Your mom’s been experimenting with photography and actually has quite the knack for it.”
Wren watched the air leave Arthur’s body and his shoulders sag as he muttered a weak, “Oh, thanks.”
A last round of hugs and then the Petersons said their prolonged goodbyes. Arthur and Wren soon watched the Airstream drive away, navigating the tight, mazelike parking lot. They watched for a while without saying anything, either of them, until finally:
“You OK?” Wren asked. “You look a little shell-shocked.”
“I’m OK,” Arthur said. “You? How did it go with my mom?”
“Fine. What happened with your dad earlier?”
Arthur sighed. “Recap?”
“Recap.”
They held hands and trudged across the parking lot back toward their building, Arthur awkwardly carrying the sagging box of junk under one arm.
“Can we be eating?” Wren asked.
“Of course.”