Chapter 6
There’s No Compass That Can Get You Through
Saturday night is Grandpa’s big goodbye.
Mom is on top of it: We’re going to dinner early at his house.
In just a few hours, tomorrow morning, he’ll catch a direct flight to Florida, and for the first time in his life, he won’t have responsibilities.
His only worry will be his happiness. I wonder how long he’s wanted that.
Maybe it’s true that we all have secrets.
“Are you nervous, Grandpa?”
“I’m just hoping I can get used to the weather.”
“Good weather’s never a problem.”
“Do you have your heart medication?” my mother asks, taking the silverware out of the drawer. “Don’t forget your winter clothes, either. It may be hot there, but it could get cool at night. And don’t forget to call when you arrive—”
“Rosie, relax.”
We settle in around the kitchen table, which is smaller than the dining room table and perfect for just the three of us. Even if we’re just saying goodbye for a little while, Grandpa has prepared the most typical Nebraska meal you can imagine: Reuben sandwiches, pickles, soda.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” my mother murmurs.
Grandpa starts talking about the news, and I drift off until my cell phone dings.
Will: I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten.
Greta: By ten, do you mean 10:20?
My mother asks if I want another helping. I shake my head. I get up to wash my plate, and when I’m back at the table, I see there’s another message.
Will: Bring your skates.
Greta: I didn’t know you had a sense of humor. Because you are joking, right?
Will: No.
Nervously, I clutch my phone, unsure how to respond. Grandpa can tell I’m on edge.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m great.”
Greta: Sorry, I don’t have skates. I guess we can do something else.
Will: Your sister’s notes said you’d say that. Her words exactly: “The skates are in the green trunk in the back of the attic.” You’re welcome.
I want to write the idiot back, but I try to remind myself it’s not his fault. He’s just the messenger. Even if he’s not a very empathetic one. If he could only imagine how much he was asking of me… If only he knew me, just a little bit better…
“Greta?” my mother says. I realize she’s already asked me something once.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Do you want a glass of milk?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The rest of the night feels strange, as if we are stumbling.
My grandfather grunts to himself a few times, seeing how worried his daughter is.
I try to follow the conversation, but I can’t, really; my head is elsewhere.
When we get up to leave, Mom goes to grab her coat and leaves me alone with Grandpa.
“Come here, Greta.” He wraps me in his arms the way he did when I was little and fell down or came home from school crying. “Be a good girl while I’m gone. And follow the instructions. That was important to your sister.”
“Okay, I’ll try…”
“I don’t think it’ll be too hard.”
“If only you knew.” I look over my shoulder to the stairs to make sure Mom isn’t listening to us. “I had to go to one of those weird self-help groups. It was like something from the eighties.”
Grandpa doesn’t seem surprised and says, “I know. Who do you think took Lucy when she first got it in her head to go there? Let me give you some advice, though: Stop looking back so much, trying to find answers, and focus on what you can do. Speaking of, I have something for you. Here.”
He reaches in his pocket and takes out a little round, wooden object. When he hands it to me, I realize it’s a compass, hand-carved out of wood. Every detail is perfect.
“Thanks. I don’t know if it’ll be very accurate, though.” I sink my fingernail into one of the grooves. “I’m kidding. I love it. I really do.”
“It’s not supposed to be accurate. That’s the point, Greta—that’s what it symbolizes.”
“What?”
“That there’s no compass that can get you through life. It’s time for you to start letting your instincts guide you. The problem is, you don’t listen to yourself.”
I open my mouth, but then the stairs creak and Mom returns. We say goodbye to Grandpa. I try not to think about how much I’ll miss him. Behind my mask of indifference, I can feel my eyes burning.
We go back in Mom’s car even though we only live a few blocks away. When she parks, we sit in the vehicle in silence.
Then I ask her, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just… Forget about it.” She shakes her head, then looks at me attentively. It’s strange and a bit uncomfortable. “Did you pierce your ear again?”
“Yeah, two months ago.”
“Ah. It looks good.”
I nod and open the door.
I find my father in the kitchen, standing at the window, with a glass of something yellowish—scotch maybe—in his hand.
He asks me if we had a good time, says something about being sorry he couldn’t go because of work, and takes a long sip.
All my life, I’ve heard people say how handsome my father is and how much I look like him—my movements, my expressions.
“It’s your eyes,” a neighbor said once, “the way they stare straight through a person.” I found something sinister in that compliment, but I didn’t say anything.
Now, though, observing him in the shadows, what I see is a tired, gray man with bags under his eyes, hair silvery, skin ashy.
“Good night, Dad,” I say.
“Good night, Grasshopper.”
That’s what he called me when I was little, because he said I never sat still, but I also didn’t seem to know where I wanted to go.
It’s funny, I still feel the same way.
I think this as I lie in bed with the wooden compass in my hand. I touch the carved surface with my fingers again and imagine my grandfather carving it for me in his little workshop in the garage. It must be so freeing to know which is the right way and to set off without ever looking back.
It takes me a minute to decide, but then I suck in a deep breath and go up to the attic.
I hear my parents arguing downstairs as I enter that place full of dust and memories.
All my stuffed animals and toys from when I was a kid are there, and bags of clothes and presents, plates and cups, appliances we never really used.
I find the green trunk in the back. I push aside a few boxes on top of it and open the lid, which creaks and makes my hair stand on end.
Everything’s exactly as I left it one day years ago, a normal day when I understood it was best not to see the things that hurt us.
I slide a finger down the blade of one of the skates.
And I smile. But my lips are trembling.
It’s late when the noise in the house dies down and I climb out on the sill of my bedroom window.
It’s cold, so I have on a dark purple puffer coat.
I sit in that cramped space, and I can see the houses all around.
In most of them the lights are off. And there’s a line of streetlamps glowing into the infinite night.
Something about those lights, the way one led all the way out into the distance, makes me wonder if my sister has lit a light for me and whether I’m being foolish trying to ignore it.
I take out my phone and write a message with numb fingers.
Greta: Fine, I’ll do it.
Will: Good.
He responded in less than a minute. Lost, I stare at the mist streaming from my mouth and vanishing right afterward.
Sometimes I imagine the world as a place full of people and particles, particles and people, all of them close together and compact, but at the same time so emotionally distant that you’d never even guess they belonged to the same species.
I guess that’s what they call loneliness.
That word has a density to it and makes me think of oil for some reason I can’t name.
But it also reminds me of beauty and the peace of a solitary glacier no human being has ever set foot on.
I write again:
Greta: Why are you up at this hour?
Will: I just got home from work. I’m not much of a sleeper anyway.
Greta: Is that a choice or a curse? I’ve figured out that purple people usually have problems sleeping.
Will: What does that mean?
Greta: I have a gift. I can see the color of people’s auras.
Will: Good night, Greta.
He doesn’t seem particularly impressed.
I sigh and put my phone in my jacket pocket, staying there awhile, until my own tangled thoughts bore me and I go inside, shut the window, and go to bed.