Laura Miller - By Way of Accident

Dear Brooke,

I miss you like crazy. I hope you’re liking your new home. Eighth grade is pretty cool. The teachers are cool. I want to see you. I saw a train the other day, and it got me thinking. I could use a train to get to you. I’m sure there are trains there in Illinois. You asked me one time what my happy was. I never answered you. My happy is you. Write soon. I love you, Brooke.

Love,

River

P.S. How is Winnie-the-Pooh? Oh, and the real Winnie-the-Pooh is named after a boy’s stuffed bear. The boy named it Winnie after a bear at a zoo and Pooh after a swan. Winnie-the-Pooh.

“River.”

I quickly stuff the letter into my jeans pocket, slide the pen behind my ear and scramble to my feet.

“You writin’ somethin’ again?” Grandpa asks, starin’ at me from above his thick glasses.

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to tell him I’m writin’ a letter to a girl — even if she’s not just any girl. So instead, I just push some hay around with my boot and keep my mouth shut.

I can tell he watches me probably until he just can’t take the silence anymore. “That’s not enough light for ya, son.” He gestures up toward the little light bulb above our heads. “You’ll lose your eyesight fast that way. Trust me.”

I nod.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get back up to the house.”

I follow Grandpa out of the barn, and together, we make our way up the graveled path to the little farm house at the top of the hill.

“Son, you’re always writin’.”

I take a second, then look over at him. I’m not sure if what he said was a question, and I really wouldn’t know how to answer him if it were anyway, so I just stay quiet.

“You know,” he goes on. “I have a good feelin’ the Maker’s cutter didn’t have a farm boy in mind when he made you.”

My eyes eventually fall from his wrinkled face and settle on the graveled path in front of us. We only have the moonlight to guide our way, but it’s more than enough. I take a thoughtful breath. I’m not sure what he means, and I really don’t know how to feel about it either. Grandpa has been a farmer all his life. My dad, on the other hand, was until he wasn’t. When he was eighteen, Dad went off to college and got a degree in accounting. Now, he does the books for some of the small businesses here in town and does all right. But Grandpa is a lot like most of the people around here — dirt rich and dollar poor. If he sold it all, I’d bet he’d have more money than he knew what to do with, but I’m more than certain Grandpa’s never thought about that. He gets by just fine — just like everyone else — and he seems at peace with it. I guess when you don’t long for much, you don’t need much. I think my dad longed for more, though. I think he needed more than dirt runnin’ through his fingers. He needed to feel the wheel of a decent car and the fabric of a nice suit and the peace of mind that comes with benefits and all that crap, I guess.

I wonder if Grandpa thinks I’m more like my dad than I am like him. But he knows I hate dressin’ up and that I hate pretty much every subject except maybe English — and that’s only because it comes somewhat easy. My mom was a homemaker most of my life. It wasn’t until Rea started school that she took on some side editing jobs. Now, every business in town wants her to edit their ads and flyers and things like that. But before me, she used to write. She wrote for the local paper. I found her clippings once in a box in the basement. There were articles about the city council and the school board and the high school basketball teams. Her byline is her maiden name. It’s kind of weird when you think about it — think about how your mom wasn’t always a mom. Anyway, if we’re splittin’ hairs, I’d probably have to say I’m more like her than I am like my dad. And I might not always like it, but I’m pretty good at farmin’. I want to remind Grandpa of that. I want to tell him that I’m more like him than I am like my parents. It’s nothin’ against my dad or my mom; it’s just a fact of life. And I want to tell him that he’s wrong — that I am cut out for farmin’.

“Well, I’ll be,” he exclaims, breaking my thoughts before I ever get a word out. “There it is.”

“What?” I ask.

“Aquarius. Look.” He stops and points to the star-soaked sky above us. “You see it?”

I look for a little while and finally find the stars he’s pointin’ at. Then I trace with my finger the pattern he taught me to recognize before I even learned how to ride a bike. It’s like lookin’ at one of those pictures where you have to wait for your eyes to adjust to see it in 3D. It takes a little while, but you eventually find it. You always do.

“Yep,” I say. “I see it.”

He stares at the sky a little longer before he starts up the path again without me. Of all the stars and constellations, I wonder why he likes that one so much. I’ve always wondered that. But I’ve never asked him why — mainly because I don’t think he’ll ever tell me. Grandpa is good at teachin’ me things and tellin’ me everything he knows — fact-wise — but he’s never been good at tellin’ me the whys . Why do we do it this way? Why do you like it? Why do you think it is? Back when I used to ask the whys , he always gave me his infamous grandpa answer: The cow moos because it’s a cow . I still don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean.

I watch him take a few more steps up the path before I steal one last quick glance at Aquarius. It makes me think of Brooke and the little freckles on her shoulder. God, I miss her . She came and went so fast, and yet it was enough to make my heart feel as if it’s missing somethin’ now. It’s a strange kind of pain I’ve never felt before. It’s as if my heart aches for her — as if it always needed her to beat, but it didn’t realize that until after it had found — and then lost — her.

“River!” I hear my mom callin’ me. Usually, I’d take my time and maybe act like I didn’t hear her the first couple times she called me. But this time, somethin’ in her voice makes me sit straight up. It’s that dang sense again. Somethin’s wrong.

I reel the fishin’ line in as fast as I can, and then I grab my tackle box, and I run up the hill.

It takes me maybe a minute and I’m inside the house and settin’ my pole and tackle box down in the hall. Mom’s pacin’ back and forth in the kitchen. I don’t say anything. I’m kind of scared to hear why she’s so upset.

“River,” she says as soon as she notices me. “Sit down a second.”

I just stare at her for a few quick heartbeats. I’m scared to even move. But then she gestures toward a kitchen chair, and I slowly walk over to it and then lower myself to its seat. She sits down in the chair next to me and pushes out a heavy sigh.

“River, honey, Grandpa’s had a heart attack.”

It’s a quick, swift blow. I can feel all the blood rush out of my face. That’s a lot of strong words to process at one time.

“He’s at the hospital,” she goes on.

“Is he okay?”

“Yes.” She nods her head. “Yes, he’s going to be fine, but we need to go see him.”

“Okay,” I say, refitting my cap over my head.

“Now, your sister is upstairs getting dressed. As soon as she’s done, we’ll take off.”

“What hospital?” I ask. Grandpa was visiting his brother again this morning.

“New Melle.”

“Okay,” I say under my breath. I’m still tryin’ to process it all. I feel a little light-headed, but at the same time, I’ve got so much adrenaline pumpin’ through my veins. I think I just need to see him. I stand up and make my way to the door to wait for my sister. I just need to see that he’s okay.