Thank You for All Things Read online

  In the meantime, Mom’s started a new book. I know because I peeked last night in the kitchen, right before I threw that memory stick in the trash for the last time. I don’t think she’s writing a Christian romance this time, though, because in the first chapter a lady and man are dancing in a club, and I think I saw the f-word on page two, fourth paragraph down. I couldn’t read much of it, though, because Oma was moving around behind me, right over that place where no one ever stood, wafting sage smoke around so she could move the table back to the center of the room where it belongs.

  While Mom is pleading with Oma to hurry before Peter freezes to death—even though it’s not that cold today and the temperature’s climbing as it did last night, so that the top of the snow has crusted over from today’s sunshine—I’m standing and watching the tiny flakes from one lingering cloud swirl as they drop.

  The day after the funeral, when Milo woke and saw winter’s first real snow falling so heavily that you couldn’t tell where the sky left off and the horizon began, he looked out at his bike leaning against a tree and almost cried. Yesterday, he was still in mourning, and Oma told him that there’s lots of fun things to do in the snow too. She bundled us up like snowmen and took us out to show us how to make snow angels.

  Milo wasn’t impressed when Oma threw him down to make one. He cried out when he dropped, as though the fall had pained him. He got up and looked down at his skinny imprint, which didn’t look much different than the print Feynman had left alongside it, and went inside in a huff, saying making snow angels was for girls, and dumb. He cheered up some, though, when during dinner Peter told him that the gym on campus—where he’d gladly take him if Mom says it’s okay—has stationary bikes with milometers and speed gauges on them, and he can keep in shape over the winter so that he’s all the faster when spring comes.

  “Lucy?” Peter says. “I don’t see a bag here for you. Did you bring it out?”

  “Oh,” I say. “I must have left it inside.”

  “Is she going in to pee again?” Milo grumbles, because he wants us to stay on schedule. Mom tells him to leave me alone, because she knows that I’m only going in the bathroom to check (like I’ve done at least ten times already today) and see if I can take this stupid pad off yet because I don’t want to sit for hours, teetering on something that feels as big as a couch pillow.

  I hurry in through the back door, stomping my feet on the rug so Aunt Jeana, who’s sitting at the table trying to get Chico to eat, doesn’t harp at me. My new winter coat, bought on Mom’s credit card, swishes as I move. “I forgot my bag,” I say. I find my bag in the bathroom where I left it and pick it up, and Sammy, who’s tucked in alongside my clothes, clunks against my leg.

  Last night when we lay in bed—me and Oma, because I had to give up my bed so Peter had a place to pretend he’d slept, for Milo’s sake, come morning—Oma said, “I can still feel him here, can’t you?”

  I knew who she meant, because I could feel him too.

  “I think he’s hovering,” Oma said. “People do that sometimes, you know. Hang around after they die, if they’ve still got some unfinished business to take care of before they go, or because they don’t know they’re dead yet. Oh, dear, I hope Sam doesn’t do that. Where would be his peace, then?”

  I think of this as I watch the flurries outside the bathroom window. And then I open my bag and I take Sammy out.

  “Where you going?” Aunt Jeana snips as I open the basement door.

  I don’t answer.

  She stands at the top of the stairs after I go down. “Lucy? What are you doing down there?”

  I don’t explain as I head up, Mom and Uncle Clay’s old sled clunking against the steps behind me.

  Aunt Jeana follows me to the door. “Where are you taking that, young lady? That’s going in the estate sale.”

  She’s holding the door wide open after I go out, and Feynman scoots around her and bursts outside, hopping happily alongside me as I drag the sled to the car.

  “We don’t have room for that!” Mom says, when I get to the SUV.

  “Lucy, my brother has lots of sleds at his house, and a good hill too. We can use his while we’re there.”

  “It’s not for Bayfield,” I tell Peter. “Please put it in the back, though.”

  While Peter’s opening the hatchback, and Mom’s trying to pry information out of me, Milo steps out of the car and wraps his arms around Feynman, who starts whining the minute he sees Milo. “If Lucy can bring a dumb sled, then why can’t I bring Feynman?”

  Mom peers back and says to Peter, “Can we just get going already?” Then she yells at Milo to put Feynman back in the house, and to hurry it up too.

  “Mom!” Milo whines. “Aunt Jeana went back inside without him. She’s going to leave him outside to freeze, no matter what she says.” Milo runs to the back of the SUV, where Peter has the sled shoved sideways alongside the wall. “See? There’s plenty of room for him. And we could keep Feynman and your brother’s dog separated—not that we’d need to. Feynman’s strong from so much running. He could hold his own with your brother’s pit bull.”

  Peter looks through the truck at Mom, and she rolls her eyes. “Whatever you think,” she says, and Milo whoops when Peter grabs Feynman’s collar and prompts him to jump up.

  I slip in behind Peter, and as he pulls down the long driveway, I ask him to go west.

  “West?” Mom says. “Lucy, you know we have to head back to town to get on the highway.” Peter thinks Mom’s on edge this morning because she’s meeting his family for the first time, but I don’t think that’s it. She’s on edge because of how dependent she’s been on him for support over the last few days. It’s her anxiety and attachment issues acting up, so I forgive her and ignore her impatience. Peter seems to forgive her for no other reason than that he loves her.

  “I know. But it won’t take long, Mom.”

  “What won’t take long, dear?” Oma asks.

  I ignore them both and stare into the rearview mirror, where I see Peter’s blue eyes (a lot like mine, and with no yellow shards to speak of) watching me. “I need to stop by Nordine Bickett’s,” I say to him, since he’s the driver.

  “Nordine Bickett’s?” Mom says. She turns to Oma. “Why in the hell does she need to go over there? And where did that puppet come from?”

  “I don’t really know,” Oma says. She studies me for a moment, then says to Peter, “It’s about a mile west.”

  Everyone’s talking at once, trying to find out what I’ve got up my sleeve when I step out in the Bicketts’ driveway and ask Peter to get out the sled.

  “What are you doing? Lucy, answer me!” But I can’t answer Mom, because for the moment I feel just like I did when I first lay on the grass the day we came to Timber Falls, and all I want now, too, is quiet.

  Peter sets the sled down on the snow and gets back behind the wheel. I stand outside, my door still open, and I say, “Aphrodite, can I use your lighter for a minute?”

  “Aphrodite?” Mom says. “Oh, good God, don’t tell me …” And Peter chuckles.

  While Oma digs in her purse for her lighter, I hold Sammy sideways, one hand on the X, the other grasping his feet, and I pull until the strings are tight. When Oma finds it, she snaps her lighter to make a flame, then, without being told what I want her to do, she holds it under each string until Sammy breaks free.

  “What on earth is she doing, Ma?”

  I leave Oma to answer that question—or not—and I head across the snow, the old boots Oma found for me to wear breaking easily through the thin layer of ice sitting on top.

  I walk right past Henry Bickett, who’s come out to stand on the steps. “You! Get the hell off my property or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. You hear me? Goddamn no-good McGowans!” he shouts.

  I ignore Henry and walk between the garden, where a few dried corn stalks are still standing, and the shed. I go past the tractor that’s sitting broken in the snow, and I look for the line of trees t
hat sit behind the Bicketts’ house—the one that Mom wrote about in her notebook.

  And there it is. A gap between the trees, with nothing on the other side but a snow-covered field shining in the distance. I drag the sled through the gap and look down at the expanse of hill. Then I place Sammy on the sled and wrap the dangling strings around one of the slats so he doesn’t fall.

  I stand still for just a minute—wondering if I should say a prayer or something. Not finding any words for one and not really feeling a need for one, I just bend over and give the sled a push. It makes soft scraping sounds as it glides down the hill, carrying Grandpa Sam down until he reaches the open field and slows to a stop to rest on the lap of his mother.

  HOW SOON before the house gets sold?” I ask as we hum down the freeway, looking to the people who pass us, no doubt, like any other family, with a mom and a dad, two kids, a grandma, and a dog in the hatch.

  “It will probably take a while,” Oma says. “And if it’s not sold before we go back for Mitzy and Ray’s wedding, we’ll stay there for those few days.”

  “Or in a motel,” Mom says.

  “Do we get the money?” Milo asks, and I roll my eyes.

  “Geez, genius, think about it. If Mom had taken the house, don’t you think she’d be selling the place, instead of Aunt Jeana?”

  I sit quietly then, my head lolling against the window, and I think of everything that’s happened and about everything that might happen still.

  “I’m going to miss Marie and Mitzy,” I say, and Mom and Oma say they’ll miss them too but remind me that we’ll be back soon for the wedding. “And don’t forget,” Mom says, “next summer we’re coming back again for two weeks. Mitzy’s baby will be born by then, and Uncle Clay and your aunt Judy and your cousins are coming for a week too. Your uncle is going to see if he can find a big house to rent so we can all stay together.”

  I think of these times to come, and it helps me feel not quite so sad. Especially when I think about all the good things that could happen in Chicago between now and then.

  I look over at Oma, who is watching the road ahead of us, her head bobbing with the motion of the truck, a faint smile on her peach-colored lips. Oma feels me watching her, and she reaches out and takes my hand and squeezes it.

  I open my book once the car gets quiet. A nice book I picked out myself on Amazon, about a girl my age who never had a dad but gets adopted by her mom’s new husband. I fan the pages to find my spot and stop at the dry, flat green leaf that marks where I left off, even though I already know.

  We ride a little longer, and I get sleepy. I close my book and lean my head against the glass. I’m about to shut my eyes when I see him.

  “Oma, look! An eagle! Stop the car, Peter. Hurry!”

  “What’s the matter?” Peter asks, as he hits the brakes and pulls over to the shoulder of the road.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Mom groans, right along with Milo, who’s sick to his stomach in spite of a spoonful of Dramamine.

  I can’t help laughing as Oma digs in her purse for a cigarette. “Synchronicity, sweet synchronicity!” I shout, and Oma laughs right along with me.

  While Mom is explaining to Peter that it’s one of Oma’s “wacky, hocus pocus rituals,” and Milo grumbles about how long this is going to take, Oma and I leap out of the car and race to the side of the road, our arms wrapped together like the entwined strings of two tea bags.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to express my deepest appreciation to the following individuals, each of whom contributed something of value to this project:

  To my publisher, Nita Taublib, who continues to champion my work with enthusiasm.

  To Kerri Buckley, my phenomenal editor, who more than anyone helped this book become the best it could be. Her foresight, attention to detail, and love for this story seeped into every page.

  To my agent, Catherine Fowler, who handles me with patience and my career with wisdom.

  To “dodinsky,” whose insightful poem graces the opening page of this novel, and whose friendship now graces my life.

  To art director Paolo Pepe, who repeatedly sees to it that I get fantastic covers, and to Lynn Andreozzi, who put this beautiful one together.

  To Kathy Lord, the skilled copyeditor who surely worked her fingers to the bone plucking unnecessary commas from my manuscript.

  To the many folks in the marketing and sales departments (and probably many other departments I’m unaware of). Although I don’t know your names, I appreciate your efforts.

  To the two experts in their fields who generously answered my questions regarding mathematics and physics: Dr. Michael Naylor, associate professor of mathematics, Western Washington University, and Dr. Paul McEuen, professor of physics, Cornell University, and up-and-coming thriller author.

  To my friends and family, who continually support me in my life and in my life’s work.

  And last but not least, to you, the reader. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for buying my books, sharing them, and writing to tell me what they meant to you. It is because of you that I get to wake each morning to spend another day doing what I love to do most. I hope my stories continue to inspire you, entertain you, and help you remember the wonder you felt and the wisdom you held as a child.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SANDRA KRING lives in Wisconsin. Her debut novel, Carry Me Home, was a Book Sense Notable pick and a 2005 Midwest Booksellers’ Choice Award nominee. The Book of Bright Ideas was a 2006 Target BookmarkedTM selection and was named to the New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age list in 2007. Visit her on the web at www.sandrakring.com.