Dad and I shiver outside and the sky snuggles up close to nighttime. It’s December 23, Saturday, the day after our cookies and Skype. We always clean the wet dead leaves on this day, sweeping them from the mini-golf course. We bag and rake and rake and bag, collecting whatever is left from the fall. We get ready for wintertime, for the snow, for the never-ending darkness and the stubborn cold that we know will blow so nasty over our home.
“That wind is bitter,” Dad says. His cheeks splotch red behind the rough stubble of beard.
“I know, right?”
“Let’s get inside. I don’t want you catching a cold.”
We prop our rakes against the big, rickety wooden pirate ship that people walk through at the entrance to the golf course, sailing fast on their way to a good time. The pirate ship echoes empty at this time of the year. The wind blusters through it. If ships had wishes, this one would be wishing for summer, that’s for sure.
“Now the grounds are all cleaned up and ready for Santa,” Dad says, like always.
“Dad,” I say. “I’m going to be thirteen. I don’t believe.”
“We all need to believe,” Dad replies.
I just grin and go along with it, following Dad into the cabin.
I’m chowing down on a Rice Krispies Treat when Dad’s cell phone rings. We’ve just put a pot of water on the stove to boil for hot chocolate.
“Magic Mountain Campground,” Dad says in his business voice.
He listens. Dad’s body stiffens; his eyes widen with surprise.
“Oh, my. Oh no. Oh, Violet,” he says.
I stop chewing, sticky sweetness gluing my lips. The stove ticks; the water is getting hot.
“Okay,” Dad says. “We’ll get on Skype right away.”
I swallow.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
Dad doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s standing at the kitchen table, flipping open his laptop and logging quickly in to Skype.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Grandma wants to tell you something,” he says. “Sit down, honey.”
Uh-oh. Sitting down is what you do for bad news.
I drag over a kitchen chair. It squeaks and complains across the floor. Grandma’s face fills the screen. Her hair flies wild around her face; her eyes bulge puffy and red. Her mouth is turned down, and everything about her seems to sag.
“Where’s Grandpa?” I ask, breathing fast.
“Honey, Grandpa had a heart attack tonight.” Grandma pauses, licks her lips, looks down. “He’s gone, sweetheart. Grandpa Bill died.”
I am frozen to the chair, shocked. Am I dreaming this?
“How? When? Why?” Three words: that’s all I can say. My own heart is attacking my body, hammering like something mad and alive.
Grandma Violet dissolves. She starts to cry.
“Nobody knows how or why. I don’t know what time. This doesn’t even feel real.”
“No way! No! He was fine, just last night, right? He was . . . fine.” I’m so confused.
“He was,” replies Grandma, “and then he wasn’t.”
My heart falls like a dropped ball, bounces uncontrollably around the floor. The water on the stove is bubbling furiously, crazily trying to escape the pot.
I look at Dad. Tears dribble down his face, tracing slow, awkward paths through the beard stubble. He puts his arm around my shoulders, draws me close.
“We will see him again,” says Grandma, “in heaven.”
“But . . . that’s so far away!” I say. “Too long to wait.”
“I know, honey,” says Grandma. “But sometimes we just have no say. We just have to wait. It’s not up to us.”
I nod and blink. I don’t want to cry on Skype. I’ve got to be strong for my grandma.
“It’s okay to cry, hon,” Grandma says. “That’s what we need to do when someone we love leaves. We need to get it out.”
And so I do. I let go and I weep. I don’t know what I’m going to do without my grandpa in my life.
Dad goes to turn off the stove, dumps the boiling water in the sink. Nobody cares about hot chocolate at a time like this. It can’t fix a thing.
“I love you to the moon,” says Grandma before we sign off.
“Love you, too,” I say. My voice breaks, shatters like a fallen lightbulb. “Love Grandpa, too.”
And then I start to sob again, as if this bad news is once again brand-new.