There is nothing—not the beach, not a dip in the lake, not a Dreamsicle sunset nor chasing down the ice cream truck on a scorching day—that sums up summer more to me than the sound of a sprinkler.
The rhythmic chh-chh-chh has always spellbound me, as has the smell of the water on freshly mown grass in the summer heat. I stare into the water droplets—as gold as the sunshine—flying back and forth in the blue sky in front of an old-shingled cottage with an American flag flapping in the wind.
After my pronouncement and a long afternoon at the bookstore, I was told by my friends, employees and grandparents to “take a hike,” quite literally.
“Enjoy this summer day,” my grandma said. “You need it.”
So, I have taken the circuitous route on foot back into town, avoiding my cell and keeping my head down, though I now realize the Santa cap I’m still wearing is akin to having a target on my back.
Out of nowhere, two kids, a boy and a girl, no more than six, race around from the back of the cottage and sprint—no holds barred—directly through the sprinkler. They giggle wildly, look at each other and then do it all over again.
They look up and see me, water dripping off their heads.
“Hi, Santa!” the little girl says with a big wave.
“That’s not Santa, silly,” the boy says. “That’s a girl.”
“It’s Mrs. Claus, then,” the girl says, voice indignant. “A girl can do anything a boy can do.”
“And it’s summer,” the boy continues. “Santa is on vacation right now.”
“Actually,” I say, “Santa is downtown right now. He decided to visit Petoskey on vacation.”
“No! Way!” the girl says. “C’mon!”
The girl races toward the cottage, yelling, “Mom! Dad!”
The boy starts to head inside but turns back at the last minute.
“If he was the real Santa, why did you run away from him?” the boy asks. “I’d never leave.”
I smile.
“You’re right,” I say. “He wasn’t the real one.”
“I knew it!” the boy says. He looks at me. “But I’m still going to see him.” He hesitates. “Just for my sister, you know.”
He runs toward the cottage and takes the steps two at a time until he is standing on the wide front porch.
“You should do it!” he calls to me.
“Do what?”
“Run through the sprinkler,” he says. “I know you want to. You have that look. My parents always do, but they never let themselves. Adults are so weird. They make all the easy stuff hard. Just do it. I promise it’ll make you feel better.”
The boy heads inside. I look left and then right.
I run into the sprinkler. The cold water hits me hard, right in the face, and it takes my breath away. I make it to the other side and race through the water again, screaming in glee like a kid.
My heart is racing and I do it one more time, eyes open. As I run, I am a girl racing through the hardware store sprinkler my dad rotated every few hours on our lawn, especially during a dry summer. I can see him in the window, laughing. I can still picture him setting up a Slip ’N Slide on the sloping hillside in our yard. The waterdrops fall around me, but suddenly, they are frozen in midair. It is snowing, the middle of winter, and I am racing outside the gym after being told my parents had been killed. I am standing alone, staring into the sky, screaming.
I still am.
When I step outside the sprinkler, dripping wet, my Santa cap plastered against my head, I feel remarkably sober.
A figure moves in the window. The little boy is standing there, giving me a big thumbs-up.
Why do adults make all the easy stuff hard?
I take off running.
This time, however, I know exactly where I must go.
I stop short, hearing a voice.
I tiptoe to the doorway, trying to keep my still-wet shoes from squeaking, and peek my head around the corner.
My heart jumps into my throat, and I shuffle my feet. My shoes squeak as if I just came to a screeching halt on a basketball court.
Rita turns like a corkscrew in her chair next to Jordan’s bed. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
I step inside his room.
Nothing has changed and yet everything has changed.
“I’ve been coming here every summer since your parents were killed,” Rita says, her voice soft.
It takes me a beat before I can ask, “Why?”
Rita turns back toward Jordan. “Do you remember the Christmas in July parties your parents used to have?”
I shake my head no at first, but it slowly turns into a nod.
“Barely,” I say. “I was so young.” Then I smile. “I think I had blocked them out.”
“I thought they were the reason you started the event at the bookstore,” Rita says, surprised.
Memories come flooding back.
“They probably were,” I finally say. “I just never put two and two together.”
“They were the highlight of my summer,” Rita sighs. “I used to do so much of the planning and cooking because your parents were so busy with you and the store. I know I probably overstepped my boundaries, but it was a way I felt connected to Marilyn.” There is silence for a moment. “She was my best friend in the world, Susan. She was my Holly, and I still miss her so much.”
Rita continues. “I started coming here decades ago in July, searching for an answer. The first time I came was the day of your parents’ annual party. I yelled at Jordan. I asked God to take him. I asked God how He could do something like this to you and your family. I am a woman of faith. It’s not fair. How could God allow this young man to make such a terrible decision one night that could alter so many people’s lives forever? I screamed, ‘Why me?’ so loudly that the nurses asked me to leave. And one July day, late at night, I snuck back and fell asleep in this very chair. I had a dream—so real and so vivid that I still don’t believe it was a dream at all—that Jordan had woken up. His eyes were open, and he was saying, very clearly, ‘Why not you?’”
My skin ripples with goose bumps.
“Over the years,” Rita says, “I’ve spent July days here with Jordan. Sometimes I turn on the TV, and we watch Tigers games. Over time, I’ve come to believe that life is a lot like a baseball game. The tiny decisions we make from day to day, inning to inning, determine our lives. And sometimes, I’ve learned, it’s just not your day. I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my life, Susan, just like you. That’s made me so different than the fun, free-spirited woman I used to be. And I know I’ve not always been such a nice person, Susan. I can be overbearing. I can be cold. And I do that to protect myself. You’ve protected yourself, too, just in a different way. But I’m trying to change, and I know you are, too.”
Rita pats the side of the bed, and I take a seat. Jordan’s legs touch me.
“Now, why are you here?” she asks me.
“I’ve been coming every December seeking some sort of closure. He just keeps going.”
“And so do you. But why are you really here?”
“I want to let it go,” I say, suddenly exhausted. “I want to forgive him. I want to forgive myself. I just don’t know how. If I had just gone with my parents to the hotel instead of making them take me to that stupid dance...”
“Stop!” Rita says, her voice ringing out in the quiet room. “It was not your fault. We cannot control the whys and the timing in life. It was a horrible accident that should never have happened. But it did. And I have to believe that God wants us to learn from it somehow. That’s why we’re all still here right now. Maybe that’s what brought us all here to this very moment.”
The machines beep. The facility is quiet. Everyone is out enjoying a beautiful summer day. Jordan’s window is cracked open, and I can smell the bay on the wind.
“I could tell your heart wasn’t invested in any of those men,” Rita says. “I could tell you didn’t hear bells ringing like you said you would in your poem.”
“How did you know?” I ask.
“I know you better than you think,” she says. “I helped raise you, Susan. Why do you think I come to the store every Monday? I want to see you. I need to see you. You were my family, the daughter I never had. I know we were never that close, but I still believe that maybe some of my toughness rubbed off on you and that’s a reason you became the woman you did.”
Rita suddenly smiles. “Who did you vote for?” she asks out of the blue.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not following.”
“Your fourth-grade teacher told me that you didn’t vote for yourself when your poem won the contest. She told me at the awards ceremony she could tell by your cursive handwriting that you voted for another classmate.”
Suddenly, the memory floods my mind, and my soul smiles. It’s amazing what you choose to remember and what you choose to forget.
Rita smiles. “Ah, yes, I think I know,” she says. “You’ve always been such a good person, Susan, just like your mom, but you’ve never let that someone special close enough to see that. You put everyone else first. It’s time you make Susan the priority.”
Rita takes my hand in hers.
“Forgive yourself Susan,” she says. “Forgive God. Just let it go.”
I start weeping, and Rita takes me in her arms. I have another flashback of Rita in bed beside me when I was a girl, holding me as I cried myself to sleep, whispering, It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
“It’s okay,” Rita whispers.
I stand up and look down at Jordan.
I take off my Santa cap and place in on his head.
“I forgive me. I forgive God. I forgive.”
“Now you’ll be able to hear that bell clearly when it rings,” Rita says after a few seconds. “It’s probably been ringing your whole life, but you just couldn’t hear it over the deafening sound of your grief.”
In the distance, I hear the music from an ice cream truck.