Jag tossed a rope to the dock—to my grandfather—and he grabbed it and pulled us in. The engine roared, and then we bounced against the tires. I held on to the rail to stop from tumbling over. Jag ran down the side of the boat and jumped onto the dock. He tied the back of the boat to the dock while my grandfather tied the front. I waited until the boat was snug against the dock and then climbed off the boat. The dock was wet and slick. I started to slip, then regained my footing.
“Hello, Dylan,” said my grandfather. He held out his hand.
I studied him, looking for emotion. Was he happy to see me? No, he looked as nervous and uneasy as I felt.
“I guess you know who I am,” he said.
“I’ve seen pictures, but you’re older.”
He laughed—it was a nervous laugh. “A lot older, but then, so are you.”
Jag was holding a large crate.
“Let me give you a hand with that,” my grandfather said. He turned and walked away from me. I felt relieved. I thought he was probably relieved too.
How was this going to work? How was I going to spend the next six weeks with a man who was my grandfather but basically a stranger? It probably would have been easier if he actually were just a stranger.
The way Jag and my grandfather were straining with the crate, I knew it had to be heavy. They set it down on the dock. My grandfather was old, but he looked pretty strong. He had gray hair and matching gray stubble but moved like somebody a lot younger.
“Do you have my art supplies in there?” he asked.
“I have a second one for you,” Jag said.
Jag disappeared into the boat’s cabin at the same time the captain stepped out.
“How are you doing, Angus?” the captain asked as he stepped onto the dock and extended his hand toward my grandfather.
“Well, my friend. And you?” The two men shook hands, and for the first time I saw my grandfather smile.
“Good, good, can’t complain. So this is your grandson?” the captain said, gesturing to me.
My grandfather turned to face me. He seemed to be studying me. “That’s what I’ve been told,” he said, “but I don’t think he looks much like me.”
“You’re right. He doesn’t look like you,” said the captain. “He’s good-looking.” He started laughing. So did my grandfather. “He does look like your daughter though.”
I’d been told that before.
Jag came back carrying a second crate—it was smaller than the first.
“Jag, don’t you think the boy looks like Becky?” asked the captain.
Becky. Nobody called her that these days. She was Rebecca or Rebe but never Becky.
Jag put down the crate and looked at me.
“I can see the resemblance. Especially in the eyes. There’s something there. But I can also see that the weather is closing in.”
“For sure,” the captain said. “We better get going while we can or we’re going to have to put in for the night here.”
“You know you’re always welcome,” my grandfather said.
“Depending on how it goes once we’re out there again, you might see us back for the night.”
I thought it might be better if they did stay. They were basically strangers, but I felt more comfortable around Jag and Captain Fukushima than I did around my grandfather.
“Are you all right to get things up to your cabin?” Jag asked.
“We’ll get them up,” my grandfather said. “We’ll manage.”
They shook hands and said their goodbyes. As the captain shook hands with me, he pulled me in closer. “He’s a good man,” he whispered. “Even if he doesn’t show it sometimes.”
I nodded as he let go of my hand. I wasn’t sure if his words were meant to be reassuring or a warning or both.
The captain and Jag got back on the boat. My grandfather helped them untie the lines and cast off. The engine roared as the boat backed away. It started to rain.
“No time to waste,” my grandfather said. “Grab one end.”
He took the front of the bigger crate, and I reached down and grabbed the other. We heaved it up. I was surprised by how heavy it was. I felt the strain in my arms and back.
The way we were positioned meant I was looking directly at him across the length of the crate. I wanted to look away.
“Hold on,” he said. He shifted his grip and turned around so his back was to me and he could walk forward.
He started to walk, and I jerked forward along with him.
We stepped off the dock and immediately started up a steep path. It was very rough, with rocky steps and lots of places to trip. I almost lost my footing a couple of times. The rain was picking up and pelting against my face—it was cold and sharp and strong. The higher we got, the more the wind picked up.
I felt the weight in my arms and also on my back. I wasn’t carrying only the crate—my pack was on my back. It contained basically everything I owned. My clothes—the few things I had—an extra pair of shoes, an old photo album and a couple of things I’d made for my mother for Mother’s Day over the years. Everything else had either been left behind or sold out from under me, hocked to pay the rent or—well, sold.
Struggling up this hill might have been the first time I was grateful for not having much of anything.
“It’s not much farther,” my grandfather said, without looking back.
“I know. It’s just through those trees, right?”
“Yeah.” He turned around slightly. “You remember?”
I nodded. Walking up this hill had brought back memories—or at least a hint of memories. It was like I couldn’t remember the path in my head but felt it in my legs. I’d climbed these steps. I’d walked this path before.
We got to the shelter of the trees. It didn’t stop the rain, but it did break the wind. I looked past my grandfather and down the path. There was the cabin. It didn’t look very big. I’d figured it was going to be small, but it was smaller than I remembered it.
“Watch yourself,” said my grandfather as we made our way up the wooden steps to the cabin.
“What?”
Before he could answer I tripped, almost dropping the crate.
I looked down. The middle stair was missing a board. My grandfather didn’t miss a beat, and we continued up the steps and onto the porch. Finally we were under shelter.
“Put it down right here,” he said. My back and legs were happy when we set it down. “You go inside, and I’ll go down and get the other one.”
“I can go,” I volunteered without thinking.
He shook his head. “You’ve already carried more than your share. Besides, you’re not dressed for the weather. Go inside and get changed into something dry.”
He turned and set off. I watched him walk away. I stood there, the rain pounding down on the porch roof. A little bit of rain was being blown by the wind and misting over me. The door was right there. Somehow it seemed wrong to just walk in. But it seemed even more wrong to stand out here.
I hesitated. I almost knocked. That would have been beyond stupid. I partially opened the door and peered inside. Warm air flowed out. I let the door open completely. It was darker inside, but I could see old furniture—big, overstuffed furniture—and carpets on the floor. I smelled smoke, and then I saw where it was coming from—there was a big woodstove in the back. A fire was glowing.
I went to step inside and then decided I’d do one thing first. I grabbed the crate and hefted it up. I strained and struggled but managed to bring it inside, dropping it onto the floor.
I closed the door, and the sound of the rain was blocked out. Now I could hear a ticking clock and the crackling of the fire. I slipped off my pack and put it on top of the crate. It felt good to be free of the weight.
I looked around. The walls were covered with art. Some pieces were formally framed, but others were just canvas stretched over a wooden frame. Most of the paintings were of landscapes and animals of the area—killer whales, bears and otters. I knew they were my grandfather’s. I recognized the style. I’d seen much more of his art than I had of him, and, like Jag said, he was pretty famous. At least, he was with those artsy types my mother used to hang around with when I was younger.
I couldn’t help noticing that there were stacks of dirty cups and plates—some with half-eaten and moldy-looking food—on the counters and coffee table. It looked like he hadn’t done the dishes for about a month.
A chill went through my body. I was wet and cold. I needed to get out of these clothes and into something dry. But I wasn’t going to change in the middle of the room.
I walked over and pushed open a door. It was much darker in that room, but from the light coming in through a small window I could make out that it was a bedroom. There was a big, unmade bed in the middle and a cluttered dresser on the far wall. More cups and dishes too. This had to be my grandfather’s room. I closed the door.
I went to the next one. I could smell what was in this room even before I pushed open the door—paint. My senses were confirmed. It was a studio. There were easels and drop cloths, big tables, containers of brushes—brush ends up—cans of paints, pallets and many, many more paintings.
Unlike every other room in the house, this one was tidy. Cluttered but tidy. No dirty dishes or moldy food.
Two of the exterior walls were actually floor-to-ceiling windows, and there were three skylights overhead, although they were partially covered in leaves and pine needles. Despite that, despite the clouds in the sky and the rain pounding down, there was still what my mother called “good light.” I could see her being happy in here. I guessed my grandfather must be too. I knew that for a painter, this room would be as much their place as their bedroom. I backed out and closed the door on this room too. There was only one door left to check.
I tried to open it. It didn’t budge. Was it locked? I put my shoulder against it and pushed, and it opened with some resistance. The bottom of the door was rubbing against the floor. Either the door had sagged or the floor had risen.
I peeked inside. I couldn’t see much. The window in this room was even smaller than the one in the first bedroom. The interior was dark, and it had a musty smell. I wondered how long it had been since this door had been opened. I opened it wider and then fumbled along the wall, feeling for a light switch. I found it and flicked it, and a dim blue light came to life on the ceiling.
Another bedroom. In one corner was a big bed with a brass headboard and footboard. It was covered in pillows, and a few stuffed animals had been tucked into bed. There were pictures on the walls. More paintings, but they weren’t my grandfather’s. I recognized the style. These were my mother’s. The ones she’d done at home had long been sold or traded. But these were definitely hers too. This had to be her bedroom from when she was little.
I heard the front door open. I felt like I’d been caught doing something bad. I turned to leave, but there was no way I could get out of the room without being seen. My grandfather was standing there in his rain jacket, still holding the smaller crate, staring right at me. I had to say something.
“I was looking for a place to change,” I explained. “I wasn’t snooping.”
I turned the light off and with both hands pulled the door almost completely shut again.
“That’s the room you’re going to be using.” He paused. “That was your mother’s room.”
I nodded.
“Your grandmother always kept it just the way your mother left it when she went off to art school.”
That had to be twenty years ago.
“And then when your grandmother passed…well…”
She had died not long after my mother and I had last visited. I didn’t really remember her. I did have one fuzzy memory of her pushing me in a wheelbarrow. That was it, and I wasn’t even sure that was real.
“I need to get changed,” I said. “Should I use the bathroom?”
“Only if you want to get wetter.”
“What?”
“The outhouse is out the back and down the path. You’d best use your mother’s room.”
“Sure…okay.”
I took a step toward the room and remembered that I didn’t have my pack. My grandfather was standing right beside it. I walked toward him, and I could tell by his expression that he was thrown a bit.
“My bag,” I said, pointing to it.
“Oh, yeah.”
I grabbed the pack, spun around and headed back toward the bedroom. I put my shoulder against the door and opened it again. I turned and muscled the door closed, throwing the room into darkness. I turned on the light.
I took off my jacket. It was soaking wet. I looked around for a place to put it. I settled on one of the posts on the footboard. I opened up the pack. I wanted to get clothes out before I took clothes off. I could even put them away.
I walked over to the dresser. On top of it sat a framed picture of my mother. She was younger—in her early teens. She was smiling. It seemed like a long time since I’d seen her smile, even before she’d gone away.
I wondered how old she was in that picture. I wondered why she looked so happy. Maybe back then she had lots of reasons to be happy.
I pulled open the bottom drawer. It was full of clothes. Underwear and stuff. I felt a rush of embarrassment. I pushed it closed. I opened up the next one. It had shirts and socks. And then the one above that. It held sweaters. Why was it full of clothes? Were these all my mother’s clothes? It didn’t matter. Either they were or they weren’t, and it wasn’t like I could pull them out and put my stuff in there instead.
I tried to push the drawers closed, and the top one jammed. Then one of the handles snapped off in my hand. I put it on the top of the dresser. Somehow I’d broken it. I hadn’t really done anything, but I was sure I’d be blamed. I’d have to fix it before my grandfather noticed, but I couldn’t do it now.
I noticed a closet door. Maybe I could hang up my shirts and this pair of pants in there. That would let the wet stuff dry. I pulled it open and saw that it was filled with clothes too. Stuffed full. Dresses and shirts and skirts and sweaters and lots and lots and lots of shoes. My mother loved shoes. I guess she always had. The floor was covered in shoes, and the clothes rod was so jammed that I didn’t see how I could hang up anything. Putting my clothes away wasn’t going to work now, but I still needed to change.
I started to take off my shirt. It was stuck to my body, and I had to peel it off. I kicked off my shoes, and my socks squished against the floor. I went to pull off my pants. My phone! I pushed my hand into my pocket. The pocket was soaked, and so was my phone!
I’d turned it off on the boat when we’d lost service, to save power, and then had put it in my pocket to protect it from the elements. Like that had worked. I turned it on. It slowly started to come to life.
“Come on, come on,” I muttered.
The screen had a bluish glow, and then all the icons appeared. It was working. I noticed there was no cell service. I couldn’t call or text or do anything that would tell me the phone was working for sure, but it did look like it was working. I just wished I had put it someplace waterproof. I really wished I still had my other phone—my good phone. The one my mother had pawned. I had a rush of anger just thinking about that.
I put the phone on the dresser and kicked off my pants. They were soaked, but at least my boxers were dry. I should have stuffed the phone in my shorts. Maybe it wouldn’t have gotten wet.
I looked up and saw myself reflected in the mirror above the dresser. I studied my ref lection. My hair was wet and slicked back. It was too long. I needed a cut. I doubted that was going to happen over here, so I imagined it was going to get a lot longer.
My ribs were visible. My mother had always said I was too skinny and that I needed to eat more. I’d have been happy to if there had been more food in our place. I also figured I looked thinner than I was because I was so tall. Tall like my mother. Tall like my father—at least, my mother had told me he was tall. And, I knew now, tall like my grandfather.
I looked again at the picture of my mother on the dresser and then compared it to my reflection. I looked back and forth and then moved closer so I could see her image more clearly. I did look like her. My nose and eyes. The difference was around the mouth. She was smiling. She used to smile a lot, even when there really wasn’t a reason to smile. Me, I tended to scowl or smirk. In fact, smirking was the closest I could come to smiling most of the time.
I suddenly became aware that I was standing in my boxers in my mother’s old bedroom. It didn’t matter, but I still felt exposed. I pulled some clothes out of my bag and put them on. It felt good to be dressed and dry.
Now what? I could stand here or go out—to him. I didn’t really want to do that, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t just hide in here for the next six weeks.