I don’t remember what happened next. I think I might have passed out from the pain and the cold. I woke up lying on my back.
At least I could breathe again. For a few moments I lay still, just enjoying it, but it’s amazing how quickly you can start to take breathing for granted. Where was I? Underneath me was a hard, cold floor. Was it the tiles of our foyer? No. As I touched it, I could tell it was smoother, and harder.
When I sat up, I saw that I was in a long corridor. Was it a school? The walls were lined with sets of lockers and oak doors with frosted glass windows. I smelled chalk and formaldehyde, which made me think of the high school science rooms at Selden.
“Michael!” The voice came from behind me, and even without having heard it in so long, I knew it was Grandpa’s. I turned, and there he was, crouching down behind me, his back to a locker.
Up close, he looked awful. His eyelids drooped. His fingers were knobby. I couldn’t tell if what was wrong with him was because he was a lot older than the last time I’d seen him, or because he was actually dead, but there was a blue tint to his skin, and his hair was thin, like if I pulled it, it would come out.
Grandpa reached out a hand and touched my cheek. Sort of. I could see his hand there, but where he was touching me, I only felt a shock of cold, as if he were holding an ice cube to my skin. Then he sat down, leaning against the locker behind him, drawing his knees up to his chest.
“Where am I?” I managed to say. “Why are you here? Am I—?”
Grandpa knitted his eyebrows together. “I am dead,” he said. “But you are very much alive.”
“Thank you,” I breathed in the same direction that I usually prayed my “please, please, please” prayer. But did I believe him? If I was alive, and he was dead, how come we were talking?
Grandpa took a deep breath in through his nose, like he was smelling something really good. I don’t know if it was just my imagination, but his skin turned pink—or at least a little less blue—as he breathed in. He looked better.
“That feels beauteous,” he said, taking another deep breath. “I’ve been wanting to do that for—well, I have no idea. Try that, take a deep, deep breath.”
I did what he said, but for me, the air was just… air. “You haven’t said where we are,” I said. “And can you please explain what happened?”
“I wish I could answer your questions,” Grandpa said. “But I’m not sure I understand what’s happening any better than you do.” He breathed deeply through his nose again. “The air smells sweet to me,” he added. “Positively sweet.”
I took a breath myself. Still nothing.
“One minute it smells like cherry-flavored medicine,” Grandpa said. “And the next, it’s like lemon. The tart and sweet filling in a lemon meringue pie.”
I was starting to wonder how I would get back, and all Grandpa could do was talk about pie.
“So you don’t know anything about what’s going on here?” I said. “About how come I got so cold? Aren’t you here to rescue me?”
Grandpa was turning his head to see what I looked like from different angles as if he were a photographer lining up a shot. “I didn’t come to rescue you, Michael,” he said. “I’m afraid that you rescued me.” I didn’t quite know what to make of that comment. How had I rescued him? All I’d done was get so cold I must have passed out. And somehow found myself in a place I’d never been.
Was this really my grandpa? It was impossible, of course, but on the other hand, I could see him with my own eyes. I remembered him. And even if I hadn’t, I could hear my mom’s and dad’s and Julia’s voices wrapped up inside the fibers of his voice. He leaned on his words the same way, a way I didn’t even know my own family did until I heard it coming from Grandpa now.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“I know,” said Grandpa. “And yet, I feel so good. I feel so happy to be here. To be with you. There’s something about your eyes,” he said softly. “You have your grandmother’s eyes, and yet…” He squinted. “You’ve turned out looking exactly like your mother in every other way. Your sister, she’s the one who always looked like our side.”
“You don’t look like Julia,” I said, though even as I said it, I realized he did. Julia is tall and narrow—her jaw is long, and her eyes are a little hooded. Grandpa had a lot of the same shapes in his face.
“You’ve already seen it,” Grandpa said, and I sat up straighter.
“You can read my mind?”
“Only a little. But that’s not because I’m dead. Or even because I’m your grandfather. Everyone can do that. It’s funny, how people convince themselves they can’t.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“But you do! When we’re alive we convince ourselves we don’t understand things when we do.”
“This is freaking me out,” I said. “I don’t believe that you’re dead, and you’re here. And we’re talking.”
“I don’t believe it either,” Grandpa said. “But you know what? I don’t care. I want to be here.”
I looked away from Grandpa. There was something kind of blinding about him. I didn’t know if it was his personality or if it was the unrealness of the situtation. I needed a break, and I looked away.
The hallway had started to fill with students. They looked almost like grown-ups, except they were dressed in clothes that were tight in some strange places, and puffy in others. None of them seemed to notice us, sitting on the floor. “You have no idea where we are?” I asked.
“No, I do,” said Grandpa. “That question, at least, I can answer. We’re at Baruch College. My mind must have traveled here after seeing you today, at your school. I never know where I’m going to end up.”
“What do you mean, traveled? End up?”
But Grandpa had gotten distracted by a group of soldiers in heavy black shoes and light brown shirts walking past us. Seeing the soldiers, the girls laughed. “C Company.” Grandpa snorted. “I know those guys. Irish.”
“Why can’t they see us? Why is everyone wearing those costumes?”
“Those aren’t costumes,” Grandpa said. He was answering me as if I were interrupting him watching a movie, giving me the shortest possible answers so he wouldn’t miss anything. “This was 1951. I know because your grandmother”—he pointed to the cluster of girls who were still giggling—“is still wearing her hair long.”
“That’s Grandma?” I said. “This is your college? Where are the dorms?”
“I lived at home,” he said. “In the Bronx. I was in the army back then. It was a paycheck and a chance to go to college. Though not a fancy one—this is Baruch, part of City College. You know City College?”
I didn’t.
“Oy,” he said. “Your father goes away to an elite school, and his son never even knows there could be another way.”
The girl with long hair who was supposed to be Grandma started to laugh really hard at something a girl with short hair said. They leaned together and looked over their shoulders.
“Are they laughing at us?”
“I can only imagine,” Grandpa said, but he was smiling, as if he got the joke.
I think my dad was in high school when Grandma died. I don’t even know what she died of. It’s not something that I think about very much, because I never knew her. But when the longhaired girl pursed her lips, I could see the way that my father pursed his lips, and the way Julia pursed hers. I don’t know why, but the connection between what was real from my own life and these strange, old, dead people, and not knowing where I was, or whether I was really alive—it made me feel dizzy, like you do when you get to the top of a tall building and you look down.
“Let me get this straight,” I tried again. “You’re dead? And when you’re dead, you get to go back to college?”
“It’s not just college. It’s all my life. I go from memory to memory, and I don’t know how long I’ll stay or which one I’m going to land at next. It’s an unpleasant flashing. Just as I’m starting to understand what I’m seeing, I’m whisked to someplace else. Now, with you, for the first time, I’m able to stop and really look. To breathe. To talk to someone.”
I didn’t quite know what to say to that. It was nice he was enjoying this, but what I wanted to know was how, if we were stopped inside his memory, was I ever going to get back?
“I’m guessing this is the first day of chemistry class,” Grandpa went on. “It was September, and Stella and I were in the same lab. She asked me to tutor her. I was good at chemistry but too stupid to understand that she didn’t actually need my help. It took me more than a year to get up the courage to kiss her. I guess, actually, I never did—she was the one who kissed me. I was so dumb.”
I’d never kissed anybody, or even come close. Gus has, but only at camp. “But you got married,” I said. “It must have all worked out in the end.” The girls were starting to gather up their books to go inside, and in spite of my worrying about being able to get out of this memory, I found myself wanting to know what happened next. “Are we going to get to see you soon?” I asked. “It must be amazing to watch yourself.”
“Oh, no, it’s horrible,” said Grandpa. “All these memories are horrible. All I notice are the mistakes, what I did wrong. How I didn’t say what I meant to, how scared and shy and angry I was. I hate seeing all the opportunity wasted.” A soldier walked past us, toward the wooden classroom door. He reminded me a little of Ewan, the way Ewan looks down at the ground and not up at the faces of the people around him. But mostly the soldier looked like my dad, except that he wasn’t as tall. What was similar was the way he stepped lightly, as if he was afraid of making too much noise.
“That’s me,” Grandpa said.
“Yeah,” I answered. “I guess I knew.”
“You notice that way of walking?” Grandpa said. “It came from growing up in an apartment, living with too many relatives. There was never enough of anything. Everyone was always telling me to be quiet.”
“Dad does it too,” I said. “He stoops a little.”
“Does he?”
“Hey, I can’t even tell what color your hair was, it’s cut so short,” I said.
Grandpa made a face. “I don’t understand why I was so embarrassed about my hair all my life,” he said. “It was curly, beautiful, just like yours.”
I put my hand on my head. “I hate my hair.”
“Really?”
“It makes me look like Ronald McDonald. And my dad hates it too. He’s always trying to make me cut it. My mom just says it makes me look cute, which is kind of worse.” Then I told Grandpa what I’d never admitted to anyone else. Who’s he going to tell? I thought. He’s dead. “But if I cut it, I’ll look even shorter.”
Grandpa burst out laughing.
“Do you think it makes me look taller?”
“Does it make you feel taller?”
My face went hot.
“You keep it just the way it is,” he said.
“Thanks.” I wondered what it would have been like to have him be my grandpa when he was alive. I had this idea that I could tell him things, and he’d be the one coming to watch my basketball games, and he wouldn’t care if my team won or if I played. Under his plaid shirt, his shoulders sagged, and I wondered if he’d been thinking the same thing. I tried to touch him, but I got so cold I pulled my hand back like I’d touched fire. “Are you—are you really dead?” I asked.
He cleared his throat, a phlegm gargle. “Yes,” he said. “I’m dead. Though I feel good. I have no idea what’s happening, but I feel good. The first time I saw you, you were in your room, with your dad. Daniel. That first time I felt you, there was something electric between us. I’ve been wondering what made it happen. You have your grandmother’s eyes—I’m wondering if that’s why we have a connection. But maybe it was something else. What were you talking about with your dad?”
“You,” I said. “Sort of.”
“Your father was talking about me?”
“No,” I said. “I was wondering why no one was acting like it was a big deal that you were dead.”
Grandpa winced.
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“It’s okay,” said Grandpa, though he didn’t exactly look like it was okay.
“It felt like a shot when it happened,” I said. “Like I was getting a shot. It hurt.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said, and he looked momentarily sad. “But the energy! I felt myself wanting things. I felt myself having the strength to want things. The spinach. Speaking out to your father. And to that other boy, your friend.”
“He’s not really my friend,” I said.
“Well, whoever he is. When you were with him, I felt a little bit like I could help him.” He looked tired again. “Was it horrible, coming into the river? You were crying.”
“The what?” I said.
“Oh, sorry,” Grandpa said. “I don’t know why, but the only way I can explain this place I’m stuck in is by calling it a river. It’s a cold river, with strong currents.”
“I thought you said you were inside your memories.”
“Yes,” he said, “I am—but the memories are inside the river. They’re strung together in long tunnels that I travel through without knowing where I’m going next or why.”
“I thought I was dying,” I said. “Before.”
“Are you comfortable now? You’re not afraid?”
“A little,” I said. “But I don’t know. There’s something about your voice that makes me feel all right.”
“Ah, Michael,” he said. “That’s important to me to hear you say. Thank you for saying that. Now, look!” he said. “Look at what a coward I was.”
In front of us, the young version of Grandpa stopped at the end of the lockers, looking over at the girls as if he wanted to join them. “Are you watching?” Grandpa whispered.
“Yes,” I whispered back.
The young version of Grandpa took a step closer to the girls. The one with long hair—Grandma—turned around and caught his eye. “Watch her smile,” Grandpa said. “It’s the brightest smile you’ll ever see.”
Sure enough, Grandma gave Grandpa a smile that made her whole face change. She looked like the kind of girl who would build forts out of bedsheets and let you eat ice cream when she babysat.
The young version of Grandpa stared at her a second, then looked down at his shoes, and turned away, scowling. “Coward, coward,” the Ghost Grandpa muttered. “I thought my memory of it was worse than it actually was, but I see now I was as cowardly then as I remained always.”
“You’re not so bad,” I said, thinking, What’s the big deal? He’s just shy.
But already, he’d said, “Let’s go.” He put his hands on my shoulders, and it wasn’t a gesture of reassurance, the way sometimes people will touch each other without thinking about it. He was clearly grabbing on to me for a reason. He closed his grip, closed his eyes, braced himself, and said, “Hold on.”
“But I thought you said you couldn’t control it,” I said. “I thought you said you went through the memories without knowing where you were going to end up.”
“Except with you,” he said. “There’s something about our combined energy that lets me choose a little bit. It’s like being in a boat in a storm. You get tossed wherever the storm wants you to go, unless you have a motor and can push the boat against the storm. I don’t know where we’re going now, but I do know I want to get away. You will help me do that. There’s something about the connection we have. Together we make a motor.”
Where his hands were touching me, I started to grow cold—I imagined his hand leaving a frozen print on my skin, like a burn. I didn’t want to be his motor. I wanted to be warm.
“No,” I said. “Don’t do this to me. I’m not ready.” But I heard the rushing wind again, and the cold intensified, spreading through my body. I tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let me go. When I twisted around, I caught a glimpse of Grandpa’s face. His eyes were closed, and he had a fierce look to his mouth, like he was trying to open a jar. “Let go of me!” I shouted. “Stop.” But he didn’t let go.
The river of the dead felt like water, but as I said before, water that was so cold it was about to freeze—it felt thicker, almost like a jelly. It was heavy on my body, and I felt kind of like I was drowning, like the cold jelly-water was being pushed down my throat.
And then, over the wind, I heard a sound like someone sobbing. Someone was sobbing. I could swear it was me—it felt like it was coming from inside my head. It took me a minute to realize that I must have been inside one of the memories Grandpa told me he traveled through.
I was a little boy sitting on a twin bed, holding one of those gliders made out of wood thinner than a Popsicle stick. It was broken. A grown-up voice said, “That will teach you to be more careful.”
Just as I felt how miserable that little boy was—I felt his disappointment as if he were me—the space I was inside started to move. I pushed down through the mattress, tunneling away from the boy with his dark red shoes, watching him fade above me.
I stopped in a dark movie theater, leaning forward in my seat, my stomach twisted into knots of laughter. The laughing was hurting me. I could hear the music of the kind of stupid cartoon that’s on TV at six in the morning. It was black and white, and it was loud—too loud. I thought it might explode my head. What was so funny? I wanted to know, but I was rushing, moving through the memory, tunneling through the back of the theater seats.
On the way, I saw the red leather shoes laid out on newspaper—I remembered staring at them. The toes were creased, and the soles were worn. I remembered how much I hated to polish them, how I was told to do it every single night.
With my next push forward, I was leaning against a woman’s leg, and I knew that it was my mother’s leg, except it wasn’t my own mother, it was a much bigger leg, inside a dress, and there was a hand pushing at my head. “Move along, Saulie,” she said. Saul was my grandpa’s name. “Can’t you see that Mommy’s counting?” And sure enough, there she was at the kitchen table with piles of pennies and nickels laid out before her, and she was scratching notes on a column of newspaper. This time, I pushed right through the kitchen cabinets, and even though it should have hurt, the only pain came from the bitter cold and pressure all around me.
I saw Stella. I was looking at her face. And I loved her—her eyes blinking, her freckles, the bend in her nose I knew so well, the places I knew how they felt under my hands. One of her eyes grew larger, grew and grew until it was a lake, and I was standing at the side of it, watching my own dad dive off a float into the water, except I wasn’t thinking, There goes my dad, I was thinking, There goes my son. And I hadn’t known he could make a jackknife, and I was proud of him.
I spun in the dark. I remembered what Grandpa had said about a boat in a storm. The cold burning in my shoulders spread down my arms and into my hands. I closed my eyes and felt the tears that were pushed out of them freeze into bullets of ice.
Every point where bones connected in my body ached. And then the cold slowly began to recede, and in a few minutes, I felt first my toes, then my fingers, and finally my face begin to warm. I was lying on the floor of our foyer, just as if I’d fainted. I opened my eyes when I heard the elevator beeping. I saw my mother stepping out into the apartment. I hadn’t been that happy to see my mom since—I don’t know—kindergarten.
“Michael?” she said. “What are you doing lying in here on the floor? You look horrible.”
For a second, I thought I would see Grandpa next to me, or at least back in the mirror. But he wasn’t there.
I stood. My knees were wobbly. My head was spinning. I felt like I’d just gotten off a roller coaster, the kind that is really old and made of wood, and probably ought to be shut down. I stuck a stiff arm out to brace myself on the mail table.
“I’m fine,” I said to my mom. “I was just resting.” Though in fact, it was a few minutes before I could really move, I was still so numb with cold. Fortunately my mom’s cell phone rang, and it was a client—by the time she was off the call, and back to find out what was going on with me, I was playing video games on the couch and looking like nothing was wrong.