It’s easy to talk Grandpa and Harold and Paul into letting me take the day off from school. They’re all feeling pretty mushy, so mushy that I bet they’d buy me my own Toyota Tacoma if I asked them nice.
“As long as you do your homework,” Harold says. And he’s doing that practice dad thing again, which isn’t so annoying anymore because I know he’s just practicing for me.
I walk Grace and Harold and Paul out to their cars, and Grace tells me that a nurse will come by at five thirty every night, starting tonight. “Her name is Katie and she’s the best.”
She tells me how Katie will help Grandpa transition from afternoon to evening and into bed at night, and how she’ll make sure he has clean clothes, and help with dinner. I tell her that’s fine, but really I’m thinking that I’m still going to squeeze the cheese into the mac no matter what because that’s my job. And that Grandpa can still braid my hair in the morning.
Harold gives me a hug good-bye while Paul puts May in her car seat and says to call if I need anything.
Back in the house I help Grandpa empty the water from the basin at his feet. It’s not hot anymore, but that’s fine because we’re not shaking like we were before.
“My memory might be rusty,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean I forgot about that homework you have to do. You’re not getting any free day out of me.”
I remember the pact I made with Alex. That even though it stinks and we don’t want to do it we are going to finish this stupid family tree project so we can pass the fifth grade. And so he can make his dad proud. And it’s due tomorrow.
“Will you help me?” I ask.
Grandpa nods so I go to my book bag and take out my notebook and a pen and drop it on the kitchen table. He walks over slow and pulls out a chair to sit.
My stomach is growling. That cheese sandwich we had in the shelter already feels like days ago. Even the doughnut from Grace feels like yesterday. “I’m going to make some oatmeal,” I tell Grandpa.
“Make it two,” he says.
I stir in the oats and turn down the heat so it doesn’t boil over, then I grab two bowls and spoons from the cabinet.
“Don’t forget the syrup.”
I smile at him because we both know that no one worth knowing can eat oatmeal without maple syrup. But when I go to pour it over the oats in our bowls, the slowest, skinniest stream dribbles out.
“Guess we’ll have to boil soon, then,” Grandpa says. “A refrigerator without syrup is no good at all.”
And I don’t know if he remembers when Derek and his mom came over, and if he remembers about his hands and spilling half the sap.
“How about this weekend?” he asks.
“Perfect.” I’m already thinking that I’ll go out today after I finish this stupid project to collect sap from the buckets and get ready.
I let the last drops fall from the maple syrup jug and bring the bowls of oatmeal over to the kitchen table, where Grandpa is sitting with my unfinished family tree draft.
And that’s when I get the idea for my project.