Stupid Michigan. Winter was back by Monday. Grandma wasn’t being negative, she was being realistic. The last dried-up bloom on my Christmas cactus crumbled in my fingers. The plant arched and stretched toward the stingy daylight. The cold seeped through my jacket as I trudged to school. A mist of frozen rain and tiny snowflakes spat into my face. I couldn’t believe it. What kind of place was this? Why would anyone want to live here? Weather that plays tricks on you, never-ending winter.
I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, my fingers automatically searching for the smooth stone from Mount Chimborazo. It wasn’t there.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and carefully felt the lining in my pockets. I pulled one pocket inside out, then the other. No holes. No stone.
I nudged the slushy snowy ground around my feet and bent down to peer closer.
I started walking again. Maybe it fell out at home. I’d look for it later. It was just a stone. But my heart thumped and my stomach turned twisty. It wasn’t just a stone.
I turned around and half-ran, splashing through slushy puddles. I slipped on a slick patch right in front of the house, landing on my hip, my hands thrust into the snowy bank trying to catch myself. The cold shock made me gasp.
I shoved myself up, my hands stinging, my pants soaked. I blinked back tears and choked on a rising sob.
Grandpa opened the front door and eyed my wet pants. “Oh no, did you fall?”
I threw my backpack to the floor and yanked off my boots. “My stone is gone!”
“What stone?”
“My stone from Chimborazo. Uncle Max’s stone. It’s always in my pocket.”
“It fell out when you fell down?”
“No. It was already gone.” I ran down the hall to my room, my eyes scanning the floor along the way. I dropped to my hands and knees in my room, searching the carpet.
“What does it look like?” Grandpa asked.
“It’s about the size of my thumb, oval shaped and smooth. Shiny black with a coppery line running through it.”
He backed out into the hallway. “I’ll check in the living room and kitchen.”
I felt my way all around my room without any luck. I sat back on my heels. Think, think, when did I last notice it in my pocket?
Grandma appeared in my doorway. “Grandpa said you lost something from your coat pocket? A precious stone?”
I nodded. “It must have fallen out somehow. I know, don’t say it. If I would just hang up my coat like I’m supposed to and not toss it on the floor …”
“I washed it yesterday.”
“My coat?”
“It was so warm outside and you left the house without it, so I thought it’d be a good time to wash it.”
I closed my eyes, trying to contain the explosion of anger rising up from my gut. Why couldn’t she leave my stuff alone?
“You didn’t empty the pockets first? You pulled that note out of my jeans the other day.”
“Let’s check the washer and dryer,” she said.
I popped up and dashed past her to the laundry room. Please, please, please.
Nothing on the floor, nothing in the washer, nothing in the dryer.
“What about the lint trap?” Grandpa asked behind us. “Sometimes I find coins in there.”
“I already emptied it and didn’t notice anything,” Grandma said.
“The trash.” I went straight to the bin in the corner.
“Uh-oh,” Grandpa said. “I emptied it last night. It’s garbage day.”
We all froze. The unmistakable sound of the garbage truck was right outside. I ran to the front door. Our silver metal garbage can was upside down at the curb. The truck rumbling on to the next house.
My shoulders sagged.
“I’m sorry, Cara,” Grandma said.
I shook my head and retreated to my room. I stripped off my wet clothes and climbed into bed. I curled up and hugged little Tahoe. I wanted to have a miserable-sorry-for-myself cry, but the tears didn’t come.