The recent vision had been clear. Date Brian and he drinks himself to death. But what if I didn’t date him? I didn’t know if he’d live any longer. Given his reaction, I’d guessed accurately about his current drinking habits. Would my rejection or comment about his drinking change anything?
Out the main doors, the line of buses waited, their exhaust tainting the clean cool fall air. Heading toward the end of the line, I boarded my bus, taking the steps two at a time, welcoming the warmth. The driver, using her mirror to watch the trouble underway in the back of the bus, ignored me as I sat near the front with the younger kids. They were less irritating. Less irritating made the forty-minute bus ride tolerable. My stomach rumbled as I thought of the lengthy ride, lunch long gone.
The flow of kids leaving the school slowed and the first bus in line pulled away, the rest of the line slowly following.
At sixteen, taking the bus sucked. I had my license, but no car. I had no job to pay for it. No job because I lived so far out of town I needed a car to get a job. My aunt, great-great aunt, great grandmother, my mom and I all lived together, pooling resources. With all that pooling, we still didn’t have any extra money for even the crappiest of cars. Only my mom and Aunt had jobs.
The little boy sitting next to me tapped my arm and asked me to tie his shoe. I smiled at him and showed him how to make bunny ears out of the laces. Boys were cute at this age before they learned to care what their peers thought of them. One of the first few stops, I moved to let him out and then stared out the window watching trees pass in a blur of brown.
When the bus emptied of a few of the more obnoxious older kids, I pulled out my homework to pass the time. Despite the long ride, I usually beat my mom and aunt home. It worked out well though. With my homework done, I could help a little. The quiet time spent making dinner with Gran and great Aunt Danielle made my night.
Two minutes after finishing my last math problem, the bus pulled over for my stop. Bag slung over my shoulder, I stood near the driver waiting for the door to open to let me off at the end of our long drive. Gravel crunched under my feet as I stepped down and a crisp breeze swept past.
The bus pulled away as I tucked my hands into my coat and moved to the mailbox. My one true chore in winter. Carrying what I found under one arm, I returned my hand to my pocket. The air that had felt cool and refreshing after school now just felt chilly.
Eyeing the distance to the house, I wondered not for the first time, how we would manage to shovel it. Naked trees and long dormant grass crowded the narrow drive. Minute hills and valleys in the gravel made for a bumpy ride or a slow walk. A challenge to navigate with a shovel. But the house made up for the driveway.
From a distance, the faded green paint coating the wood siding of the two-story farmhouse didn’t look bad. Up close, you could see the crackled pattern in the paint that stubbornly clung to the old boards. Other than being drafty and needing paint, the house remained in good shape. Low rent made it worthwhile.
Hurrying my steps, I spotted my great grandma on the porch waiting for me, rocking in an old wicker chair. Her stark white hair stood out against the green paint behind her.
Wrapped in a blanket, she watched me approach. In her early seventies, though she looked the grandmother part, she didn’t always act like it. Her life had been hard early on, especially after the death of her daughter. It had taken its toll. She told me repeatedly that I’d breathed life back into the family when I’d been born.
Smiling at the sight, I scolded her as I climbed the steps, “Gran, it’s getting too cold for that.”
She laughed away my concern. “The cold won’t be what kills me. How does spaghetti sound for dinner?”
“Great.” Helping her from the chair, we both went inside.
It wasn’t much warmer inside, but I peeled off my jacket and followed her to the kitchen, a small cheery room set just inside the front door. It’d warm up as soon as we started cooking. I moved to the butcher block as she went to the pantry.
“Anything interesting happen at school today?” she asked as she handed me an onion to peel and chop.
She moved to the sink as I replied, “Brian asked me out. Touched me. With me, he’d be a drunk and a cheat until the day he dies.”
“Any kids?” Gran asked absently pulling an empty pot from the nearby stovetop to fill it with water.
The image of a sweet cherub face rose invaded my mind and I suffered a pang of loss. The visions, along with their emotional attachments stayed with me for a few days. When I recalled details, it all felt real.
Gran set the pot on the stove and pulled out another pan, jarring me from the fake memory.
“One.” I grabbed some garlic to mince while she prepped the sauté pan with oil.
“Hold out for at least two.”