Left Neglected

Chapter 38





It’s the last weekend in March, and while most parts of the country are enjoying the beginning of spring, Cortland is celebrating its annual Forever Winter Festival. Bob, Charlie, Lucy, and I just finished eating lunch in the main lodge after a full morning on the slopes. My mother and Linus spent the morning at the festival, and now Bob and the kids want to go, but I’m feeling too tired. We decide that Bob will drop me off at home for a nap, and he and the kids will go without me.

The festival is a weeklong affair, quintessential small-town Vermont and great family fun. There are snowman contests, bonfires and s’mores, hot cocoa and snow cones, ice-skating on the lake, cross-country ski races, and live music. And all the local businesses sell their goods at the festival market—maple syrup, fudge, jams, cheese, quilts, paintings, sculpture. We’re in the car, and I’m reading aloud from the festival brochure to get the kids excited.

“Ooo, they’re having the dogsled races today!”

“Maybe I could be a professional dogsled musher,” Bob says.

“Yeah!” yell out Charlie and Lucy.

“And ice fishing,” I say, trying to stay on the subject of the festival.

“I could be a frozen lake fisherman,” Bob says.

“Yeah!” cheer Charlie and Lucy.

“Bob,” I say.

“Or I could raise cows in the yard and make ice cream!”

“Yeah!” they yell, giggling.

I laugh, too, but only because I can’t help picturing Bob with his shirtsleeves rolled up, trying to milk a cow.

“And I could have my own ice cream truck, and I’d be the ice cream man!”

“Yeah!” they shout.

“Do that one, Daddy,” says Lucy.

“Yeah, be an ice cream man!” says Charlie.

“The votes are in, babe. I’m Vermont’s newest ice cream man. I’m going to need a white truck and a hat.”

Again, I crack up, picturing Bob in the hat. I’ve also added red suspenders.

It feels good to joke around about this topic. Our conversations about Bob’s job and Welmont versus Cortland have been charged and stressful with no resolution as of yet. He’s at least open to the idea now, and he’s actively looking for a job in Vermont. But he’s picky. If he wasn’t finding anything suitable enough for him in Boston, I have less and less faith with each passing day that he’s going to find anything acceptable to him here.

We pull into our driveway, and Bob helps me out with the car still running.

“You got it from here?” he asks, handing me my cane.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Will you bring me home some fudge?”

“You got it. I’ll watch to make sure you get in.”

I walk down the gravel pathway to the front door. I let go of the cane, turn the knob, and push the door open. Then I turn and wave good-bye as Bob pulls out of the driveway. I’m getting better and more confident at standing without relying on the cane or holding on to anything, and it feels thrilling to experience even a few successful seconds of standing on my own two feet.

As I walk through the mudroom, I hear a high-pitched whistling sound. It sounds like the whistle from one of Linus’s battery-operated trains, but he should be smack in the middle of his three-hour nap. He’d better not be up playing with trains.

“Mom?” I call out, but not too loudly in case he’s napping as he should be.

I walk into the living room. My mother’s asleep on the couch. Linus must be up in his crib. Good. But the whistling sound is louder in here. And constant. Maybe the button to one of his electronic trains is stuck pressed in. I look around the living room for the train, but I don’t see one anywhere. The room is clean, and all of Linus’s toys are put away. I check the TV. It’s off.

I granny cane over to Linus’s toy box and listen. The whistle doesn’t appear to be coming from Linus’s toys. I listen again, trying to localize the sound. I can’t figure it out. I’m more curious about what the heck it is than annoyed or worried by it. It’s not so loud that it’s disturbing Linus or my mother, and I’m sure I wouldn’t hear it at all from my bedroom. But what is it?

I cane, step, and drag myself into the kitchen and listen. The sound is definitely coming from in here. I open and close the refrigerator. Nope, it’s not that. I look across the floor, the table, and the counter for one of Linus’s trains. Everything is clean. No trains. No electronic toys. No cell phones. No iPods.

I look at the stove top. Nothing there. Then I remember to look left, and I see the teakettle sitting on a bright red burner, steam billowing out from its spout. I look across the counter again, this time remembering to scan left, and I notice my mother’s empty mug, the string and paper square from her tea bag hanging over the side.

My heart drops into my stomach, and my skin goes clammy. I turn the knob to Off and move the kettle to the right. The whistling stops.

I granny cane back into the living room. I listen. Everything is quiet. I sit on the edge of the couch next to my mother and know, even before I hold her hand, that she’s not sleeping.