“A saint, was it, Dad?” That’s PopCorn.
His father furrows his brow.
“Saint Iain? Or hang on, didn’t you have an uncle Iain?”
The old man doesn’t answer.
Desperate for something to talk about, Sumac flicks through the pictures till she finds a close-up of Camelottery. “And this is where we live. It was built in the days of Queen Victoria, but the frilly redbrick style is called Queen Anne.”
She’s always found that funny, but the grandfather doesn’t seem to.
“When I was small Wood totally lied to me that it’s called Camelottery because camels used to live there before us. I mean, we really do call it Camelottery, but because of Camelot. King Arthur’s castle?”
His long face doesn’t show whether he’s ever heard of King Arthur.
“The turrets and gargoyles, did you notice them?” Sumac zooms in on her favorite gargoyle, the one that’s sticking out its tongue. “And also, of course, Camelottery because of our, all of our surname.” She’s pretty sure that’s bad grammar.
The grandfather reacts at last, turning to PopCorn. “You’re a Miller, same as me.”
“I changed it, Dad, remember?”
The old man takes out his cigarettes again, but the receptionist points to the sign on the wall, so he puts them back.
“He’s not a very good listener.” Sumac whispers it right into PopCorn’s ear, so as not to hurt the grandfather’s feelings.
Instead of answering, PopCorn shows her a website he’s looking at on his phone. Symptoms of Smoke Inhalation, it says at the top. She follows his fingertip. Cough, shortness of breath, hoarseness, headache, confusion. He taps the last word.
Ah, so that’s it: The grandfather’s confused because of smoke in his head.
Sumac turns back to the old man with her most helpful face on. “All four of the parents changed their surnames when we won the lottery, see?”
Definitely a snort this time. “Advertising their business to the world!”
Sumac is puzzled, because it wasn’t a business. “No, they just wanted a new name to share with Sic. MaxiMum was walking up and down the corridor in the hospital, with CardaMom and PopCorn and PapaDum all rubbing her back, which was hurting because Sic was taking his sweet time to come out of her” — Sumac’s always liked that phrase, taking his sweet time, she can just imagine her big brother in miniature form, lounging around on the placenta — “and CardaMom picked up a lottery ticket off the floor to use as a bookmark. She was reading a book called A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” Sumac adds, because the title always sticks in her mind. “Anyway, the ticket had the winning number on it, and after three months, when the company still couldn’t find the real winner, they had to give the money to us. So the parents decided we’d be the Lotterys, because they felt so lucky now they had Sic. Especially since the money meant they could buy a big house to fill with lots more kids, and do interesting stuff with us all day instead of going to work.”
PopCorn is grinning at her. “Sumac’s the keeper of the family stories, even the ones that happened before she was born.”
The old man breaks his silence. “Our ancestor must have had a mill.”
Sumac’s bewildered for a second. Oh, right: Miller.
“Or at least lived near one,” says PopCorn.
“Nae,” snaps his father, “he’d have owned it.”
They lapse into silence again until the nurse finally calls, “Iain Miller.”
*
Their one day in Yukon has been a total washout. So far Sumac and PopCorn don’t seem to have cheered up the grandfather at all, or found him a new place to live. All they’ve done is go to the doctor and the drugstore.
The grandfather doesn’t want to come for ice cream with them. He says he has things to do, thank you very much.
It’s vanilla or chocolate; there aren’t any of Sumac’s favorites, like blood orange or toasted pine nut or chai spice. PopCorn barely eats half of his. He says jet lag is hard on the stomach.
“So how do they suck the smoke back out of your dad?” Sumac wants to know.
PopCorn shakes his head. “It turns out he doesn’t have smoke inhalation, just a regular old smoker’s cough.”
“Oh. Do you want to hear more about the Mesopotamians?”
“Later, I’d love to,” he tells her, dumping the rest of his cone in the garbage, “but right now I have to call someone called a regional care program supervisor.”
Sumac folds her arms.
As they’re driving back to the B&B, PopCorn says, “Sorry the ice cream wasn’t much good.”
“I don’t care about the ice cream!” Does he think she’s a baby?
“OK, petal.”
“So much for our special, exciting, One-to-One Lottafun,” she says in a wobbly voice. “This is turning out to be a big old Zerofun.”
PopCorn pulls over so fast the wheels screech. Sumac braces herself in case they’re going to crash.
He parks almost in the ditch. “Look, a gold pan!”
“What? Where?”