"Thank you and be done with it."
She snorts. "Punk."
"I just… I love it, Betty." I throw my arms around her again. The car is the first good thing that's happened in Maine. It is the first good thing that has happened in a long time.
Of course, people in third world countries have to save their entire lives for a car, and here is mine, right there in the driveway, waiting for me. My head whirls.
"I don't deserve this, Betty," I say again, once we're back in her cozy living room. She bends over and starts up a fire in the woodstove, crumpling up paper, stacking kindling.
"Enough with that sort of talk, Zara," she says. Her back cracks when she stands up. It reminds me that she's old. It's hard to remember that. "You deserve lots of things," "But there are people starving in the world. People who don't have homes. People who-" She holds up a finger. "You're right. I'm not going to say you aren't right, but just because they go without doesn't mean you have to go without too."
"But…"
"And it doesn't mean you can't use what you have to make other people's lives better." She pulls off her hat and runs her hands through her crazy-curly, grayish/orangish hair. "How are you going to do any volunteer work without a car? Or get to school? Huh?"
I shrug.
" 'Cause I'm a busy woman, Zara," she continues. "Although I've changed my schedule so I'm not going on any night calls. We'll have dinner together, be all domestic." She smiles a little and her voice softens.
"You're just like him."
She means my dad. My throat closes up but I manage to whisper, "How?"
"Always trying to save the world. Always worried that you have too much when other people have too little," she says. "And always trying to get out of going to school," She stomps over and gives me a quick hug, followed by a smack on the butt. She's so football coach sometimes, I call my mom even though I don't really want to.
"I'm here," I say.
"Oh, sweetie. I'm glad you made it safe. How is it?"
"Cold."
"Sounds just like the Maine I remember." She laughs and then pauses. I listen to silence and then she asks, "You still mad at me?"
"Yep."
"It's for your own good."
"Right. Did you know a boy up here went missing last week?" "What? Put your grandmother on the phone, okay?
Zara…I love you."
I point at Betty. "She wants to talk to you."
Then I say into the phone. "Love you too."
Betty grabs it from me, covers it with her hand, and says, "Now, go on up to your room and get settled in. It's the second door on the left You have to get that car registered tomorrow at town hall. And start school. First thing. No sulking around the house."
I nod and trot up to ward my bedroom. Pausing on the stairs, I just make out Betty's hushed voice saying, "She sure doesn't look like herself. You were right."
She plods across the room and stares at me eavesdropping. "Are you listening to my conversation with your mother?"
My throat closes up. I manage to nod.
"Up to bed, missy!"
I run up the rest of the stairs and head into my bedroom. With its lace curtains and cozy quilt-covered bed my bedroom doesn't seem so bad either. The walls are pale and not wood. Boxes of my clothes hunker against the wall. I yank off my jeans and hoodie and grab the bathrobe hanging from the back hook of the door. There's aZ embroidered into the puffy baby blue cloth. I wrap it around me and for a second I feel almost happy. The warm shower to get off all that airport grime feels amazing, even if there are rubber ducky decals all over the tiles. I towel off and head back to my room. Grandma Betty lets me settle in by myself. I even put up my Amnesty International poster. It's a candle with barbed wire around it, the symbol of the organization. I stare at the flame on it and feel almost-but not quite-cozy. I'm pulling out my International Rights reports when she sticks her head in my bedroom doorway.
"You settling in okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks for having me." I leave the reports in a pile, stand up, and smile at her.
She smiles back and closes one of the shades. "I'm honored to spend time with my only granddaughter."
I walk away to the oilier window to close the shade, but I want to look out first. I have to wipe away the cold to see out. It's just trees and darkness, darkness and trees. I pull the shade down. "I really don't want to go to school tomorrow."
She comes and stands next to me. "Of course you don't" "I don't really want to do much of anything." "I know, but it'll get better." She bumps her hip into me and then drapes an arm around my shoulders, giving me a sideways hug. "You could always pray for a snow day."
I hug her back. "That is an excellent idea. Maybe I could do the snow dance."
She laughs, "Your dad taught you that?" "Yep. You drop an ice cube into the toilet and dance around chanting 'Snow. Snow. Snow.' " "Until it melts. That son of mine. I sure do miss him." She settles against me for a second, pats her strong hands on my back. "But I'm glad you're here to keep me company, selfish or not. Now, no worries.
You'll be okay, Zara. I'll make sure of that."
"I just don't know if I'm up for the whole school tiling." I pull away, cross my arms over my chest.
She kisses the top of my head. "You will be just fine, princess. And if anyone gives you any crap, I'll go jack 'em for you, okay?"
The thought of my ancient life-saving grandmother pummeling someone makes me laugh, even though I know I shouldn't laugh at violence.
"I mean it, Zara. Anyone hassles you, you let me know. Anything scares you or bothers you, you tell me.
That's my grand-motherly duty. You let me do it. Okay?"
Outside, the snow keeps trucking down. Shivering, I look up into her eyes, amber like a wild cat's. The pupils seem to expand a little because she means it. She really means it, I grab her hand. "Okay."
The howling wakes me up in the middle of the night.
It is a long noise, full of grief.
I shudder and sit up in bed.
Something outside howls again. It's not too far away.
Coyotes?
There's a series of excited yips and another howl. I remember tills movie we watched in wildlife biology class about how coyotes act when they have a kill. This sounds sort of like that, but not exactly like coyotes, deeper maybe, like big dogs or wolves.
I pad over to my window, move the curtains back, and look out. Whiteness covers the lawn and my car.
The moon glistens off it, making the snow seem as if it's made of crystals or diamonds, gleaming, shining.
It's beautiful.
I breathe out. Have I been holding my breath? Why would I hold my breath? Because I'm thinking of my dad.
My dad grew up here. And he'll never see this snow or this house or the forest or me again. He's locked away from it, locked away from me, from life, a prisoner. I would do anything to set him free.
My hand presses against the cold window frame. Something moves at the edge of the woods, just a shadow really, a darkness that seemed a little darker than the tree trunks and limbs.
I tilt my head and squint. Nothing.
Then it comes, the feeling. Imaginary spiders scurry against my skin.
My hand leaves the window. The curtain swings closed. I tiptoe back to bed, closing the distance between window and bed as quickly as I can without actually running.
"It's nothing."
That's what stinks about lying. It's hard to do it to yourself and actually believe it. It's much better to just chant your phobias, face the truth, and be on your way, but I can't do that. Not yet.
The best thing about crying is that it always knocks me out. I slept really well last night, even with the stupid dogs howling around midnight or so. It's a good thing I'm not cynophobic because I would have freaked all night. It's quiet now.