Gone

The final splashes of pastel recede to the west as the harvest moon rises in the east. Its glowering face emerges over the old railroad tracks, flanked by silhouettes of the crooked barn and creaky windmill. In the brief moment that it’s tethered to the horizon, I can almost reach out and pluck it from the sky.

Closer to home, mewling kittens tumble over each other in their soft nest of hay at the foot of the bales. Their mother stalks the shadows in search of her own dinner. Horses whicker, soft snorts hanging like wispy ghosts in the cool air. 

The lawn that stretches between the house and the corrals is littered with the withered corpses of neglected crabapples. The two trees that dropped them claw upward, their bent bare arms twisting and tangling.

The garden mimics the star-strewn sky, a barren black slab of ground speckled with brittle leaves. Withered sunflower stalks stoop at the far end, heads drooping downward, weary with weight.

A thin frost clings to it all, dull under the lone yard light that hums atop its roost. A brisk breeze provides a soothing balm against the perfume of old age and illness that still lingers in the house behind me. 

I lean against the porch post. The split ends that dangle from the rusted dinner bell softly brush the top of my head, the way Grandma used to lightly sweep her fingers over my crown in passing. Cocoa warms my hands through Grandpa’s favourite clay mug, the one I used to dip oatmeal cookies in with one hand while stealing sugar cubes with the other. I plan to keep the mug; I don’t think they’ve noticed it’s gone. Yet.

Molly limps over and huffs to a heap at my feet, joining my evening vigil over her domain. I reach down and give her greying head a pat. She blinks against cloudy, silver-fringed eyes and leans into my hand. Her heavy sigh settles in a cloud around us. Me too, old girl.

A warm draft tickles the back of my neck as the screen door yawns. My cousin Jess leans over the splintered rail beside me. She holds out a silk scarf, gleaming black and gold. My favourite one.

“Snagged it for you,” she says. Its twin, black and silver, is tied in her hair.

She shouldn’t need to ‘snag’ me anything, but I take it without a word. It slips through my fingers, soft and cool, and I wrap it around my neck the way we used to when we played dress-up in Grandma's closet.

Back when the farm was just a place I visited.

“Can you believe it’s our last Christmas out here?” Jess asks.

I shrug. 

If this were Christmas, the warmth spilling through the big picture window would be spiced with Grandma’s music. She’d be praying through the yellowed keys of the piano that hugs the wall between the dining and living room. The melodies she recalled from memory would float among notes of fresh buns and peppermint tea. Grandpa would be listening from the corner, his fingers dancing in front of closed eyes and his recliner's wailing springs joining in the symphony. 

Everyone would sing along off-key and applaud Grandma, who would spin around on the bench and clasp her hands in delight. My uncles would go back to scotch and politics; my aunts would go back to wine and dishes. Then we’d all congregate at the dining table for a pot of tea, a slice of apple pie, and a game of cards. Grandma would win, because she was insufferable if she didn’t; Grandpa would cheat, because 'if you ain’t cheatin’ you ain’t tryin’.'

We would play games and visit late into the night, the crowd dwindling until it was just us three. Grandpa would wink at me and say, “Better get to bed Lulu, or Santa Claus won’t have time to drop in.” 

No matter how late we stayed up, no matter that I was twenty-three years old, Santa would find the time.

I don’t know what this is, but it’s not Christmas.

The dining room table is lost under the drudgery of death: piles of paperwork, stacks of photo albums, and cards of condolences. Wilting flower arrangements adorn the piano, and the living room is a maze of heirlooms up for auction. 

Her bells.

His violin. 

The cuckoo clock from the old country. 

Her teapots.

His pocket knives.

The trunk that was carried across oceans. 

Even the Santa suit, beard and all, is a spot of stubbornly polite bidding. It's the first Christmas Eve in my memory that it hasn’t been worn, though.

“Where do you think you’ll go?” Jess asks, dropping the small talk.

Her blunt approach is refreshing; everyone else has been tip-toeing around the subject. There’s no money left. The house and the land need to be sold. When the semester ends and the dorms close, I’ll have nowhere to go.

“Back to school, I suppose.”

“And then?”

I wonder if Jess is out here, shivering in her little black dress, because they sent her, hoping to learn that they’ll once again be relieved of responsibility for me.

“I don’t know, Jess. Maybe I’ll sell feet pics and buy a flat in Spain. Does it matter?”

She frowns at my flippancy. “Well of course it matters Lulu! You know you’re always welcome with me and Jay but -”

“Don’t,” I say, waving away the excuses. “I’ll be fine.”

She gives me a long, appraising look. “You should come back in.”

“In a minute.”

She reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze. I feel a sudden urge to toss my cocoa in her face, but I don’t.

The clamor of grief rises and falls as she lets herself back inside. The fridge door clanks against borrowed dishes. Booming laughter erupts over an old family photo. Handwritten notes in the flour-dusted recipe book evoke tearful exclamations. Somewhere in the bowels of the basement excavation another Rubbermaid bin scrapes across the concrete floor.

I tune it all out in favor of the night. Somewhere beyond the barbed wire border of the pasture a coyote croons his complaints to the moon. Molly gives her head a gruff shake, grumbles, then lays her snout between her paws. 

My little Ford Fusion is already packed, the piled remnants of my bedroom a bulky shadow lurking in the back seat. It’s parked next to Grandpa’s slumbering rust-bucket Ram, the dark cab a vault of a thousand memories.

I’d barely been able to see over the steering wheel, even sitting on his lap, for my first driving lesson when I was six. I’d screamed and he’d laughed as we rattled across the Texas gate and bounced through the field, dodging cattle and scattering crows. 

“You’ve got it little Lou!” he’d roared with delight, fearlessly hands-free. “You’re a natural!”

I’d barely been able to see through my tears when, at fourteen, I’d swiped the keys and tried to turn back time, racing back to a house that wasn’t home anymore. They found me in the ditch only two miles from the farm. I’d screamed and he’d cried as I buried my face in the chest of his hay-dusted chore coat.

“Oh my lovely Lulu,” he’d croaked with despair as my sobs became sneezes. “I wish like hell I could bring’em back for you.”

I saunter down the steps and drag my fingers over the truck's mottled hood. I slip my fingers under the cold handle. It sticks, like it always has. I climb up onto the stiff bench seat and pull the door shut.

A stale peppermint evergreen swinging from the rearview mirror is the closest I’ll get to a Christmas tree this year.

A few loose mints and gold-wrapped Werther's lie haphazardly on the dust-covered dash.

The key stands to attention in the ignition.

What if I just…

The engine roars to life with relief. Kansas streams from the speakers with abandon, and I crack a smile at the lyrics that we used to rock out to, windows down, volume up.

Molly cocks her head but doesn’t move from her perch. People spill out onto the porch behind her, shielding their eyes, squinting against the headlights.

I knot Grandma’s scarf at my throat. 

I set Grandpa’s mug in the passenger seat.

Jess flings her arms hysterically overhead as if to flag me down.

I wonder, briefly, what she would say if I did stop. 

But I’m gone.