Or Not to Be (17 page)

It was a weekend morning, so early it was
still dark gray with fringes of light around the curtains, and I was the only
one awake in the house I grew up in. I was a tiny thing with long hair and a
chubby face. I wanted peanut butter for some bread, but the jar was closed
tight. Way back then, peanut butter came in glass jars. Everything came in
glass jars because humans hadn’t yet discovered how to turn petroleum into
plastics, but we sure knew how to melt silica. It was a full, new jar, and it
was heavy.

I carried the peanut butter jar, cradled
it tight to my chest with both arms, while I walked in my nightgown and bare
feet to my sleeping Daddy. I didn’t wake him up. I just sat on the cold wooden
floor with the jar in my lap and my belly grumbling and watched him sleep—for a
really long time. He snored a little. Finally, he opened one eye and tossed a
sleepy smile to me. I held up the jar. I didn’t even have to ask; he just took
it and cranked it open. He wasn’t even grumpy. I kissed his cheek, and, as I
walked away with my open jar, he whispered, “Anna, don’t drop it.”

“I won’t,” I whispered back.

Then, I did.

It crashed to the wooden floor. I stood
frozen amid the shards of peanut butter-covered glass. Daddy jumped out of bed
and rushed to me, gaining consciousness, swearing under his breath,
“Goddamnsonofabitch.”

I
thought he was mad at me for dropping the jar after he told me not to. I
thought he was mad at me for making a mess. I thought he was mad at me for
waking him up.

Daddy
picked me up in my nightgown and bare feet. I tried not to cry. In his arms I
understood, in my five-year-old mind, that he wasn’t mad. He was just being my
daddy and protecting me.

When
he put me down far from the glassy mess and knelt on the floor, he let me cry
on his shoulder for a while. Then I wiped my nose on my sleeve and whispered,
“Sorry, Daddy, for making you swear.”

“Sorry
I swore, punkin’,” he whispered back.

“Good
thing Mommy didn’t hear, huh?”

He
shook his head and smiled before he began to clean up the mess. Mommy was still
asleep in a lump on her side of the bed. Over his shoulder he said, “I think
Mommy heard. But it’s okay to swear sometimes if you have a good reason.”

“Like
that time you stepped in the poop in the living room?”

“A
very excellent example, my dear. A lesson to remember: if you step in dog poop
in the dark in your living room in your bare feet, it is okay to swear.”

“Can
we get some more peanut butter today?”

“Of
course, sweetie, and I’ll remember to crank open the jar for you before I go to
bed so it’s nice and loose in the morning. Okay?”

“Okay.”

For
the rest of my life, I never again asked for help in opening a tight jar.

Now, however, I feel like I’m stuck inside the jar of
death. Daddy, I need help.

26

I was sixteen
, invincible, on top of my game and learning to drive.
Why was this car so damn long? It was like a boat on wheels. The lane was
impossibly narrow. If I tipped up my chin and craned my neck, I could just see
over the dashboard. It was my first time on the highway. Actually, it was the
first time I ever drove faster than thirty miles per hour. I was busy
calculating in my head how fast sixty miles per hour would be in feet per
second, and I almost had it divided down to the hundredths place when Daddy’s
voice interrupted from the passenger seat.

“Anna, why don’t you pass this guy?” How
odd to hear his voice from over there. I, the new Queen of Sheba, was in the
driver’s seat.

“Okay.” I hit my left turn signal, checked
my mirror; the lane was clear, so I swung the wheel left and then zipped it
back right, and somehow the car was in the left lane.

Daddy made gasping noises.

“Don’t have a heart attack, Daddy. I did
it.” Jeez, he was so nervous.

When he recovered his breath he said,
“Stay calm, Anna. I need to give you some advice. Now, don’t take this as you
would the daily advice you get from your mother—not at all like a suggestion to
be briefly considered and then discarded. Take this as advice from your dad.
Consider it an order. Got that?” This was quite a long speech for my dad. I
just nodded.

He continued, “In a minute you’re going to
have to get back in the right lane. From here on, you should not consider a
lane change as a succession of two opposing turns. Ever again. Are you with me
on this? There should not be a sharp right followed by a sharp left. It should
be a slight turn of the wheel in the direction of your desired lane. Kind of
ease into it. Do you see the difference?”

I nodded. I tried not to smile.

He said, “Okay. Right lane is clear.
Blinker on. Good. Eeeease over.” After I steered the boat-car back into the
safer and slower right lane, he heaved a heavy sigh and said, “Good. That’s
enough practice on that. No more lane changes for this trip.” We had an hour to
go, so I guessed we’d be spending the whole ride behind the chicken truck.

I drove for about ten more minutes in
silence as the chicken feathers wafted down on us like snowflakes. My dad was a
quiet person. Silence and thinking were his normal modes of operation. So when
a spider spun a string and dangled from the roof of the car in front of my face
and I started waving my arms and screaming, the silence shattered like glass.
Daddy was lightning quick. He grabbed the steering wheel with one hand and
killed the spider with the other. So much like a superhero: mild mannered,
ordinary guy springing into action to save my life. But after that episode, he
was breathing heavy again. I hoped he didn’t intend to have a heart attack
while I was driving.

Once the spider was dead, I asked to turn
the radio on. Daddy said, “No, Anna. Just concentrate on the road, please.”
Then, under his breath, I heard what sounded like, “Please, God.” We had about
twenty more miles until our exit—the horrible chicken truck was still pooping
white feathers and a nasty odor at us—and then fifteen more minutes on the back
road. Though I was getting tired, I knew I couldn’t complain or he’d never let
me drive again. I concentrated on staying awake, keeping my eyes wide open for
the elongated minutes until we reached our exit. I pointed to a hitchhiker with
a backpack on the exit ramp, and once again, Daddy started that pained, heavy
breathing when I slowed down. I opened Dad’s window with the cool power
controls that the driver gets to use. I leaned across Daddy and yelled out his
window to offer the guy a ride. He hopped in the back and we drove him about
five miles down the road.

Daddy was steaming when he managed to
speak. “Pull over, Anna. Driving lesson’s over.” Then, hitching his thumb over
his shoulder, he told my passenger, “Free ride’s over for you, too, buddy.”

| | | |

“
Yes, Anna
,
driving lessons were a special part of being your dad.”

“Hi, Daddy! Where have you been?”

“I’ve been here, watching. You know me,
not much to say.”

It is such a relief to have him with me.
He was my rock. I still have so much to figure out.

“Now you do know the rules, right? I
expect your mother remembered to tell you all about this guide stuff? I’m not
usually a guide. But, apparently, you need more guidance than your mother can
give. Is that right?”

I don’t want to make Mom seem like an
inadequate guide, but there are other issues I need to cover. So I just say,
“You were always good at helping me change lanes, Daddy. Will you help me with
this?”

“I will,” he says, “as much as I can
.”

27

When I was little
, my fear of dogs made me tremble. As an adult, I was
never afraid of dogs, or anything, anymore.

Then I met those three dogs on my long run
and my old fear boiled back up. The six-mile training circuit was my favorite
before half-marathons. Once I could do the six miles without hurting, I’d add
two miles every two weeks until I got up to twelve miles. That’s how I’d know
my legs could carry me for the race.

The long loop had it all. Winding, lazy
hills. A pond with horses. Lots of shade. A few houses. A toilet in a ditch. A
small farm with a rooster that always crowed for me. A creek beside the road.
Once I was warmed up, if nothing hurt or distracted me, I’d dive deep into my
thoughts. My brain would just go and go and leave my body. I’d solve physics
problems, contemplate science and religion, ponder the number of stars and
galaxies in the enormous universe, and agonize about personal problems, like my
crumbling marriage and what to do about Eddie. Lately, running was my favorite
way to get away from Eddie’s funk.

Back to the dogs. One day after dropping
Joey at a friend’s house, I found myself driving on the last two-mile stretch
of my running route and saw three dogs at a mailbox up the road from the
horses. I’d never seen them before, and I wondered whether they lived there or
if they were a pack of strays. Either way, their presence on my quiet running
path disturbed me, and I was glad to be safe in my car.

The next time I ran, I remembered them as
I approached the horses by the pond. When I got closer, I picked up a stupid
little stick that I planned to use to defend myself against three large German
shepherds who looked like wolves. Thank God they weren’t there. And again, a
week later, I took an early turn before their mailbox to avoid them, but I
peeked around the corner and again they weren’t there. So I had years of
running data showing no dogs on this route, considered together with a couple
more runs without them. My statistical brain concluded that the dogs did not
live there. It was a fluke that I saw them when I drove by. Hence, my run was
theoretically safe again.

I decided that I was not even scared the
next time I ran the cycle, and I didn’t even bother to pick up a dirty old log
for protection. I said hello to the horses like I always did. As I started up
the long hill and approached the dogs’ mailbox spot, I saw movement through the
trees. I saw one dog lounging on the driveway. He didn’t move, but I was so
spooked I turned around and ran halfway back down the hill toward the horses.
The dog didn’t chase me. My mind did the calculation of “five miles if I
backtrack, one and a half miles if I can get by.” The big dog seemed to be
alone. I turned around and risked it. I ran by him, exuding the stench of fear,
with all of the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention.

His ears perked up as he studied me with
sharp, black eyes. I stared back. The other two dogs were resting in the sun
behind him. One heaved himself to his feet and paced when he saw me. When the
third dog stood up, I almost peed myself. They didn’t chase me, but their eyes
followed me. They barked while they weaved an agitated dance in the high grass.
I held my breath until, without warning, they all turned and ran toward the
house. Away from me. My heart was beating in double time. I sprinted up the
hill. The dogs barked from the woods but didn’t chase me.

“That’s not exactly how it happened.”

My dad’s voice.

“Daddy? What do you mean?”

“You should go back again and watch more
carefully this time. Watch how the details change.”

“The details can change? That doesn’t make
sense.”

“I know, doll. Just let me show you. If
you can manage to get through it on your own, you’ll understand much more about
time travel and your choices.”

I jogged past the horses and approached
the black mailbox beside the driveway where the dogs were spotted weeks ago.
Movement through the trees. One dog, the biggest one, rested in the shade on
the driveway. He didn’t move, but I was so scared I backed away, slowly, down
the hill. His ears perked up as he studied me. I stared back at him. Sweat
streamed down my spine. I looked around for a stick, and found one that was
both too heavy and too brittle. The other two dogs walked past the chief. They
inched closer to the road, closer to me. My heart was beating so hard I could
feel the blood pulsing in my temples. I turned and sprinted up the hill. They
were too fast for me, barking close behind me. I ran as fast as I could,
fighting gravity, blindly waving the branch as they nipped at my heels. The
barking stopped. I felt something rip into my thigh. The ground rushed up to
meet me as I fell fast, and my head hit a rock in the ditch beside the road.
More barking. Pain in my leg. My head throbbed. And then there was nothing.

My body is by the side of the road. Blood
is everywhere. Maybe I’m not all the way dead yet. The dogs stare at me from
across the road.

The air is still. The birds are quiet. The
dogs trot up the driveway, back to the house. The runner gets up and wipes
grass and dirt from her hands and legs. She looks up the hill and begins to
run. She is me.