Then, Now, Me

Chapter 8: Then

"Beth! Just roll off when you get to the bottom of the hill!" Matt shouts up to me. "You"ll be fine!"

I"m seventeen and home from school on a blessed snow day. We live in New Jersey, and there"s been an unusual accumulation of snow all winter. The thing about Jersey, though, as with other areas around us, the snow gets layered a bit with ice because it"s not that real fluffy snow you might see out in the midwest or west. The east coast is far too damp for the good snow to show itself. Anyway, today, the snow is just the same as any other - only, this time, with the addition of more snow, the curb alongside of the road appears to be a kind of ski jump due to the ongoing plow trucks driving past our house. On top of that, our house sits on this steep hill.

Making our house, in my brother"s mind, simply perfect for sledding - our family"s twisted version of an extreme sport.

"Man, I don"t know, Matt," I say, pacing on top of the hill, in front of the steps of our house. "Why don"t you go down again, and I"ll watch what you do."

Matt laughs, and starts making his way up the icy driveway off to the side of the front slope. "Come on, Beth. It"s really not bad."

My dad is off to the side with a pint-size version of Emily, attempting to build a snowman - which to me, is starting to look like a warped version of some amateurish abstract art piece. The icey snow really makes it pretty much impossible to do anything, short of building an igloo. My mom, of course, is inside probably cleaning, doing laundry, or some other boring Mom-like activity. She very rarely lets loose long enough to really engage much with us. It"s always been like that.

Matt finally gets back to the top of the hill with me, and adjusts himself over the sled. "Alright. So, it"s actually quite simple," he says in his mock professor tone. "You put the sled under you, like so," he delicately lines up the sled, as if calculating the best placement, "and the key," he says, while pointing his finger in the air and looking over at me in further mockery of my irrational fear, "is to roll off before hitting the danger zone, but be careful because the layer of ice makes it akin to an ice luge," He grins at me, and poises himself to launch from the top of the hill, "But that"s really all part of the fun." He adds, just before letting go, "Any questions?"

"No, Matt," I say with a sing-song frustrated tone, "I think you"ve made the process pretty clear. Just go already, will ya?"

Matt laughs again and says, "Geronimo!" zooming down the hill. And true to form - and I must hand it to him for his athleticism - he expertly curls up his knees, buries his head to his chest, and gracefully rolls off the sled at the perfect time. To my horror, the sled continues to shoot down toward the curb and is launched directly into the street - nearly making it to the other side. A driver in a Subaru wagon - "cause who can drive anything else in this mess? - glides by and honks, glaring at my brother, who simply gives a dramatic shrug of his shoulders and waves good-naturedly at the vehicle.

"Matthew," my dad shouts, in that familiar I-find-this-humorous-but-can"t-because-I"m-a-parent tone, "watch it next time!"

"Yeah, okay, Dad," Matt grins at my dad, and my dad just smirks, turning back toward my sister, kneeling on the ground.

Taking a deep breath, I grip the narrow rope on the front of my sled - pink, yuck - and slowly begin to position myself on it. My heart is racing as I look down at my journey, viewing it as an one might view the path into the dreaded doctor"s office. Another deep breath.

"Beth, just do it," Matt yells up, sitting off to the side on the hill. "Roll toward me when you get about here."

"Yeah, okay," I say to myself. "Here goes."

The short ride down the hill spikes my adrenaline and blurs my vision. Before I know it, the end is approaching and all I can do is grip harder onto the sled. I vaguely hear my brother shout, "Beth! Beth! Now!" but it"s too late.

I, along with the sled, have shot off of the mini ski jump and are now sailing across the street in mid-air.

Only, I don"t make it very far when the sled abruptly drops in the middle of the street and my rear end is instantly ablaze. I curl up, and try not to breathe, absorbing the shock of the pain.

Matt runs up, and out of the corner of my eye I can see my dad jogging down the steep driveway - carefully dodging the ice. "Beth, what the heck?" Matt says, half out of breath and, to my humiliation, half giggling.

My dad, without words, simply scoops me up and walks me back up the driveway. About halfway up, as I"m groaning in pain, he drops me down in a divot, making sure that my rear is completely cradled by the freezing snow.

"There," he says, looking pleased with himself. "Just hang out there for awhile."

I realize, through my foggy lens of pain radiating from my bottom, that my dad just literally put my ass on ice.

My brother is hysterically laughing as I cover my face with my mitten-covered hands. I will never go sledding again for as long as I live, I vow to myself.

And as though reading my mind, Matt, through his breathless cackling asks rhetorically, "Guess you won"t be doing that again anytime soon, huh?"

OOOOO

I"m in my cheerleading uniform, and the house is incredibly quiet.

My mind is trying to process all of the events from the day, from cheerleading at my first college football game, to the devastating news that rocked my family"s world moments afterward. It"s hard to imagine that with all of the life that happens everyday, and all of the life that will continue to happen as the days go on, that someone"s life, actually, will not. Their story is over. And although I have known people who have died before, this one is the first that really hits my emerging adult mind in a different, more profound way.

Also, a question pops into my head that may not have years before, How is my dad doing with this?

I hit the bathroom, looking at my face in the mirror. I look like your stereotypical cheerleader: caked on makeup, overly done hair tied in borderline obnoxious ribbons that coordinate with my uniform, which, ultimately, coordinate with the football team"s uniforms. Athletically, I"m in my peak shape, able to tumble and twist and jump in all kinds of ways on the sidelines before throwing girls up in the air - or, getting thrown up in the air myself. My uniform hugs to my shape snugly, appearing both athletic and feminine.

And I can"t wait to take all this crap off.

Although visually at this moment, I look like a stereotypical cheerleader, I"m not really that beyond the surface. At heart, I"m a book geek - currently obsessing over the Harry Potter novels I got my hands on at the college library. While my friends are pouring over their chemistry or calculus or psychology textbooks, I"m staying up at night wondering how Harry could possibly continue making it out of every mess in which he finds himself. I"m inspired by his integrity and his bravery and his commitment to the ones he loves.

Wondering this and more as I wash off my makeup and pour myself into my pajamas, I turn my thoughts to how to go downstairs and act in the face of what"s happened. I really don"t know what I"m walking into here, but all I know is that my dad needs some kind of emotional support - the kind in which I"m not sure he"s going to get from anyone else.

I deliberately and quietly place each foot on the stairs, hoping to not call attention to myself. I"d rather observe first and then appropriately insert myself into the situation.

As the kitchen and open living room come into view, I am both surprised and not surprised by the scene that fills my vision.

My mom and her parents - my grandparents - are quietly talking amongst themselves in the kitchen. It almost looks like an eerie tableaux - of what real life scene, I can"t say. When they see me come in the room, their eyes almost look caught. That old cliche go-to image of a deer in headlights comes to mind.

I say to them quietly, "Where"s Dad?" and before they can answer me, I see him out of the corner of my eye. He"s got his hands in his pockets, looking at a side wall in the adjacent living room. I"m confused about this, until I remember that there are pictures of his parents - and a particularly beautiful one of my grandmother - framed on that wall.

Coming closer, I can see my dad"s mouth pressed into a deep line, neither smiling nor frowning, but I can tell that he"s barely holding himself together. I look back quickly at my mom, shooting her a questioning look as if to say, "Mom, aren"t you going to do something here?" and it seems that my unspoken question is answered when she just as quickly looks down and continues to wipe down the countertop.

Internally shaking my head - what else did I expect, really? - I make a decision.

With my heart racing, I quietly walk up to my dad and put my hand on his back. I say so that only he can hear, "Grandma was a really special lady, Dad."

Which is all it takes for him to smile down at me with tears in his eyes and pull me in for a hug. Holding onto me like a lifeline, he whispers, "Thank you," and then he weeps quietly onto my shoulder.