All the Answers (24 page)

“Ava.” Grandpa's voice was scratchy. He opened his eyes, then swallowed slowly, like it hurt. He looked over at her mom.

“You need some water, Dad?” Mom reached for the pitcher by the bed, but it was empty. “I'll be right back.”

She left, and Ava looked at her dad. “Do you want to go with Mom for a walk?” she asked, hoping he'd say yes, even if he didn't feel like walking. Dad understood things like that sometimes.

“Sure.” He kissed the top of her head. “Be back soon, Hank,” he told Grandpa and headed out the door to catch up with Mom.

Ava knew she would only have a few minutes. She wasn't sure what to say first. “How are you feeling?” As soon as she said
it, she wanted to pull the words back. He was dying. It was a fact or the pencil wouldn't have said so.

But he told Ava, “I'm hanging in there.” His eyes looked so tired, so sad. And there was nothing Ava could say to make it better. She wished she had her saxophone.

“I'm sorry I can't play for you today,” she said. “I don't have my instrument. But … I have something else.” She unzipped the small pocket of her backpack and pulled out the pencil. “I found this.” She held it up so he could see, so he could see the color and read the writing on it, even though it was a lot more used up than the pencil he'd lost.

Grandpa's eyes lit up with recognition the second they landed on the pencil, and then flickered with something else. Fear? Regret? He looked at Ava. “Where did you find it?”

“In the junk drawer at home,” she said. “I guess Mom found it under the radiator when she was cleaning out your apartment.” Ava looked around the sparse white room where Grandpa lived now. For a little while longer. “When you moved here.”

Grandpa took a long, rattly breath. “When I first heard that voice again …” He shook his head a little and gazed up at the ceiling. “I miss her so much.”

Ava's eyes filled with tears. She was sad for Grandpa and for her mom and the cancer and sad for herself. She was sad and confused and exhausted from all the questions and all the answers and all the questions she still wanted to ask. They were never ever going to end.

Grandpa's eyes focused on her. “You used it, didn't you?”

Ava nodded. She swallowed hard and tried to blink back tears, but they spilled out.

“Are you okay?” Grandpa whispered.

She nodded. “I think so. It's just …” She didn't know where to start. “It was awful, knowing some things.”

Grandpa moved his hand toward hers, where it rested on the bed but didn't make it all the way there. Ava put the pencil on the nightstand and folded her sweaty hand around his cool, papery fingers.

Grandpa looked at the pencil for a few seconds. “Best for you to let it go, too, sweetheart,” he whispered. Then he looked at her. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. It is. I love you, Grandpa.”

Grandpa whispered, “Love you, too,” and then his eyes fluttered shut. His breathing was slower, quiet.

Mom and Dad came back with a nurse carrying a pitcher of water a minute or two later. “Sorry we took a little while,” Mom said quietly. “We called Gram. She's bringing Marcus and Emma.”

Ava looked up at them and nodded. “That's good.” She didn't let go of Grandpa's hand.

Ava moved to the side but still didn't let go when Gram brought Marcus and Emma to give Grandpa kisses.

She didn't let go when his breathing got slower and the heart monitor summoned the nurses and they said yes, it would be soon.

She didn't let go until he was gone. With Grandma Marion again.

And then, Ava hugged her parents and cried with them.

When their tears were all cried out and it was time for them to leave, she slipped the pencil from the nightstand back into her bag and went home.

That night, Ava said prayers with Gram in her bedroom. It smelled good in there, like warm peanut butter cookies, and that made Ava feel like Gram would be around baking for a long time. If that wasn't true, Ava didn't want to know.

Then she went up to bed. Mom came and started reading about Ivan, but it was a sad chapter, and she stopped less than a page in. “Okay if we skip this tonight? I've had enough tears today.”

“Me, too,” Ava said, and snuggled with Mom until Dad called upstairs.

“Honey? Your sister's on the phone.”

“Okay if I go talk to her?” Mom asked.

“Yep. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Mom gave Ava a long hug, then left and closed the door quietly behind her.

As soon as it clicked, Ava climbed out of bed and turned on
her light. The wood floor chilled her bare feet. It was getting colder and their thermostat hadn't kicked on yet. She sat down at her desk, tucked her feet up under her to keep them warm, and pulled her backpack into her lap.

She unzipped the small pocket and pulled out the pencil. She'd never forget the way Grandpa had looked at it. Like it was dangerous. Like he was afraid of what it might do, or what
he
might do if he had it again.

If Gram had found this pencil, Ava thought, she would have used it to find out all the secrets about religion and God. If Marcus had found it, he'd have discovered some new element by now or solved world hunger. But Ava? Ava had used it to feed her worries. She'd fed them and fed them and fed them until they'd shoved aside almost all the other parts of her. If her worries had been the tomato plant getting watered on the cover of that book in the library, Dad would have his world-famous largest tomato by now.

Ava looked down at the pencil. It was only a few inches long. How many answers could be left in there? Fifty? Sixty? A hundred?

Whatever it was, Ava understood it wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough.

But she had to ask Grandma Marion one more question.

I know you don't give advice, but will you help me decide what to do, just this once?

There was no answer. Ava waited, just in case the pencil was
thinking, but the only sound was the radiator, finally clunking to life in the corner.

Ava looked at the pencil. It wasn't actually Grandma Marion, she remembered. Just—what had she called it?—a sliver of her spirit? Ava sighed. Why couldn't she have her actual grandmother instead? The real Grandma Marion would hug her and wipe her tears and love her and probably say all kinds of things that would make her feel better. Ava swiped her sleeve across her cheek to wipe away a tear.

Fine. If whatever part of Grandma Marion was in that pencil wanted to be all strict again, Ava could figure that out. She'd play the pencil's game.

If Grandma Marion were here, what would she tell me right now?

There was a pause, and at first, Ava thought the pencil was going to ignore her.

But it had to answer that, didn't it? It totally knew what Grandma Marion was like, since it
was
Grandma Marion, kind of. So it would know for sure what she would say if she were there, which she kind of was, even though the pencil was insisting it wasn't really her.

Ava was about to put down the pencil and go back to bed when finally, quietly, the voice answered.

“If your grandma Marion were here,” it said, “she would tell you that the pencil in your hand is doing you more harm than good.”

But the pencil told me about Mom's cancer, Ava wrote. What if Mom had cancer and didn't find out?

The pencil didn't answer that.

Ava tried again.
What would Grandma Marion say about this if she were here?

“She would say that's no reason to keep it,” the voice said. “The world already has a magical pencil to detect breast cancer. It's called a mammogram. That's what truly allowed for your mother's early diagnosis.”

It was true, Ava realized. Her mom had scheduled that mammogram appointment before Ava even knew there was a magic pencil.

What else would Grandma Marion say right now if she were here?

The voice sighed, but when it spoke again, it sounded warmer, almost like a real grandmother.

“She would tell you that you need to let go …”

“Before you can reach,” Ava whispered.

“She would tell you to treasure the people you love right now,” Grandma Marion went on, “instead of worrying about when they'll be gone. She would tell you that in spite of her work as a reference librarian, she discovered that life isn't about knowing all the answers. The best we can do is to make peace with our questions, learn who we are, know our strengths, and do the best we can with the gifts we've been given while we're here.”

Ava listened with tears streaming down her face, so many that she thought for sure she'd be empty soon. But she felt like she was filling up in other ways. Better ways.

“She would also tell you that she's proud of you,” the voice said. “And that she loves you so very much.”

Ava stopped trying to hold back her sobs and picked up the pencil.

I love you, too, Grandma Marion
. A tear slipped down her cheek onto the page.
THANK YOU
.

The pencil didn't say anything back. After all, it wasn't a question.

Grandpa's calling hours and funeral were on Saturday.

When it was Ava's turn to kneel on the tiny padded bench in front of the casket, she said one of Gram's prayers. She tried to imagine some of Mrs. Galvin's white light shining on him. And she whispered, “I love you, Grandpa. It's all okay.”

Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out the pencil.

You couldn't even call it a pencil anymore, not really. More of a pencil stub. It probably had forty or fifty more questions left in it, at least, she thought. But what if one of them gave her an answer that sent her spinning and reeling again and then there weren't enough questions left to fix it?

It would be better to let it go on purpose, she decided.

Ava ran her thumb over the blunt tip of the pencil. She looked around to make sure nobody was watching and gave it a quick kiss, then tucked it between the soft, worn flannel of Grandpa's blue work shirt and the smooth, cream-colored satin that lined his casket. It was the kind of material Grandma Marion would have picked out, pristine and proper. But somehow it looked right next
to the weathered blue fabric of Grandpa's faded shirt. Grandma and Grandpa must have been good together that way, too.

Ava felt a hand on her shoulder and turned.

“You ready to see some people?” Mom said. “They're going to open the doors so the neighbors can pay their respects.”

Ava hesitated. “Just another minute?”

Mom nodded and went to rearrange the photographs on the welcome table, and Ava turned back to the casket. “Thank you,” she whispered to whoever might be able to hear. She stared at the fold of fabric that hid the pencil. She thought about all the things she'd never know and fought an urge to reach in and take it back.

She took a deep breath, counting to four, held it for two counts, and let it out again. Slowly.

No. She knew she couldn't keep it.

She would try to make peace with her questions, like Grandma Marion said.

She'd let go.