Fifteenth Summer Read Free Page A

She’d hung the same family portraits that we had in our house in LA, plus oil paintings, nudes drawn with breathy wisps of red Conté crayon, arty black-and-white photos, and, in the breakfast room, paint-blobbed kindergarten artwork by Hannah, Abbie, and me. She’d picked the fanciest frames of all for our “masterpieces.” It was a gesture that had seemed kind of goofy when Granly was alive. Now that she wasn’t, I cried every time I thought about her framing those sloppy paintings.
    But apparently I was the only one who felt that way. My parents spent most of the drive through Nebraska debating whether to keep or sell the cottage, as if the decision should be made purely on the basis of property taxes and the cost of a new roof.
    And when we were deep in Iowa, Hannah gazed out at the wall of cornstalks that edged the highway, and laughed suddenly.
    “Remember Granly’s garden?” she said.
    “You mean the petting zoo?” Abbie replied with a laugh of her own. “Oh my God, it was like Granly sent engraved invitationsto every deer and rabbit within a five-mile radius. ‘Come eat my heirloom radishes!’ They loved it.”
    “Well, it was her own fault,” my dad said from the front seat. “She refused to build a fence or use any of those deer deterrents.”
    “Coyote pee!” Abbie snorted. “I mean, can you imagine Granly out there in her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, spraying the stepping stones with coyote pee?”
    “She wouldn’t admit it, but you know she loved watching those deer walk by her window every morning. They were so pretty,” Hannah said. “She didn’t even like radishes. She just liked the idea of pulling them up and putting them in a pretty basket.”
    My mom shook her head and laughed a little. “That was so Granly.”
    “Wait a minute,” I said quietly. “I didn’t know Granly hated radishes. How did I not know that?”
    Hannah shrugged lightly, then closed her eyes and flopped her head back. Clearly the subject of Granly’s radishes didn’t make her the slightest bit sad.
    Meanwhile I was biting my lip to keep myself from bursting into tears.
    I knew this was what we were supposed to do. We were supposed to talk about Granly and “keep her memory alive.” Mrs. Berke had said that to me after Granly’s funeral, before giving me an uncomfortable, hairspray-scented hug.
    I didn’t want to forget Granly, but I didn’t really want to think about her either. Every time I did, I felt claustrophobic, the same way I feel every time I get on an elevator.
    It’s a well-known fact in my family that I’m a mess on anelevator. My ears fill with static. I clench my fists, take shallow breaths, and stare intently at the doors until they open. When they do, I’m always the first one off. Then I have to inhale deeply for a few seconds before resuming normal human functioning.
    I wondered if this whole summer in Bluepointe would feel like that. Without Granly there, would I ever be able to take that deep breath and move on?

W e spent most of Illinois in silence because we were so hot. And cranky. And completely sick of each other. Hannah had even consented to skipping the Ojibwa museum in favor of just getting to Bluepointe—and out of the car—as soon as possible.
    Just when I started contemplating something seriously drastic—like borrowing my mother’s needlepoint—we began to follow the long, lazy curve around Lake Michigan. We couldn’t see the lake from the expressway, but we could feel it there, waiting to welcome us back.
    I’d always preferred Lake Michigan to the ocean. I liked that it was a moody, murky green. I liked that it was so big that the moon mistook it for an ocean, which meant it had waves. But not loud, show-offy Pacific Ocean–type waves. Just steady, soothing, unassuming undulations that you could float in for hours without feeling oversalted and beaten. Lake Michigan was like the ocean’s underdog.
    As we drove through Gary, Indiana, which was riddled with