Page 18 of Breaking Through

"What's all this?" I reached down to rescue a Polaroid that threatened to slip between the chair cushions.

"Spring cleaning." His fingers traced the edge of a faded color print. "In autumn. Makes perfect sense if you don't think about it too hard."

I picked up a photo of a sailboat, its white hull bright against dark water. "Where was this one taken?"

Grandpa's forehead creased. "Lake... Lake something. Not Michigan." He tapped the photo against his chin. "We were on vacation. Belle wanted to see... wanted to..." His voice trailed off, frustration clouding his features.

"Hey, it's okay. We can make up a story instead." I perched on the arm of his chair. "Maybe it was Lake Conspiracy, famous for its population of freshwater merpeople."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "Don't be ridiculous. That's clearly Lake Sasquatch. Your grandmother insisted on teaching Bigfoot how to sail that summer. He was a terrible student—all that fur got tangled in the rigging."

"Ah, yes. Now I remember. Didn't he try to pay for lessons with the gold he'd stolen from leprechauns?"

"No, no." Grandpa's eyes sparkled. "It was with coffee beans he'd been hoarding since 1962. He said they'd be worth a fortune someday. It turns out he predicted the rise of fancy coffee shops."

I picked up another photo. It was a group of people gathered around a campfire. "And this one?"

"Oh, that's obviously from the Great Marshmallow Rebellion of 1975. Your grandmother led the resistance against improper s'mores technique. Very serious business. There were strongly worded letters and everything."

"I heard it got ugly. Chocolate shortages. Graham cracker rationing."

"Indeed. The local squirrels ran a black market in Hershey bars." He chuckled, then paused, squinting at the back of the photo. "Wait a minute..."

I turned it over. There, in Gran's precise handwriting: "Lake Huron, August 1973. Teaching Belle's sister Carol to sail. She capsized three times and blamed it on 'aggressive fish.'"

"Lake Huron!" Grandpa's face lit up. "That's right! Carol was terrible at sailing, but she made the best banana bread anyone had ever tasted, so we kept her around anyway."

"Even with the aggressive fish?"

"Especially then. The fish appreciated good banana bread."

We worked through the pile together, making up increasingly outlandish stories until we found Gran's notes. Her prompts brought back additional memories. We talked about summer afternoons on various Great Lakes, family picnics where someone always fell in the water, and Gran's sisters competing to see who could tell the tallest tale.

Other memories stayed lost, like coins dropped in deep water. Fortunately, our made-up stories filled the spaces with laughterinstead of loss. When we found a photo of Gran teaching me to work her marionettes, Grandpa didn't remember the exact day, but he remembered how she'd always said I'd been born with slim-fingered hands designed for bringing stories to life.

"You know what she'd say about all this?" He gestured at our mess of photos and memories, both real and invented.

"That we're terrible historians?"

"That sometimes the stories we choose to share matter more than the facts we're trying to remember." He squeezed my hand. "Now, about that racket you were making in the kitchen..."

I smiled. "Just me dropping every pot in the kitchen. You know how I like to draw attention."

"Hmph. Now, tell me about your day before I fall asleep again. I get tired of me for company."

The day's fading light flooded the living room, turning everything golden. Grandpa had rallied enough to sit straighter, his eyes bright despite the shadows beneath them.

"Parker's got me chasing down stories about the old fishing fleet." I stood and then settled into a chair near him. "Did you know the Johansens painted all their boats different shades of blue? One for each daughter."

"Seven blues for seven daughters." Grandpa smiled. "Ellen Johansen used to say she could spot her husband's boat by the color alone, even in the worst fog."

"That's the kind of detail Parker loves." I leaned forward. "Tell me more."

"Are you trying to distract me from the fact that you haven't touched the folder your parents sent?" He raised an eyebrow. "The one about that facility in Milwaukee?"

My stomach clenched. The manila envelope, thick with glossy brochures promising round-the-clock care and dignity in aging, sat unopened on my desk upstairs.

"I'm not going anywhere, Match." His voice was gentle but firm. "This is my home. Your grandmother's home."

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