Mom eventually arrived with a flower lei dangling from the rearview mirror. Paige slept beside a stuffed dolphin. Their Orlando vacation had somehow expanded into an entire summer that finished in Hawaii.
Nobody asked about my summer. I kept the red can hidden beneath my seat.
The same arrangement continued yearly. Each September brought another refrigerator magnet: a sea lion, a cruise destination, or a bison. Those little souvenirs became my only connection to places my family had visited without me.
At eleven, I discovered photographs from Paige’s resort birthday celebration. Relatives I hadn’t seen in years smiled beside the swimming pool. I stared at an empty chair until Grandpa quietly closed the laptop behind me.
“Storm’s coming. Help me get the equipment under cover.”
We worked through the rain until soaked and exhausted. Indoors, he prepared hot chocolate, something he’d never done before. He didn’t demand an explanation for my sadness.
At twelve, we rescued a calf trapped among roots in a flooded creek bed. Grandpa’s bad knees prevented him from climbing down, but he held the rope while I reached the animal and pulled us both to safety.
Afterward, standing in the mud, he placed a hand on my neck.
“That’s a good hand.”
He made another notebook entry. When I asked what he’d written, he answered, “Overtime.”
The following spring, I practiced asking to accompany my family on vacation. At dinner, Dad laughed as though my request was adorable. Mom explained that I loved the farm and Grandpa depended on my assistance.
I suggested Paige could work there instead. Mom claimed her hay allergy made the farm practically dangerous, while Dad insisted other boys would envy my opportunity.
They traveled to Italy.
That August, I again questioned the washer numbers. Grandpa repeated that I’d earned them and would understand when necessary. At thirteen, I felt too embarrassed by the strange ritual to keep asking.
Our courthouse trips continued: café pie, Miss Opal’s peppermints, envelopes, and signatures. I still considered them routine agricultural paperwork and assumed my handwriting simply satisfied Grandpa.
When I was fourteen, my parents overlooked driver’s education while planning another vacation. Grandpa taught me using his aging pickup.
I drove into a ditch.
Instead of shouting, he brought Hollis Rucker and a tractor to pull us out.
That same week, somebody at the feed store asked whether I belonged to Grandpa.
“Near enough,” he said.
Those words stayed with me throughout our drive home.
At fifteen, I made one final request to join a family trip. Mom explained there were only four places. When I pointed out our family had four members, she revealed Paige was bringing a friend.
The girl’s parents were divorcing, Mom said, and taking away the vacation would be cruel.
I packed for the farm without protesting.
That summer, Grandpa admitted Mom had hated growing up there. He’d made her work hard without wages or compliments, despite her remarkable abilities.
“The best I ever had,” he said. “Before you.”
At seventeen, a hailstorm destroyed much of the wheat shortly before harvest. We worked exhausting days saving what remained, sometimes leaving me struggling to stay awake.
One evening, eating cold sandwiches on a truck’s tailgate, Grandpa complimented my work.
“You too,” I answered.
He laughed.
That August, he held the eleventh washer in his palm longer than usual. He told me it was the final one, the important one, because next summer I’d begin my own life.
At the courthouse, Miss Opal shook my hand. Grandpa’s attorney, Mr. Barlow, attended, and this time I signed three pages rather than one.
Outside, Grandpa surveyed Main Street.
“That’s done, then.”
We returned to the café for pie.
I carried my coffee can home, still no closer to understanding those mysterious numbers. But something had changed: leaving the farm now hurt more than going there.
