The Release

Finally, after a prolonged search, Lucy saw the tan binding with purple lettering. She pulled it down gently as to not disturb any of the other books on the shelf. She held the hardback in her hand, trembling.

Without opening it, Lucy tucked the book under her arm and went back downstairs. Darla and Grant had returned and moved to the couch, they formed a semi-circle in her absence and were discussing something in low voices as the candles flickered around them. Teddy devoured a granola bar and a bag of fruit gummies. He asked if he could watch television and Darla said, “No power Theodore…you know that…let’s just use our imaginations tonight.”

With a full lower lip, Teddy huffed, “My imagination is too tired.”

“Here,” Lucy said and showed Ethan the book.

“The Velveteen Rabbit?”

“My mom used to read that to me,” Grant said. “It’s really sad.”

Lucy turned and regarded Grant. His mom. It was the first time he had mentioned her the entire time they were at the school. His dad, whom he lived with, he mentioned in anger. His mom hadn’t existed in conversation at all. She opened her mouth to ask about her, but Darla interrupted.

“But it’s hopeful too,” she added.

“Sad, but hopeful. Thanks Dad. Your stab at symbolism is bursting with heavy-handedness,” Ethan muttered.

“I had a bu

“The quote at the bottom of dad’s note. It read…‘When you are real you don’t mind being hurt.’ It’s from this book.”

“I had a bu

“The rabbit in the book had to die, right? To become real? Or something like that.” Grant remembered as he reached for the copy of The Velveteen Rabbit and Lucy passed it over to him.

“Did my bu

Darla smiled, “Your bu

“Dad didn’t strike me as a children’s book guy. Mom was always the one who read to us,” Ethan said. He reached for the book next, but Grant shied away from his hand. “Come on, pass it over.”

“Did you say there’s supposed to be a message in this book?” Grant asked, his voice tight.

“Help,” Lucy stated. “He said he was leaving help.”

“Like…maybe…coordinates?” Grant opened to an illustration of the rabbit enjoying a picnic outside. And written in marker over that idyllic image in her father’s handwriting: 42°1′16″N by 102°5′19″W.

“Oh my goodness,” Lucy grabbed the book back and studied the numbers. “He left us directions.”

“To where?”

Ethan laughed, a sardonic, quiet laugh. “Too bad we can’t just Google it, right?”

“It’s called an atlas, dumbass,” Darla replied in jest and stood up, walked over to the myriad bookshelves and sca

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Seriously?” Darla asked. “Longitude. Latitude? Teachers don’t teach you anything nowadays. High school graduate can’t read an atlas?”

“Here,” Grant reached up and pulled the atlas down off of Ethan’s lap. “I got this. Shine the light.”

Lucy directed the flashlight over to the open book and Grant flipped to a page with a map of the United States. He marked an area with his finger and then looked at another area. “Nebraska,” he a

“What?” Lucy leaned down.

“The coordinates…are…for,” Grant looked around him for a pen and Darla tossed him one from the desk, “right here…in Nebraska.”

“Do we know anyone in Nebraska?” Ethan asked.

“Who knows people in Nebraska?” Darla replied.

“Turn to Nebraska in the atlas,” Lucy said and Grant turned, finding the state with ease, and he looked up the coordinates again. “This is in the middle of nowhere.”

“Brixton, Nebraska,” Grant read, squinting. “If the map is right…it’s like a two-street city. But, hey, according to the key…at least there’s a post-office. Good thing there are so many people left in the world to send letters to.”

“What the hell?” Lucy growled. “Dad leaves us with a confusing letter and directions to Nebraska. Why not just tell us what to do? Or tell us what we’re looking for?”

“Maybe he couldn’t,” Ethan posed. “Maybe he was afraid.”

Lucy realized her brother had to be right. “I’m sure he had a reason. Do you think the people he was afraid of took Mom? Oh Ethan…I can’t imagine…”

“Let’s not go there yet, Lucy. Okay?”

“But this is real, Ethan. Right? This is where Dad is telling us to go. Brixton, Nebraska.” As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, she realized they sounded like agreement, consent to go there.

“Nebras-ka,” Teddy repeated.

Looking over at Grant, who was still holding the atlas, Lucy noticed his eyes were closed. He swayed and threatened to tip-over.

“Grant? Grant!” she cried and flung the atlas away, scrambling and shaking him.

He smiled a lazy smile and opened one eye and then the other. “I’m fine, Lucy. Just sleepy. Sal—” he stopped himself. “We didn’t sleep last night. We waited for you,” he pointed to Darla, “to come back for her.”

No one spoke. But Lucy’s face burned; she was grateful for the dark.

Then Grant rose and stretched, his lanky body reaching tall, casting shadows on the walls. “I—” he started. “I think maybe I should go lie down somewhere. I wish—” he stopped again and then sighed. “I feel like I should say something profound. But I’m not one for big speeches.” He smiled. “So. Maybe I’ll just say…I’ll be upstairs.” He ended the sentence softly, sadly.

“Grant—” Lucy whispered. “Stay.”

“Here,” said Ethan. “Lucy?”

She lifted her head to him and waited.

“Dad’s Victrola?” Lucy smiled. She slipped up and walked to the corner, where their father had kept an old Victor Talking Machine phonograph from 1921. It had belonged to his great-grandmother and had been given to her as a wedding gift only a few years before his grandma was born. It was a wooden cabinet, equipped with a crank handle and tucked inside the doors were shelves, where their dad kept all his records.

When Ethan and Lucy were little it was a treat to sit in the den and listen to the music. But they outgrew the pleasure. Only now did Lucy realize that this must have broken their father’s heart. She couldn’t even remember the last time her dad had played a record for her, letting her dance on his feet, swaying and swinging her this way and that.

She wiped away a layer of dust off the top of the phonograph and lifted the top. Leaning over to wind the machine, she placed the fiber needle on the record that was already in there. And when the music filled the den, Lucy’s heart swelled with melancholy nostalgia. The melody was familiar. It was her father’s favorite.

The song was Ethel Water’s rendition of “Moonglow.” It was a beautiful melodious love song, so pure and happy.

Unable to move from her spot by the Victrola, Lucy watched the record spin and spin, the scratchiness of the needle amplified through the internal speakers. She listened to the plucky trombones and the lazy drawl of the trumpet. When she turned back to the group, she had tears in her eyes.

Darla picked up Teddy and placed him in her lap, where the child’s eyes began to close in increments as the song progressed. She stroked his hair and rocked him softly; her subtle swaying may have been instinct as she comforted her child or a response to the music, but it was clear that the song had transported her away from an Oregon living room, sitting with near-strangers.

The record stopped.

But the needle kept spi

Teddy’s eyes remained closed and Darla shifted him to her shoulder and stood up. “The munchkin and I are heading to bed. Ethan,” she said in a motherly tone, “pain killers in two hours.” Then she disappeared upstairs.