Ten o’clock at night on a Friday—the Friday of the funeral—I didn’t expect an immediate response. To my surprise my computer dinged. It was the standard reply to my email:Thank you for your interest...blah, blah...be in touch.
I then spent a few hours going through files I’ve accumulated over the last few years. I tried to match Becky’s words with the facts I knew. Her words came back.
He was barely recognizable.
Serena and his family wanted him remembered...
I remembered.
Throughout the night as I tried to sleep, memories surfaced.
It was the beginning of our junior year when Craig Gilbert came to Blue Gil. Our high school was his second teaching position. He came to us from a school system in the UP—Upper Peninsula of Michigan—where he’d taught for two years. At the time, our football coach had announced his retirement. The Blue Gil Municipal School System put out a nationwide search for a new football coach. Since my mom was on the search-and-screen committee, I was privy to some of the inside information.
Craig Gilbert played high school football for a small school in Marquette, Michigan, in the UP. He was drafted by a Division III school where he played for one year until getting noticed by Michigan State, where he played for the next three years.
After completing his education degree and having three years of experience playing football at Michigan State, he returned to the UP where he was hired as a high school assistant coach—offensive coordinator.
Many on the Blue Gil selection committee were concerned about his age—only 25. My mom included.
However, on his second interview with the committee, he mentioned that he was engaged. Somehow, in the grand scheme of life, settling down with a wife gave Craig Gilbert both experience in football and the stability that our small village welcomed.
The new Mrs. Gilbert was present when Mr. Gilbert signed his contract. It was a big event including a celebration in the high school gymnasium. Most of the town turned out to welcome our new coach.
We had a decent team before he came. My brother Ollie was in the eighth grade and couldn’t wait to be a part of all that high school sports had to offer.
The first year Mr. Gilbert coached, he took the team to the regional finals. That was good but not good enough. The entire town turned out to listen to his rousing end-of-the-year speech and promise for a better season the next year.
He instituted year-round camp and weight training.
My senior year our team made it to the state finals.
We lost miserably, but you wouldn’t have known that by the greeting the team received as they returned to town. People came from all around to line the streets, wave banners with the school’s colors, and cheer on their return. It was Blue Gil’s first appearance at the state final. Since that time, Blue Gil has won two state championships and is almost always a contender.
It is as I go back inside the cottage for a second cup of coffee that a movement out of the window of the back door catches my attention. Stepping closer, I push aside the sheer curtain and notice a blue truck backing away from the common parking area. I watch, unable to see the occupant, as the car turns and drives away.
From my vantage, I can’t make out the license plate, not even if it is Michigan or another state. I question if the truck has been parked near mine all night or if it simply turned on the wrong road and reversed course?
Leaving my freshly poured coffee to cool, I slip on my boots—an excellent fashion accessory to my pajama pants and t-shirt. To complete the ensemble, I add the jacket I brought from home. It was in my suitcase until I unpacked last night.
The screen door squeaks as I push it open to the stoop at the back of the cottage. For a moment, I stand still, taking in the sounds of nature, the same as the ones I heard from the front porch. I’m not sure what I want to find as I walk back to the dirt parking area, but once I get there, I know. There’s a rectangle of drier dirt about fifteen feet from where I parked my rental car.
That blue truck was present long enough to keep the ground beneath it from most of the overnight rain. While I’m relatively certain I didn’t see it when I initially parked, I was distracted by Becky’s presence. The uncertainty is another symptom of my return.
As I approach the door to the cottage, the ring from my phone beckons me inside.
“Shit, don’t be Mom,” I mutter as I swing open the screen door. It slams as I push the solid door closed.
With equal parts trepidation and curiosity, I hurry to where my phone sits on the counter next to my coffee, and I read the screen:Echo.
I let out a breath as I hit the green icon to speak to my boss, a visual-effects specialist. “Echo, damn, it’s early back there.”
“It is, but when I woke and realized you hadn’t called or texted, I wanted to be sure you made it to Nowhere, Michigan.”
I scoff. “I made it. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m a mess.”
“Shit, Jill. That excuse won’t fly,” she replies with a laugh. “You’re always a mess.”
I scoff at her sentiment and the use of my shortened name—the name I go by everywhere but in Blue Gil. Theianwill forever live on here. “You’re right.”
