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He had never, ever been up there with me alone. My heart didn't pound; it twittered and then filled me with an electric excitement that streamed down my body as we all headed for the front door.
Rachel had gone to put away whatever she had gotten at the drugstore. My grandmother was in the kitchen, and the twins were still fast asleep.
"I have to make a few calls," my grandfather said. He glanced at me I think he wanted to make it possible for my father to be alone with me.
My father nodded. He looked a little nervous but started up the stairway. I looked down the hallway to see if Rachel was coming back, and then I hurried up after him. When we reached the second landing and the short stairway to the attic door, he stepped aside to let me go first.
My eyes were practically glued to him when he came into the attic behind me. Of course, he knew how it had been changed, but still, coming up here had to have a special meaning for him. As he panned the room, I could almost see him turn back into the boy he had been years ago. Memories were surely flashing across his eyes in snapshot fashion. Selfconscious at how he was behaving, he quickly turned to me.
"Dad's improved the lighting up here, I see." He nodded at the rows of lights in the ceiling. "Where's the new painting?"
I stepped up to an easel and uncovered the picture. He approached and studied it as if he were truly an art critic, nodding and smiling.
"I see what Dad means. It's very good, Alice. You've really blended those colors well, and I love the sort of -kinetic energy you have in the turn of the leaves. Is this any particular tree on the property?"
"Yes," I said, moving toward the windows that faced the rear of the house.
He stepped alongside.
"See across the field to the left?"
"Oh yes."
"When I'm up here for a while, looking out the window, concentrating, I see things that would ordinarily be missed," I told him
"Really? Like what?"
"Things," I said. I took a breath. "Things I imagine my mother must have seen spending hours and hours alone, looking at the same scene."
He was silent.
Had I violated some unwritten rule by mentioning her? Was this the end of our special time together?
"Actually," he said, "I'd like to talk to you about all that."
Was I hearing correctly? I dared not utter a word, a syllable, even breathe.
"Dad . . . and Mom are worried about you, Alice. It's part of why I worked out this short holiday for Rachel, the boys and myself."
"What is?"
"You," he said.
"What do you mean, me?"
"You have to start thinking about your future. Even if you want to become an artist, you've got to expand. Any artist, writer, songwriter, anyone in the creative fields has to have real experiences from which he or she can draw to create."
"Emily Dickinson didn't," I said. "She was like a hermit. She wrote poems on pillowcases."
"But think of what she might have achieved if she had gone out among people, events, activities."
"She's in our English literature hook. She's that important to our literature. She didn't need real experiences. She invented them, imagined them."
"You're a pretty smart girl, Alice, a lot smarter than I was at your age, I'm sure, but believe me, you have a great, deal to give to other people and draw from other people. You've got to let yourself go. Join things. Dive into it."
"That's what Grandpa was just telling me," I said. I nodded to myself. This is a conspiracy, all right.
"You should listen to him. He never gave me bad advice."
