Things Hoped For by Andrew Clements Page A

to call the police right now. Do it.”
    I have to call now. Of course I do. If I try to delay the chaos, it’ll be that much worse when it hits.
    So I punch in the number.
    “911—what is your location?”
    A woman’s voice, and I tell her.
    “Tell me your emergency.”
    “I . . . I just found my grandfather. He’s dead.”
    “Your name?”
    “Gwendolyn Page.”
    “Did this just happen? Does he need a paramedic?”
    “No. He’s . . . he’s in a freezer.”
    “Please repeat that.”
    “He’s in a big freezer. He’s . . . dead.”
    “Are you in danger?”
    “No. There’s no danger.”
    “All right. You stay where you are. And don’t touch anything. Officers are on the way.”
    That was the end of call number two.
    By the time I’m done with the 911 operator, I’m sobbing. It’s because I keep having to say “he’s dead.” And it’s hitting me again, harder. My grampa is gone. And I’m not going to get to talk to him again. No more bedtime snacks, no more orders, no more salutes. The only picture I can see of Grampa right now is what I just saw, downstairs. It’s not fair.
    And now the tears, hot and angry. Our little terrier, who got run over by the mail truck, and my cat Gracie, who died right in my arms. And Aunt Irene, who passed on that Christmas—I’m crying for all of them, for everyone and everything I have ever loved. And I’m crying like I did that night I was ten, sitting alone out on the front porch, when I knew for the first time that Daddy and Mama wouldn’t live forever. And now my grampa.
    After a few minutes Robert leans over and puts an arm around me. I feel my shoulders shaking. I’m glad he didn’t leave.
    I force myself to stop crying, force myself to be quiet. Because I am the brave one. I am the brave one.
    And that’s good, because I have to make another call.
    I click to the speed-dial list in my cell phone and punch the top number.
    “Hello?”
    That voice sounds so good to me. “Mama?”
    “Well, hi, Gwennie. I knew it would be you calling. How are you, sweetheart? Have you been havin’ a nice Sunday?”
    “Mama, I have to talk to Daddy.” My voice sounds funny, and my mom knows it.
    “Are you all right, dear? Is something wrong?”
    “I’m fine, Mama, but . . . Grampa died. And I need to tell Daddy.”
    “Oh, my! . . . All right, dear. Here’s your father.”
    My dad’s a big man, built like Uncle Hank. I love hearing his deep voice.
    “Hey, it’s my big city girl. How’re you doing up there?”
    “Daddy? It’s Grampa. He’s . . . passed on. I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you.”
    My dad is quiet, and I can picture him as he gets all still and serious. And I remember all the stories Daddy told me about him and Grampa, about hunting and fishing together. And how Grampa almost cried the day Daddy left for Vietnam.
    But my dad is also the brave one. He clears his throat and says, “Was it . . . there at home? It wasn’t an accident or anything, was it?”
    “No, not an accident, I don’t think. But it’s . . . unusual, Daddy. Because Grampa’s in the big freezer, the one in the utility room. And I don’t know . . . how it happened. So it’s . . . unusual. I had to call the police. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”
    A second of silence, then, “Did you say in the freezer? You sure about that?”
    “You can’t make a mistake about something like this, Daddy.”
    I hear the intercom buzzer at the front door.
    My dad says, “Well, I’m coming up there tonight if I can—tomorrow, for sure. Are you all right until then? Do you want me to call Uncle Hank for you?”
    “No, don’t do that, Daddy. I have a friend here who’s helping me. And I called Grampa’s lawyer, too. So I’m okay. I’ve got to go now, Daddy. The police are here. I love you.”
    “I love you, too, Gwennie. And I’ll be there right away. And I’ll call. Here’s your mama again.”
    “Gwennie? Now don’t you be afraid. Everything’ll work out.