Aunt Told the Court a 72-Year-Old Grandpa Was Too Old to Raise Her — Then the 10-Year-Old Asked the Judge One Question

Black Ice

He did not sleep much that week.

He lay in bed with his door open and listened for her on the stairs. Twice he heard the creak of the third step and lay very still and breathed slowly and deeply so she would see, and then he heard her go back to bed. In the morning he wrote it in the log because it had happened. 0230: P. checked on me. 0415: P. checked again. He did not know what else to do with it.

He called his doctor and made an appointment for a full physical, the first since Solveig died. He bought a new battery for the smoke detector that did not need one.

On Tuesday, April 14th, a spring storm came in off the lake overnight, the kind Duluth gets in April just when everyone has put their shovels away. Freezing rain first, then four inches of wet snow on top. The schools went to a two-hour delay. The bus was canceled on the hill routes.

Arthur looked at the street from the front window at 9:30. The plow had been through. The sand truck had been through. Cars were moving, slowly.

"I can stay home," Poppy said hopefully.

"You've got a spelling test."

He drove the Buick down the hill in first gear at walking speed. He had driven these hills in fifty winters. He stopped at the four-way at Fifth Street with plenty of room and started across, and halfway through the intersection the car simply stopped answering him. There was ice under the snow, clear and glassy, and the Buick slid sideways down the slope with all four wheels locked, as gently and as helplessly as a ship drifting onto a bar.

The rear passenger side hit the snowbank and the light pole behind it. It was not loud. It was a crunch, like stepping on a plastic cup.

Poppy's head bumped the window.

"Poppy."

"I'm okay." She put her hand to her forehead and took it away and looked at it. There was no blood. "I'm okay, Grandpa. It just bonked."

Up the street a pickup truck was sliding the same way, slowly, with its horn going. It missed them by six feet and nosed into the opposite bank.

A Duluth police officer was there in eleven minutes. An ambulance came because Arthur asked for one, for her. The paramedic checked Poppy's eyes with a little light and asked her name and what grade she was in. Then she checked Arthur and asked him his name, the date, and his granddaughter's age.

"Nine," Arthur said. Then, "No. Ten. She turned ten in February."

The paramedic wrote it down.

They took Poppy to St. Luke's to be safe. She had a bump the size of a quarter over her left eyebrow and no concussion. The ER doctor shined the same little light, had her follow his finger, and released her after two hours with a sheet of instructions and a popsicle. They checked Arthur too, his blood pressure, his heart, his pupils. All normal. The officer's report said icy conditions, no citation, and noted that it was one of fourteen crashes reported on the hillside that morning.

Delphine Ruud from next door, who had been an emergency room nurse for thirty-one years before she retired, came to get them in her Subaru. She read Poppy's discharge papers in the parking lot and pronounced them correct.

That evening, Arthur did what he had decided he would always do. He called Bernadette Lusignan and left a message telling her exactly what had happened, when, where, and what the doctors had said. Then he called Lowry. Then he wrote it in the log, everything, including the word nine.

At eight o'clock Celeste called.

"I heard there was an accident," she said. Her voice was soft with concern. "Is she all right?"

"She's fine. A bump. They released her."

"Can I talk to her?"

It was the first time in fourteen months she had asked. Arthur handed Poppy the phone. Poppy said "Hi" and "I'm fine" and "It was icy" and "Okay" and "Bye," and handed it back.

"Thank you, Arthur," Celeste said. "I'm so glad she's all right. Really."

He wrote that in the log too. 2004: C. Varga called re: accident. Asked to speak to P. (first time). 2 min.

Wednesday was quiet. Poppy went to school with the bump and was a minor celebrity.

On Thursday afternoon, at 3:52, the kitchen phone rang. It was Lowry, and Lowry's voice was wrong.

"Arthur. Are you sitting down?"

"Tell me."

"Blomquist filed an emergency motion this morning. Ex parte. That means without notice to us. It's built around the accident. He's got the police report, the ambulance report, the ER intake." Lowry stopped and started again. "He's got a sworn affidavit from Celeste that says you had a medical episode behind the wheel. That you were confused and couldn't tell the paramedics how old Poppy was."

"I told them. I corrected it in two seconds."

"I know. Arthur, listen to me." Lowry took a breath. "The judge signed it an hour ago. Celeste is appointed temporary substitute guardian. They're coming for Poppy tomorrow at six."