OAKWOOD DRIVE

Oakwood Drive was a crazy place.

I can say that because I grew up there.

Most people remember bedtime stories from childhood. Once upon a time there was a handsome prince looking for a beautiful princess. A girl wandered into an enchanted forest. A boy climbed a beanstalk. Dragons guarded castles. Witches lived in cottages. Magic happened somewhere far away, and when the story was over, your mother closed the book, kissed you goodnight and turned off the light.

On Oakwood Drive, bedtime stories were a little different.

Oakwood Drive wasn't much to look at. It was a short street in a small town with maybe a dozen houses lined along either side. Big trees. Wide lawns. Sidewalks cracked in places by roots that had been growing underneath them longer than anyone could remember.

The houses were old too.

So were the families.

That was the unusual thing about Oakwood Drive, or at least one of the unusual things. People didn't sell their houses very often. They passed them down. Children became parents. Parents became grandparents. Grandparents eventually became photographs on mantels, and another generation took over the upstairs bedroom.

My family had lived there for generations.

I grew up in the same house where my mother had grown up, and she had grown up hearing stories about the things her mother had seen as a little girl.

I saw things too.

We all did.

Then I did what children eventually do.

I grew up.

I went to college. Got a job. Fell in love. Got married. Moved away.

Eventually, Oakwood Drive became one of those strange places from childhood that you aren't quite sure how to explain to people who weren't there.

Especially your husband.

Especially when your husband grew up in New York City and believed he had seen everything.

So when we decided to take our children home to meet my parents, I tried to warn him.

Several times.

"I've told you," I said as we waited for our luggage at the airport. "Where I grew up is a little different."

He wrestled one of our ridiculously overpacked suitcases off the carousel.

"I know."

"No. You don't."

"It's a small town."

"That's not what I mean."

He grabbed another suitcase.

"I grew up in New York. Trust me, I understand strange neighborhoods."

I laughed.

"You don't understand this one."

"How different can it possibly be?"

I considered answering.

I didn't.

There really wasn't any point.

We collected the rest of our luggage, rented a car, somehow managed to fit two adults, two children and enough clothing for a three-month expedition into it, then headed toward my parents' house.

As the city disappeared behind us, buildings gave way to smaller buildings. Smaller buildings gave way to houses. The streets narrowed. Traffic disappeared.

My husband looked around.

"This is nice."

"It is."

"Quiet."

"Usually."

"I thought you said I needed to prepare myself."

"You do."

He laughed.

"For what? Having nothing to do?"

I turned toward the window so he wouldn't see me smiling.

"You'll find something."

Eventually we reached the sign welcoming us to my hometown.

Then Oakwood Drive.

It looked exactly as I remembered.

Quaint little houses.

Big trees.

Children riding bicycles.

Someone's dog running across a lawn.

A basketball hoop leaned slightly toward the street in front of a house that had belonged to the same family since before I was born.

My parents were waiting in their front yard.

The children spotted them before the car had completely stopped.

"Grandma!"

"Grandpa!"

I barely had my seat belt off before the back doors opened and our children launched themselves across the lawn.

My mother dropped whatever she'd been holding.

My father opened his arms.

And that was it.

We ceased to exist.

They had grandchildren now.

My husband came around the car and stood beside me.

"Your parents seem normal."

I looked at him.

"They are normal."

"You know what I mean."

"No. What do you mean?"

He narrowed his eyes.

I smiled and headed toward the house.

The first day was wonderful.

My mother and I spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen talking about meals, family and people I hadn't thought about in years.

My father took my husband into the garage, where they apparently participated in the ancient male bonding ritual of standing around looking at tools while drinking beer.

The children played.

We had dinner.

We talked too late.

Then, after finally convincing two overexcited children that Grandma and Grandpa would still exist in the morning, we put them to bed.

My husband climbed beneath the covers beside me.

"Your dad is funny."

"He likes you."

"I like him too."

"Good."

He rolled onto his side.

"I don't know why you made such a big deal about this trip."

"I didn't make a big deal."

"You kept telling me I needed to be prepared."

"You do."

"For what?"

I kissed him.

"Goodnight."

He laughed as I rolled away from him.

"This was only the first day," I said.

The screaming started early the next morning.

My husband bolted upright.

"What was that?"

I opened one eye.

The screaming continued.

Then laughter.

Then more screaming.

He threw off the covers.

"The kids!"

"They're fine."

"How do you know?"

"Because they're laughing."

He was already pulling on his robe.

I stretched.

By the time I made it downstairs, my mother was standing in the kitchen with two cups of coffee.

She handed me one.

"Morning."

"Morning."

The screaming came again.

I took a sip.

My husband appeared at the back door.

"When did they do this?"

I walked over.

A bounce house occupied most of my parents' yard.

Actually, calling it a bounce house was unfair.

It was a bounce kingdom.

Towers rose above the fence. Inflatable slides curved across the lawn. Bright tunnels connected sections large enough to accommodate half the children on Oakwood Drive.

Our son launched himself down a slide.

Our daughter disappeared through a tunnel.

My husband stared.

"Your parents rented this?"

My father sat on the patio drinking coffee.

He shrugged.

"Kids like it."

"When did you set it up?"

Dad took another drink.

My mother walked past us carrying her coffee.

My husband looked at me.

I smiled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

The children spent hours outside.

By dinner they were exhausted, filthy and convinced they had the greatest grandparents in the history of grandparents.

That night my husband was still talking about it.

"That thing was enormous."

"Mm-hmm."

"I can't believe your parents did all that without telling us."

"Mm-hmm."

"Must have cost a fortune."

"Probably."

He looked at me.

"Do you know something I don't?"

"Several things."

"About the bounce house."

I smiled.

"If you ask me the right question one day, I'll tell you."

"What does that mean?"

"We have five more days."

I turned off the lamp.

"Goodnight."

The next morning, I woke up alone.

I got dressed and went downstairs.

Mom was sitting at the kitchen table.

She had coffee.

She was quiet.

I poured myself a cup and sat across from her.

"Morning."

She looked at me.

There was an expression on her face I remembered from childhood.

It wasn't concern exactly.

More like weary acceptance.

I slowly lowered my cup.

"What?"

She said nothing.

"Mom."

She glanced toward the front of the house.

I sighed.

"Should I go look?"

She nodded.

I took my coffee with me.

My husband stood in the front yard.

Our children were riding ponies.

Actual ponies.

Around and around they went, laughing while my father watched from a lawn chair.

Beside the driveway, a clown was making balloon animals.

He had already produced a giraffe, two dogs, a sword and something that was either an octopus or a catastrophic misunderstanding of balloon anatomy.

The clown began singing.

My husband turned toward me.

"Are your parents rich?"

I almost spit out my coffee.

"What?"

"Are they secretly rich?"

"They're comfortable."

"This is not comfortable. This is a circus."

"It's two ponies and a clown."

"Why are you saying that like it's normal?"

Dad walked past us.

"Morning."

My husband pointed toward the yard.

"Did you arrange this?"

Dad looked at the ponies.

Then the clown.

Then me.

"Kids seem to be having fun."

He continued into the house.

My husband stared after him.

I kissed his cheek.

"Enjoy the ponies."

Later, Dad found me in the kitchen.

"You going to tell him?"

"I've tried."

Dad laughed.

"No, you haven't."

"Would you believe me?"

"Nope."

"Exactly."

"So when are you going to tell him?"

I glanced toward the yard.

"When it gets weird."

Dad looked outside at the clown dancing with our daughter while our son rode past on a pony wearing a balloon crown.

"This isn't weird?"

"You know what I mean."

He did.

Because everybody who grew up on Oakwood Drive knew there eventually came a morning when things got weird.

The next day was surprisingly uneventful.

Then came the fourth morning.

My husband and I woke together.

He stretched.

"I wonder what your parents have planned today."

I looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I bet it's bigger."

"Maybe."

"Do you think they got an elephant?"

"I hope not."

He laughed.

We dressed and headed downstairs.

Something felt different before we reached the bottom step.

Quiet.

That was the first thing I noticed.

No screaming.

No laughter.

No pounding feet.

No children racing through the hallway.

My husband noticed too.

"Where are the kids?"

"Outside."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

He started toward the front door.

I followed.

"Wait."

His hand stopped on the knob.

"What?"

I took a breath.

There are some conversations you rehearse for years without realizing you're rehearsing them.

How would I explain Oakwood Drive to someone who hadn't grown up there?

How would I explain something I'd accepted before I was old enough to understand that the rest of the world didn't work the same way?

I had never found the words.

Now I had about thirty seconds.

"I need you to promise me something."

He turned around.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just need you to trust me."

"I do trust you."

"No matter what I say."

His expression changed.

"What are you about to tell me?"

"Promise."

"Okay. I promise."

I glanced toward the door.

"I told you Oakwood Drive was different."

"Yes."

"You thought I meant small-town different."

"Well..."

"I didn't."

He waited.

I stepped closer.

"Imagine you're a little kid."

"Okay."

"And imagine you go to sleep and dream about something. Anything you want."

"Okay."

"Then you wake up the next morning, and whatever you dreamed about is here."

He stared at me.

"Here where?"

"Oakwood Drive."

A pause.

Then another.

He laughed.

I didn't.

His smile disappeared.

"You're serious."

"Completely."

"You're telling me this street is magical."

"I don't know what it is."

"And kids dream things into existence."

"Pretty much."

"The bounce house."

I nodded.

"The ponies?"

"And the clown."

He stared at the door.

Then back at me.

"That's ridiculous."

"I know."

"That would mean..."

He stopped.

I waited.

He shook his head.

"No. That's ridiculous."

"Would it be wonderful?"

"What?"

"If you were a child. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Anything you dreamed about being there when you woke up?"

"Of course."

I smiled.

"Depends what you dream about."

He stared at me.

Then reached for the door.

"Let's just go see the kids."

"Okay."

He opened it.

The street looked almost normal.

The bounce house was gone.

So were the ponies.

The clown had disappeared.

The swings across the street moved gently in the morning breeze.

Our daughter stood near the sidewalk.

She was holding a red balloon.

She wasn't playing.

She wasn't laughing.

She was looking up.

My husband stepped onto the porch.

I followed him.

Then he looked up too.

The cruise ship floated above Oakwood Drive.

It was enormous.

An entire ship suspended among the clouds, its white decks glowing in the morning sun.

My husband didn't move.

Neither did I.

Honestly, I'd seen worse.

He slowly turned toward our daughter.

"Sweetheart?"

She looked at him.

"Where's your brother?"

She raised one hand.

And pointed at the sky.

My husband followed her finger.

Straight to the cruise ship.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

"Do you believe me now?"

**

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