Twenty

by Debra Landwehr Engle

  * * *

  I stopped on the way home and bought a red dress, which I realized made about as much sense as scheduling a teeth cleaning next month or having the oil changed in the car. What possessed me, I wasn’t sure, but since I seemed to be following my intuition rather than logic, I gave in to the urge.

  At the boutique, Jennifer asked me if had a special occasion coming up. Why had I even gone into the store, anyway? And what could I say in answer to her question? I’ve known Jen for years. She brought manicotti to the house after Rose died, and she stopped by a couple of times with sweaters that she thought Mama would like.

  “No big occasion,” I said, thumbing through the sale rack.

  “Damn,” she said, “I thought maybe you had some news.”

  I smiled. “I can always pretend,” I said.

  “I’ve got something I think would look great on you,” she said, headed to a rack of new arrivals.

  When she held the dress up to me and had me look in the mirror, I couldn’t help myself. I had to try it on. It looked like something I would have chosen for a date night with Joe, with a flouncy skirt and a jewel neckline. It might just hang in my closet, unworn. But I think it would fit Holly, so it won’t go to waste. And it makes me happy. One final indulgence.

  I hung it on the outside of the bedroom closet door where I can see it. And then I dug through the rest of my closet and filled two garbage bags with clothes that I’ll take to Goodwill tomorrow. If I’m actually going Home, I want the last things I see in this house to be things I love.

  * * *

  I checked the mail as soon as I got home. Still no lab results. For some reason I remembered that church sign, WE LOVE HURTING PEOPLE, and I laughed out loud even while I crumpled into a heap next to the mailbox.

  “I’m so sorry,” Carla said when I called. “I’ll have the lab put another copy of the results in the mail to you.”

  I thought about saying, “Don’t bother. It’s too late.” But instead I thanked her and sat staring at the colored swirls on the wall.

  * * *

  I went for a walk in the hills this evening, and for the first time ever, I didn’t waste time wondering how many calories I was burning or whether my thighs would look slimmer in the morning. Those things seem irrelevant now. Have they always been?

  It surprised me to see what I noticed along the way. There was life in the woods, even under all the dryness from the drought. I saw a kind of wildflower I’d never noticed before and three rocks that looked like the sky. I sat by the pond for a few minutes, where Mama and I scattered Cricket’s ashes after he died, and a group of swallows flew over it, swooping and curving, as graceful as ballerinas.

  I try to imagine what life will be like on the other side, and that’s how I think it might be—beauty and peace magnified one thousand times over. I feel as if I’m going on a secret vacation, savoring it all myself.

  But clearly there’s more beauty right here in front of me than I’ve ever seen before. I realize how many things have passed me by because I felt too afraid to look, or I didn’t take the time to look, or I was too angry to look. When I ceased to matter as a mother, a wife, and a daughter, I forgot that I matter simply as a human being.

  One winter years ago, when Rose was about eight, she carefully sculpted a spider out of snow. It had a big mound for its body, surrounded by eight long legs. Joe and I had just come outside to take a picture when Cricket got excited, ran around in circles, and jumped right on top of it.

  “Cricket!” Rose yelled. “Get off of there!” Too late. The whole thing collapsed into just another pile of snow.

  I grabbed Cricket by the collar and made him sit. Joe walked over to Rose and put his arm around her, surveying the damage.

  “I’m sorry that happened,” he said.

  “You and me both,” she said, kicking at the snow with her boot. “I worked on that all day. It was the best thing I’ve ever made.” She was not above exaggeration.

  “Looks like you have two choices,” Joe said. “You can be mad, or you can have fun building it all over again. Which sounds better to you?”

  Rose thought for a moment, then looked up at her dad and squinted in the sun.

  “Wanna help me?” she asked.

  The photo of Rose with her bigger-and-better snow spider became one of Joe’s favorites. He carried it around in his wallet for years. For all I know, it’s still there.

  DAY SIXTEEN

  I was just finishing breakfast this morning when I heard a car in the driveway. It was Miriam, stopping by on her way to work.

  “Hey, you,” I said as she came up on the porch. “Thank you for taking care of the plants while I was away.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, waving her hand as though she were shooing away a bug.

  “How was your time with the kids?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you when the credit card bills come in,” she said. “I thought dorm rooms were expensive. Do you have any idea how much money it takes to outfit rooms in a sorority and fraternity? Not to mention all the clothes. Good lord.”

  No, I don’t have any idea, I thought. Once upon a time, her words would have stung. I was surprised that I took no offense at them.

  “I want to hear all about your trip,” she said, “but I’m running late for my first appointment. I just wanted to drop this by.”

  She pulled an envelope out of her purse.

  The lab results.

  I could see the health clinic’s logo in the corner.

  “It got delivered to my address by mistake,” she said. “You’d think the mailman would know better after all these years, wouldn’t you?”

  I stared at the envelope as though it had fallen from the sky. “Probably just got mixed up when they held the mail for both of us while we were gone.”

  “Well, that’s a nice way of looking at it,” Miriam said. “Anyway, I’m sorry I was away and couldn’t get it to you before now. Hope it’s not too important.”

  “No, don’t worry,” I said. “Thanks for bringing it by.”

  “Well, gotta run,” she said, headed to her car. “Let’s have another margarita night soon so I can hear about Holly and her family. And don’t forget about those dreadlocks!” She winked and waved as she got in the car.

  I won’t forget, I thought, peeling back the flap on the envelope. I will remember every moment.

  * * *

  When Rose was a toddler, she laughed a lot, and she ran figure eights around the clothesline poles over and over until she made herself dizzy and fell down. Cricket ran with her and barked, encouraging her. He slept with her, too. A big old mutt of a guy, he was twice her size and her protector from day one.

  He licked her hair, right on top of her head—grooming her or creating a protective helmet. I’d comb her hair afterward to get some of the oil-slick saliva out of it, but ten minutes later, when she fell asleep on the rug on the living room floor, Cricket would come over, lick her head a couple more times, then stretch out next to her in vigil.

  I remember those afternoons of watching her while she played and slept, hoping one day she’d have a man as loyal as Cricket to watch over her. It wasn’t that she couldn’t take care of herself. But I always wanted her to be treated like the treasure she was. Appreciated and cherished.

  That’s one of the reasons I took the pearls, I think. Because I saw all the lack of cherishing in the world. Kids shot in their schools. Leaders of countries slaughtering their own people. Policemen ambushed and killed. Animals driven to extinction. How can we have a world without elephants or polar bears?

  I took the pearls because I didn’t cherish myself or anyone else. And now I see that that’s the only thing we’re here to do. Really. The only thing.

  So that’s why I did something today that I thought I would never do. I called the monastery, the one where I went to the grief retreat and wrote my letters to God. The letters have been sitting in my bedroom the last few days, on top of
the last box of old shoes and clothes slated for Goodwill. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, or even to look at them. Too much pain. But I don’t have years to wonder what to do with them or delay a decision or bury them back in the closet.

  So I picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Father Xavier, please,” I said, unsure whether he was still alive.

  “I’m sorry,” a peaceful male voice on the other end said. “Father Xavier is infirm and unable to speak with anyone right now. Can someone else help you?”

  “Yes,” I said, surprisingly confident. “I think I need to talk to a priest. I came to a retreat with Father Xavier many years ago, but maybe I could talk with someone else?”

  “I’m sorry he’s not available,” the voice said. “But I could certainly talk with you. I’m Father David. Are you able to come here in person?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “Yes. Could I see you tomorrow?”

  He must have heard the clarity in my voice.

  “Certainly,” he said. “Would one p.m. work?”

  “Yes, thank you.” That would give me time to make the two-hour drive.

  “Very well,” he said calmly, touching a place of peace in me. “Do you know how to find us?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I remember.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  * * *

  There’s a lot in this house that needs fixing. Mama always kept it so neat and fresh, always in good repair. But I just haven’t had the energy.

  Two of the tiles over the bathtub are broken. The wallpaper in the dining room is starting to peel. One of the windows in the living room is cracked. The barn is sagging a bit and looks weathered. And I never patched the bathroom ceiling after it had water damage from the leak in the attic last year.

  I could have had someone come in for repairs, but it never seemed to be a priority. Now that there is less clutter, it’s easier to see what needs work.

  I felt a little embarrassed to have Joe see it this way. I could hide the cracks in myself, but not in the plaster. All the imperfections would be in full view. But I was tired of hiding. I wondered what it would feel like to have him back in the house again. The first time since our divorce.

  He came over late this afternoon. I could smell the dust from the gravel road even before I heard his car. He parked near the shed and stepped out into the same driveway, with the same beds of flowers blooming in the background.

  How could everything and nothing change at the same time?

  He wore a white polo shirt and khaki pants, and he carried a bag of tacos—the fry-bread tacos we both loved.

  “Hey, you’re too dressed up to do any work around this place,” I said. He reached out and gave me a quick hug.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “I’ve got jeans and a T-shirt in the back. Thought I’d size things up first.”

  “Well, come on in out of the heat,” I said.

  He stood for a moment and turned in a circle, taking it all in. I tried to see the place through his eyes. Fourteen years.

  “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is,” he said, surveying the hills in the distance. “You probably never get tired of it.”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “You know how it is. You take things for granted after a while.”

  He nodded and looked off toward the shed and the barn. “The flowers are looking good,” he said. “Your mom would be proud.”

  They looked stronger and healthier than they had in weeks. The hosta blooms in the memorial garden stood straight and tall. I could feel vitality and aliveness from them again. Would the powder from Lin Chow have had the same effect on me?

  “Thanks. It’s been a challenge this summer. The drought has taken its toll.”

  “Well,” he said, “you must be doing something right, because I certainly couldn’t tell.”

  We walked up the steps to the front porch. He stood in one spot and leaned back and forth, making one of the floorboards moan. “Same squeak,” he said, smiling.

  * * *

  When he walked into the house, I had that sense of elation again, like giddiness to see him, to feel him once again in this house. He walked through the kitchen door, set the bag down on the kitchen table, and looked around. “It hasn’t changed,” he said. He rubbed his nose and then one eye—his way of holding back tears.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve kept it pretty much like Mama had it.”

  “Except for this,” he said, zeroing in on the colors on the wall. He seemed pleased to find something to tease me about. “What happened here?’

  “Kind of crazy, huh?” I said, letting him off the hook.

  “No,” he said. “It reminds me of the colored lights you told me about. The ones that were there with Rose.”

  I didn’t move. “You remember that?” I said.

  “Of course.” He reached out to touch the wall and feel the texture of the paint. “I remember the first time you told me about them. It was one of the things that I always loved about you and our relationship, that you’d trust me enough to tell me things that other people didn’t know or understand about you. And I always felt that you were connected to something I wish I could be connected to. I’ve thought about that a lot the past few years. It’s always inspired me.”

  Inspired him.

  Next to my sister, he’s the person on this planet who has known me the longest. And in many ways, he knows me more intimately than my own sister does.

  “I got a wild hair the other day,” I said, handing him some plates from the cupboard for our meal. “I found some old paint in the shed and something just came over me.”

  “Ah, the shed,” he said. “I remember it well.” I knew exactly what he was recalling. “We just about kicked over some of those cans of paint.” He smiled.

  “Is it hard living with all these memories?” he said, pulling the tacos out of the bag.

  “Not really,” I lied. I wanted to break down in tears, tell him how lonely I’d been, how I felt I’d been living with ghosts and didn’t see the point anymore, but I didn’t. “I guess I like the old and familiar.”

  “That’s me,” he said. “Old and familiar.”

  We both laughed.

  “Want some iced tea?” I asked.

  We sat down to eat. “Help yourself,” I said, handing him the platter of tacos.

  “Thanks,” he said. He paused. “Do you mind if I get something off my chest?” he said. I stiffened, wondering what was to come.

  He took a sip of his tea and looked at me.

  “I never told you how much I blamed myself for leaving,” he said.

  I breathed deeply, as though inhaling his words. I felt a boulder roll away from my heart, revealing an entrance.

  “I never blamed you,” I said. “I blamed myself. I pushed you away, even when I didn’t want to.”

  “But I should have stayed,” he said. “I could see what you were doing, what I was doing. I just thought that maybe if I left, things would right themselves again somehow, and it would just be temporary. I never meant to stay away.”

  I remembered the day he left, seeing the light go out of his eyes. Aside from losing Rose, I’ve never experienced anything more painful.

  “Do you remember what you said to me when you left that day?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ I meant it for myself, too.”

  “You did, you moved on. You found Carol and the girls. I thought you were happy.”

  “There were moments of happiness—definitely,” he said. “But it always felt like something important was missing, like we were trying to fill some gaping hole. And no matter how hard we tried, the hole didn’t go away.”

  “And what was it?” I asked, feeling my heart soften a little more.

  “History,” he said. “Some deeper connection and understanding. You and I always had it. We just knew each other from the start. With Carol, it seemed we were always acq
uaintances looking for something more.”

  I could hear myself breathing. “We did have something special,” I said.

  “Yes, we did,” he said. “And I miss it. We were part of each other. We still are.”

  All of a sudden I remembered the pearls. I’d been so involved in the conversation that I’d forgotten. He’d taken me away from it, just like he always did. And now I didn’t know what to say.

  “So what do you want?” I asked.

  “To spend time with you,” he said. “To be friends again. To see if we can create a new relationship with each other.”

  I sat back in my chair and looked at him, feeling deeply sorrowful for what I’d done. He was offering me a new chance. And under other circumstances, I would have taken it.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I want to, but there are circumstances.. . .”

  “Are you seeing someone else?” he asked.

  “God, no,” I said. “Honestly, I haven’t been interested. Not really. I know what you’re saying about Carol. That’s how I’ve felt about other men.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” I said. “Let’s give it a few days—let me think about it.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly, trying to understand. “I’ll accept that. In the meantime, do you mind if I hang around when I can? I don’t have to be back in California until next week.”

  I froze, not sure what to do. And then I felt the boulder rolling away from the cave again, as if both of us had been resurrected, and I said yes. I’m not sure how, but no matter what happens four days from now, I feel better knowing he’s nearby.

  His whole body seemed to relax. He sat back in his chair. “Good,” he said, with the same smile I remember from years ago. He lifted his taco in the air. “To new beginnings,” he said.

  * * *

  When I opened the lab results this morning, I sat for the longest time and stared at them on the kitchen table, rereading every number. Normal. Normal. Normal. The only note from my doctor was a reminder to schedule a routine mammogram and colonoscopy.

  So I know nothing more than before. Nothing to help me prepare or resist. Nothing to do but wait, and I am so tired of waiting.