by Callie Cole
“I’m so sorry, Patrick. I can’t imagine how horrible that day and the days that followed were for you.”
“Thank you, Laney. I appreciate that. In the beginning it was difficult, no doubt. My sister and mother came to take care of Ella and me during that time. They worked together to get us everything we needed. Mostly for Ella. I had no idea what to do with a newborn. I learned pretty quickly, though.
Eventually, my sister convinced me that Ella and I would be better off living closer to family. I never liked living in the city. I always planned on getting my education there but then practicing in North Carolina. I didn’t plan on falling in love, of course.”
Smiling, I say, “I can’t picture you living in the city. It’s clear how much you love working and being part of this community. I have no doubt that Ella will thrive here.”
“I think you’re right about Ella thriving. Come to think of it, you’re right about me too. This is where I belong. It’s not for everyone, I realize that, but I think it’s a perfect place for me and for anyone who wants to raise a family. Your mother and father seemed to think so, too.”
Feeling as if the conversation is moving in my direction, I look away.
Patrick seems to catch my discomfort and changes the subject. “How about we go out on the porch? It’s a beautiful, warm summer night. Next week is the Fourth of July. I hope you’ll still be here to watch the parade and fireworks. There’s a band that plays on the town green, inside the gazebo.”
“I’ll look forward to it. I expect to still be here for at least another week. There’s several more things I need to attend to before I head back. Celebrating the Fourth in Stone Ridge sounds like fun.”
Chapter 7
We walk out onto the front porch, and the neighborhood is illuminated by the full moon. People are walking around as if it’s the middle of the day, each waving to Patrick and marveling about what a glorious evening it is.
“I remember nights like this when I was a teenager out with my friends. I’d forgotten how lovely it can be. You’d never see this in the city, although I will say that there are some really hot nights when my neighbors are out on their fire escapes, fanning themselves to keep cool.”
Laughing, Patrick says, “I remember nights like that when I lived there. I’ll take a full moon country porch swing any night. Shall we?”
We could easily take individual chairs, but the thought of sitting so close to him is appealing, and so I accept his invitation. We sit on the swing and wave back at the people passing by.
“So I take it you like living in New York?”
“I don’t mind it. I’ve gotten used to it, I suppose.”
“Do you like your job?”
“Now that’s a discussion that could go on for hours. The short answer is no. It’s a means to an end. Anyone who gets paid good enough money to afford an apartment in Manhattan can’t complain too much.”
“But it’s not your dream?”
“No. It’s not. What I’d love to be doing is working on my fiction writing. I’ve got several stories already written, but they sit in my nightstand drawer, waiting for I don’t know what. I’ve been making up stories since I was a kid. Everywhere I went I had a notebook or a journal with me.”
“Why not try to publish your work? I mean if it’s really what you want to do, why wait?”
“Well, for one thing, I need to make a living. I’m not comfortable being a starving author.”
I know Patrick is listening to me, but his arm has moved to my back, and his face seems much closer than it was when we were inside the house. I can feel the warmth of his body up against mine.
“Do you like to dance?”
“What?”
“Dance. You have heard of dancing, haven’t you?”
“I do like to dance, although I haven’t done it in a while.”
“How about now? Would you care to dance with me?”
“Don’t we need music?”
“I can make that happen.”
He stands and takes my hand in his, directing me back inside. He puts on music from the 1940s, turns to me, and bows.
I’m laughing but don’t want to insult him, so I let him scoop me into his arms as we begin to move to the music. Patrick pulls me closer, and our bodies melt into each other. My head rests on his shoulder, and I feel like I could stay in his arms forever.
We pull back enough so that our open lips are almost touching. Our breath passes between us, and I can’t tell which is his and which is mine. The warmth and softness of his teasing kiss makes me want more, and as he tastes my tongue, I press further against his mouth, never wanting to let go.
Lost in his arms, it’s easy to forget what’s real, but I don’t, and so I pull away. I look at Patrick accusingly.
“What are you doing?”
He looks confused. “What do you mean?”
“Why are you coming on to me like this? You know I’m leaving and going back to New York as soon as I can. I can’t start something with you. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to Ella or to you.”
“You mean it wouldn’t be fair to you. Why don’t you let me decide what’s fair for Ella and me? Running away again won’t solve anything, Laney.”
“Okay. That’s enough. You think you know me because of a few stories my mother told you about my life, but...”
Patrick interrupts me.
“I know enough to know that you don’t like where you’re living. I know you don’t like your job, but you’d rather keep writing magazine articles than trust your writing enough to give your stories a try. I know that you won’t come back to Stone Ridge even though your heart is here, not in New York. I know the reason is because you think it’s your fault Kristen died because you were behind the wheel of the car.
I don’t know how many people need to tell you, to convince you, that it was the drunk truck driver that killed Kristen, not you. Your mother even told you that she was in touch with Kristen’s mother, and the woman didn’t blame you, but you wouldn’t listen.
That truck driver could have killed you too. Don’t you realize that everyone knows that? What’s it going to take for you to believe it?
Until you believe it wasn’t your fault, no one will ever be able to convince you, Laney. If you continue like this, you will spend the rest of your life being as dead as Kristen. Is that what you think she would want for you? No one is blaming you, Laney, no one except you.”
My face wet with tears, I do the only thing I know how to do. I do what’s familiar. I run away. I rush off the porch and over to my house, running as fast as my legs will carry me.
Entering my bedroom, I tear through every drawer and every shelf, grabbing anything that has a connection to Kristen. I take it all and forcefully hurl it all into the trash barrel. With energy to spare, I go into my mother’s room and open her closet. Throwing myself against her clothes, I breathe in her scent, my screams muffled by her coat.
I fall to the floor, lying on my side, and pull my knees up to my chest. I stay in a fetal position for several minutes, letting my tears fall without restraint, finally accepting my heart and soul’s need to grieve.
Chapter 8
Somewhere in the night, I managed to pull myself together and climb into my mother’s bed. I didn’t even have the strength to walk to my room.
When the light outside comes through the window, the sun hits my eyes, and I sit up briefly forgetting why I’m in this bed. My body aches as if I ran a marathon yesterday. Wearing the same jeans and pink top I had on last night, I look in the mirror.
Mascara is caked on my cheeks. I sigh. “You’re a mess, do you know that?”
I make a pot of coffee, shower, and get busy doing things around the house. I push the events of the night before out of my mind and call my sister Emily.
“We've got to decide what to do with Mom’s things. Every drawer, closet, shelf and tote is jam-packed with stuff. You never told me she was a hoarder.”
“She didn’t call
it that. She said she was a packrat. I think she thought that was a nice way to be, whereas a hoarder meant there was something wrong with you. You know Mom.”
“Well, it’s all the same to me. Too much stuff.”
“Why don’t you take whatever you want to keep for yourself and leave me the rest? I can come out there and help you move stuff to the church donation center. They take everything.”
“Works for me, but I doubt there is anything here that I want. I think you’re going to have to handle the real estate stuff. I can’t stay here for more than a few days.”
“What? I mean I don’t mind selling the house for you, but I thought you were going to stay at least until after the holiday. Just stay until after the Fourth, and I’ll come back for a bit. That’s only another five days. You can do that. We can hang out before you leave.”
I thought Emily would be more cooperative than that, so I’m stuck.
She has obligations in her world, and I don’t want to be a jerk about it.
“Okay. I’ll stay until after the Fourth of July but promise me you’ll come back the day after.”
“I promise. I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hang up the phone and decide to spend the day going through the house, starting with my mother’s closet. I always made fun of her bargain hunting. From greeting cards, ribbons, Tupperware, and clothes, my mother knew how to get a deal, and it showed.
It’s a good thing Emily is going to handle what I can’t finish, because this place is going to take forever to clear out.
I try to stay busy to avoid thinking about Patrick, but there is little I can do to feel better. His words stung, and I couldn’t handle the truth, so I ran. That’s what I do, but how long can I keep running?
A large bag falls from the top closet shelf and hits me in the head.
“Ouch. What the hell?”
I pick the bag up off the floor and open it. Several large balls of yarn, the same color as the yarn in her knitting basket, fill the plastic bag.
How much knitting did my mother do, and for that matter, where are all the knitted items?
Remembering Patrick’s sweater, I’m certain my mother must have knitted it for him. Come to think of it, Olive’s sweater was the same color.
I’m sure the basket of yarn that was moved and the bag of yarn that hit me on the head, is the very same yarn used to make sweaters for Patrick and his dog Olive. I decide to pour myself a strong drink and have a long talk with my mother.
Chapter 9
After three hours of house cleaning and alternating talking to myself and then my dead mother, I sit in the living room surrounded by boxes of paperwork. Bills, mixed with correspondence and photographs, fill each box, and I do what I can to separate everything according to category.
Several envelopes of letters addressed to my mother are from Ms. Rachel Nelson, Kristen’s mother. I push them aside, not wanting to hear what is sure to be negative and insulting words from her to my mother.
The fact that my mother was in the front line, carrying the burden of those interactions, makes me angry.
She was protecting me from all of that so I wouldn’t have to hear it. Way to go, Mom!
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Angry enough to open the letters and prepare myself for what is sure to be blood-pressure raising vitriol. Organizing the letters by post date, I can see her first letter was a year after the accident.
Dear Nellie,
I’ve decided to take some time away from Stone Ridge to visit extended family in Charlotte. It’s been difficult to stay in town with everything reminding me of Kristen. I am considering moving here permanently so that I can be closer to my sister. She is all I have left in the world and I’d hate to miss out on watching my nieces and nephews grow into adults.
I should have stopped by in person to talk to you and Laney, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it without uncontrollable crying. I decided I would write to you from my sister’s instead. With a little distance from Stone Ridge, I’d be better able to convey the right words.
I want to express my deep appreciation to both you and Laney for all the love you gave to my girl. After Jeff and I divorced when Kristen was a little girl, I felt the weight of raising her on my own and worried whether I’d be a good mother.
What would Kristen’s life have been without your family’s support? Your family was like a second family to her. She was a happy girl and I know she loved Laney more than anyone in the world. I thank God every day that Laney didn’t die in that car crash.
I’ll write again, but for now, please know that I will forever be in your debt. Your friendship has meant the world to me. I hope you will stay in touch. All my love to Laney,
Rachel
The letters continue between them for several years, the last one arriving just before my mother’s passing. I notice a small pouch inside one of her larger envelopes. I open the pouch and Kristen’s necklace falls out into the box. I pick it up in my hand and my fingers close around it as I read her last letter.
Dear Nellie,
I’m sorry it’s been a while since my last letter. So much has happened I don’t know where to start.
As you know, I’ve become pretty involved in my sister’s children’s lives and it’s been heaven being able to attend parties and graduations, and now, a wedding.
My niece got married two months ago and you won’t believe what happened. I met someone at the wedding! I never in a million years could have predicted that I would ever be in another relationship, and at my age no less! We are just getting to know each other slowly and it feels right. My sister’s family loves him and I’m sure Kristen would have approved.
You’ll see that I’ve enclosed a pouch within this letter. It was a necklace that Kristen was wearing the day she died. I placed it inside her jewelry box and never gave it another thought. I didn’t know its significance until recently. I remember telling Kristen that she was one half of my heart. I thought that necklace appealed to her because of that phrase.
I took the jewelry box with me when I moved to Charlotte because I thought I would let my sister and my niece pick out whatever they wanted as a token of remembrance of Kristen.
It wasn’t until I looked closely at a photo of Laney with Kristen that I understood these two necklaces are meant to be together. Two halves of one heart.
I suddenly remembered how Kristen saved her money to buy one for Laney’s birthday. I think it was her thirteenth. I now know that Kristen saw Laney as more than her best friend, she was her other half, one incomplete without the other.
So, I am sending this to you so that you might give it to Laney. I think it will mean more to her than anyone else.
All my love to you both,
Rachel
They were friends. Why didn’t my mother ever tell me this? Did she tell me, and I didn’t listen? Would it have helped me? I don’t know. I wasn’t listening to anything anyone had to say after the accident. I closed down.
The punishment I inflicted upon myself didn’t come from Kristen’s family. I was the person most responsible for laying blame. I tried to remember the exact words my mother told me about Rachel Nelson. If she did tell me, I wouldn’t listen.
Why would I do that? Was the pain of losing Kristen so overwhelming that staying mad at myself prevented me from moving on?
Not letting go of the pain and guilt meant not letting go of Kristen. To move on would mean to move away from our friendship and our world, and I couldn’t do that. I had to stay in limbo. I didn’t want to forget her. Patrick was right. Everyone was right.
I need to walk. Walking always clears my head. I put my sneakers and headphones on and start out, walking in the opposite direction of Patrick’s house. I know I need to talk to him, to apologize, but there is something I need to do first.
I know where I’m going, and soon my walking turns into running. A steady jog to the beat of the music. Smiling, I blast “Shape of My Heart” from
Backstreet Boys.
My first stop is my mother’s grave. Freshly covered, the flowers still adorn the plot. I lean down and run my hand over the stone. My father’s name and my mother’s, together. I have no doubt she’s organizing things up there, just like she did for years down here.
I do what I should have done before she died. I apologize, thank her for everything she did for me, and promise to pay closer attention when she speaks—after all, I know she’s not done.
I stand and look up toward the hill. The day of Kristen’s funeral, I was in the hospital. I never went to the cemetery after I came home. I just couldn’t.
Now, standing at my mother’s grave, I do as I’m told. I run up the hill toward the back side of the cemetery. It takes me a few minutes to find her headstone, and when I do, I can’t help but laugh out loud as the tears fall.
Kristen Nelson
June 28, 1995 ~ April 15, 2012
One Half of Your Heart
Chapter 10
There isn’t a speck of dust or an ounce of clutter in this house. I’ve polished and cleaned every inch of the place. I put candles in every room, and the warm, cozy feel is as inviting as I can make it. The only thing left is the note.
I sit at the dining room table and write the invitation. I wait until Patrick has left to drop off Ella at his sister’s while he’s at work. Waiting until his mail has been delivered, I place the envelope inside his mailbox.
I spend the day getting ready. I take a long bubble bath and play relaxing spa music as I sip a glass of wine. As the hours pass, I keep looking out the window to see if Patrick has come home and watch for any telltale signs of his receiving my note.
My phone buzzes, and it’s Patrick. I answer.
“Hello.”
“I got your invitation. I’ve asked my sister to keep Ella for the night. Was that a good idea?”
“Yes. I believe that was a wise decision, Dr. Langford.”