by T. E. Price
“If you think that’s bad, imagine what this was like when the twins were newborns. Although the outdoor flight of stairs leading up to their front door isn’t necessarily daunting, I know they have another flight of stairs to tackle once we enter the apartment. “Yeah,” Isabel starts, following my gaze and predicting my thoughts, “it’s a good thing Harrison does a lot of his work from home—this is a workout in and of itself.”
Harrison brushes past us with my bag. “Come on people, it’s cold out here—only getting colder as the sun sets.” We climb the stairs behind him, the vapor from our breath validating Harrison’s statement about the dropping temperature. Oklahoma is one thing, but this Michigan, winter weather is a whole different ball game. It’s no wonder my parents left Michigan. The front door swings open to reveal a small foyer where Harrison kicks off his boots and quickly makes his way up the inside flight of stairs. The kids follow, throwing off their winter jackets as Isabel and I shiver, inching our way into the warm space while the gang moves up the stairs.
“I don’t know who designed this apartment, but they could have added more space in this entryway,” Isabel grunts as we finish hanging the discarded coats and begin our own climb in the chilly enclave. Both kids run full speed down the hall to their room, Isabel beelines for the fireplace on the back wall of the open dining and living room space, and I set my purse down on the dining room table.
Harrison exits the first door on the left in the little L-shaped hall. “Your bag is in your room,” he tells me. “I just have to use the bathroom, then I’ll be right out.” He crosses the hall to the master bedroom and disappears behind the closed door.
Isabel grabs a toy off the worn, brown couch next to the fireplace and says, “I’ll just make sure the twins are okay.” She trudges down the hall and disappears around the corner of the L, just past the second bathroom that I will be sharing with the twins while I’m here. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” Isabel shouts from the kids’ room.
For a moment, the apartment is silent. Breathing in deeply, I roll my neck around trying to work out the kinks that the plane ride and cramped backseat have produced. I glance through the sliding glass doors to the patio. Although none of the furniture inside the small apartment has changed since my last visit, they’ve added a new outdoor set to the once empty balcony. A thin dusting of snow covers the patio table, and I sigh. The set hasn’t been used in a while and probably won’t be for another couple of months. Turning to my left, I enter the kitchen and open the fridge. I grab a bottle of water, close the door, and let my eyes wander over the children’s art work decorating the fridge door.
“We should frame some of that stuff,” Harrison says from behind me, and I jump at the sound of his voice. He chuckles, “We could use some updates to this place, wouldn’t you say?”
“I think it’s great, you guys have such a cozy, little home,” I reply, twisting the cap off my bottle and taking a swig.
“Hmmm,” he starts in agreement, then adds, “Isabel’s right though, this place is starting to get old. I want to give her a house, but we just can’t afford it right now.” He drops his head, but immediately picks it up as he hears his wife’s footsteps approaching.
“Okay—now to get dinner started,” Isabel says, rubbing her hands together. “If you give me my space, the food will be on the table within thirty minutes.”
“Not a problem,” Harrison says, raising both hands in surrender. “Just let me grab a beer, and Hallie and I will take our conversation to the living room.” He sidles up beside me in the enclosed kitchen, opens the fridge, grabs a beer and pries the top open with a special magnet designed to do the trick. I begin to follow Harrison out of the kitchen, but he halts, pivots toward Isabel who is turning on the oven and kisses her gently, running the thumb of his free hand gently down her cheek.
“Come on—at least wait till I leave the room,” I grimace, but my heart throbs with the loving gesture just witnessed between my brother and sister-in-law. Their relationship epitomizes everything I ever wanted with Jonathan, but never experienced. Harrison laughs while leaving the kitchen, walking past the dining room table to the cozy living room space, warmed by flickering flames. I settle in the corner of the couch closest to the fireplace, my Oklahoma skin still covered with goosebumps from the outdoor chill. Harrison drops into the creaky recliner beside the couch, leans back, then stretches out with noises that give testimony to the age of the chair.
He sips his beer, then places his free hand behind his head and says, “Now this is the life.”
I nod, staring down at my water bottle. Could my life be any more different from Harrison’s? The reality of my past and the mood that would shift the moment Jonathan took a beer out of the fridge pounds against my skull. My memories stand in stark contrast to the love just witnessed in the kitchen, radiating to every corner of this apartment. “You really love her, don’t you?”
Harrison looks at me, his eyebrows pulled down in concentration, and takes a moment before saying, “Apart from God, that woman is the best thing that ever happened to me.” With a sigh, he continues, “I want to treat her with the respect she deserves while loving her in all the ways she needs. I want to provide everything for her. I want to be the husband and father I said I would be in my wedding vows.” He takes another drink. “I want to be all of that for her, but I know I fall short—probably more often than I can imagine—and that is where Christ comes in. When I fail, He reminds me of the promises I made before God as I took her as my wife, and He gets me through the highs and lows of this rollercoaster journey called life.”
My chin begins to quiver. No, be strong! You’re not a little fawn anymore. But I can’t help it, my sorrow takes over. I would have given anything to hear Jonathan say something like that about me. Instead, he left me fighting to believe my worth—he left me terrified…a hollowed-out version of the woman I’ve always wanted to be. Harrison lets me cry quietly for a while, then with his head lowered, he whispers, “I’m sorry, Hallie. I should have known what he was doing to you from the start. I should have saved you earlier.” My crying continues until I can reduce it to a sniffle. Harrison reaches over to the box of tissues on the side table that separates the recliner from the couch and tosses it in my direction. As the box sails toward me, I fumble and miss it.
We both giggle. It doesn’t get much more uncoordinated than that. Again, another stark difference between my brother and me. Dabbing at my damp face, I take in a deep, shaky breath. What would I do without Harrison? He lets me be myself, even when my attempt to stay strong crumbles. “Sorry, I’m just—” I start.
“You don’t have to apologize, Hallie,” Harrison says with a raised hand and a shake of his head. “What you have been through is unthinkable. I’m still wondering how you keep it together. No woman should have to endure what you went through with Jonathan.” My head shoots up in warning, and he corrects himself. “With him, I mean.” He twists to glance down the hall behind the recliner, just in case either of his children have snuck out of their room to eavesdrop. Before this trip, we all decided we weren’t going to use his name anymore, especially around the twins. Some things should be forgotten, and the twins are young enough to forget. I just wish I could. Harrison’s shoulders drop—the coast is clear. He turns back toward me and adds, “When you told me all that he had done to you, how he had—”
“No, don’t,” I interrupt as vivid scenes flash through my mind and send an icy shiver down my spine. I can’t relive that again—not here, not now. Harrison draws his head back quickly, but with his next breath, his questioning eyes soften. “Let’s talk about happier things,” I suggest, plunking the tissue box down beside the couch. My emotions can’t handle anymore, for now—I don’t intend to spend my precious vacation time on the horrendous recounts of my failed marriage.
“Sounds good to me,” Harrison says as he raises his bottle with a side nod. I raise my water bottle in an awkward attempt to cheers from across the space
, and in an instant, we are both laughing.
* * *
“Wow, Hallie,” Harrison exclaims as we slide to a stop at the bottom of a slope. “You’re catching on faster than I imagined. I’m impressed.” Harrison snaps one boot out of his snowboard as I start shuffling toward the line for the lift. “How long has it been since you’ve skied?”
I tap a gloved finger to my cheek, then say, “Must have been five years, at least.” Some guy on a snowboard zooms by us. Whoa! Did this showoff have to get so close to the tips of my skis? Both Harrison and I cock our heads back. That was a bit much. I shake my head, then catch a glimpse of Isabel in her bright blue jacket on the bunny hill with the twins. “The kids are really doing well,” I exclaim as both Harrison and I move into the long line for the lift.
“Yeah,” Harrison starts, “they get better every time we come. Bailey always takes a while to get the hang of it, but Branson is ready to take on a black diamond—at least in his mind he is.”
We laugh just as a group of college kids kicking back on a bench near the lodge yell for Harrison. Harrison waves, “I should go check on them. You good to do the next run on your own?”
“Sure, no problem,” I say, my chest lifting. Harrison nudges me in the shoulder with a playful fist as he snaps his other boot out, picks up the snowboard and leaves the line, making his way to the rowdy college group. I shuffle along with the moving line. Ouch. My shins are killing me. I bend down to click my boot out of my ski. My hips tighten with the movement and I cringe. If I could just get a little lower. Ugh! Why do they have to make these snaps so difficult to reach?
“Here, let me get that for you,” a voice offers from behind. The showoff on the snowboard leans down and pops my ski boot out.
“Thanks,” I mumble while shifting my foot around in the boot. Taking off my gloves, I wiggle around the top clamp. These things don’t cushion against the shin-bone like they should. I keep my eyes on the task long enough to avoid conversation with the stranger, but as I pick up my head, I meet his pink, drooping eyes for a brief moment. The deep lines forming around his lazy smile suggest he’s older than the teenager I pegged him for while speeding dangerously close to me earlier.
He extends a flirty greeting, and he looks like he is going to shake my hand, so I lower my gaze and fumble to put my gloves back on while clicking back into my ski. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Hallie,” I mumble. Pinching my lips, I turn quickly to advance in the line that is inching toward the lift. Will he take a hint already?
“Do you mind if we ride the lift together? All my friends went up without me and the line’s kinda long.”
“Um,” I start, glancing at the ever-growing line behind us. “Yeah, that’s fine, I guess.” I meet his eyes once more. His cloudy stare leaves me wriggling in my jacket. Shifting from his gaze, I chew my lip as a knot forms in my gut from these all-too familiar signs. I’ve been here before. Three, long years of Jonathan’s bloodshot eyes and irrational behavior…I can recognize the signs a mile away. But truth be told, his pot smoking habit proved to be the least of my worries.
Neither of us says anything until we finally get up to the lift. As the machine sweeps us off our feet and we pull the bar across our waists, I grimace. Why did I have to let him ride with me? I could have easily said how uncomfortable this all made me feel, but no—as always, I keep my opinions to myself.
“Come here often?” He tugs off his beanie—his shaggy hair falling in tufts around his thin, stubbly face.
I clear my throat, turning my gaze straight ahead as I say, “Actually, no. I’m just visiting my brother and sister-in-law for the holiday.”
“Nice,” he says. He’s trying to spur our conversation, but I’m not making it easy. I hate awkward conversation with strangers. I mean, how high do you have to be to not pick-up the vibes I’m sending? “You gotta boyfriend?” I shudder and scoot away. Now that I’m pressed against the far side of the lift, there’s no way he isn’t catching on. But his lazy grin suggests otherwise. Feel free to cut to the chase, pal.
“Yes,” I lie. Is that what it takes to end our conversation? Bile creeps into the back of my throat from the smell of marijuana clinging to his jacket. But at least it’s not the smell of a Davidoff cigar. That smell will haunt me forever.
The stranger shifts listlessly in the swinging chair, “Well, he isn’t here, and I didn’t see a ring on your hand, so it can’t be that serious.”
My lips part in response to this guy’s advances. Wow. Blunt, rude, crass— you got anything else up your sleeve, buddy? I gulp—this guy’s an idiot, so why do his words sting so bad? “It is,” I retort through gritted teeth. My chin lifts as my eyes narrow. I have never been this stern to a complete stranger, or anyone else, for that matter.
He throws both of his hands up as if pleading not-guilty and shrinks back. With a shrug of his shoulders, he lets his eyes wander the snowy terrain. The landing for a green trail comes into view. Finally—a chance to escape. Indicating my departure without a word, I lift my skis off the foothold and push up on the bar. By the time my skis hit the snow, I’m fighting back tears. It doesn’t seem to matter that I was triumphantly firm with him minutes before…he got to me. It’s not that this stranger reminds me of Jonathan; he’s far too laid back to parallel the aggression evidenced in Jonathan’s simplest, day-to-day moments, even if they did share the same recreational habits. But did he have to mention the lack of commitment from my made-up boyfriend? I slide down the slope—one easy hill, then another. What is it about me that invites noncommittal relationships—whether it’s my husband or a fake boyfriend? Am I not worth anything more? Can I ever fight my way out of Jonathan’s grip? Will he be coming for me, searching our small town until he finds me?
My anguished questions punish my thoughts as I shift my weight back and forth between my skis. Clack! I hit a patch of ice and go tumbling to a quick stop. My hips ache with the fall. I slowly pick my head up, unable to hold back the tears that melt the snow beneath me. Another skier races past me, but I’m too far off the beaten path for them to stop. Resting on my side, I take a moment to cry…out of embarrassment from falling, out of pain from my hips, out of fear for my future, out of terror from my past. Oh God, how can my life be such a mess? I thought things would get better once I left him. I thought I would be on a journey to healing and freedom, but I’m still desperate to escape it all. I swipe at my tear-streaked cheeks with the back of my scratchy glove. If I wait here much longer, people will begin to wonder. I sniffle, turn over on my skis that are thankfully still in place, and begin making my way down the slope, once again. It’s time for a break…and maybe a peppermint mocha.
This time, I don’t care how much it hurts my hips to bend at an angle— with great difficulty, I pop my skis boots out, place them on the rack and clunk up the stairs to the lodge. As I enter the heated, open space, I spy Isabel and the twins seated by one of the large fireplaces, taking a break from the bunny hill.
Navigating between the tables, I slump down in the rocking chair beside Isabel. Her smile quickly slides to pursed lips. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” Does she mean physically, or emotionally? Doesn’t matter, I divulge the full events of the last twenty minutes anyway. When I am finally through, I take a couple of deep breaths, thankful the twins are playing with each other farther away from the fire.
With the children out of earshot, Isabel takes the first opportunity she has had to speak openly about the man I have just left—the monster who has tormented me since our honeymoon. “Hallie, it’s okay to feel all this. Of course you’re overwhelmed—you have just gotten out of a difficult, three-year marriage.” She sighs, “Harrison shared with me everything that you told him a few months ago, and I don’t know if I could have endured all that. I never liked the guy. I thought he was a scumbag back in high school, and although he put on a good front for your family, he never fooled me.” Isabel pulls her beautiful curls over to one side of her shoulder and leans
in, “Jonathan was terrible to do all that he did to you…he should be sitting in prison right now, and although Harrison has told me to stay out of it, I think you should take him to court. He deserves to rot in jail.”
My chest thumps, “He wasn’t that bad.” I take another breath, preparing to go on, but Isabel interrupts me before I can make any more excuses for that man—as if the excuses could protect me from the stupidity of marrying him in the first place.
“He was, though.” Isabel gently floats her hand onto my shoulder. Can she see my struggle to protect the image of a man I have worked so hard to defend in the past? Thunk! Isabel’s rocking chair gets bumped from behind, and we both glance back to find Branson listening intently to our conversation. With a groan, Isabel quickly redirects, “Hey buddy, have you been here long?”
Branson walks slowly around the rocking chairs, leaving his sister playing behind him, and climbs into my lap. “I heard you talking about Uncle Jon, Mommy,” he says slowly, trying to understand what he has just heard. “Uncle Jon said he was going to take me hunting when I got older… will he?”
“Oh, baby,” Isabel starts, sending an apologetic glance in my direction. “Uncle Jon isn’t going to be a part of our lives anymore.”
“But what about hunting?” Branson’s wide eyes question his mother as his face falls.
Isabel opens and closes her mouth, like a fish out of water, then finally says, “Uncle Jon was a bad man, and he hurt Aunt Hallie. I’m sorry sweetie, but Uncle Jon will never be part of this family again. There won’t be a hunting trip.”
I gulp back tears and swivel to look at Bailey playing behind us. It’s better to avoid Branson’s questioning eyes, looking up at me for answers. But I find Bailey with her head turned, staring right at us. Hands frozen in the air, still holding her boot she’s been playing with. She’s been listening too. She meets my gaze, and her eyes dart downward. There was something about Uncle Jon that caught her ear. In the silence that follows the finality of Isabel’s last comment, I turn my head back. It’s unlike Bailey to listen to adult conversation. Branson heaves a sigh. He’s heard all the answers he’ll be getting today. And at that, he lifts his tiny hand to stroke it down my face. My eyes glisten. He can’t go hunting, but he’s still siding with me. Branson leaves my lap and runs back to Bailey. For a moment, Isabel and I watch them play together.