“It’s safely tucked in my bag,” Devon says as he stifles a yawn. Unlike me, who can laze the day away with books and movies, he begins to pace and peer out the window. “Let’s go for a hike.”
It’s a day one should watch through a window. Sunny and bright, coldness pounces when you step outside. “Why walk when you have no destination in mind?”
“I have a destination in mind. I’ll even bring a book for you to look at.”
That piques my interest. “What book?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says as he grabs me from the sofa and pulls me up.
He stuffs my knapsack with supplies. “I feel like a child,” I complain when he refuses to let me see what he’s packing.
“Sometimes, that’s not a bad thing. Now put on your warm coat, hat, mittens, and scarf, and let’s go.”
I kiss his cheek when we sit in his beat-up Honda Civic. “Tell me where we’re going.”
“No, it’s a surprise.” His car pulls into a lot cut out of the wilderness an hour later. Paths span in every direction.
“It looks muddy.”
“Don’t look so appalled. I guarantee you’ll enjoy yourself.”
We walk for ten minutes when he suddenly stops. He pulls at the zipper of my backpack. “Close your eyes.”
“I feel silly.”
“So what? It’s good to feel silly.”
He removes my right mitten and tosses something into my hand. “Keep your hand open and your eyes closed,” he says.
The sharp, fresh scent of the evergreens deepens. Silence fills the air. The mud under my feet holds me in place. Unexpectedly, something lands in my hand.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers.
A black-capped chickadee pecks at the sunflower seeds in my open palm. My eyes find Devon, but I don’t say a word. How can such a weightless creature find the courage to venture into a giant’s hand?
Only when the tiny bird flies away do I say, “Thank you. I’m awed.”
The bag of sunflower seeds empties as the chickadees’ bellies become full and they lose interest in us. Devon digs in my knapsack. “What are you looking for?”
“The book I promised you.”
I forgot about the book. He holds up my copy of Audubon and we trudge deeper into the forest. Blue jays and cardinals thrill me, but Devon continues walking. Looming trees block the sun. Paths become narrow and winding. A hollow sound echoes like the impatient rap of fingers on a wooden door. I look up and grab hold of him. Pages flip in a quick flutter. The great bird continues to attack a dead tree with its pointed bill.
“It’s a pileated woodpecker.”
“It looks like it’s wearing a red woolen hat.” A swooshing sound breaks the silence as the bird spreads its enormous wings and takes to the sky.
We leave an hour later. I don’t complain about my cold feet, because my spirit is so warm, I feel I’ll burst.
Weeks later, we sit at the kitchen table and pick at a platter of fruit. Devon tosses a grape into his mouth. “You should buy a bike.”
I regret choosing the chunk of honeydew melon. My mouth turns in the grip of its bitterness. Honeydew, what a misnomer. “Why buy a bike when I have a bus pass?”
“You can’t take a bus to visit the chickadees.”
“The respite from the cold won’t last.”
“You don’t know that.”
I buy a bike.
We’re now biking and hiking, but he’s not done with me.
Sitting on the couch, I’m content to watch a movie. Devon rustles papers, but my eyes rest on the television. “Check this out,” he says as he thrusts a brochure in my hand.
“White water rafting, are you insane?”
It turns out to be one of the most exciting weekends of my life.
We hike, we bike, and I grow in ways I never would have imagined.
Chapter 59
Winter truly arrives. Leaves fall, snow plops, and Christmas pulls up to everyone’s door. I’m going home for the holidays. Devon rings my bell on December 22, the day before I leave. He juggles gifts awkwardly. “Oh my gosh!” I screech. I have a box for him under the tree. It seems inadequate in the wake of his bounty.
A dinner of chicken, roasted potatoes, and sautéed red peppers fills our bellies. White wine makes us giddy. We make our way to my cramped living room, made smaller by the six-foot tree.
Devon reaches under the tree and pulls out three boxes. He lines them up in a row. “Start with this one,” he says as he hands me the smallest package.
It’s a pair of pink mitts. Fleeced lined, they’ll warm my hands, but the conventional gift doesn’t warm my heart. “Thank you,” I say as I give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Now you have to open this one.”
I struggle with the large package. I tear open the green paper and rip open the box. “A coat,” I gush. “It looks warm, and it matches the pink mitts perfectly.”
“It’s stuffed with goose feathers.”
“Thank you, I love it!” I exclaim, even though its sporty style is not something I would’ve chosen.
The third gift sits in front of me, but Devon says, “Close your eyes.”
I close my eyes and hear my door open and bang shut a moment later.
“Open your eyes.”
An additional present leans against the wall. “Open this one first.”
I try to smile when my eyes fall upon a pair of ski boots. The large parcel leaning against the wall is obvious, but I tear off the paper and pretend to be surprised when my hands grip a pair of skis. “If the boots don’t fit, we can exchange them,” Devon assures me as he kisses my neck.
I push my foot into their stiffness. “It’s a perfect fit.”
“Now we can go skiing!” he shouts.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You’ll love it,” he says.
“I’ll kill myself,” I predict.
I packed all my presents for Ma and Granny the night before. My gift to him is the only present under my tree. It looks forsaken.
I grab hold of it and place it at his feet. “I wrapped it myself,” I beam.
He smiles at the reindeer with loopy grins running across his gift. He rips off the purple bow. “Books,” he says as he looks down at them.
“Not just books, my favorite books. The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz, you have to read that. Mordecai Richler is a genius. A Tale of Two Cities! Who doesn’t like Dickens? I had to get you To Kill a Mockingbird and Catcher in the Rye.”
“Wow,” he says. It sounds as anemic as my “yeah.”
I feel lacking, on the verge of disappointing. “There’s more,” I say as I hand him an envelope.
He opens it slowly. “It’s a voucher for the Mayfair. We’ll get to see all the old movies.”
He kisses me and doesn’t pull away when I push him to the hard wooden floor.
When I come back for the new year, I find him perched in the blue wingback chair. “I can’t believe Sydney Carton gave up his life. His life is as important as the lives of others. Did his love for Lucy diminish his self-worth?”
“Stop. I just walked in the door.”
Devon throws the book to the floor and takes me in his arms.
I know I love him when I wouldn’t change a thing about the day even when we are nowhere special, doing nothing. We eventually share the typical aspirations of marriage and children, transforming them into something special because they’re no longer concepts—they’re dreams. He fills my days, but I manage to squeeze Susan into a narrow timeslot.
She reaches across the coffee table and grabs another slice of cheese pizza. I love plain pizza, and she’s my only friend who appreciates its basic goodness. Her chews resound as an unnatural quietness blankets her. Normally a bubbly sort, her flatness sits awkwardly. “What’s up?” I ask as I grab another slice.
Her eyes plummet to the carpet and then slowly lift to find my own. “You know I love you, but ever since you’ve been with Devon, you don’t apprecia
te your friends. It’s normal when the relationship is new, but I find the longer you two are together, the smaller your world is.”
“That’s not true. We see each other at least once a week.”
“That’s only because Devon plays basketball on Thursdays. You never call me any other night.”
I don’t know what to say. I hate being one of those girls, but it appears I am.
“I’m not the only one to notice,” Susan says as she flings her crust into the empty box. “Donna said the same thing.”
“I didn’t realize,” I sputter.
“Our friendship can withstand a little bit of neglect, but be careful, Marnie. No person wants to be held too tight.”
Her words, I listen to. Her advice, I disregard.
The breakup occurs two months later.
Tears stream down my face as I dash to Susan’s apartment. She has the decency not to say I told you so. She hands me a tissue. “He said he wanted to marry me and begin a family after we graduated. He made promises! He reneged on them.”
“Wipe your face,” she says as she rubs my arm.
“He’s a rat,” I say.
Susan, being Susan, lets delusions remain intact. “One of the worst,” she agrees.
After Devon, I only date safe men. Men I’ll never fall in love with. Men whose knees won’t bend. Men who never buy rings.
I bend spinelessness into common sense. Once burned…
A liar, I hide the true story from others and myself, at least for a little while.
Chapter 60
One night, I’m alone, and a bad temperament joins me in bed. I’ve just had another lacklustre date, and I convince myself that rotten luck is the accomplice of my dreadful evenings. Truth, tired of being tucked away, springs forth and grabs hold of me. Its grip is tight. Excuses try to lessen its hold, but it refuses to let go. I turn on the light.
Devon marches into my brain. He leads a parade of thoughts with arms gesticulating wildly. Free of me, he can breathe and move about. Yes, I did squeeze him tightly—so tightly, love became a tight corner.
Icy truth washes over me. No…
Cold, I wrap my arms around myself. The chills continue.
I held him tightly, but not out of love or a need to possess. When he mentioned my clinginess, gently and hopefully, I smiled and clutched him even tighter.
I pretended to be shocked, but the breakup wasn’t a surprise. It was a natural conclusion. I knew he would eventually pull away. And that’s exactly what I wanted him to do.
Why? There’s a simple enough answer. Devon’s dreams were not my dreams.
I never told him so. I don’t even allow myself to think about it. But marriage leaves me unsure. I drove him away because it was an easier route than telling the truth.
I don’t want children. There, I said it. Even alone, my sentiment shames me.
When I stare down at a baby carriage, I see a drooling mass of dependence and inwardly cringe. My interest in baby’s babbles and first steps is feigned. I really couldn’t care less. Their appeal eludes me. With older children, the situation worsens. My disinterest turns into annoyance when they become vocal and mobile.
I pull the blankets up around my neck.
A woman is supposed to want marriage and a family. I don’t. Am I an aberration? Empty of maternal instincts, am I an object to abhor or pity? Perhaps, but wrongness would swell if I embraced motherhood. Resentment would surely follow the child’s birth, and who would benefit?
I sit up. Happy with myself for company, I enjoy doing what I want to do when I want to do it. Is that wrong? We’re all different and shouldn’t be expected to fit into slots. That said, why can’t I admit these truths?
I bemoan failed relationships, because my sabotage lets people see the rubble of a ruined affair without seeing the wreckage that lies beneath.
I detest compromise. I don’t regard relationships highly. They appear to take away more than they give.
For my relationship with Devon to continue, I had to choose between two options. I could have learned to make concessions and crammed myself into the standard mould. The thought makes me shudder. Conformity’s price tag is too high. I don’t want noncompliant pieces cut from me and abandoned. I want to remain whole.
Honesty—I could’ve tried that. Perhaps Devon would’ve wanted me as I am. I despise regrets, but there are days I wish I had given him the chance to decide. My dishonesty had discarded his worth along with my own. Perhaps Devon’s concept of “wife” was the same as mine. Maybe he didn’t want to chop me into pieces. Would he have chosen me above unborn children? I’ll never know. Cowardliness doesn’t answer questions. It runs from them.
I chose door number three. I slammed the door on our love and avoided serious relationships evermore. Ah, the secret is now safe.
“You’re so unlucky,” Susan chirps after each of my breakups.
“You always pick the wrong sort of man,” Donna says.
I don’t explain that I’m very good at sizing up men and placing them in the correct category. I seek casual affairs, because they don’t demand much of you. You needn’t reveal who you really are, because the other person doesn’t care all that much. It’s an easy choice, but is it the best one?
I don’t know.
I tell myself that I’m happy to be Marnie O’Sullivan: daughter, granddaughter, niece, friend, and writer—nothing more and nothing less.
If I’m happy being who I am, why do I hide my uniqueness from everyone? Building a person takes time. The result sometimes accompanies the last breath. Differences make us interesting. So many hands shape each of us. Am I ashamed of my makers?
Ma’s gentle touch wrought me. I’m not ashamed of her. I want to emulate her.
Her independence is admirable. Strong and intelligent, she took what life gave her and did the best she could. Her triumphs and her mistakes were her own. She made me proud.
I, too, should be proud. I’m her daughter. I’m in her likeness. I turn off the light and shut my eyes, content to nestle with honesty and pride.
Chapter 61
The train stops, pulling me from my past. The woman with the carrot-red hair marches down the aisle, ready to disembark. Her son follows with a childish scamper. A man in a blue uniform with a matching cap stops her but allows her to continue within seconds. His eyes fall on the boy, and he takes something from his hand. “I’m sorry, son, but your ticket is closed.” The boy bolts, ready to trail his mother, but the man’s long arms easily grasp him in an inescapable embrace. “Don’t fight it, son. It won’t do any good.”
The red-haired woman is on the last step, her toe poised to hit earth. She turns around and calls out, “David, where are you? Hurry, it’s time to go. Grab hold of Mommy’s hand.”
His screech sounds like a wail. “Mommy!”
Her footsteps pound as she hurries over to the man. “What’s going on here?” she asks as she tugs at her son, trying to liberate him from the large man’s grip.
“I’m sorry, lady, but only your ticket is open ended. You’re free to go, but the little boy stays on the train.”
“But…” she sputters. “There’s been a mistake. He’s my son. He belongs with me.” She resumes tugging, but the man’s hold doesn’t loosen. Irritation punctuates his every word. “I checked his ticket. It’s closed, so stop this nonsense.” He looks down at her and frowns. “There are no exceptions to the rules.”
Hands knot, chin juts. “This is ridiculous. I can’t leave him alone.”
The little boy looks ready to cry. Water pools, but somehow, he holds on to his tears.
The man puts a hand on her shoulder to give it a gentle squeeze. “Get off the train. I promise you he won’t be alone.”
She shakes his hand off. “I don’t want your assurances. A child needs his mother.”
“As I said, the boy stays put.” The tight line of his mouth leaves no room for contention.
The woman’s cheeks flush as red as her hair. “I do
n’t understand. This isn’t right. You can’t separate a child from his parent.”
Annoyance puckers the man’s face. “Your understanding is irrelevant, and as for what’s right or wrong, that’s not up to you to decide. I suggest you go on your way and don’t look back.”
She stands closer to her boy. Her eyes dart down the aisle.
His stance widens, blocking the route to the exit. “If you take his hand, both of you must return to your seats.”
The boy tries to pull away. “Just go, Mommy,” he orders as he tries to escape from her. “Do as he says. I’ll be fine. I really will.”
She plants herself. “I’ll never let go of you.” She grabs hold of his hand. Tears course down her cheeks. “I can’t leave my little boy.” She wraps him in a tight embrace.
Luminosity flashes. I finally understand that this is not an ordinary train, and our journey doesn’t bring us to new places. Instead, it revisits our past before we stop at our final destination.
A man with a familiar gait makes his way down the aisle. I lean forward in my seat. “Daddy?”
A lopsided smile and a hearty laugh give me my answer. His right hand clutches a bouquet. It bursts with birds of paradise, pink flamingo calla lilies, and fragrant purple roses that imbue the air with sweetness. “Still gardening?” I ask.
“Of course, it’s a part of me.”
Daddy looks the same as he did when I was ten. Emotion weights his words. “It’s so good to see you.” I leap from the seat and throw myself in his arms. I snuggle, savoring his scent and the strong arms that hold me tight. Our time apart seems inconsequential. His hold still feels comfortable and safe. I guess you don’t let go of the people you love.
He releases me and takes a step back. His neck cranes as he peers into my face.
“I must look different to you,” I say, thinking he remembers a little girl.
“Not at all. I did keep in touch.”
Ma was right. He was with us all along. He holds out his hand. I stare at it, knowing I’m supposed to grab hold.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
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