When I get out, I come around to the driver’s window. It opens. “Tucker, take care of him for me. You’re a good friend.” I want to kiss him on the cheek, like people do in movies, but instead, I just turn and walk into the house.
39: My Truth
IF I WAS BEING FLIPPANT, which is certainly not appropriate for the moment, I’d quote Ricky of I Love Lucy and admit that I have some splainin’ to do. I’ve never been good at handling ugly truths in anything but a roundabout way.
I very rarely wade back through all of this, but now it seems I’d better. It’s out in the open, and I feel like I’ve had my chest cracked open, so I don’t know how it could get any worse. I sit down to write Andrew a letter. He deserves the whole story. I want him to get well, and I certainly don’t want my mess to be the reason he can’t.
The letter is hard. All this was hard to live, but it’s almost harder to replay it in my mind another painful time. This is why I leave it be. It is my swamp, and no, I don’t fish it. I can’t.
The memories all come back to me as I try to think what to write. Peter and I met at school. I was instantly smitten. He was curly-headed, charismatic, funny. He had a way of running his hands through his hair when he was excited about an idea. I just loved it.
We dated a little, but he lived in the crew house, a big, rambling mess of an old, white farmhouse with a bunch of his rowing teammates. They had wild parties—really wild parties.
I was never much on drinking. I watched him out of control at more than a couple parties, and I was distinctly uncomfortable. So the next time he called to see if I wanted to meet him somewhere, I had other plans. And that was it in college.
Then the dinner party. Here we were, all grown-up. I was newly teaching; he was working on a PhD in public policy. He seemed different. We dated for a year before we got engaged. Life was good. We got married, Hunter came along, and Peter got a job teaching at a community college. Beau was born.
Then we moved west. Peter had a new job teaching at Boise State. That’s when the drinking started again.
I guess it had never stopped altogether. When we lived in Virginia, more than a few nights each year, old college buddies of Peter’s would call up and meet him for a drink. He’d call and let me know at the end of the day, say he’d be home a little late. He’d come home at two. But when the boys were babies, he kept it limited to a few nights a year. He just couldn’t step away when the opportunity was presented.
Out west, though, it didn’t matter. First it was when the department had tailgate parties. Then it was when people invited him out after classes. Then it was always. More nights than not ended with me putting the kids to bed and him not home yet.
When I found out he was drinking during the day too, I left. I found an apartment close to the school where I taught, and I moved out. The boys were three and six. We were separated for a year. The depth of my depression was one of the scariest things I’ve ever lived through. The only reason I survived was the boys. If they hadn’t needed me, I wouldn’t have fought to get better.
Peter came to me on our anniversary that year and told me about rehab, and his sobriety. We bought a new house, the one where the boys and I live now, and moved in after a year apart. He never had another drink.
Three years later, he got sick. And five months after that, he died. I was more ready for the way I felt then than the way I’d felt when Peter was drinking, but it didn’t hurt any less. I had a lot of support after he died. But when he was drinking, I felt a lot of shame and didn’t tell very many people what was going on. It hurt too much.
I pour all of this into my letter to Andrew. I don’t know if he’ll understand, but I try to explain. It comes down to this: Yes, I have been here before, but I am not personally strong enough to do it again. What if rehab doesn’t work this time? Or what if it does? It did last time, and I lost Peter anyway. I can’t bear that again. Also, I have the boys. They’ve been there, done that as well, and though we can tell ourselves they were too little to remember, I think children are like wet clay—everything makes an impression on them somewhere. I will not put them through any of that again. I will not risk it. I will not risk them. I know he thinks he won’t leave, but what if he’s not the one who gets to decide?
Anyway, I tell him again that I love him, and that I know he can find strength in his family, his friends, and himself to get through this fight.
What I leave out—but what I’m ultimately saying—is that he can’t find strength in me. I don’t have any to spare. If this is another moment for a skiing metaphor, this is a chute I won’t go down again. I’m not a good enough skier.
I write about half a dozen drafts, trying for the right tone and throwing away the ones that are too wet from tears. Everything with Peter is back up at the surface again, and then there’s the look I keep remembering in Andrew’s eyes. His face as he told me about the sunrise, and how he knew he could help me, and how he was going to get past this. There was so much optimism. And I stomped on it because I’m a coward.
I get in my car and drive to the nearest mailbox. I send the letter. That’s my weakest moment. This is my surrender. I’d rather stay safe, take the long way around—or the lonely way, in this case—than risk loving someone again. Instead of joining Andrew in the fight, I have run as far away as I can.
40: A Running Partner
I WAKE UP—or actually, I decide to stop trying to sleep and get up. The dawn is still gray. I feel gray. The inside of my mouth tastes gray.
I’m fairly confident I will not be able to run this morning without a little caffeine. I’m hardly ever able to in the weeks since I fled LA. At least the weather is calming down a bit. There’s no snow. It’s late May, but that doesn’t matter in Boise. Until the end of June, anything can happen.
This morning the gray air is calm. I look out the window. Maybe I’m brooding, or thinking. Or just staring.
“Mom.” I jump, startled. It’s Hunter.
He doesn’t need to be up. It’s Saturday. “Go back to bed, hon. I’m going running. It’s a day off.”
He pulls the kettle off the burner. “Your tea was boiling.”
I give him a big hug. He’s always been a sweet kid. He takes care of people by managing little things.
“What are you doing up?” He’s in the T-shirt and pajama bottoms he’s slept in all year. Next Christmas I will give him a new set, and he will wear holes in those too. Or outgrow them ridiculously fast, like he and Beau always do.
“I thought I’d run with you today.”
Seriously, I am stunned. My jaw’s probably on the floor. But delightedly stunned. It never occurred to me that Hunter might want to come. “Really?”
He blushes a little. The freckles on his nose stand out on the pink. “Geez, Mom, it’s not a big deal.”
I try not to screw this up by being overly mother-dorky, which I know he despises. “Go get changed. I’ve still got to get my shoes on and have a little tea.”
He comes back down a few minutes later, so cute I can’t stand it. My little boy has a sweatband, Bjorn Bjorg-style, around the mop of sandy blond hair he’s started to grow out. He’s wearing his soccer sweats and running shoes.
“Let’s go.” I bounce out the door.
Ditto’s ecstatic. The boy is going too? The dog hops back and forth, then off the top step of the back stoop.
We lope around to the quiet street. I’ll run a short loop today, down the street to the cul-de-sac and along the little flat trail into the hollow below. I want Hunter to like this. Who knows, maybe he’ll come out with me another time…
We jog to the cul-de-sac. Hunter seems fine. He’s played soccer since he was little, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him voluntarily do any exercise outside of practice. He’s an easy athlete—a great skier like his father—so he tends not to work too hard at what comes easily.
When we come to the dirt trail, he pulls up. “Can we walk a little?”
“Sure.” He doesn’t seem
particularly out of breath, but I’m doing things his way. Ditto’s happy not to run. He can’t cheat on this route and sit somewhere till we pick him back up.
We walk a little ways up the trail. “Mom, can I talk to you about something?”
I rummage through my brain for what he might need to talk about. Girls? Grades? I try not to tense up. “Always. Shoot.”
He seems to hesitate, but then he goes for it. “Mom, I know something’s going on with you and Andrew.”
Well, now, this is a total surprise. We’re having a talk about me. “Yeah, honey, there is. What do you want to know?” I’ll be straight with him. I suspected he might be more astute than I thought.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“He was. I think.” That doesn’t sound very grown-up.
“Beau and I like him a lot. Is he in trouble?”
“He was, honey. I think he’s going to be okay now.” I appreciate that we’re walking. I try to keep my breathing in time with the rhythm of our feet so I sound calm.
“Then how come you’re not dating him anymore?”
“Well, it’s complicated, honey.”
“Is it because of me and Beau?”
“Andrew likes you guys—of course it’s not that.”
“No, I mean, are you trying to protect us or something?”
Geez, who raised this kid? He’s too perceptive. It’s killing me. “Kind of. I mean, all three of us have been through a lot. It’s a thing between Andrew and me, honey. But us—you, me, and Beau—we’re going to be okay. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be the same as it’s always been. I’m not going to change things on you right now. Andrew’s going to take care of himself just fine. He has a lot of friends and family to help him right now.”
Hunter stops us from walking. “Mom, you can help him. Beau and I are fine.”
I don’t know what to say. “We’ve all been through a lot.”
“You always handle it, Mom. You take good care of us. You’re strong. And we can take care of ourselves a little bit too, you know. We aren’t little anymore.”
“I know you aren’t.” I feel the cold morning on my face and breathe it in. I can hardly make sense of this discussion.
“Dad’s been gone almost three years. Beau and I are okay. If you like Andrew, maybe you should try a little more.”
I want to laugh at the absurdity of my almost-twelve-year-old sounding more sensible than I have behaved in probably the last ten months.
“We’ll see.” I don’t tell him I’m fairly positive I torched that bridge when I literally ran away. And that even with him and his brother out of the equation, I may not possess the strength to help anyone but myself.
Hunter adjusts his headband and starts to run again, at a brisk pace he seems way too comfortable with. “Well, think about it,” he says, looking back at me. “We’ll really be okay. We’ve been okay for a while now, Mom. All of us have.”
He runs off ahead of me with the dog. I stand there, stunned, until he turns around again and throws his hands up, wondering what my deal is.
I run back to the house, trailing him, thinking.
I spend most of the day stewing over our conversation. Dang that kid. He’s too smart.
Last night I was too exhausted to even worry about the mail. I realize this in the afternoon when I see the mailman stop and stuff our mail in the box. I trot out to the curb and pull out the stack to throw away junk and weigh the pile of bills. There’s a padded envelope among the pizza coupon mailers. It’s not a normal piece of mail.
I stand in front of the mailbox and examine it. It’s addressed to me. I don’t recognize the handwriting.
Inside is a small notecard with another envelope. The card says:
Andrew will be back at work in LA this week.
He wanted you to have this.
Hope all is well.
He’s doing as well as can be expected.
~Tucker
I tear the other envelope open. Inside is my copy of In Our Time and an index card. The card has a few lines written on it in a hand I do know:
I’m reading A Farewell to Arms now. It makes me think of you.
Life can crush you, ruin you, kill you.
Or it can break you and make you stronger in the process.
You are strong, Kelly Reynolds.
And you are strongest in your broken places.
~Andrew
I hold on to the items for dear life and walk inside. I stare at both notes, the one from Tucker and the one from Andrew, for a long time. Thankfully Hunter has jumped into the shower and is spared witnessing this odd behavior.
Then I touch the spine of In Our Time. It makes me sad to think that Andrew was holding this, now it’s in my hands, and that’s the last connection between us.
I open it to “Big Two-Hearted River.” I scan through it. I think about what Andrew said. How I hold on to my routine—cling to it for dear life might be more accurate. I run my finger over the words Hemingway uses as his character finds comfort in fishing, and then I force myself to think for a moment.
The man in the story focuses on his fishing, avoids thinking, stays safe—where nothing can make him feel. Is this what I want?
I can hear Peter now. I can feel him, standing next to me at the top of a run, asking me if I’m skiing it or going around.
Most of the time I’m a complete and total idiot, but for once in my life, I recognize Andrew’s note and Hunter’s pep talk for what they are: signs that it’s time to figure out of my mess of a life.
And I think I know where I need to go to do that.
41: Indio Again
I STAND SOMEWHERE with wet grass. I can feel it between my toes. The mist is thick. It’s morning. I step forward and find the water’s edge at my feet. I look out into the mist and see the sun breaking through. I’ve been here before. Pilings of crumbled docks stand out of the water, and I can hear the lapping of the river now.
It’s the river near school—near college. As I realize that and my brain begins to form a prediction of where this dream is headed, a scull parts the mist like a knife. It’s probably fifty yards downriver from me, but I see the thin line of it pushing through the water even before I can hear it. The single rower has his back to me.
I stand on the shore and wait. The boat slices gracefully through the gray water. It is suspended, the line between air and water blurred in the morning mist.
I’m wearing the crew sweatshirt he gave me one night, when we were walking back from a lecture and I was cold. I can feel the cold of the steel zipper against my skin.
His broad back pulls with the oars, driving the boat closer. The rhythm of the boat, the man, the water, is beautiful.
He shoots past me now and turns to look as he goes. It’s Peter. He is as he was: young, healthy, his curly black hair moist from the river’s mist and the effort. His arms and shoulders are strong under his jersey.
He smiles at me. He breaks rhythm long enough for a quick wave. Then he turns back to the oars and resumes his work, pulling the boat seamlessly along the river’s surface. As fast as he appeared, he disappears again, the scull swallowed by the mist as he glides up the river.
I open my eyes. I lie quiet in bed, thinking. I sit up and swing my legs over the edge. My wedding ring sits on the bedside table. I pick it up, kiss it, and put it down again. It’s been almost three years since I lost Peter.
As soon as school was out June first, the boys and I flew to LA to see Mom and Dad. That’s where we are now. But I needed the space of the desert. I wasn’t ready to run into Andrew by chance, so Mom let me sneak away to Indio. She told me to “sort things out,” if I could. I’ve been puttering the days away and running my loop in Indio all week. But I’m not running my loop today.
I’m in the car. That dream has stayed with me. I cannot shake it, even as the afternoon sun starts to cast long shadows. I definitely need to run, but I’m going to Joshua Tree. I need every ounce of spiritual scaffold I can get
, so I’m going to run in the most sacred space I know. If I can’t come to resolution here, then I’m truly lost. And I cannot be lost.
I crank the Coldplay. If I want to completely fall apart, I’ll play “MLK” by U2, but I can’t run if I have a nervous breakdown. Anyway, bawling while running got me into this jam in the first place.
After a short while, the desert floor crunches under the pounding of my soles. I feel my lungs expand. The rhythm sets in. I run hard.
I honestly don’t know how far I’ve gone. But suddenly, I’m done. I stop. I pull out the ear buds. I listen to the empty heart of the desert.
What am I here to do, anyway?
Love.
I can love.
I can’t fix, but I can’t run away from it either. Love might not heal. Love might not last. But it might.
I think I’m calling his name when I turn around. I cannot run back quickly enough.
The sun is setting as I drive the way I came, descending into the valley. The heat of the desert shimmers off the valley floor, and I see storm clouds rolling into town. By the time I turn down the street to Mom and Dad’s condo, I have the wipers on high. Thunder rumbles and the light of the day dissolves into a wet, angry dusk.
I get out. The urgency makes me tremble, and now I’m struck with a terrible feeling of panic. How can I find him? I know in the marrow of my bones that he needs me, and I need him, but I don’t know how I’ll get to him in LA quickly enough. The impossibility of it pushes me to the edge.
So when I walk up the path to the door, I cry out at the sight of him. I wonder for a moment if I’ve gone delusional, but he’s real. He sits on the front stoop. Tessa must have intervened, told him I was here. Thank God for her. He stands as I approach. He’s soaked to the bone, in a hoodie and baseball cap, as always. His beard is a short scruff, and his hands are stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans.
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