Remembering You

by Stella MacLean

  Living through these past weeks—not being able to talk to you about my fear while needing you to comfort me—has shown me just what an insensitive person I was back then.

  If only I could have found the words to ease your loss. I need you to know I would've done anything in the world to help you. Anything.

  I am determined to shield you from this horrible reality as long as I possibly can. If I can hold back my fear and keep my desperate secret to myself for a few more days, I'll feel I've made up for some of those long, lonely hours you endured.

  After all these years of you putting me first, you deserve every bit of support I can give you.

  Love always,

  Graham.

  I clutched the letter to my chest, and it's as if I was holding Graham.

  After many months of going to bed alone, my body ached for his touch, the feel of his skin, his breath hot on my throat. There was never anyone for me but him. He was my first lover, and my last. Although I can't imagine making love to anyone but him, I find myself envying my married friends. Do they understand how fortunate they are to have someone to love, and someone who loves them and shares their life? How I miss the companionship, the closeness of sharing all those small moments that add up to a life between two people committed to each other.

  How well I remember our old apartment. We had so much fun in that god-awful bed. The sex was so new, so exciting. It was Graham who taught me how to make love.

  And despite his claims to the contrary, it was Graham who consoled me when my parents died. His arms around me in the night shielded me from the fear that I'd never be able to take a breath without the crushing pain of loss.

  I spread the letter out on his desk, aware that the last person to touch these pages was Graham, my heart was clinging to his words. Unable to bear the tightness in my chest any longer, I decided to go to the kitchen. On the way I passed the living room and peeked in. The old stereo unit we'd bought—our first extravagance—sat in the corner of the room. Funny how neither of us could part with that old thing, despite the chips and bruises that had been doled out by our three children.

  And funnier still that he should mention dancing. I loved to dance and I cherished our huge collection of old LPs. The music of the forties and fifties, especially the Tommy Dorsey band, reminded me of the happy times I shared with Dad and Mom.

  I moved to the mahogany cabinet and couldn’t resist running my fingers over its polished top. Lifting the lid, I turned the knob. to start the turntable and listened as the opening notes of Tommy Dorsey’s “Stardust” flooded the room.

  I moved the coffee table and danced to my heart’s content, letting the music lead me through the moves I’d invented those long-ago nights when Graham worked late.

  I was having a great time until the phone rang. As I walked to the kitchen, I looked out the dining room window and saw Sam watering the rhododendrons at the corner of his front porch, the sight of him reminding me that he and I were getting together this afternoon to discuss the fence.

  The phone call was from Kate, about our shopping trip. When I hung up, I stood there peering out the window at Sam. He was working furiously, his head bobbing in and out of view as he vigorously trimmed away the brown branches.

  To keep busy while I waited for Kate, I decided to thaw a few slices of Kate's banana bread from the freezer. It wasn't that I felt hungry as much as I needed to be doing something. Of course, there was always housework, but it was such a lovely day, I thought as I continued watching Sam in the garden.

  Despite his rather awkward movements, I could see by the slight smile on his weathered features that he was enjoying himself. Graham had often remarked that Sam and I should give gardening lessons, or better still, join forces to start a community beautification project.

  Not likely. Sam and I might both enjoy gardening, but that was the extent of our shared interests.

  * * *

  After the shopping trip, during which I spent far too much on layette items for baby Graham, I crossed the backyard to Sam's to talk about the fence. As I reached the patio, Sam held the back door open for me. “How was your day?” he asked.

  “It was great, and yours?”

  “Lots of weeding, a trip to the grocery store. That's about all,” he said.

  As I glanced down the hall leading to the front door, I noticed the parquet flooring had been replaced with bright blue carpet. I hadn't been inside the Bannister house for years—most of my contact with Sam had been when he'd come to sit with me on the back porch with Graham. As I followed Sam into the kitchen, I was pleasantly surprised to see how inviting it seemed with its shiny blue pottery on the ledge above the windows that faced the patio. The house as I remembered it had been bleak, somewhat forbidding. I noticed a large array of photos of his grandson, Phillip, along the bright yellow wall behind the table.

  “He’s a handsome little boy,’ I said, pointing to what looked like the most recent photo.

  Sam moved around the kitchen island and busied himself making tea before he answered. “‘Phillip is a dear little fellow, but he’s not reading very well.”

  “Some children read later than others, especially boys. Boys tend to be better at activities that require motor skills rather than reading or writing.”

  Oh, how dreary, Susan. 1 sound just like I did when I was a teacher.

  Sam approached the table with a tray holding a pot of tea and what looked like homemade muffins. He removed the tea bags while I cautiously buttered a muffin. Not knowing what to expect, I bit into the buttered half and was pleasantly surprised. The muffin tasted like bran with orange and raisin, and literally melted in my mouth.

  “This is delicious, just delicious,” I said. Eating slowly and tasting the flavors on my tongue, I had to admit that Sam had a talent for baking. But the biggest surprise of all was that for the first time in months, I was hungry.

  “It’s a recipe I developed a few years ago. I was tired of the standard bran muffin, and wanted something more interesting. He shrugged and gave me a lopsided grin. “Not very interesting, but for what it's worth I like muffins made with buttermilk.”

  A budding Betty Crocker? “Do you share your recipes?”

  “I haven't yet. No one's asked.”

  He came to sit down by me and poured us each a cup of tea. I couldn't help noticing his hands. Usually they were covered in gardening gloves, but now as I gazed at them, I saw that his fingers were long, smooth, like a piano player's.

  “About my grandson...I'm aware that, as you said, boys learn differently from girls, but I'm still concerned about Phillip. I've been trying to encourage Robert to get him assessed. My grandson may have a learning problem. You don't know the number of children I've seen in the university system whose reading skills were deplorable. I don't want my grandson to end up like that.”

  There was genuine concern in his eyes, and it made me blurt out, “My goodness, no. When Amy is home and feeling up to it, do you want me to ask her about arranging an assessment? As a teacher, she'd be able to recommend highly qualified people.”

  “That would be wonderful,” he said, his voice appreciative. As he continued to look at me, his features softened with a smile that lit up his blue eyes.

  I wasn't accustomed to men watching me this way. After all, at my stage in life, men were mostly utilitarian—plumbers and electricians—or my friends' husbands. The approving attention of a man made me uncomfortable. Yet I could grow to like this new Sam. He was open, friendly and I felt...feminine.

  The sound of a buzzer on the stove broke the moment, and Sam jumped up to shut it off.

  “I had to learn to cook or starve, and now I'm quite good at it, if I do say so myself,” he said as he opened the oven and slid a pan filled with lasagna on to the center rack.

  “I haven't cooked in so long, but I might make a chocolate cake for Graham's homecoming.” My words surprised me, but why not do something to celebrate?

  “I'm sure little Graham will enjoy
it,” he said, setting the timer.

  “I mean, I don't mean Graham. I—” Why am I so flustered?

  He peeked over his shoulder at me, a mischievous grin on his face. “I'm teasing, but I'm pleased you've decided to bake a cake.”

  Is he really? Why?

  He placed a pot to soak in the sink and returned to sit across from me.

  “So, about the hedge,” I said, feeling a little out of my depth and anxious to get to the hospital so I could see Amy and the baby again.

  “As I said the other day, we should replace the hedge with a fence.”

  “As long as it's attractive and easy to care for...” I shrugged.

  “We could get an estimate for a cedar or redwood fence.”

  I'd always assumed Graham would be here to take care of things like this, and so I'd never really worried about hedges, fences, or driveways, which was part of the reason why my children believed I couldn't have Sam or my children think I wasn't decisive. Thus, in a weak attempt to prove my savvy, I clasped my hands in a businesslike manner. “I agree completely.”

  “Glad to hear it. Let's have another cup to tea to celebrate our joint venture,” he said as he poured and passed my cup back to me. “Susan, I hope you don't think I'm being nosy, but how are you doing?”

  Oh dear. Not another person who thinks I need to get a life. “Thanks for asking, but I'm doing very well.”

  “Are you?” His skeptical glance forced me to look away.

  Don't tell me he planned to talk about seeing my lights on late at night. “This past year and a half has been hard, but it's getting much better.”

  He nodded slowly. “I remember those months after Evelyn died. I nearly went crazy with loneliness. If hadn't been for your husband, I might have. And of course, I had Robert to raise and that kept me busy.”

  There would have been lots of women in his circle of friends at the university. If he was so lonely, why hadn't he remarried? Why had Sam chosen to raise a child alone?

  And how was it that this man, who’d never confided anything in me, was telling me things now—things that obviously still caused him pain? “I’m glad Graham could help you,” I said quietly.

  “He did, and having him as a friend was one of the great blessings in my life. He was such a kind person in every sense of the word. I miss him.”

  I pressed my lips together to ward off the sudden rush of memories. I recalled those long evenings when Sam and Graham sat on the back porch and talked about religion, politics and whatever else made the headlines of the New York Times. “You and he had some great chats, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and I'll never forget him. But that’s not what I want to say to you.”

  Half afraid of what would come next, I sat back in my chair.

  “After my wife died, I used every excuse in the book not to put my life back together. I had my work, my son and my memories....didn't want anything to change the tidy little cocoon I’d made for myself. I didn’t let anyone in, and my life worked just fine—for a while.” He paused. “But once Robert left home I had no one.”

  His expression, so filled with remorse, made me sorry for him. “But you had your work,” I offered, trying to make him feel better.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. Not at all.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “As your neighbor and—if I may say so—friend, I see you over there by yourself a lot. I’m afraid you spend too much time alone, Susan.”

  “Sam, that’s hardly your business,” I said, distressed that he’d been watching me like that.

  “Look, I’m probably overstepping the line here, and I’m not suggesting you forget Graham. From my own experience I know you never will. I’m simply urging you to find someone to make new memories with, or you’ll end up alone like me.”

  He spoke with kindness, offering me a glimpse of why he and Graham had been such good friends. They shared the same approach to life when it came to telling the truth. And my heart knew the truth of his words. “But you’re not alone. You have friends and family," I argued.

  “I’m alone in the part of my life where it really counts. I have no one special to spend my days with...because I couldn’t—”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had such a difficult times," I said, wanting to end the conversation without hurting this man who believed he was being helpful.

  He touched my wrist, his fingers resting ever so gently on my skin. A warm sensation ran up my arm.

  “Don’t make the same mistake I did. I let life pass me by because I was living in the past. But as of now, I’m making a conscious effort to change my attitude.”

  “And you believe I should as well?” I asked, feeling cornered by his words.

  “I want to be happy again, and you...” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, easing his fingers away, although his gaze never left mine. “Graham was worried about you, about how you'd cope when he was gone. He wanted you to be happy.”

  He didn’t have to bring Graham into the conversation, not like this. I refused to feel guilty about how I chose to live my life by a man I hardly knew, who, by his own admission, hadn't done such a great job himself. “How do you know what Graham wanted?”

  “What do you think we talked about those last few evenings on your porch?”

  Part of me resented the fact my husband would confide in Sam. Petty, maybe even childish, but I wanted Graham to confide his worries in me first.

  It was time to go before I said something I'd regret. “I'll be fine.” I got up from the chair and headed toward the door. “I'll wait to hear from you about the fence.”

  With that I strolled as nonchalantly as I could across the lawn, around the hedge and into the safety of my kitchen.

  * * *

  An hour later, clutching a grocery list of what I needed for the chocolate cake, I left. I drove out of the driveway and over to the hospital without bothering to check if Sam was in his yard. When I arrived at the hospital I went straight to Amy's room, my arms weighed down with shopping bags. She was standing by the window when I walked in.

  “Hi, Mom, what's all this?” she asked, smiling in anticipation as she took the bags from me and placed them on the table by the bed.

  “See for yourself,” I said, delighted with the smile on my daughter's face.

  “Mom, you must've spent a fortune,” Amy said as she proceeded to open the gifts I'd bought.

  “Does it matter? Besides, Graham needed a few things.”

  “A few things? There must be a dozen sleepers.” Amy lifted out a bunting bag in blue with Winnie the Pooh embroidered along the neckline and down the zipper. “Oh this is so cute, and perfect for him this winter. And look at all the little shirts and the sweater set with the matching cap. Mom, what did you do? Buy out the stores?”

  “I had fun. This is the new me, a shopaholic,” I teased.

  “I'm so glad you are.” Amy kissed my cheek.

  As I hugged her tightly, long-ago memories washed over me. Memories of the day I brought her home from the hospital, tucking her precious body close as I climbed the steps to the house. Graham carried Connor, a fierce look of pride and unbridled joy on his face.

  But most of all, I remembered that instant on the back step, with each of us holding a baby, each in awe of what life had given us. And oh, Graham's smile that day...

  Wishing I didn't have to let go of Amy, I asked her a question. “How are you feeling?”

  She pulled away. “I'm getting out later this afternoon, after the doctor's visit. Isn't that great?”

  “It is. And you'll be able to rest better in your own bed.”

  “I hope so. Graham and I were up three times last night.” She glanced over at the bassinet in the corner of the room and smiled wistfully. “And look at him now. He's sleeping like an angel.”

  Don't get me wrong, I adore my new grandson, but I couldn't take my eyes off this wonderful creature sitting on the side of the hospital bed, cheeks flushed and happiness rad
iating from every pore. My daughter. “Did you talk to Connor and Jonathan?”

  “Yeah, they're both thrilled. They're coming home for Christmas. We'll have lots of fun getting ready for the holidays this year, won't we?”

  I spent last Christmas as an emotional zombie while my family tiptoed around me. But it would be different this year. I would be different. “We'll have a lovely Christmas. I might even do the cooking.”

  “Oh, Mom, that would be wonderful. You don't know how much I missed your chestnut dressing last year. The turkey wasn't the same when I cooked it.”

  My daughter's praise made me smile with pleasure. “And I've decided to bake a chocolate cake to celebrate Graham's homecoming.”

  “Chocolate cake? Fantastic!” She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe and I hugged her back, happier than I'd been in months.

  “I'm getting the ingredients this afternoon.”

  “This is great—hearing you talk about doing things the way you always used to. Did something happen? Or did my message get through?”

  “Both. I started cleaning out your father’s office and I discovered eleven letters he wrote to me after he found out about his cancer.”

  Tears welled up in Amy’s eyes, making my heart hurt in my chest. “He wrote to you? My dad, who never ever wrote anything more personal than his name on a birthday card? Oh, Mom, how sweet of him. Have you read them?”

  “Two, so far, and I plan to read one a day until I’ve finished them.”

  “How can you resist reading them all at once—or are they too upsetting?”

  ‘No, not really,” I lied. What else could I say? I wasn’t going to make her feel unhappy, especially not today.

  “And your anniversary’s coming soon, isn’t it?” Amy’s expression went from tender to worried.

  “Don’t give it a thought. I’m not.’ But I did. Constantly I thought about all the moments lost to us in the past year and a half, all the times I needed Graham with me.

  Baby Graham cried out from the bassinet in the corner, and Amy got off the bed and went to him. “Here, my darling angel, it’s okay. Mommy’s here,” she said in a soothing voice as she checked her son for a wet diaper and proceeded to change him.