Remembering You

by Stella MacLean

  When he said that he'd promised to go back and spend the evening with his sister while Thomas went into the office, I was relieved. I dreaded the idea that the two of them might want to argue with me over my staying in this house.

  With the failing light making gold streaks across the length of my street, I decided to create a little baking mayhem in the form of the chocolate cake I’d promised Jonathan.

  I pulled the flour from the lower cupboard, hearing the roar of Sam’s lawn mower as he glided past the kitchen window. After having lunch with Sam the other day, I decided that I'd start having him for coffee whenever he mowed the lawn for me.

  I'd invite Sam in when he’d finished. The chocolate cake was done and I was about halfway through a batch of chocolate-chip cookies when I heard a strange noise—a squeaky hinge sound.

  Curious, I hurried down the hall toward the office, a chilly draft circling my legs.

  I reached the door to the office and saw the window. “Who left it open?” I muttered, crossing the room, only to see a kid standing against the wall near Graham’s coin cabinet. My heart leaped into my throat. I stepped back.

  “Don’t make a move. I’m warning you,” the kid said. Some part of my brain registered the fact that his voice was shaking.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked fighting the urge to run, while aware that any sudden move could be a mistake.

  “What does it look like?” the kid demanded, glancing furtively toward the open window.

  I swallowed. “It looks like you plan to steal from me.”

  The kid stared at me, his lips compressed into a hard line.

  “Well, do you?” I asked.

  “I was looking for money,” he said sulkily, his glance swerving to the coin cabinet.

  Oh, no, you don’t, you little punk! Braver now, I moved closer, getting a better look at the intruder. This was just a kid—no more than thirteen would be my guess. “What's your name—”

  A crash emanated from the hallway and Sam came roaring into the room, a shotgun in his hands and anger in his eyes.

  “What’s going on here?” he yelled, swinging the shotgun in a wide arc around the room.

  “Sam! Don’t!” I yelled.

  The kid yelped as if in pain and vaulted out over the windowsill, hitting the flower bed outside with a muffled thud.

  “You didn’t shoot him, did you?” I asked in panic.

  “Hell, no,” Sam huffed, leaving his shotgun against the wall. “It wasn't loaded. I just wanted to frighten the little bastard.”

  "With a shotgun—"

  “Which I've never fired in my life.” He grinned, shamefaced.

  “How did you know he was here?"

  “I saw him go in the window."

  “And you raced for your shotgun instead of the phone.”

  “You were alone.”

  “Should I feel better knowing that you went for a gun instead of the police?”

  “Now that you mention it...”

  Giving into my relief that he was here, hugged him, his solid body offering a shield from the past few minutes. Feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest, I looked up at him. “Are you all right?”

  He frowned at me, his is eyes dark. “It's you I'm worried about.”

  “You came roaring in here ready to do battle. What if he’d been a real burglar?”

  “He was, wasn't he?” Sam asked, still holding me.

  “He was a kid who was more afraid than I was. He’s probably home by now,” I said, aware of Sam’s arms.

  His eyes glinted with humor. “You're telling me I look foolish.”

  “No. Not at all. I've never been rescued like this. It's kind of nice.”

  “All I could think about when I saw him crawling through the window was that you were in here by yourself. If you’d been hurt...” He left the sentence unfinished and walked me out to the living room where he poured us each a large tumbler of Scotch.

  He sat down on the sofa beside me, a look of concentration on his face. “This is probably not the appropriate time to say it, but I'm going to do it anyway.”

  “Say what?”

  He took a along drink from his tumbler, stared at it and began. “Ever since Evelyn died, I've felt as if someone tore a chunk out of my heart. I’d always believed that I'd had my one chance at true love, that second chances didn't happen to men like me.”

  “Men like you?” I asked, feeling like a parrot.

  “You know, what they call a nerd. A guy who reads Shakespeare, likes flowers and dresses oddly. I don’t have charisma...”

  Was Sam building up to some sort of confession?

  I remembered him telling me I should find someone...that day in his kitchen. Hadn’t he said he was looking for someone, too? Had he found her? That would explain his change in behavior, his need, or so it seemed, to share his life with me.

  Had I been wrong in harboring this idea that Sam and I might have more than a friendship? I felt my cheeks warm.

  And if I was wrong, why did I suddenly feel so sad?

  “Do you believe you have a second chance at love, Susan?”

  Was this Sam’s way of telling me he did? Loneliness surrounded me as I spoke.

  “Not really. I had my second chance when Graham and I got back together,” I said, feeling the old yearning for what would never be again.

  After he left so abruptly, I sat there wishing for something…something I couldn't seem to identify, only that it left me feeling out of sorts or something.

  * * *

  I was sitting in the living room, thinking about Sam's intervention on my behalf, and his near-confession, when Jonathan arrived home from Amy’s. I made myself sit still acting all cool and in control when he joined me.

  “I'm glad you're home,” I said, a funny squeakiness to my voice.

  “Mom, you look like a ghost. What happened?”

  I was past the “what do you mean” scene. Way past “Someone broke in here tonight.”

  “What?” Jonathan stared at me. “Are you okay! Why didn’t you call me?”

  I never thought of it, wasn't the right answer so I gave him the only excuse my addled brain could come up with. “He was just a kid, and we has as scared as I was.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Whoops. Didn’t do that, either. “No, Sam got here and frightened the kid away. I didn't get a good look at him in the dark.”

  Jonathan sat down next to me on the sofa, in the exact place where Sam had recently sat. “Let me get this straight. Someone breaks in here, you don’t call me, and Sam scares him off.” He raked one hand through his hair. “Mom, Amy’s right. This is no longer a safe neighborhood.”

  Oh God, my straight-as-an-arrow son is going to tell Warrior Amy. “Please don’t worry her with this. She’s got enough on her plate. I’m going to call a security company in the morning.”

  The slight frown of disapproval told me I needed to come up with a better answer. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm very tired.”

  "Mom, we have to talk about this tomorrow. I can't go back to Seattle until I'm sure you're safe," he warned.

  * * *

  With exhaustion and--the very real possibility that I could’ve been hurt--making my limbs weak, I listened as Jonathan made his way through the house, checking the locks on every window and door.

  “Okay, that’s all we can do for tonight,” he said from the top of the stairs.

  “Thank you,” I murmured, and meant it. I found it reassuring to have someone in the house with me. “I’m going to your father’s office for a few minutes, then I'll be up.”

  “Night, Mom,” he said as he gave me a weary smile. As I walked slowly to Graham’s office, my mind cruised from one problem to another. Maybe my children were right. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to live alone in this big old house.

  Flailed by the wind, the branches of the overgrown Spirea snapped against the window, reminding me I needed to trim the shrubs and get the eaves troug
hs cleaned before winter.

  Tired though I was, I didn’t feel ready for sleep. I turned on the lamp and rooted around in the top drawer of the desk, looking for Graham’s address book. I had to get the fall chores done soon.

  Loneliness swamped me as I lifted out Graham's address book. There, in his neat handwriting, were pages of addresses of all the tradesmen I’d ever need. There were also notes written in the margins, along with instructions he’d left me for getting maintenance jobs done around the house.

  Sitting alone in the dark looking for information on security systems, I was faced with the reality of what living here alone for years would be like.

  How I wished I could talk to Graham about getting a security system. If he were here, he’d go over the options, get the estimates and we'd have a system up and running in no time. Frantic to keep my anxious feelings from overwhelming me, I opened the bottom drawer, pulled out the letters and eased open the next one.

  Dearest Susan,

  I didn’t get up this morning, and I could see the worry in your eyes. I’d like to reassure you that it won't happen again, but I can’t. I can feel my body weakening. The simplest tasks, like shaving or brushing my teeth, take so much energy.

  I made it down here to the office, but I’m exhausted by the effort. As each day passes, I feel the need to get the important stuff written down.

  And even though we talk these days, there’s such an urgency in what we say to each other. Reminiscing about our life together gets lost in the rush to talk about doctors appointments, tests and how I’m feeling. I cannot bring myself to share my emotional pain. I owe it to you to make this time as easy for you as possible, and there are no choices left for me, except to endure what’s ahead.

  As I watched you this morning doing your daily chores, I was reminded of something I should’ve said earlier in these letters. Susan, you’re the most competent person I’ve ever known. You never ducked the work or the responsibility of keeping our lives running smoothly. It was you who kept our children safe and happy all these years.

  I relied on you for so much. Whenever I had to make a decision about anything around this house, I could count on you to offer good advice. A part of me envied that sure-footed way you had of making decisions.

  And that leads me to another point—the relief I feel in knowing that you’re able to cope without me. Oh, how it hurts to write those words!

  There’s no place I’d rather be than with you. How many times have I prayed for a miracle that would make me well. But I’ve come to accept that it will never be.

  As I write this, I try to imagine how you'll feel as you read these letters, I started out believing that they were written to share my feelings, but now I realize these letters have given me an opportunity to encourage you to move on.

  You have so much to look forward to as you face the future with our children and grandchildren. Our love made it possible for us to have a second chance. I want you to take pleasure in the everyday things of life, to know the joy of living each day. I want you to be happy, to find pleasure and love.

  Life is yours to live. Please don't let it slip away.

  Love always,

  Graham

  * * *

  I caressed the pages, my fingers tracing the lines, my pulse pounding. It was as if he were here in this room with me, as if he’d spoken the words he’d written. Until now I’d concentrated on what I'd lost when Graham died, how lonely my life had become without him.

  But he was still here in so many subtle ways in how I think, how I feel, and how I remember him. He’s a part of everything that matters to me.

  By what stroke of fate had I read this letter at this moment, just when I needed a boost in self-confidence? Reading his words of praise and understanding have helped more than he could ever have imagined when he wrote them.

  * * *

  Late the next morning I perched on the wicker sofa in the screened-in porch. Jonathan was still asleep, a blessing for me as I wasn't ready to face his concern over the kid that came in through the window and what it might mean for me. But I had to face the reality that I might not be able to stay here alone, a worrying thought. Or maybe simply the result of my children's worry over me. Who knew for sure?

  The memories of Graham’s last hours in our bedroom were playing through my mind when Sam appeared with his paper and his coffee. When I saw him framed in the door, my stomach did a strange jig.

  “How come you’re up so early?” he asked, opening the door to the porch.

  “I have lots to do,” I replied as he moved to his usual chair, where he’d sat so many evenings with Graham.

  “We're going dancing tonight, aren’t we?”

  I'd forgotten. “Yes, we are.”

  As I watched him set his cup down on the wicker table, I was surprised at how perfectly normal it felt to be sitting here talking with Sam.

  Sam rubbed his jaw, took a sip of coffee and glanced my way. “I want to talk to you about getting a dusk-to-dawn light in our backyards. It would help discourage the kids from coming through here from the ravine. I’ve entertained the idea of getting a couple of trees cut down in the back to make it harder for them to hide, but I hate to destroy something so beautiful. What do you think?”

  “I think a light’s an excellent idea, especially after last night.”

  A part of me felt good about Sam’s actions last night. Who else would have rushed to my defense? I let my gaze move over his face, across the frown lines between his eyes, the set of his jaw, the brooding blue of his eyes, all the familiar features. “Thank you for being there.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Seeing how comfortably he ate beside me, making me feel a part of his world, I realized this could become a very pleasant morning ritual. And if it did? Were we destined to have a friendship as close as he'd had with my husband? What were his future plans? Did they include me?

  “Now, about the dance classes...”

  I was listening to him describe how the one class he’d attended on his own had been populated by klutzes and dance divas—when Jonathan entered the porch.

  “Hi, Mom, and thanks for the chocolate cake. It made a great breakfast.” He grinned and kissed my forehead and sat down next to me. “Nice to see you, Sam,” he said, shaking Sam’s hand before searching my eyes.

  “You mother’s agreed we should get a light in the yard to ward off intruders.”

  “Sounds like a step in the right direction. Mom also needs to upgrade the security inside the house. But I'm not sure that lights in the backyard is enough protection.”

  “What would you suggest?” Sam asked.

  “Mom should consider moving to a condo or an apartment where there’s more protection for a woman living alone.”

  “She’s not alone here. She has neighbors.”

  I was proud of the hint of indignation in Sam’s voice, and very pleased to have his support.

  Jonathan’s back stiffened. “But she’s still alone in the house, and after last night, we need to help her make other living arrangements.”

  Wait a minute. I’m not having my morning coffee ruined by an argument. “We’ll talk about this later, Jonathan.” I patted his hand and gave him my no-more-about-this look.

  “Your mother’s agreed to go ballroom dancing with me,” Sam said, his tone definitely on the bragging side.

  Jonathan sent me a measured look. “That sounds like fun.”

  Was that his code phrase for disapproval? “I decided it’s time for me to find myself as Amy’s so fond of saying,” I responded.

  Jonathan smiled. “That's great, Mom.”

  So he didn’t object to my plans for ballroom dance classes. I didn’t want Jonathan to be upset with me. “I plan to get out and enjoy myself, live a little.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Amy will be, too.” Jonathan glanced at his watch. “I need to pack and get to the airport.”

  His eyes told me he wanted me with him. “I'll come and help you
," I said.

  * * *

  Later, in the quiet of the living room, Jonathan and I faced each other. “I wish you could stay longer.”

  “Me, too, Mom. But I have to get home. And this time away, talking to you and Amy, has helped me think more clearly. I’ve got to deal with what's going on between Linda and me.”

  I tucked a check into his hand. “I want to pay for your rental car.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” he protested.

  “Your father would’ve done this, and he would’ve supported you in any way he could. Your happiness meant everything to him.”

  I wanted to tell my son once again to take things slow, to see how he and Linda really felt about each other, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. As much as I felt the urge to start offering more advice, I didn’t want my son to feel pressured by my expectations.

  “Be good to yourself, and I’m here if you need me. Any hour of the day or night,” I whispered, remembering my call to him a few days ago.

  “I’ll phone when I get home. Will you be all right?”

  Oh, dear son of mine, be happy and safe and loved. “Sure. I’ve got lots to do. Kate and I are going out to lunch. Then there’s dance class.” I winked at him.

  “I can’t believe this. You’re finally going dancing. I wonder when Sam decided to take it up?”

  “He says he’s always wanted to learn to dance.”

  “Really? He and Dad used to joke about how neither of them could tell one foot from the other. He’s putting the moves on you, Mom.”

  I forced myself to grin. “Don’t be silly. Sam? I suspect he already has a woman. Besides, he’s not my type.”

  “Says who?”

  “Your mother. Now get on the road, and call me once you’re home,” I said, to cover an odd feeling of sadness, the same one I’d felt last night.

  “If I were Sam, I’d be putting the moves on you.”

  You’re not, and he isn’t, so let's forget it.” We hugged each other goodbye. We stood together as we'd done so many times before. Each time I kidded myself into believing that it was easier to see him off, back to his own life, but it wasn’t, and it never would be.