He pushes the long stem into the coffee basket causing some of the grounds to pop out where the stem just poked through. “Oh, I hadn’t accounted for that,” he explains and places a lid on top of the filter.
“Here you go,” I say, placing the big blue pot next to where he’s working and start wiping the spilled coffee grounds into my cupped hand. He puts the whole basket that he’s assembled into the percolator and places the blue lid over top of everything before setting it on the stove. It ticks a few times before the flame catches the gas and he walks back over to me by the sink.
“Well, if I may be so bold, I’d like to talk about us,” he says, earnestly, overly formal, his accent almost gone.
“Us?”
“If you like,” he says, with a gleam in his Tahoe beach blue eyes.
“Knock it off,” I say and fake punch him in his arm. He smiles but he’s still serious. “Okay, I’m ready,” I state, making my face look stern.
“Well, first of all, I wanted to apologize for yesterday.”
“Uh,” I start to blurt but he cuts me off.
“The thing is, I heard you singing. I was riding down the mountain just like I do every day at that time and I heard a woman singing our song.”
“Oh!” I blurt again. Embarrassed, my cheeks feel fiery.
“I started rushing down the mountain faster than I thought I was when I came around that corner and spooked Monty. I was so bewildered that you were really there and not some phantom or something. I don’t even know how we started arguing but then I just said all those things. Everything I’ve been hoping for and suppressing just came out of me. It was unfair and I’m sorry I did that to you.”
“It’s okay. I know we have history together,” I try.
“I want you to know that I’m here for you in whatever way I can get you. If that means we’re just friends, then that’s what we’ll be,” he says, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to drive you away now that I finally have a chance to see you in person.”
“Oh,” is all I can manage.
“What I’m trying to say is that I just want to enjoy whatever time I get to spend with you in whatever way works for you.”
“Will being friends be enough for you or will you keep trying to make me be...more?”
“It will be hard for me because I want...more, but for you, to make you happy. To see you comfortable like you were when we were kids. I’d do anything to see you like that again.”
The percolator starts to boil so he turns down the heat.
“I don’t want to scorch the grounds. It’ll make the coffee bitter,” he explains, but it seems like he’s talking about something else. Like maybe he’s talking about me.
“Well, I think there should be some rules then. If I’m considering being friends, that is.”
“Rules?”
“Mmm hmm,” I reply with a few nods of my chin up and down.
“Okay, what are the rules?” he asks, serious.
“You can’t touch me. It makes me uncomfortable,” I say and he looks at me like he’s nervous or hurt. He’s all wide-eyed like that night under the window’s edge.
I square my shoulders and continue, “You can’t tell me how you feel about me. Just let me be ignorant about it. That’s not what I want, the kind of relationship I want. I don’t want to lead you on. I did want it a long time ago, but I can’t anymore. It just hurts me when you bring up that old stuff, okay.” He looks down. I’ve hurt his feelings.
“Okay. Anything. For you, I’d do anything.” He means it, too. I can tell from the thoughtful look on his face.
“Okay, I say. “I accept your offer. Friends,” I announce and stick out my pinky.
“Friends,” he repeats and he wraps his pinky around mine and we ‘shake’ on it. Live wires.
“I just have one rule, too,” he says, cautiously.
“What?”
“You’ll keep in touch with me now. Friend me on Facebook, or write me emails, or invite me to a book signing now and then. Put me on your Christmas list. Call me on the phone. Maybe you come visit me, or I get to come visit you. Let me be in your life again. Just, please, don’t shut me out. I can’t take it,” he says, his voice shaky.
“Okay, I can handle that,” I say with a slight smile—as long as Donnie doesn’t know. Then I frown. His relief is suddenly gone. He notices my change in mood. I can’t hide anything from him.
“I brought you something,” he says. “It’s on the porch.”
“Do you want some coffee first?” I ask as I take out two cups from the cupboard. “How do you take it?”
“Black is fine.”
“Oh, no. Not for me. I like a little cream and a half teaspoon of sugar in mine,” I say, as I pour the dark black tincture into the faded china. “Thanks by the way,” I say.
“It was my pleasure,” he says, looking at me like he’s smoldering inside. I have to look away or I’ll liquefy for sure. I think he’s breaking a rule, but I don’t know which one.
Sipping from our cups, we walk out to the front porch. It’s surprisingly warm out already. Right outside the front door leaning against the house is Dillon’s granddaddy’s courting dulcimer.
“Oh my gosh! I was just thinking about this when I was going up the trail!”
“You were?” he says, as he puts his coffee down on the little table in between the two porch chairs. “Do you want to play?”
“I don’t think I remember,” I say, in a nervous tone, sitting down.
“Seems like you were doing a great job remembering how to sing it yesterday on the horse,” he says, shooting me a huge grin.
“Let me watch you a bit first. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” he says, as he sits down and sets the gorgeous wooden instrument lying flat on his lap. It looks like two skinny guitars stuck together with little hearts in the corners. He crosses his legs resting his ankle on his knee and begins to play Amazing Grace.
I curl up on the chair, bringing my legs up to my chin and my coffee cup up to my nose before taking a much needed sip.
His nimble fingers tap the cords and then stretch in and out of a V formation, all the while strumming with his other hand. I hum the tune with him. It makes me feel so peaceful. Brings me to a time when things were simple—when life had grace and dignity.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Sure, I think.”
“Are you seeing someone?
“No.” Before I can say anything else he’s playing another song. “What’s this one?” I ask.
“Green sleeves,” he replies, caught up in the song. It’s a sad song as if it’s yearning for something or someone. I’m going to have to look up the lyrics. As he strums the ending, that hole in my chest starts to throb. It makes me uncomfortable. I’m glad that one is over.
“You’ll probably remember this one. It’s your momma’s favorite,” he explains as he starts to play a happy Irish tune. But just as soon as I think it’s going to be happy, this one, too, starts to feel poignant and sad.
“Is it that you don’t have relationships at all, or just with me?” he asks, looking up from his instrument.
“At all,” I reply.
“Never?” he asks to clarify.
I look down, shake my head no. I look back up as he opens his mouth and begins to sing. I’d nearly forgotten his singing voice. It’s a deep and light baritone and it does things to me—always has.
“Down by the Salley Gardens,
My love and I did meet.
She crossed the Salley Gardens
With little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy,
As the leaves grow on the tree,
But I was young and foolish,
And with her did not agree.”
This song reminds me of a feeling—a memory that I can’t place. His voice is soothing but powerful—tender in the right places too. He makes this old song sound almost contemporary and brand new.
Now
that hole in my chest is throbbing, aching and unbearable. To top it off, my throat feels like it’s closing up. I put my coffee down and stare at him from behind my knees. He doesn’t see how distressing this is to me as his eyes are shut and he’s strumming so attentively.
“In a field down by the river,
My love and I did stand
And on my leaning shoulder,
She placed her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy,
As the grass grows on the weirs
But I was young and foolish,
And now am full of tears.”
As he strums the ending he looks so content, his eyes are closed and an easy smile is bringing up the corners of his mouth. Me, I’m a mess. The hole in my chest is aching and I’m shaking a little bit like when I’m cold on the inside. He opens his eyes and then gapes at me.
“Oh, no, Sadie,” he says, and reaches over to me. “Are you okay?”
“It reminds me of the last time I saw you,” I say from behind my knees, my voice quivering. He looks at me, lips pursed, blue eyes aching, as if to acknowledge that it means the same to him.
“I can’t breathe.” I shudder.
“Come here,” he coaxes, putting the dulcimer down on the wooden porch.
I don’t know what just happened but I want to curl up on his lap and let him soothe me. As I realize that’s what I want, I’m already doing it. I put my arms around his neck and bury my face into his neck. My knees are pulled up to my chin again. “Just breathe, baby,” he says, in a gentle tone as he gently rubs my back, my arm, my hair. What the hell am I doing? The rules!
It’s as if I’m experiencing saying goodbye to him with all my senses since I was numb back when it really happened. It hurts and my scalp prickles. I feel hot but I’m shaking. I miss him but he’s right here in my arms. It doesn’t feel like it in my heart because it’s throbbing.
After a time, my breathing starts to calm, no doubt by pacing mine to his, and I can put my legs down again. I keep the side of my face on his shoulder and take in his scent. I’ve missed this. It’s like a scent created by God just for me and me alone.
He’s still rubbing his hand up and down my back, his nose is in my hair. Live wires stroking my back is how it feels. We fit together like the two halves of one of those thin, cliché, half-heart pendants—still do. Everything feels right for the first time in, well, a very long time—a lifetime ago. But I’m embarrassed at the position I’ve put myself in. That’s the only reason I want to get up.
Slowly, I move away from him, looking down so as not to catch his eyes. As I stand up he grasps my hands lightly, like he doesn’t want to break contact with me.
“Do friends hug like that?” I ask, jokingly.
“These two do,” he answers. He looks so serious as he sits there in the chair. “I guess my song had the opposite effect on you than what I’d predicted,” he says, assessing my face to see if I’m okay. He speaks so differently now—so grown up.
“What was that called?”
“Down by the Sally Gardens. It’s actually an old poem written by William Butler Yeats.”
“Oh, it was life altering,” I should have said it was nice but the words just tumble out of my mouth.
“Sadie!” Missy calls from inside the house.
“Yes! We’re outside,” I call.
Missy appears in the doorway. “Oh! Dillon. Back again so soon,” she teases.
“I’m having a hard time staying away,” he admits, looking up at me and letting go of my hands, which actually makes me sad. I need to make contact again. It hurts not to, so I rub the top of his hand with the edge of my pinky and he turns his hand over letting just the tips of our fingers touch. I don’t look at him. I just feel.
“I smelled the coffee,” Missy says, her voice jerking me into the now. I open my eyes, “Figured someone had to help this one here with making it.” She looks lovingly at me.
“I think I could’a done it,” I pout, and take my hand away from his.
“How about some breakfast,” Missy says, slapping her knee. “I’ll make us some flap jacks, sausage, eggs, you name it.”
“Yes, please, minus the sausage for me,” I say, looking at Dillon to see if he wants to stay.
“I’d love to,” he answers my unstated question.
Chapter Eight—Sadie’s Mountain
While Missy works in the kitchen and Dillon sits at the table with my two brothers and the babies, I fetch the tea and the paste I’ve made and creak up the stairs to momma’s room. Her room smells like that medicine again. She’s laying there so still, her breaths light like she’s holding onto life from a thin thread.
Missy must have just been in here tending to her because the bags hanging from the metal pole look full and the ones on the bed look empty. I guess I should learn how to help with that.
I pull up the chair that is nestled in the corner of the room and open the Mason jar with the mixture I created this morning. Seeing Momma like this pricks a nice-sized scratch in my soul.
I just want to remember her young and feisty. She almost transforms back to her beautiful self as my stinging eyes fill with tears again. I wish she never had to get sick. Her skin looks very thin, almost see through. Her closed eyes remind me of delicate prunes covered in wet paper. I scoop out some goldenseal, pick up her weightless limb and begin to rub her hand and arm with it. Her skin wrinkles and slides around over her hollow bones. That’s what wakes her.
“Sadie,” she says, like there are marbles in her throat.
“Yes, Momma.”
“You got me some yella root?”
“I found three good ones,” I say, and smile a painful smile. One that cracks my façade.
“It feels better already, honey,” she says, as she smiles dimly. Then she reaches her broken bird arm and points to the oil painting that hangs above her high boy dresser. “See that, Sadie. I painted that. Bet’cha didn’t know that all these years.”
“No, I didn’t. I remember it though—from when I was little.”
I get up and walk over to take a better look. My memory hadn’t done this justice. It is Gauley Mountain. That’s easy to tell. It’s an impressionist painting kind of like one you would see from Degas’ protégé, Mary Cassatt, if she’d found her way to our homestead. Women painters always seem to capture life in a different perspective, don’t they? It’s as if women see it for what it really is rather than what it should be.
The colors are vivacious—greens and reds, yellows too. And the strokes, carefree—like they don’t care if anyone understands what they’re supposed to mean when they’re all together.
“It’s beautiful, Momma,” I say, in earnest.
“That’s Sadie Mountain,” she says, breathy.
“That’s what you call the painting?” I ask.
“Yes, I painted that,” her pause is long between breathes, “when I was carrying you,” she says, as she strokes her stomach, her eyes far off like she’s reliving the feeling of me being in there.
“Where were you when you painted it?”
“I’d lean up ‘gainst the rock. The one that looks like a woman’s face,” she says, trying to catch her breath. “My momma would come take care’a Missy so I could paint.”
“You don’t have to talk Momma,” I say, trying to get her comfortable again.
“No, I want ta tell ya.”
“Okay.”
“Doc Morris said I needed ta take it easy. All the miscarriages I done had, painting kept me calm. Helped me keep you with me,” she says, as a wide smile takes over her sunken face. I had no idea why there was such a big age gap between me and Missy, and then me and the boys. This makes perfect sense. Momma had miscarriages and now she has uterine cancer.
“We can’t let ‘em do it, Sadie.”
“Do what, Momma?”
“Blow up our mountain.”
“Oh, yes, Momma. Dillon told me about that. I’m going to the meeting tonight at the school.”
“You have to stop ‘em.”
“Of course. Of course, Don’t worry about that. I’ll do everything I can. Rest now, Momma.”
“My mouth hurts,” she says, after she takes a big, raspy breath.
“I brought you the tea,” I say as I bring the cup to her lips. She takes some into her mouth and swishes. I give her another cup to spit in.
“I love you, little bean,” she says. “Thank you for comin’ back here. I know it’s hard fer ya.” A little tear wells up in her eye. I want to look away as it falls down her cheek.
“I love you, Momma. Nothing can keep me away from you now,” I reassure her, as I stroke her hand.
“I wish things were diff’rent,” she tries.
“It’s fine. I’m glad I came. Rest now, Momma.” She nods and closes her eyes in one swoop, and I rub her face gently in the same way she used to rub mine. I start at her forehead and sweep lightly across, down over her nose, over each cheek, and back around the same way several more times. She sighs peacefully in her sleep.
“Sadie,” a voice says from the door. It’s Seth when I turn around.
“Hi, Seth,” I say, trying to sound like a nice person.
“Missy says it’s breakfast time.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“What ‘er you doing there?”
“I was just trying to soothe her. Help her sleep. I gave her some yellow root.” He looks at me like I’m an alien from Planet Mean. I smile again and he frowns. Ugg. This kid really hates me.
“I had to go, Seth,” I say before I realize I’m thinking it.
“I didn’t care.”
“I’m sorry I left you behind. I’ve been a crappy sister.”
“Yeah, you have,” he says, shocked that I’m being honest. He steps into the room and lightly starts tapping the footboard of the old metal bed with his sock-covered toe.
“I used to chase cars ‘cause that’s the way I remember you leaving. I thought you would be in one of ‘em.”
“How old were you?”
“‘Bout four. Nobody could take me no where or I’d run off.” The image of him, so little, just barely a child, chasing after cars because he thought he could find me. It hurts.
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