Before and Again

by Barbara Delinsky

  I gave Chris’s arm a final squeeze, drilled him with a remember-your-promise look, and set off for my truck. I didn’t look at Grace again, certainly didn’t look at Edward. I blocked out everything but the sanctity of my home.

  At least, I tried to block it all out. But the word busted kept popping up in my mind as I drove. Many, many Devonites read The Devon Times and were as computer-savvy as Nina. Thinking about it made my stomach twist.

  I thought to call Kevin, but I couldn’t bear to rehash the day.

  I thought to call Grace, but she would be busy with Chris and, if she did answer—honestly?—I didn’t want to deal with what I’d told Chris.

  I thought to call Cornelia, just to tip her off in advance of comments she would surely hear. But she liked me. She respected me. My heart broke at the thought of losing that.

  And then there was Joyce, who probably already knew everything, so what was the point?

  And my girlfriends? My book group? My clay friends? Spa clients? Given how my phone continued to vibrate with texts, I knew there were questions. I didn’t want to answer any of them.

  Home was where I needed to be, safe and alone and in control of my life.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, I had forgotten about Liam.

  18

  Seeing his car brought it back, so finding him in the house wasn’t a total shock. It was just disappointing. I really wanted to be alone with myself, my pets, and my furniture in my very own place. I really wanted to be alone with the silence, because too much had happened today, and too much static remained. I was used to silence. It was comfortable and safe.

  But I opened the door to Liam’s chop-chop-chopping and scents that were organic and raw. I identified onion, garlic, and celery. I thought I smelled rosemary—and melting butter—and lamb, not beef, but that was only a hunch.

  “You’re too early,” Liam cried from the kitchen, his head bent over the cutting board, his thinning red hair actually combed. “I need another hour.”

  “No problem.” I toed off my boots. “I’m going upstairs.” Hanging my coat on a hook, I knelt. “Hello, babies,” I whispered and hugged each pet as he crowded in. Then I went straight for the Ritz cracker sandwiches, which were my go-to comfort snack. The Spa offered apples, homemade granola squares, and organic coconut candies, but they didn’t do it for me the way Ritz sandwiches did. I want to say I’d been raised on them, but with a mother like Margaret McGowan Reid? Nope. I had been raised on gourmet cookies and bars, from experimental to sublime. Prepackaged crackers were the antithesis of those, definitely against Reid family rules, which was likely part of their appeal.

  Opening the eye-level cabinet where I kept them, I found one pack, angled it up to see the label, then pushed it aside. I stood on tiptoe for a deeper look. Reaching in, I felt around.

  “Where are my Ritz sandwiches?” I asked Liam none too sweetly. “They were right here.”

  “There’s one,” he offered, a tad too innocent. His freckles were bright, which was a sure sign of guilt.

  “That one’s cheese. I want peanut butter.”

  “Cheese is healthier. Actually, celery is healthier.” He held out a stalk.

  I stared. “If you’re trying to body-shame me, it won’t work. I was too thin before. Know what happens if you’re too thin? You get osteoporosis like Mom.”

  “You do not.”

  “You might. Thinness is one of the indicators. I know this, Liam. My doctor was after me for years to gain weight.”

  He drew in his chin and gave a huff. “You’re in a snit.”

  I was. All I wanted was my own quiet little house back. No. That wasn’t all I wanted. I wanted my nice quiet little life back.

  Frustrated, I said, “I really want those crackers.”

  He went back to stirring whatever ground meat was frying in my pan. “I ate them after you went to bed last night—ate them right there on the sofa”—he indicated the place with his eyes—“but not to worry, I dust-busted this morning.”

  “You ate all of them?”

  “There were only two packs, and I was hungry,” he stated. “I can’t eat when I’m serving other people, and in case you didn’t notice, I served half your town last night.”

  No apology? The best defense is a good offense. My brother had learned that lesson well.

  But I really, really wanted peanut butter crackers. Only two packs left, and I hadn’t restocked? Didn’t that say something about the distraction the last two weeks had been?

  Settling for second best, I grabbed a box of graham crackers.

  “Uh, Maggie, about dinner—”

  “What is that?” I asked with a glare at the pan, disgruntled enough to suggest that it looked vile.

  My brother was oblivious. His own agenda carried him blithely along. With a flourish, he said, “Navarin Printanier.”

  “Liam.”

  “Lamb stew with spring veggies, made with ground lamb instead of roasted because I couldn’t find whole lamb at the last minute, but the turnips look great. I’ll leave a little for you, but most of it is coming with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “Erica Kahn’s,” he offered and waited, expectant, even anxious.

  “Perfect,” I said and headed for the stairs. My brother could have made Navarin Printanier for the devil, and that would have been fine. The idea of having the house to myself for even a few hours was heaven.

  * * *

  After closing the door to my room loudly enough to make a statement, I pulled up Spotify, set my phone in the dock, and climbed into bed fully clothed. Sitting against the headboard with the covers bunched under my breasts, I opened the box of graham crackers, removed a sheet and broke it in half. I munched happily, eager to redeem my personal space and relax.

  But the first song was Adele’s “All I Ask,” whose lyrics made me lonely. I found Rihanna’s “Stay” depressing, and Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” made me want to cry.

  I identified with these songs, and wasn’t that pathetic? My life was a playlist—sad, haunted, and filled with regret.

  So music wouldn’t help. Grabbing the phone from its dock, I was about to check Facebook to see what Mom’s special had been, or Twitter to catch up on news beyond Devon. But the screen lit up with unread texts, and, even as I held the phone, another arrived.

  I turned the thing off and tossed it aside.

  Snapping another cracker in two, I listened to my woods, but the outdoor sounds were so low with the windows closed that I had to stop eating to hear. There wasn’t much anyway; March was perennially stingy. I heard the coo of a mourning dove, or maybe an owl, hard to tell which. I heard the rattle of branches blown by the wind, softened only by the susurrus of pines and firs. I might have enjoyed the purr of the cats, but they were downstairs with Liam, whose cooking sounds had to be as deliberate as my door closing—the slam of a cabinet, the rap of a wooden spoon against my iron pan, the rush of water through the pipes as the sink faucet went on and off.

  Call us both childish. But there was satisfaction in making noise when one was PO’d.

  IMHO, I had more of a right to it than Liam did. The fact of his commandeering my kitchen for his personal cause only added to the anger of a day in which reality had seriously upset the basket of my life. The home-and-hearth smells that rose from the stove were little solace.

  I waited, listened.

  “Maggie?” Liam finally called.

  I didn’t answer.

  “I’m leaving,” he called.

  Either he sensed my anger and didn’t want a confrontation, or he was that eager to be at Erica Kahn’s. He might have even thought I was asleep, though it was pathetically early for that. I mean, who went to bed at six-thirty? Only someone who had nothing better to do, and if that wasn’t a depressing thought, I didn’t know what was.

  Whatever, he didn’t try again. I heard the front door close and, more faintly, his engine rev. My bedroom was at the back of the house, so
I couldn’t hear the crunch of his tires on the drive, but I pictured him backing around and heading out.

  Only when I guessed he would be halfway down the road did I open my door. And there were my pets, lined up and waiting in a way that both warmed my heart and hit me with guilt. “Oh guys,” I said as I crouched down and reached out. “I am the worst mom.” But not for long. I had a sudden stroke of genius. “Who wants lamb stew?” The smell out here in the hall was strong.

  Me, me, me, I imagined them saying, because all three ran for the stairs.

  I followed but paused at the top. Immediately to my right was the loft. It overlooked the open first floor of the house and in normal times held little more than a sleep sofa and lamp. Now it was a mess of strewn clothing, empty shopping bags, and dirty drinking glasses.

  Resigned, I continued on down. Liam might be a pig in the bedroom, but the kitchen was spotless. A container sat on the counter, its cover steamed and warm. The pet dishes were dripping dry on the rack, so no one actually needed food. But I had promised.

  When I cracked the lid, the smell hit me hard, and it was awesome, I had to give Liam that. I spooned out bits of lamb and knelt. Hex and Jinx each took a lick before walking away. Jonah cleaned the spoon.

  Me, I wasn’t hungry after eating … how many graham crackers?

  I wasn’t hungry an hour later, either, because something weird was happening. Nothing worked. I went through the mail, but threw most of it out. I flipped through the latest issue of Makeup Artist, but no article caught my interest. Spotting a small UPS delivery that Liam had brought in and set aside, I did feel a germ of enthusiasm. UPS brought me little gifts. I could use a little gift now.

  Eager, I broke open the box, layered back the tissue, and wrestled with bubble wrap to uncover blush, shadow, liner, and brushes, all from a new brand that I’d wanted to try. The brushes were made of synthetic fiber, which didn’t have quite the elegant touch of natural fiber, but natural fiber clumped when mixed with oil, and dry skin needed oil. I tested a blusher brush on the back of my hand, then my neck, then my face. Deciding it would be fine, I set it aside.

  What to do then? My fingers itched, needing clay. But even if the studio had been open, I couldn’t risk seeing people. I’d had a home studio when Edward and I were married. But this life was to be different from that one. As many times as I had been tempted to keep a stash of clay here, I’d resisted.

  Right now, I wished I hadn’t. I needed … something. The house was quiet all right, but it wasn’t the quiet I knew. The quiet tonight, as darkness slowly settled over my woods, was lonely.

  I walked around.

  I reached for my next book-group book, settled into the sofa, and opened to the page where I’d left off. I read two paragraphs, but my mind didn’t grasp meaning. I read them again, then put the book down.

  I turned on the TV, surfed through the guide, turned it off again.

  I lifted the lid of the lamb stew but covered it again without taking a bite.

  Nina had asked how I handled the hours alone, the loneliness and depression. I used to do it fine. I had slogged through the worst and risen on the other side feeling good. No, not good. Great. My life had been great before all this happened.

  I wanted that again. But I couldn’t roll back time. What had worked two weeks ago wouldn’t work now.

  So here I sat, a prisoner in my own home.

  And I deserved it, I mused, brooding as I lifted a ceramic bowl that I had thought so primitive at the time. I had enjoyed making it, though. It had been a sign of progress.

  Today, I’d regressed. If my goal in Devon was being a good person, I had failed. I had snipped at Liam, turned a deaf ear to Nina, walked right past Joyce, who had been so loyal to me. I had badgered Chris, then burdened him with a confession that might be too heavy for his already-burdened shoulders. I had let Grace down, putting my own obsession with The Devon Times before her obsession with People.

  And Edward? I don’t know what I’d done to Edward. I don’t know what he’d done to me. The compartment of my life that contained him was a big, fucking mess.

  Disgusted, I set down the bowl. I went to the door, put on my boots, parka, hat, and gloves, then went out into the night. I quickly returned for a scarf; the temperature had definitely fallen, but frigid air was what I needed to clear my head. No scent of lamb stew here. The forest was all moisture and earth and maybe, maybe new growth, though on a night like this, who knew if it would live? Native Americans did. They had a name for the moon, which this night shone full through the trees. They actually had two names, alternately calling it the worm moon, after worms that wriggled to the surface and invited robins, and the sap moon, for the flow from maples. Though I loved seeing robins and adored maple syrup, I was most grateful that this full moon was bright enough, so that even when it slipped behind a gauze of clouds, its sheen lit the road.

  I walked down Pepin Hill to the bottom, turned around, and walked back up to my place. Those few nocturnal creatures that weren’t still in hibernation were scared off by my footsteps. And the cooing I’d heard? An owl, to judge from the heavy whoosh of feathers when whatever it was flew off.

  Black ice was a challenge. Snow melt on dirt made mud; snow melt on rocks made ice, and there were plenty of rocks on my road. I slipped a time or two but caught myself short of embarrassment. Not that there was anyone around to see.

  And wasn’t that the problem? As good as the exertion felt, the minute I was inside, the loneliness returned. At that point, I was just desperate enough for a distraction to go to my room, sit on the floor, and slide the green velvet box out from under the bed.

  It was long and narrow, three feet by one and barely eight inches high. Its velvet was the color of spring leaves in all but the spots where the hand that loved it had been sweaty or soiled. Its corners were protected by gold filigree that matched the bracing around the latch. Lying flat beneath that latch was a worn leather handle. At its inception, the box had held my grandmother’s art supplies, most notably the pastels she loved, and several remained inside, carefully wrapped in glassine, but they were only one of many mementos there now.

  I ran featherlight fingers along its edge, one filigreed corner to the next. Then I opened my palm on its top. Nana’s Treasure Box, I used to call it, because I had always found magic inside. I was ten when she died, but I remembered being as young as three, sitting cross-legged inside her crossed legs and holding my breath as she raised the lid. The past became real to me then, all those pictures and postcards and little tokens that wafted out and smelled of another time.

  There was life in this box. Even after my grandmother died, there was. And now Lily was here. I pictured her flowing blond hair, pale-blue eyes, and impish grin. I saw her as a cat with face paint, and a princess with a tiara headband. I heard her high laugh when I tickled the side of her neck.

  Heart beating wildly, I touched the latch, sliding my finger back and forth, back and forth.

  Then I straightened. I told myself to breathe, and, touching velvet, that’s what I did. After a minute, I folded forward. Putting my cheek to the spot where my palm had been, I felt warmth. It might have been from my hand. But no. My hands were still bone-cold from being outside. This warmth came from two spirits, one of a woman who had lived long, another a child who had died young.

  When my eyes began to burn, I thought I might cry. Lord knew, I wanted to. Crying was the normal response. A good mother would feel. She wouldn’t seize up like a heartless rock. A rock couldn’t absorb bad—which, my therapist said, was why my body did this. When grief was too deep, the body shut it down. When I was strong enough, she said, tears would return.

  And here I thought I was strong? Oh, I was. Just not in a way that might have kept Lily from harm. Nana could. Taking comfort that she was watching over my baby, I slid the box back under the bed and, alone once more, sat back against the wall in the dark.

  Aloneness was what I deserved. Only it was worse now than it had been
for a long, long time. Was the rock starting to crack?

  Turning out the light, I climbed back into bed, pulled the covers to my chin, and just lay there. I thought to undress, but didn’t have the strength. I thought to remove my makeup, but didn’t have the strength.

  Self-pity was a potent muffler, because it wasn’t until after the fact that I realized the knocking sound drifting up wasn’t heat in the pipes at all, but knuckles on my front door. Or not. When a key turned, I thought of Liam. If Liam was back this early, his date hadn’t gone as well as he wanted, which meant that he would be making noise, if only to make his needy presence known. Whoever was down there now did not.

  Only one other person would know that a spare key was always stashed behind the wreath by the door. I heard the door close behind him, and pictured him standing in my living room, looking around, maybe unbuttoning his barn jacket or rubbing the back of his head as he tried to decide what to do.

  What did I want him to do? I wasn’t sure.

  No. I was sure. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to make me feel less alone, if only for a little while.

  Barely breathing, I waited. I heard soft footfalls on the stairs, definitely Edward’s. No intruder would leave his boots at the door to keep from tracking in mud, but these footfalls came from socks. They paused at the top, then started quietly down the hall.

  He opened my door and stood for a beat before whispering my name. Hushed as the sound was, I heard its question.

  “Yes,” I answered, my own whisper a plea. Yes, I was awake. Yes, I wanted him here.

  Approaching the bed, he was a dark silhouette, a ghosted shape in the ambience of that full moon. He hunkered down beside me. “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. Then I held out a hand. The instant he took it, I felt relief. I wanted to ask why he had come, but didn’t dare. Coward that I was, I couldn’t risk not liking the answer.

  “You’re freezing,” he said and, sitting on the side of the bed, began chafing my hand between his two. The warmth was heavenly. So was the strength of those bigger-than-my hands.