“’Course not,” he says. “Let me check out and then I can follow you.”
I drive like a little old lady to my house, my hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, my eyes glancing in the rearview mirror every twenty seconds to check that Oliver is still there. That he is a real person, driving a real car (a gray Prius), coming to my real house. I even pinch myself. Hard. On the skin of my wrist, leaving a red mark. It still stings as I pull onto the gravel driveway, Oliver right behind me.
* * *
“Wow. You’ve gotta lot of land out here,” he says once we’re out of our cars.
“Yeah. I’ve thought about getting chickens or something, you know, to make use of the space. And it is a farmhouse. I feel like it’s a prerequisite.”
Oliver doesn’t reply and I will myself to stop talking as I lead him through the yard, but anxiety grips my belly, and I tend to ramble when I’m nervous. “I read this article a few years ago about the rise of suburban chicken farming, and it looked so quaint, so This American Life. And the chickens were kinda cute.”
Oliver raises an eyebrow.
“I could totally see myself coming out here collecting the eggs every morning. I feel like I’d be a good chicken mom.”
Oh my god—STOP TALKING ABOUT CHICKENS.
Thankfully, we get to the edge of the garden, affording me the opportunity to change the topic. “Here we are. Welcome to the jungle,” I say, because that’s what it looks like. A dead jungle, anyway. Most everything is brown and yellow and dry and withering, except for the weeds, which seem to be thriving.
“You know the thing no one tells you about chickens?” Oliver says.
I swivel toward him. “What?”
“They smell.”
“They do?”
“Something awful.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you know that?”
“Worked on a poultry farm in Oregon once.”
A poultry farm? I squint harder, as if trying to see him more clearly. These little unexpected tidbits of information remind me that I don’t know this man at all. Even as I feel like I do. And it’s frustrating, not least because it feels like he’s being cryptic—offering small insights without any explanation. Maybe he’s naturally a man of few words, but I want to know more—need to know—and it’s starting to irk me.
“You know, it’s funny—I worked on a poultry farm once, too.”
His eyebrows shoot skyward. “Really?”
“No,” I say. “Not really. That’s a very uncommon thing.”
His mouth breaks into its lopsided smile, deepening the groove in his cheek. He shifts his weight onto his other leg. “About seven—maybe eight years ago, I stumbled across this organization called the Association of Global Organic Farm Opportunities, where you can get matched with a farm in the country of your choice and go work there for two, three months at a time. On a whim, I signed up. I’ve been all over—Peru, Alaska, Khartoum. I just got back from a vineyard in Australia.”
He paces around the garden, studying it from all angles like someone buying a new car. “Wait—you get paid to travel the globe and . . . farm?” With his devil-may-care hair and hipsterish vibe I would have guessed Oliver did something creative—like a graphic designer or a drummer or a tattoo artist. I would not in a million years have guessed his actual job. Or that it was actually a job for anyone.
“Nah,” he says. “It’s volunteer. I only get room and board.” Oliver bends his knees, fingers a few leaves, appraises plants.
“So . . . you’re independently wealthy?”
His eyes flash in amusement. He jerks his head. “No.”
I open my mouth to ask one of the string of new questions I have for him, but suddenly he stands, clapping his hands together, effectively cutting me off. “Right. Well, I have good news and bad news.”
I tilt my head. “Bad news first.”
“The tomatoes are past salvaging. We can harvest all of those jalapeños, and you might get a few more if we leave them in. The herbs are fine, they just need weeding. And I might be able to revive the Japanese eggplant, but everything else should probably come out.”
I stare at him. “I have Japanese eggplant?”
His mouth turns up in a half grin. “You do.”
“Oh.” I scan the garden, wondering which one is the eggplant. “Well, what’s the good news?”
“It should only take a few hours of hard manual labor to do it all?”
“Oh,” I repeat. “That sounds like bad news and bad news.”
He lifts his shoulders in apology. “I like to put an optimistic spin on things. Tiny character flaw.”
* * *
Though I told him it wasn’t necessary to help, I was grateful when he insisted, not only because it was an enormous job, but because I had more questions than answers and wanted more time with him. After grabbing the few garden tools left behind by the previous owner from my studio, we started working on opposite sides of the garden, baking under the hot sun, the only sound the drone of bees and insects buzzing through the air. Now I pause, breathing heavily, and swipe at the beads of sweat on my forehead with my forearm. Oliver’s on his knees, back curved, dark circles staining the armpits of his shirt. He’s narrower than Harrison, wiry, but still, I can’t help noticing his triceps flex and loosen with each grunting effort of uprooting the plants with his spade and hand.
“So,” I begin. “Are you going to tell me what you do when you’re not traveling the world, or do I have to guess?”
Oliver pauses in midtug and his onyx eyes land on mine. “I’m a writer.”
“Oh.” That fits him. This in-person Oliver and the man I feel like I know. When he doesn’t elaborate, I prod. “Advertising? Playwright? Poet?”
“Ghost.” He grunts and the roots of a plant come flying free, spraying dirt in an arc.
“Stories?” I ask. It earns me another half grin.
“No. It means I collaborate with other people—celebrity types that want to tell their life story but don’t actually have the time or skill or whatever. Essentially, I write it for them.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Maybe—you know Carson Flanagan?”
“That Food Network chef?” I ask excitedly. “Who doesn’t know him? Who else?”
“Right now, I’m working with Penn Carro.”
I scrunch my nose, vaguely remembering seeing some TED Talk that went viral where a guy was jumping around onstage like a jackrabbit on steroids, yelling at the crowd like some WWF wrestler. “Is that the guy with the ponytail and huge biceps that tells people how to get rich?”
“The one and only.”
“God, is he as obnoxious as he seems in person?” I catch myself. “Sorry.”
But he grins, a full-on wide smile, causing his lips to disappear and his face to completely open. “In person, he’s worse.”
I smile back and he holds my gaze for a beat before dropping his eyes.
“What about you?” he asks, attacking another plant. “What do you do?”
“Painter.”
“House?” He cocks an eyebrow, teasing.
“No, but I may have to consider that soon to actually make money. The art galleries in Hope Springs haven’t been receptive of my work so far. Although, to be honest, the ones in Philly weren’t, either.”
His head snaps up. “You lived in Philly?”
“Yeah.” I try to understand his reaction.
“What part?”
“University. Cedar Park. Why?”
“I’m in Center City.”
I freeze. “I thought you lived here.”
“No,” he says. “Just helping out Caroline, after her surgery and all. And then the pregnancy—she was shocked, to say the least, so I stuck around for a little bit.”
I stare at him, wond
ering if maybe this is the puzzle piece I’ve been waiting for. University and Center City are so close—maybe we’ve passed each other on the street. In a restaurant? A coffee shop? A tingle travels up my spine at the possibility. But then reality sets in—it’s a feeble explanation, at best. You see people all the time, but you don’t dream about them. Over and over. Not to mention, when I first dreamt about him, I was in high school. In Silver Spring, Maryland.
“You miss it?” he asks.
I blink, coming out of my thoughts. “I do,” I say, and I don’t even realize how much until he’s asked me. “I love the city—the energy, the people. It’s so alive. Or maybe I just felt so alive when I lived there. Hope Springs is so . . .”
“Not that?” he offers.
“Exactly. Anyway, I miss all the restaurants. Indian food. Thai. Delivery,” I say, digging at the roots of the plant in front of me. “And the museums. The Rodin especially. God, I spent, like, half my life in that museum, it feels like.”
“The Rodin? I don’t think I’ve ever been to that one.”
“What?” My voice rings loud and clear in the summer air.
“I know, right?” he says, not missing a beat. “I also strangle bunnies to death in their sleep.”
“Sorry,” I say, chagrined. “I thought everyone in Philly had been there at least once. It’s like—cheering for the Eagles or getting cheesesteaks at Max’s.”
“Well, I do all those things. Can I have my Philly card back now?” He eyes me. I smile. “Honestly, I don’t know all that much about art. I only have, like, one piece hanging in my apartment.”
“Oh my god, let me guess. A rendering of the Eiffel Tower from IKEA.”
“No.”
“A canvas of horses running from IKEA.”
“Nope.”
“A black-and-white photograph of a bridge from IKEA.”
“You’re terrible at guessing,” he says. “It is a photograph, but it’s not a bridge and it’s not mass-produced, thank you very much. It’s an original.”
“Hm,” I say, but I’m laughing. And it strikes me that I can’t remember the last time I did.
We continue working, the conversation flowing more freely now. And as I learn more about him, I squirrel the facts away like I’m keeping a dossier:
He worked at a record store called Play It Again in his twenties.
He attended Fordham Community College but never graduated.
He has an energetic dog named Willy and takes him for runs often. His favorite route is along the Schuylkill River.
And though none of these facts explain why I may have dreamt about him, I realize that I’m thinking less about that, and more about the Oliver that’s here and now. He’s funny and—now that he’s opened up a bit—easy to be around and I’m enjoying getting to know him. Or maybe I’m enjoying the respite from the reality of my life—the fruitless job hunt, the endless miscarriages, the way Harrison looks at me like I’m a glass that could shatter into a thousand pieces at any time. How I feel like I’m a glass that could shatter into a thousand pieces at any time.
Just when I’m starting to relax into the afternoon, I steal a glance at him. And something about the tilt of his head or the way he’s clenching his jaw, struggling with a stubborn root, flattens me. I’m overcome with a feeling I can’t name. Maybe it’s only another flash of the déjà vu I’ve experienced on and off since seeing him.
Regardless, it triggers images of Oliver—recent dreams—to flood my mind. In some, we’re standing, shoulder to shoulder, or across a room, a magnetic pull drawing me nearer. In others, he gives me things, weird things—an old rusted horseshoe; a file folder stuffed with diagrams of various animals; a brown paper bag that I thought was going to be a sandwich but instead contained teeth, hundreds of teeth, more than could fit in a paper bag. Even though the dreams are nonsensical, they still wake me up in heart-racing panics. Cold sweats.
And then there are the other dreams. The ones that need no explanation but result in my waking with a familiar throbbing between my legs, confusion and lust and guilt all roiling in my stomach.
“Mia,” he says, his voice suddenly serious.
“Yeah?” Mine rises an octave with nerves; the fear that he could see exactly what I was thinking.
“That plant you’re attacking?”
I look down.
“Yeah.”
“That’s the Japanese eggplant.”
“Oh.”
I glance back up at him in time to see him cover a smile with his wrist. I shake my head, trying to clear it. Stupid dreams.
* * *
Later, we stand sore and sweating and covered in dirt, admiring our hard work. Every inch of my exposed skin is on fire, and I realize belatedly that I should have slathered on sunscreen or at least worn a hat, as Harrison always likes to remind me.
“What now?” I ask.
Oliver slaps at a mosquito, scratches the back of his neck. “Well, you’ll want to get some compost to replace the nutrients the soil has lost and then you could plant some fall vegetables in the empty areas if you want. July is perfect for starting kale, lettuce, spinach.”
“OK.” I nod, as he pauses to take a breath.
“And then, maybe pull weeds once a week? Water regularly? You know, the bare minimum garden upkeep.” He’s teasing me again.
“In my defense, the irrigation system broke right after we moved in.”
“Oh. You didn’t say—I could probably fix that.” He starts scanning the ground looking for the tubing.
“No, no,” I say. “You’ve done enough. Truly. I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“We’ll call it even,” he says. “Although, if you’re ever in Philly, let me know. You can take me to the Rodin. Let me get my Philly card back.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
“OK, then,” he says, when we’ve reached the driveway. “I guess I’ll see you.”
And even though I know it’s just something people say, I wonder if it’s true. Though I suppose I could run into him again sometime, we have no reason to see each other on purpose, and I try to ignore the twinge of disappointment tugging my belly.
“Thanks again.” He stands there for a moment, looks as if he’s going to say something else. But then he turns and I wonder if I was imagining it. The hesitation.
I watch as he gets in the Prius, executes a perfect three-point turn in the driveway and waves as he drives off back toward the road. I lift a hand, and then his car is swallowed up by the trees, and he’s gone—like a dream evaporating in the bright light of morning.
* * *
There are few things I find more obnoxious in life than those couples who gush in clichéd platitudes, reminiscing about the beginning of their relationships: When I met him, I knew he was the one, or It was like I’d known her forever.
Oh my gosh, how sweet, I always respond, smiling and nodding, while inside I’m thinking: Please stop. You sound like a freakin’ Nicholas Sparks novel.
When I first met Harrison, he was standing by one of Prisha Khanna’s life-size black-and-white canvas photographs: the one of two naked women loosely intertwined like an infinity scarf; a Celtic knot. He was impossibly handsome, in his black square glasses, his Skid Row T-shirt, holding a cotton-candy-pink martini in one hand and a navy sport coat in the other. When he smiled at me, part of me died a little, while part of me came completely alive.
But he felt brand-new—like a wrapped present, and I was a child on her birthday who couldn’t wait to find out what was inside.
Which is why no one could have been more surprised than me when it occurs to me as I stand frozen alone at the edge of my driveway that that feeling I couldn’t name earlier—when Oliver’s profile triggered the flood of dreams—wasn’t just a passing sense of familiarity. Or déjà vu.
It was that—even though I
didn’t even know any basic facts about him until today—I felt like I’d known him forever.
And all at once, I feel ridiculous and foolish.
I give my head a firm shake, shoot one last glance at the garden, the square patch of mostly brown soil waiting for whatever comes next, and turn and walk into my house.
Chapter 8
Later that night, Harrison is lying beside me, his skin still humid from the shower, his head propped up on three pillows. He’s reading a worn copy of The Hobbit. Usually, his nose is stuck in one of his medical journals, which he keeps a stack of both beside the bed and on the back of the toilet, reading them cover to cover every month like most men devour ESPN or Esquire. But every now and then he picks up a real book—Stephen King, Michael Crichton or J. R. R. Tolkien, who was a favorite of his growing up. He rereads The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings every couple of years, and I’ve always found it endearing, the way I can picture him as a child, all legs and arms and big round eyes discovering the story for the first time. It’s always made me feel closer to him, somehow, knowing specific details of his life before me like that. But tonight he feels distant—unreachable, even though my hand is inches away from his. And I know it’s my guilt lying between us.
I know I didn’t do anything wrong, technically. And I know it’s perfectly normal to be attracted to other people, even when you’re married. I’m only human. But is it normal to keep thinking about them, long after they’re gone? I keep having flashbacks every time I try to put him out of my mind. Oliver, sweating in the garden. Oliver, his deep laugh ringing in the air. Oliver, nearly looking through me with those pools of ink he has for eyes. It’s not that I’ve wanted to—but it’s like that old adage when someone tells you not to think about an elephant and then that’s the only thing you can think of.
And of course I told Harrison—not about the sweat and the triceps and the intense eyes—but about Oliver. Running into him and then him coming to help in the garden.
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