The Shadow Between Us

by Carol Mason

  ‘Fine then,’ I say, to a rampant tick-tick of my heart, a reckless daring. ‘If you’re not sleeping with her, then why is her necklace on our bedroom floor?’

  ELEVEN

  The café is quiet on Sunday afternoon.

  ‘You don’t need to tamp so hard.’ Beth takes the portafilter from my hand. ‘Try again.’

  ‘I’m deliberately trying to be useless so you won’t ask me back tomorrow.’

  She titters as she watches me dump the coffee and fill the basket again.

  ‘That’s right. Light touch . . . There. You got it.’

  ‘Have I? I can undo this perception in two seconds flat.’

  We smile.

  One or two regulars are seated by the window reading the newspaper. I am grateful there hasn’t been a stampede. On the floor by the creamer station are three boxes of book donations. Beth explains she places ads in the Leader, picks through estate sales, garage sales, church bazaars and the like. Most donations come directly from the local community; in exchange, she offers them a coffee card. ‘It seems to work.’ She shrugs. ‘Of course there’s no end to how serious you can get about the books side of the business but my intention’s not to bite off more than I can chew . . .’ Later, once I’ve got comfortable pulling espresso, I’m supposed to sort and shelve them. ‘You’ll be having me cleaning the toilets next,’ I quipped.

  ‘That’s for Thursday!’

  I agreed to do this for one week. One week, I told her. Sometimes she has a knack of acting like she doesn’t hear.

  She pulls on a cardigan, arranges her long braids very properly over her shoulders like a scarf. ‘I’m off out to pay some bills. If it gets too busy just don’t walk off the job.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I’ve only been here two hours and I’m already minding shop. ‘Good to have a tip in crisis management.’

  He is dressed in light jeans and a navy-blue hoodie. Just as I notice him I catch him walking towards me looking like I might be amusing him. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Wow . . . From deck builder to barista. Who knew? Cool . . . How’s it all going?’

  ‘Deck builder? Ah . . . ’ I groan. I had almost forgotten about that. ‘Well, the deck is doing many things, but going isn’t really one of them.’ I nudge my hair off my face with the back of my wrist. ‘The intention was to have it done for summer. But now I’m thinking next summer.’

  He glances down at the shiny-plated silver apron I bought from the cooking shop across the way and that somehow makes me look like a Dalek. ‘Why aim high when you can aim low and not be disappointed?’

  ‘My sentiments exactly.’ I dig a fist into my hip, grappling for an explanation as to what I’m doing here serving coffee, but the urge to supply it passes. He’s not asking for one. ‘Whoosh . . .’ I hear myself say, suddenly feeling warm. ‘What can I get for you? Please don’t ask for anything too complicated.’

  ‘How about a black coffee? If that’s not too challenging. If it is I can settle for bottled water.’

  I cock my head. ‘If you’re going to insult me, maybe you get nothing.’

  He does that ha thing again, his verbalised laugh. ‘How about a muffin, too?’ He casts his eyes over the tray of baked goods.

  ‘Personally I think they should come with a government health warning, but the decision’s yours.’

  ‘The blueberry orange one looks pretty innocuous.’

  ‘I should have you sign a waiver.’ I reach into the cabinet with my tongs, pulling out the one at the back, which is the freshest, then I pour his coffee.

  He slides a hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his wallet.

  ‘No.’ I shoo his hand away. ‘On me.’

  He cocks me a curiously impressed look. ‘Won’t that get you fired?’

  ‘I’m seriously hoping.’

  He smiles. It would be a broad smile, only the left side of his mouth doesn’t have quite the same range of mobility as his right. I was blown up . . . a Humvee that went over a landmine. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a tingle travels down my spine and grips and builds. Then, the room starts moving – a wall of green and blue sliding faster and faster past my eyes. I find myself trying to latch on to detail, attempting to make sense of what it is, but the voices start whispering again, and now I’m too lost in struggling to hear what they’re saying.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I hear one above the rest. Or did I hear it?

  Focus on something tangible. I cast around but can’t see anything to get a hold of with my eyes. There is a metallic taste in my mouth. I’m aware of smacking my lips, trying to get rid of it, of being unable to stop myself.

  ‘Olivia?’

  The voices fade somewhat against the strength of this one. It grounds me a little. I’m aware of the smell of coffee, which leads me to reconnect in the smallest way with where I am. Muffins under glass. Once I see them I stare at them, forcing myself not to look away. My hands are locked, fingers numb with my grip. After a moment I look down at them, at the white knuckles, deliberately try to unclench them. Everything else is fading.

  ‘Olivia?’

  I see shoulders and a navy-blue zip-up. The moving room is subsiding further, everything slowing, even my heart rate. I am conscious of waiting to make sure the feeling is going to leave. ‘I’m fine,’ I say, like it’s a reflex. Part of me is telling me to listen to my own words.

  ‘You sure?’

  I nod. I have come out in goosebumps. Every hair feels like it’s standing up. His voice draws me back to the now. The nape of my neck is soaked when I lay a hand there, and so is my lower body from my crotch to my knees.

  ‘You’re sure you’re sure?’ I hear the genuine concern in his voice. His warm, kind eyes stay fixed on me, and I let them provide an anchor.

  ‘Positive.’ I let my lips part a fraction and breathe out slowly and steadily without making it obvious. I have a vague sense of having stepped off a boat from a choppy sea, on to steady land. This one was faster than they normally are, over more manageably. ‘Thanks,’ I tell him.

  I’m expecting him to go, but still he stands there. I refocus away from his eyes, run a hand down my wet leg; it’s like I went swimming in my jeans. ‘Well, enjoy your coffee,’ I say, but my words seem to come out one step ahead of me. My voice sounds torqued. I need him to not be standing here. I could badly use air.

  ‘Well . . . OK . . .’ he says, perhaps getting the message. ‘And, um, thanks for not charging.’ He still looks reluctant to move.

  ‘I won’t make a habit of it,’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘No.’ He half smiles. ‘And don’t worry, your wild act of rebellion is safe with me.’

  ‘It’s bribery. I’m hoping you’ll come build my deck.’ The words are out before I even know where they came from. I think, What on earth did I just say?

  There is an awkward hesitation. Then, ‘Sure.’

  Damn! I am a little slow in knowing how to respond. ‘I was kidding,’ I finally say. I throw up my hands in mild exasperation. ‘A joke . . . you know. I wasn’t being serious.’ My face is burning. I want to disappear down a hole.

  ‘It’s OK. I was.’ He hangs on to his drink, looking trapped, on the precipice of something.

  I hide my face with my hands and say ‘Ahhh!’ This is a disaster.

  If he thinks my behaviour is a little odd, he doesn’t show it. ‘I’d have to come by and take a look. When’s good?’

  We meet eyes again. ‘This is a little silly. I really wasn’t being serious—’

  ‘Tomorrow night?’

  We are saved by the arrival of two girls. They form a line immediately behind him and start tinkering on their iPhones. They are in no hurry to be served and he makes no attempt to leave. ‘Sure,’ I say. I’m about to throw up my hands again, but stop myself, unsure why I’m being so dramatic. I turn and grab the cloth and set about wiping down the steam wand even though it’s already clean.

  ‘You forgot something,’ he says.

  When I glance over my shoulde
r, his expression is one of slight amusement and intrigue.

  ‘Address?’

  TWELVE

  We sit on the patio furniture I had to move from the deck to the tiny patch of lawn that’s been rendered threadbare in the shade of two dominant cedar trees. He accepted a home-made lavender lemonade, turning down my offer of wine or a beer with ‘I’m not much of a drinker’.

  ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a carpenter.’ I find myself drawn to look at his hands.

  ‘No.’ He smiles, holding the glass mid-chest against his lean upper stomach. Around his left wrist is a curious piece of tough-looking khaki material the thickness of a flexible tape measure with some kind of dull metal running through it. ‘When I was at MIT I worked all kinds of jobs. I was a lifeguard, hospital porter, then one summer I picked up litter for the parks department. That was so boring that the next year I was reincarnated as a builder’s apprentice where I helped build decks and the odd kitchen.’

  ‘You went to MIT?’

  ‘For aerospace engineering. I wanted to be a SEAL for as long as I can remember but my dad said he’d disown me if I pursued it. But in my second year of college I made it known that when I graduated I was going to apply to Navy Officer Candidate School whether anybody liked it or not.’

  ‘Yikes. How did that go down? Did he disown you?’

  ‘No. He died of pancreatic cancer before I graduated.’ He looks off over the fence with an empty stare. ‘If I’d never told him, he wouldn’t have left the world so disappointed in me.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ I say, thinking of the concept of last words being bad words. ‘But we’re not extensions of our parents, are we. We must do what’s right for us and stand our ground sometimes.’ I can hear Jessica saying, ‘Oh my God! Have you heard yourself?’ which briefly throws me off course. ‘What did your parents want you to do instead of the military?’

  He puts his glass down and the tendons in his wrist flex. ‘My mom was a nurse. I think she’d have liked me to become a doctor. But I never saw myself as that. Back then I couldn’t stand the sight of blood – if you can believe.’ He sniggers ironically. ‘Besides, I wasn’t smart enough for med school. When you’re growing up they say you can be anything you want in life, but the reality is you can’t. I was never going to be a quantum physicist; no amount of studying was going to change that . . . I do agree that you can be very good at what you do if you have the inclination for it in the first place . . . I just always thought I would be a good soldier, then when I became one I wanted to be the best I could. My father thought the military was for guys who needed straightening out. There were a lot of things in life he completely missed the point of.’

  I want to say that if he got into MIT for aerospace engineering he’s definitely intelligent enough, but I let his rather charming modesty lie.

  ‘Where did you grow up?’ I ask.

  ‘South Florida.’ He waggles the foot crossed over his right knee. ‘Lived there my whole life.’ He looks back at the house, staring at the windows, at the roof, at the trees beside it. ‘It’s a nice little place, this. Have you always lived in small towns? You’re from England, originally, right?’

  ‘Yup. Born and raised in a village in Gloucestershire. But I’ve been in the US for over twenty years. We lived just outside of Seattle.’

  ‘Your husband is American? I mean, ex, I assume?’

  I nod, unsure why I’m letting his assumption I’m divorced go uncorrected.

  ‘And I’m guessing you haven’t been a barista your whole life.’

  ‘Ha! No, I worked for many years in sales and marketing for Westin Hotels. I loved it. Hotels are, well, they’re a lovely place to work. Something about the fact that they never close . . . It’s a long story but I was passed over for a big promotion and then my heart just went out of the job. I quit to start up my own business as a corporate event planner.’ I shrug, remembering how Mark and Jess had differing views on it. ‘My husband thought I was cutting off my nose to spite my face. My daughter had a totally different view. She said if they didn’t appreciate me then I needed to find someone who did!’ I smile, a thought breaking in: she’d supported me. Why did I have to leave her with the impression that I didn’t do the same for her? ‘I was never more proud of my daughter’s capacity to go to bat for me. I’d always tried to instil self-worth into her, and there she was playing it back to me, reminding me . . . In hindsight, Mark was probably right, though.’

  ‘So you started event planning?’

  I try not to roll my eyes. ‘Hated virtually every minute of it. It’s very competitive. I was working all hours, not quite making enough money to justify hiring help. Then I went through some personal stuff – something happened – and, well, I just couldn’t motivate myself to care after that.’ I harrumph, thinking of an email I sent to a Spanish client who had complained the caterer I’d hired had committed the crime of serving Prosecco not cava.

  If this is all you’ve got to stress about, honey, you’ll live a long and blessed life!

  Not very professional, I know. Burning bridges is a very bad plan in life. How many times have I instilled that into Jessica, too? The endless setting her up to avoid a lifetime of making silly but costly mistakes, because those were my definitions of costly at the time. ‘I’m still trying to wind the business down now. Sometimes I think I’ll never be free of it.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ he says. ‘When I came here I had no particular destination. I just drove north on the I5 from Seattle, saw the sign for Deception Pass, made the turn. Saw the signs for the ferry. I just thought, Ferry. Cool. And next I was in Port Townsend – somewhere I’d never even heard of.’ He looks back at me through a void stare. ‘Do you ever get the feeling this might be the place you come when you can’t face being anywhere else?’

  I think about this. ‘I’m not sure.’ I say. ‘I don’t think I want to be surrounded by a whole host of people who have checked out of life.’

  He doesn’t answer, just watches me as though his mind is rapid-firing through a lot of unwanted thoughts.

  I must say talking to him makes me feel I have to throw out all my preconceived notions about army guys. He’s tough but not in a bullish, hot-headed way. You couldn’t label him the strong, silent type either. I can’t quite characterise him. With all he has experienced, he seems abnormally together; I’d have expected someone more emotionally torn up. This is what puzzles me most about him. I want to know how he manages it.

  ‘It’s not a bad town,’ I say, reaching for the positive. ‘This isn’t a bad house, really. Other than the rotting deck, and the separate taps in the bathroom. It reminds me a bit of England.’

  ‘What do you mean separate taps?’

  I do a double-take on his serious face. ‘You know . . . no mixer. Just a cold one and a hot one that scalds your face off the second you’ve turned it on.’

  As soon as the words are out, I realise what I’ve said.

  ‘Isn’t cold water supposed to be good for the complexion?’ His intense brown eyes steadily hold mine.

  I try not to audibly breathe out. ‘I guess we’ll find out.’

  There is a long pause, then he strums his fingers on the side of his empty glass. ‘It probably won’t take me much more than a week if by some miracle we don’t get a lot of rain.’

  ‘Seriously? I still feel bad about this! I hope you’re not doing it to be polite.’

  ‘Why would I be polite?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because you’re a nice guy? Because you felt backed into it?’

  ‘I’m not that much of a nice guy.’ He holds my eyes in a way that takes his comment to a slightly more affecting level. Or perhaps I am imagining it.

  ‘If you tell me the cost of everything, I’ll let Nanette know.’

  He stands now. ‘Well, it’s only really the cost of the wood. I’m not charging you for my time, obviously.’

  ‘What?’ I look up at him in surprise.

  ‘You did a good turn for your landl
ady, now I’m doing one for you.’

  I am momentarily speechless. ‘Of course I’m going to pay you! Good heavens! There’s no other option.’

  His expression lightens as though my mini outrage surprises him. ‘I told you I’m not a professional. If I mess up maybe we both have to take responsibility.’

  My mouth opens, reaching for objections. I have never been good with accepting kindness or charity.

  ‘Look, you might not realise it but you’re doing me a favour. Too much time on my hands is no good for me. Plus, I like outdoor work.’ He tilts his head back and looks up at the cedars again, towering way above the house. But I sense he’s contemplating more than just the trees. ‘I haven’t built anything since before . . .’ He clenches and unclenches his hands. ‘If you don’t use it you lose it.’

  ‘Are they painful?’ I get up and walk with him to the gate. I half know the answer to this. A couple of nights ago I found myself reading about skin grafts and scar tissue online, then I had to stop because it was more distressing than I’d bargained for.

  ‘No, no, they’re fine. I had to have pins put in them to immobilise the damaged joints, or I’d have lost my fingers. After that there was a lot of therapy to stretch the new skin. That was painful.’

  ‘Yikes . . .’ Goosebumps break out on my arms.

  ‘Hey, you asked,’ he says, trying to lighten things. ‘Having to fight to get the use of them back was the biggest test of tolerance and perseverance I’ve ever known. It was the first time in my life that I felt entirely powerless.’

  I wonder what his wife must have gone through watching him in excruciating pain. I wonder how that changes a marriage.

  ‘But you did it.’ I suddenly feel an emotion I can’t name.

  ‘I guess we’ll find out.’

  THIRTEEN

  I haven’t gone on to my own Facebook page in a while.

  Before 19 May 2016 I would post occasional pictures of our family, holiday shots, beauty shots of the nature around where we live. I dipped in and out perhaps a little too often to call it casual, but not enough to be obsessive, liking people’s kids, cats and holidays, inwardly decrying random idiocy, political rants, people who are too self-absorbed, my fingers hovering over the block or unfriend buttons until I reminded myself I was an adult and could easily just walk away.