by Nina Lane
I lift the ax and slam it into the wood. Hard satisfaction fills me when the blade strikes. The wood splits, two halves falling to the sides. I cut them each again, then drag a new log onto the cutting block and lift the ax again.
Thunk. It’s a good feeling, a good sound, the wood splitting cleanly halfway down. I slice through it to separate the halves and go back for another log.
I lose track of how long I’m chopping, but my hands start to burn with blisters, and my muscles strain. Sweat drips down my forehead. Crack thunk crack thunk.
The pile of firewood grows until there are only a few logs left. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, my chest heaving with exertion. The logs at the bottom are especially thick, from the widest part of the trunk.
I slam the ax into the largest log, but the blade sticks in the wood. With a grunt, I yank it out and try again. Again it sticks.
Anger claws at me. I pull the blade out and bring it down a third time. Fucking stuck.
“Goddammit.”
I swing the ax over my head and strike it downward as hard as I can. Though there’s some satisfaction in the sound of the metal hitting wood, the ax barely makes a dent in the thick log.
I lift the ax and bring it down again and again, mutilating the log with deep grooves but failing to split the damned thing in half.
“Shit.” My lungs burn. I strike the ax down again, sinking it halfway into the log. I yank at the blade, but can’t pull it out with one try. “Fucking stupid piece of wood… motherfucker…”
“Whoa, man. What’d that log ever do to you?”
I jerk my head up at the sound of Archer’s voice. My brother is standing by the garage, his hands on his hips, looking at me with puzzlement. I drag a breath into my aching lungs and toss the ax aside.
“Just… uh, splitting firewood.”
“Yeah, you’re going at it like a madman,” he remarks.
The log is now scarred with crossed ruts and furrows like an unsolvable maze. I shove it with my foot and send it crashing to the ground. I sink down onto the tree stump and rest my elbows on my knees, all the fight draining from me.
Archer picks up the discarded ax and goes back to the garage. He returns with my toolbox, a notepad, and a grease pencil.
“Come on,” he says.
I look up. “Where?”
“Just come on.” He strides toward the woods.
I glance at the house. I have my cell phone in my pocket, so Claire can reach me if she needs to. I follow my brother.
Archer walks through the groves of trees, his boots crunching on the dried leaves and undergrowth, patches still covered with mud and icy slush. He pauses a couple of times, looks up, then keeps going.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Archer stops underneath an old pine tree with thick, low-hanging branches that fork out over an open grove. He reaches into the toolkit and tosses me the measuring tape.
“This one has a good, solid V in the middle for support,” he says, pointing to where the trunk splits into two parts. “I’m thinking we could do an eight by eight platform, maybe with a rope bridge across to that tree there, depending on the architecture. Angled roof, at least four windows, maybe a balcony. Definitely a rope ladder.”
It takes a second for my brain to process all that. “You… you’re talking about a tree house?”
“Yeah. Bella might be a little young for it, but she’ll grow into it, and maybe we could do a lower-level terrace for her or something. Nicholas is a perfect age. He can even help us with the planning and building.”
I remember the day six years ago when Archer suggested I build a second version of the tree house—The Castle—he and I had when we were kids.
Only when he’d mentioned it, neither of us had foreseen that he would be here to build it with me. Neither of us had foreseen—
“The Castle Two,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies. “The Castle Two.” He gestures to the measuring tape in my hand. “Let’s do some math. We’ll work on a blueprint back at the house.”
I unroll the tape as he hauls himself up into the tree and reaches down for the end of the tape. We measure the diameter of the trunk, the distance between branches and the other trees, the position of post supports.
We mark points on the tree with tape, discuss the necessity of a rope ladder, and talk about the original Castle with its warped boards, torn tarp roof, sheets of plywood, and the makeshift door we’d made from an old piece of crate siding.
“Frostie Root Beer,” I say.
“You want a root beer?”
“We made The Castle door out of a Frostie Root Beer crate,” I explain. “If you looked at it from the right angle, you could still see the lettering on the door. The Frostie Roo part, at least.”
“Too bad we couldn’t find a Mr. Moo Chocolate Milk crate.” Archer shakes his head wistfully. “Mr. Moo made the best chocolate milk on the planet. I’ve never been able to find another brand that was as good.”
“Are they still around?”
“Nah, I think they went out of business years ago. Small company pushed out by the big guys. I haven’t been able to find Mr. Moo Chocolate Milk in years.”
Despite all the crap Archer and I have been through—including thirty years of estrangement and conflict—it’s a good feeling to remember that in addition to being brothers, we’d once been friends who’d had a tree-house hideout. And even now, we have the same memories of root beer and chocolate milk.
After a while, we pack up the supplies and walk back to the house. Though my insides are still knotted, it’s easier to breathe now. A lot easier.
“I’ll take this back to the garage,” Archer says, indicating the toolbox.
I watch him go for a second. “Hey, why did you come over?”
“To fix that porch railing.” He jerks his chin to the house. “I was going to get the tools when I heard you chopping the hell out of that wood. Is… uh, is Liv having a rough time?”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “Brutal.”
A dark shadow passes over Archer’s face before he turns away. He puts the toolbox in the garage, then we go into the house together. Claire is stirring a pot of oatmeal on the stove, and the sound of cartoons comes from the family room.
“Liv is still sleeping,” Claire tells us, glancing at the clock. “There’s a casserole heating in the oven, and I’ll leave this oatmeal on the stove in case she might want it. Do you need me to stay longer?”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks.”
“Hey, who let the dogs out?” Archer calls, going into the family room where the kids are watching TV.
Greetings of “Uncle Archer!” fill the air. I walk Claire to the door and hold her coat for her.
“I really appreciate everything you’re doing,” I tell her.
“I know you do.” She picks up her purse and gives me a sad smile. “I’m just sorry for what you’re going through. I mean, I realize Liv is the sick one, but people tend to forget that the caregiver needs attention too.”
“I’m fine.” Disliking her implication that I’m not fine, I pull open the door. “Thanks again. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
After Claire leaves, I go upstairs to check on Liv. She looks so vulnerable lying there with her eyes closed, her head unprotected by her thick tumble of hair, her skin so white it appears bloodless.
But at least when she’s asleep, she’s not in pain. I press my lips to the top of her head and return downstairs to where Archer, with a giggling Bella clinging to his back like a little monkey, is wrestling Nicholas to the floor.
I start to leave them alone, grateful that my brother is giving the kids some lighthearted fun.
“Hey, come on, man,” Archer calls. “You scared?”
“Daddy, piggy back ride.” Bella launches herself at me, apparent
ly having forgotten my earlier outburst.
She clambers onto my back, and next thing I know Archer and I are having races and wrestling matches with the kids, then starting a game of pirates where I get cast into the role of the villainous commander of the British Navy.
We take a break so Nicholas can do his homework before dinner. We sit at the table while he finishes his math and spelling worksheets, then I take out some graph paper and a box of pencils.
“What’re you doing?” Nicholas asks me, getting to his knees on the chair.
I hand him and Archer each a pencil.
“Thanks to Uncle Archer,” I tell my son, “we’re going to design your pirate fort, Captain West.”
We get to work figuring out the blueprint while Bella lounges on the sofa and looks at picture books. It’s not until I hear Liv’s voice that I realize I haven’t thought about the cancer for a couple of hours.
We all turn to find her standing in the kitchen, steadying herself on the doorjamb and dressed in yoga pants and a green fleece shirt that matches the scarf on her head. Though she’s still pale, she’s smiling her usual Liv smile—the one that has all the power needed to conquer the dark side.
“Mommy!” Bella leaps up from the sofa and races to hug Liv. “I missed you.”
Liv wraps her arms around our daughter. “I missed you too, sweetie. Did you have a good day at school?”
“Mom, I want to show you my bird sculpture.” Nicholas clambers off his chair and hurries to get his art project.
“Do you feel like eating anything?” I ask Liv. “Claire made you some oatmeal, but there’s also homemade soup.”
“I might have some a little later.” Liv looks at Archer. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He starts rolling up the papers, which Liv doesn’t appear to have noticed. “I’ll set the table.”
Liv sits on the sofa with Nicholas and Bella on either side of her, both of them chattering and clamoring for her attention. And then the world straightens into place and the universe has music again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OLIVIA
April 17
AS THE DAYS GET LONGER AND warmer, I sense a subtle change in Dean that is, for once, unrelated to my illness. There’s less tension in his shoulders, and he’s not fighting anger all the time. Maybe it’s because he’s getting outside more, or is close to finishing his book on medieval castle architecture, or he sees the light at the end of the tunnel. If the weather is good, he and Nicholas spend afternoons and weekends in the garden, or they go up to the tower to “work on something.”
Whatever the “something,” is, it’s doing both father and son a great deal of good.
DEAN: Meet me for coffee?
The text message pings on my phone as I sit at the kitchen table, drawing the outline of a vine curling over a terrace. My artist’s notebook is filled with “things that make me happy,” like flowers and hedgehogs.
In the bad days following a chemo infusion, I think not even hedgehogs can cheer me up, but then Bella sees the drawings and shrieks over how cute they are and could I please draw a hedgehog family, and before I know it, I’m reaching for my pencils again.
I pick up my phone, pleased and surprised at my husband’s invitation. Although Dean and I spend a lot of time together, it’s most often in the context of our daily routines or because of chemo. We haven’t just had coffee together in ages.
LIV: I would love to. Java Works at 2:00?
DEAN: I’ll be waiting for you.
Of course he will.
With a smile, I put the phone down and go upstairs to pick out something nice to wear. I dress in black wool tights, a plaid skirt, and black sweater. I fasten a black-and-red scarf onto my head and study my reflection. Beneath my clothes, and bolstered by good bras, my breasts look the same as they always have. But they feel different, even the right one, and I still haven’t gained back much sensation after the surgery.
I leave the house early enough to give myself time to take a walk on Avalon Street, enjoying the cool, April air and the sense of spring’s arrival. A few patches of ice still line the sidewalks, but green shoots are starting to come up in the flower boxes, and the window displays are filled with decorative birds, butterflies, and garden scenes.
I browse a few boutiques and shops, buying some new barrettes for Bella in the shape of honeybees, and a Lego knight keychain for Nicholas to hang on his backpack.
Close to two, I walk to Java Works, where Dean is waiting for me at a table by the window. He gets to his feet as I approach, reaching out to enfold me in a warm embrace before pulling a chair out for me.
He returns to the counter to place our orders. While he’s gone, I watch the passers-by and listen to the hum of mostly college-aged conversation around me.
“So then he said…”
“Did you see last night’s episode?”
“I was, like, really?”
“He didn’t even hold the door open for me. Can you believe that?”
“She just gives us so much work. Does she think we have no other classes?”
I’m feeling so good about being part of the world that at first I don’t even notice the glances in my direction, which multiply when Dean sits back down.
I lean toward him and whisper, “We’re attracting attention.”
“As well we should,” he replies, running a hand over his shorn head. “Hot couple like us? I’m surprised we haven’t been recruited by a movie producer yet.”
I smile, enveloped in the warmth that comes from the two of us just being together. Us against the world. While we have our coffee, I ask Dean about the progress of the World Heritage Studies department and get caught up on everything that’s going on at King’s.
It’s astonishingly beautiful sitting there with my husband, the hum of the coffee-house rising around us, classical music filtering from hidden speakers. The mug holding my café mocha is thick and warm in my hands, the coffee hot and richly sweet. I love this moment, this time, this life.
And Dean—for the first time in a long time, he is relaxed too, his pride evident as he tells me about the different courses the World Heritage program will offer, the opportunities for students, the collaboration with other departments. Though he’s been working without fail throughout this whole ordeal, I’m grateful for the reminder that his goal of merging the King’s history department with the World Heritage Center is coming to fruition.
As I take another sip of coffee, the door opens, bringing a rush of cooler air. I glance idly toward it. Two women enter Java Works, a blonde and a redhead.
My heart jumps.
Allie.
I haven’t seen her in almost four months. We’ve exchanged emails, but aside from her asking me how I’m doing and me responding that I’m getting through it okay, we limit our messages to business-related issues.
She unwinds a scarf from her neck, still talking to her friend, whom I don’t recognize.
Dean follows my gaze to the two women. I sit uncertainly, not sure what to do. I have a rush of longing for the Wonderland Café. I miss everything about it—serving customers, working with the staff, decorating cakes, planning birthday parties. Allie.
They start to approach the counter when she turns and glances in our direction, as if she senses my gaze. I tighten my fingers on my cup, painfully aware of how I look—thinner, a scarf wrapped around my bald head, obviously sick. I feel Dean tense, his protective instincts sharpening.
Allie pales at the sight of us. She turns and says something to her friend, who glances in my direction and nods.
Then Allie is coming toward me, and my heart beats faster with anxiety and the desperate wish that cancer won’t destroy our friendship more than it already has.
Allie stops beside my table and gives Dean and me a strained smile. “Hi.”
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“Hi, Allie.”
Dean nods a greeting. “Allie.”
“You look good, Liv,” she says, her gaze sweeping over me and lingering on my scarf. “Glad you’re out and about.”
“I’m still part of the world,” I reply. “How are you doing?”
“Fine, fine. Just thought I’d say hi.” She glances over her shoulder at her friend. “I should get back to Emily. I haven’t seen her in a while, and she’s on her lunch break, so we’re… um, we’re going to catch up.”
“Okay. Well, it was good seeing you.”
“You too, Liv. Take care.” She waves at Dean, gives my shoulder an awkward pat, then returns to Emily.
They hover in conversation for a second before turning and leaving Java Works. I watch through the window as they cross the street toward another coffee-house. All my pleasure in sitting there with Dean and my café mocha evaporates in a rush of cold.
I turn away from the window, catching his gaze on me, his expression set with irritation and a resurgence of anger. My heart sinks. I reach across the table to put my hand over his.
“It’s okay,” I assure him, trying to keep the pain from my voice. “She must have her reasons for—”
Before I can finish, he pushes his chair back and strides to the door. Alarm jolts through me as he goes after Allie and her friend.
He calls Allie’s name from across the street, his voice sharp. She stops, turning as Dean approaches—every line of his body edged with aggression and anger.
I get to my feet and fumble to put my coat back on. Dean spreads his arms out, and even from a distance I can see his features hardening as he scorches Allie with an admonishment.
Though I know the exact reason for his lashing out—he can’t stand the thought of anyone not giving me the same constancy of love and loyalty that, for him, is like breathing—I also know this seems like an unprovoked attack.