Heart and Home

by Jennifer Melzer

  “I know you were serious, and to tell the truth I would love for us to move in together.”

  “I sense a but coming on.”

  Hesitant, I rubbed my lips together to smooth the gloss over them. “But I don’t know if that apartment is big enough for both of us. I worry that it’d only be a matter of weeks before we started to cramp each other’s style.”

  “What if we moved into the house? There’s a perfect room in the attic I could turn into an office for you, a private place for you to write.”

  His thoughtful offer touched me unexpectedly. He was thinking of my space, how important it was that I have my own private room to exercise my creative muscles in. “What about your mom? I mean, is it really fair to her if we just take over her house like that? She’s spent the last thirty years in that house.”

  “She’s not happy there,” he admitted, returning his gaze to his uncertain hands. He seemed fascinated by the fading scar on the back of his hand from the cut he’d received just weeks earlier. “She’s been after me for two years about how much she hates wasting that space. She’d rather move into one of those communities or something. She even talked for a little while about me selling the farm entirely.” A heavy breath deflated his chest.

  “That’s not something you’d ever consider, is it?”

  He finally lifted his stare to meet mine, an almost cold and bitter hue lingering in the blue. “I told you already, that farm is in my blood. I could no sooner give it up than I could learn how to fly. I’ve accepted it, and hell, a part of me even loves it. I thought about having her move into the apartment, but there’s the matter of the stairs.”

  It unnerved me how quickly he changed the subject, as if talking about a day when he didn’t work the farm was completely out of the question.

  “You could put in a ramp, maybe even one of those lifts,” I suggested, playing along. “If she really wanted to move up there, that is.”

  He shrugged, “It’s an option, yeah. I think she just wants something more accessible. She’s taken to sleeping in the downstairs bedroom, and no one’s really used the second floor in years. Every couple weeks my cousin Carrie stops by and goes up to dust and vacuum.”

  I nodded, and withdrew to my side of the table when the waitress approached and placed our order in front of us. For the first few minutes afterward we focused on the food. I was grateful for the distraction, as I wasn’t quite sure how to treat the subject of Troy and I moving in together. Despite knowing in my heart that for me there wasn’t anywhere in the world I’d rather be than with him, there was still the whole issue of my healing task. While I was somewhat unsure, part of me was certain moving in before it was addressed would mean ignoring it, or even worse, facing it later and feeling helpless as it tore us apart.

  “Troy, I’ve been thinking about the whole thing with you and getting your degree at school,” I admitted. I dared not look up for fear of the accusation I was sure awaited me in his stare. “I know you have a commitment to your family and you’ve resolved yourself to the farm. I accept that, but…”

  “If you accept it, then why are you bringing it up?” There was the slightest hint of disbelief tangled with betrayal in his question, like he felt as if his admission just nights ago that he’d come back to town feeling like an absolute failure and I’d just thrown that back in his face like everyone else.

  “Because I just think that not finishing school has really been a lot harder on you than you like to let on,” I said. “You can say that it meant nothing to you, that the world out there was no different than it was at home, but can you really convince yourself that it didn’t change you just a little bit.”

  “Yeah, it changed me,” his tone was bitter. “It made me realize that it’s better to not ever know what you were missing, than to have a taste of something you can never have.”

  “But what is stopping you from making it yours?”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “You’ve already said that you can’t turn your back on the farm, and you won’t leave your mom,” I said. “Those are your two biggest excuses, right?”

  “They aren’t excuses, Janice, they are facts.”

  “But what if there were ways to work around those two things, Troy, for just one more year so you could finish your degree? Your cousin Ernie would help work the farm, and I would do whatever I could to make it easier on you. I could help with your mo—”

  “Stop it, all right? Just stop.” He dropped his slice of pizza, half-eaten, onto the plate and pushed it away from him. “Life doesn’t always work out like you want it to, Janice, and even if I did go back and finish, what would it matter anyway? It’s not like I’ll ever put it to use.”

  “It would matter,” I insisted. “I’ve seen how much passion goes into the things you create, how much you love putting that knowledge to use in everything you do. Even if you only put it to use in redesigning your apartment or making a cabinet for your mother, it would matter.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

  “Troy…”

  “No, Janice.”

  After that, he wasn’t in much of a mood to do anything else and feeling defeated I drove us back to my apartment where he spent the remainder of the afternoon brooding in silence. Even when I announced that I cooked dinner, he said nothing, only joined me at the table and pushed piles of rice around the smoked salmon filet on his plate.

  “I know I’m not exactly chef material, but I think the salmon is pretty good.”

  I swallowed against the lump that sat lodged in my throat like an aching cancer. The truth was I hadn’t even tasted the food during the few bites I’d actually managed. Guilt and the fact that he hadn’t said a word to me in about five hours made everything taste like ash on my tongue.

  He lowered his fork beside his plate, “It’s not the salmon.”

  “He speaks,” I tried at humor, but could tell by the dour look he still wore that I was probably not going like much of anything he might have to say now that he opened his mouth. “Troy, I know you’re mad at me…”

  “I’m not mad,” he admitted.

  “You haven’t said a word to me since we left the mall,” I pointed out. “If that’s not mad...”

  “Not mad,” he said again. “Confused. I mean, I don’t understand why it matters so much to you whether or not I get a degree. Does it really bother you so much that I’m some uneducated hick? Too rough around the edges for someone of your intellectual high standards and educational background?”

  I breathed in slowly through my nose in an attempt to steady my heart rate, which suddenly doubled its pace. “It isn’t like that, Troy.”

  “Isn’t it?” He lifted his gaze to mine for the first time in hours and I was taken aback by the bitter cold I saw in his eyes. “I mean if we go back to the real root of things, that’s the reason I never asked you out to begin with back in high school. I wasn’t smart enough for you, but at least back then I was smart enough to keep that in mind, to keep from embarrassing myself.”

  The chill of his tone trickled down my spine like melting ice.

  “Please don’t do this,” I laid my own fork down now. Sludge-like dread sunk into the pit of my stomach, replacing the mild sense of hunger that lingered just moments before. “You’re angry, and I understand that, but don’t turn this into something it isn’t. I love you,” I told him. “And I only care about your happiness.”

  Startled by the heavy palm of his hand against the table, the silverware clanged and leaped in the wake of his accusation. “If you gave a damn about my happiness you would have let it go the first time I asked you to and never brought it up again.”

  “Is that what all the other people who care about you have done, Troy?” I swallowed my fear for the moment. “Ignored the fact that you were tied down to a choice that wasn’t your own until the grief and misery was too much to bear? Well guess what, your suffering matters to me. Your pain tears me apart inside, and I can�
��t just sit idly by and watch you act as though you don’t deserve the one thing in your life that brings you happiness.”

  “I didn’t ask for you to champion me,” he said. “All I wanted was for you to love me just the way I am.”

  “Don’t you see, Troy? I do love you just the way you are, only I love the parts of you that you pretend aren’t really there. The ones you hide from yourself out of shame and fear.” Fat tears dripped in salty patterns over my lips and chin. I didn’t even move to wipe them away. “And maybe, like you said earlier, it’s too soon, and I shouldn’t tell you this,” I started, “but I want to spend my life with you, Troy. You. Not the man you pretend to be every day to please the world, but the man you are in here,” I touched my heart. “The one who loses himself in angles and designs and redefines the world to suit his vision.”

  He shook his head and pushed the chair away from the table. “That man doesn’t exist,” he said.

  My heart raced as he walked into the living room and stood with his hands in his pockets in front of the window watching the snow that fell once again over the city. I could barely make out the flakes against the dark, but occasionally one sparkled in the light of the streetlamps outside. For the second time that day we walked away from finishing a meal because of the same conversation, and while I knew I should have felt incredibly hungry, the emptiness and anguish of his misery made me feel sick instead.

  My mom was right. Diana was right. This was not an easy task, and I was starting to doubt I could actually pull through it.

  I wiped my tears on the napkin beside my plate, and for a long time neither of us moved. More than an hour passed before I finally started to clear the table. I combined the untouched plates of food and covered them in plastic wrap, then left them in refrigerator. After I wiped the table down, I walked into the living room, waiting for a moment to see if he’d acknowledge me standing there. When he didn’t even turn, I slipped into my bedroom and closed the door to hide my sorrow.

  I don’t know how long I lay in the dark crying. I couldn’t understand why this ridiculous task had fallen to me, of all people, and during such a challenging time in my own life. I remembered Diana’s words, that his heart chose me as its healer, but why, when clearly he wanted nothing of the kind. It was like he somehow felt comfortable suffering. He was stubborn and bitter. His own confusion moved my tears between emotional affiliations, one minute sad and the next so angry I wanted to march out into the living room and shake him until it all made sense.

  Finally hypnotized by the spiraling shadow flakes playing beneath the elusive streetlight, I drifted into a troubled sleep only to be woken by the sinking of the bed under his weight on the edge beside me. I was surprised when he lowered a hand on my shoulder, and then lifted it thoughtfully to brush the hair from my face.

  He leaned inward, the shadow of his body covering me as he whispered, “I’m sorry.” Forehead lowered against my temple, he released a troubled breath against my cheek. “Forgive me, please.”

  The breath I drew in caught raggedly against the last of my tears, causing me to almost hiccup. I lifted my hand to the back of his head and tangled fingers of comfort into his hair. He turned blindly into my kiss, and then brushed his lips along my cheek and chin. I returned his eager kisses in a desperate need to reconnect after the harsh things we’d said. The fear was still there, entangled with anxiety, as we moved frantically to strip away all that inhibited us from reconciling our earlier differences.

  We made love to continual apology and constant whispers of, “I love you,” the fear of losing the connection we’d established with each other binding our bodies long after the act had been finished.

  We fell asleep still tangled, exhausted and hungry, but content to know that beyond angry words and silences the bond between us had not faltered. I woke only once after that, and found that we still lay face to face in the dark, our limbs entwined and breath matched. I closed my eyes again and fought off the thoughts of morning, for I knew that come daylight the rift had yet to be mended.

  Troy still did not believe in the man I knew he was, but how could I convince him without destroying everything we had?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I woke the next morning to find the bed empty, but sounds from the kitchen told me Troy was out there preparing breakfast. I lay and listened to the clanging of cookware, silverware on the counter and the hiss of pancake batter seeping across a hot griddle. I breathed in the aroma of coffee and stretched into the sheets.

  After finally urging myself out of bed, I tied my bathrobe at the waist and sauntered into the kitchen, pausing silently in the doorway to watch him cook. Guilt ached in the pit of my hungry stomach, guilt for making him feel stupid, for making him feel like he was somehow less of a man because he took the burden his father laid on his shoulders and learned how to run with it anyway.

  I was lucky to have a man like Troy head over heels in love with me. The guilt became tingly, almost like the butterflies that accompanied me everywhere during the first couple of weeks of our relationship. How could I push so hard for him to consider doing something it hurt him just to think about?

  “How am I supposed to surprise you with breakfast in bed if you’re not still in bed?” He turned from the stove.

  I slid in and wrapped my arms around his waist before overlooking the feast unraveling over all four burners. He had bacon frying in the back and eggs sizzling beside the pan of bacon.

  “You have no idea how impossible it is to stay in bed without you, especially knowing you’re just a room away.”

  “Sorry,” he lowered his chin to rest atop my head for a moment. “I couldn’t sleep. I woke up before the sun and went for a walk.”

  “A walk?”

  His chest expanded with the breath he drew in through his nose. “Bad dream,” he explained.

  I stepped away and went toward the coffee pot, filling the mug he already filled with cream and sugar. Turning back to face him, I folded the mug inside my hands and watched him flip bacon. “You want to talk about it?”

  Brow wrinkled, he shrugged, “I don’t know, it seems so absurd now.”

  “Dreams usually are absurd.”

  “I’ve been having this one a lot lately.”

  “Hmm,” the field in my dreams stretched through my memory for a moment, and the image was so real I could almost smell the earth, the damp. “I have a couple like that myself.”

  He flipped the eggs and stood silent for a moment, as if wrapped up in his own thoughts. Brow furrowed, it almost seemed as if his jaw was clenched. Turning the pancakes on the griddle, he looked up at me for a moment.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said yesterday.” As if it embarrassed him to even bring it up, he quickly averted his gaze. “Do you really think I’m making a mistake?”

  “You mean by not finishing your degree?”

  I couldn’t tell at first if the curt, concentrated movement he made with his head was meant to be a nod.

  I lifted the coffee mug to my lips and breathed in the steam for a few seconds before taking a sip. “Troy, I don’t know anything. I mean really,” I paused, considering my words carefully, “I’m moving through my own life at a rapid pace, playing everything by ear and hoping I wind up in the right place when this crazy train stops. I’m not the person to ask whether or not you’re making mistakes. I never should have said anything, and I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he shook his head. “You were honest yesterday. I don’t want you to be afraid to tell the truth now.” I wasn’t quite sure what he was suggesting until he went on. “I mean you were right about all the others. They just stood by and watched me forget about my dreams. Except for my mom…” I was surprised when he chuckled. “She never quite let off of me for leaving school. Every time I built something or designed a new building I wanted to put on the property, she would nag me, ask when I was going to stop listening to the old ghost and listen to my heart.”

  “The old
ghost?”

  He took the eggs from the burner and turned them onto two waiting plates. “That’s what she calls my dad,” he explained. “Says I let him haunt me like an old ghost, when for the first time in my life I should feel free.”

  “She’s right,” I said into my coffee mug.

  “Maybe,” he turned his attention to the pancakes with a sigh.

  After stacking both plates and laying neat slices of bacon along the side, he walked both plates to the table and gestured for me to sit down. He pulled the chair out for me, and I sat down. He walked around to the other side and laid his plate down before returning to the refrigerator for the butter and syrup. As if we were starving, we both dug into the food before us without a word. Several minutes passed with nothing more than the sound of silverware touching down.

  “You might not believe me, but I don’t feel like giving up school was what tore me open,” he cut through the silence.

  “Was it your dad?” I wondered.

  He shook his head. “He was a bitter old cuss every day of my life, but I still learned a lot from him. The thing that I think really got to me was that after he died he laid it all on top of me like a burden. The farm, my mom… and the thing is, I love my mother and I would have taken care of her no matter what. And the farm,” he cut a stacked wedge out of his layers of pancake and held it dripping over his plate for a second, “if he hadn’t made it seem like doom, I might have embraced it a lot earlier than I did. I wasn’t lying that day I said I couldn’t give it up now.”

  “It’s too much a part of you,” I remembered.

  “That’s right, and while he might have wanted me to hate it and suffer under it like he did, I can’t do that. My daddy hated that farm, or at least I think he did, anyway. It always seemed like that, but I don’t hate it, Janice.”

  I nodded. “So even though you like to put up a fuss, it still makes you happy?”