For Those We Love

by Lisa Sorbe

  It’s the beginning of June and the days are finally starting to warm up. The nights are still cold as all get out, but I’m able to wear some of the clothes I shipped back from California, and I cannot even begin to describe how good it feels to wear something other than Lenora’s sweaters. Granted, most of my clothing is currently sitting unpacked in Lenora’s room—a room I still haven’t fully moved in to, despite my intentions way back in February. Ben is a neat freak, and I’m not, and since we’ve become what we’ve become, we spend every night in his room, where the floor is free of clothing and shoes and books and random knick knacks like hair dryers and diffusers and scattered packages shipped from various retailers wanting me to try and review their products. I admit, part of the state of my bedroom is due to the fact that I never fully moved in to Lenora’s house. The first month and a half, I lived in alternating states of shock, anger, and denial followed by a quick bout of puppy love-slash-embarrassment…which, rather swiftly, turned into an infatuation bordering on (dare I say it?) love.

  Yep. I think…I think…I’m falling in love with Ben.

  Which is why, as we lay tangled on a blanket on the beach edging the outskirts of Lenora’s property, I ask this question.

  My attraction to Daniel was physical, our interaction superficial. I didn’t really realize it at the time, of course. I just didn’t know there was any other way to be. That it was an option, a privilege, to be able to bare your heart and soul to the person who also made your insides swoon with desire.

  I never believed I could have my cake and eat it, too.

  But with Ben, I get everything.

  I get it all.

  Ben doesn’t respond right away, mulling the question over in his mind before committing to an answer. He’s flat on his back, head resting on one arm while the other is wrapped around me. I nuzzle my cheek deeper into his chest and kick my leg over his, the sound of his heartbeat and the lazy swoosh of the waves merging together to lull me into a heavy state of relaxation.

  So Minnesota in the tail end of Spring? I get it now, I get it.

  Lost Bay, you win.

  “I don’t believe in Heaven as a place, per say,” he says eventually. “At least, not one that has pearly gates and a man with a long white beard waiting to check your name off a list as you enter. Does that bother you?”

  A breeze ruffles my hair, the loose strands around my face tickling my cheeks. “Yeah. I mean, no. I don’t buy into that, either.”

  I’ve been thinking about this lately, so much lately, which is strange because it’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to before. Sure, you’d think the big questions like why are we here? and how did we get here? and where do we go when we die? would be on the forefront of everyone’s minds. We are, after all, human, and the answers to these questions affect everyone across the board equally, regardless of location or culture or status. I doubt the oceans that separate us here on Earth will rise to distance us after death, and I can’t imagine a handful of religious deities hovering in the ether like elementary school teachers, waiting to divide our departed souls up before leading us to whatever preordained classroom is bearing the appropriate symbol.

  Eventually these questions are going to answer themselves, one way or another. But there’s something about the passing of a loved one that makes you start asking them sooner rather than later. As if, through loss, a portal has been breached, revealing a doorway to The Other Side. The only bitch of it is, the damn door is locked and you have to find the missing key.

  “I do, however, believe there’s something after we die.” Ben brushes his fingers up and down my forearm, making me shiver despite the sun’s baking heat. “But I think it’s more of a state of existence rather than a place, and what level you attain, I guess you could say, is determined by what you learned while you were here rather than what commandments you followed.”

  “Do you think there’s judging?”

  Ben dips his chin, looking down at me. He doesn’t hesitate to answer. “No, I don’t. True love doesn’t judge.”

  “My mom tried to kill herself after my dad died. Lenora found her in the bathtub with a bottle of vodka and one wrist slashed open.” Ben is quiet, letting me speak, letting me get this out. But his arm tightens around me, a silent comfort. “I was barely two years old at the time, so I don’t remember it. And my mom never talks about it. She has a scar, but she covers it up with bracelets and chunky watches. I’ve even seen her put makeup on it. But one time when I was about, I don’t know, seven or so, I was watching her get ready for one of her dates with Cliff and saw it. I asked her about it, and she told me it was a scar from when she died. And that comment alone opened up a whole new world for me, because I didn’t know it was possible to die and come back. I remember having so many questions, but the first one out of my mouth was, ‘Did you see my dad?’ Which is strange, because I’d never felt a connection to him before that day. To me, he was always just the guy in the pictures. But it was like this new information cracked open something inside me and suddenly he was all I could think about.”

  Ben’s voice is low against my ear. “Maybe it was a way of lessening the distance between you two. Changed your perspective.”

  I huff. “It certainly did that. She said she didn’t see my dad, that she didn’t see anything. ‘There’s nothing after you die, Lenny. Nothing. This is all there is. This is all you’re going to get.’”

  Ben sighs. “Shit.”

  I nod. “Yep. The funny thing is, her words didn’t, like, aspire me into action. Looking back on it, I think they froze me up. Like I only had one chance to get it right, and I had to start immediately or risk messing everything up permanently. I spent so much time worrying about making the right decisions that I never made any at all.”

  “How do you know that what she was telling you was the truth? Of course, not that you would have thought to question it at that age. She was your mom after all, right?”

  “She wasn’t lying. At least not about the dying part.” I squint up into the sun, watch what looks to be a bald eagle soar gracefully through the sky. “I asked Lenora about it, and of course she confirmed it. Gave me the details, the ones my mom purposefully left out. Lenora admitted there was a moment where she flatlined. Apparently, it was pretty bad; she had to undergo a blood transfusion and the doctors had trouble getting her blood pressure to stabilize. It’s so sad, all of it. The pain she had to have felt to do something like that. Or attempt to, at least. She loved my dad so much she’d die for him, and then she goes and marries someone like,” my mouth twists, “Cliff.”

  “People respond to tragedy in different ways.”

  “I guess,” I say, shifting against him. Somewhere along the line, he stopped rubbing my arm, so I wiggle it beneath his hand, a not-to-subtle indication that I want more of what he was giving.

  He laughs and trails his fingertips lightly over my skin. “You know, Nora gave me some books on the topic when she was…before she passed. They’re pretty deep. And some of them,” he blows out a breath, “are incredibly far out there, as in they’ll bend your mind into a pretzel. But, if you’re interested, they’re on the bookshelf in my room.”

  “So, not book club material, eh?”

  Ben chuckles. “It would take way more than one hour a month to explore these topics. Nora and I sat for hours talking about them before she lost…” He stops abruptly, clears his throat. “They’re not light reads, let’s just leave it at that.”

  “I don’t know. Mimi would probably be up for it. I swear, that girl has so much more going on in her head than I initially gave her credit for. But Natalie? Nah, probably not.”

  She’s sweet and she’s book smart, but she doesn’t dig very deep.

  Then again, I never used to, either.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling a pull in my chest at the thought. “Yeah, I’d like to read them. Maybe I’ll start one when we get home.”

  And when I realize that I said the word home out loud, and
that for the first time in my entire life it feels right and true, another portal opens. But unlike the door to The Other Side, this one reveals the entrance to Hope.

  And by God or by no God, I’ve got the key.

  We break ground on the rescue on the last day of spring, with plastic glasses of champagne and a cooler filled with imported beer, courtesy of Chevy. It’s an intimate gathering, with a bonfire and friends and food and music setting the scene. Ben is more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him; two weeks ago, he hired another veterinarian, and even though the guy is only working part time for now, his presence at the clinic gives Ben an extra day off a week, which gives us more time to become what it is that we’re becoming.

  There’s really no question about whether or not I’m going to stay in Lost Bay after my year of servitude is up. It’s more assumed, an unspoken acknowledgment between the two of us. At times, I wrestle with the weight of closeness between myself and the town; as I’ve mentioned before, it’s harder to be inconspicuous in a place where everyone knows your name than it is in a city where next to no one does. But unlike the family I grew up with, the one I’ve fallen into actually seems to like me, has my best interests at heart. Already Chevy has installed a sort of miniature cooling display in Jasper’s for the sole purpose of showcasing my pies and cakes. He and Mimi give me weekly orders, which slowly seem to be growing as the locals gain a taste for my unique flavors.

  Like now.

  Chevy shovels a large bite of cake into his mouth, leans back in his creaking metal lawn chair, and moans. “This one,” he says, pointing at the three-layer triangle on his plate, his voice thick. “I want three of these on next week’s order.” Using the side of his plastic fork, he cuts into it again. “Damn.”

  I sip on my beer and smile, pleased. “Really? Because I was kinda nervous about this one. I substituted homemade applesauce for the eggs.”

  “No shit?” Chevy scrapes the last of cake from his plate. “Well, whatever you did, it worked.” He finishes the last bite and chuckles. “You know, you’re going to make us all fat if you keep baking this way.”

  He’s referring to the mountain of sweet treats I’ve been pawning off on everyone I can think of. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve been baking up a storm these last few months, taking the learning curve at a pace of which I’ve never tackled anything before. The workshop I attended in L.A. was a gamechanger, and the chef made the point that each baker should leave his or her own personal touch on their product, something unique that sets their work apart from the mass-produced pastries churning out of grocery store bakeries and prepackaged boxes. “Each creation needs to bear your mark, your heart. You want the eater to taste the very essence of your soul, capisce?”

  Some of my, uh, creations have been less than desirable. But most, surprisingly, have turned out better than I could have ever anticipated.

  “Yeah, well. If I kept everything I baked, Ben and I wouldn’t be able to fit through the front door.”

  Chevy laughs. “So, you’re sticking around for the long haul, I take it?” His eyes slide over to where Ben is talking with the builder, arms crossed and chin resting on one fist. Roman, Lenora’s attorney, rounds out the trio, looking like a tropical Santa clause in his Hawaiian shirt and red cargo shorts.

  I try to hide my smile, attempt to bite it back, but I can’t. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  Chevy bumps my shoulder with his fist. “Good call. Your hot and heavy relationship aside, Lost Bay is a prime market for your business. A summer vacation spot like this? You’ll have a year’s-worth of income wrapped up in a few months.”

  I know this, because like my business books suggested, I’ve scouted the market. The last few years, Lost Bay alone has played host to more weddings and elopements than any other spot along Lake Superior’s North Shore. And that’s not even counting all the family reunions, anniversary parties, and birthday celebrations catered by the numerous resorts and rustic lodges skirting the edge of our wilderness. I’ve already met with staff at two of the places, and both of them were enthusiastic about the samples I brought.

  Lenora’s money aside—which is something I’ve been thinking less and less of lately—I think I’ll do just fine.

  I am doing just fine.

  “What about you? Are you in it for the long haul? Do you miss Chicago?”

  Chevy sighs. He’s wearing a straw fedora with a black grosgrain ribbon and a sleek side feather, and when I mention Chicago, he squints and swipes a hand over his forehead, pushing up the brim. “Yes.” He adjusts the hat and, looking at me, smiles warmly. “Yes, to both.”

  “Why not just go back to Chicago? Why stay here if you’d rather be somewhere else?”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes the people trump the place.”

  I follow his gaze as it strays to Natalie, who’s having a rather animated conversation with Mimi and Jerry and Doris, their expressions caught in a comical display of shocked amusement, and immediately understand.

  At their feet, Mitzi tugs on Asha’s ear, trying to get her attention.

  A few yards away, one of Lenora’s feral cats, a gray tabby, feasts on a dropped chicken leg, stopping every now and then to shoot a suspicious look over its shoulder.

  And Ben, coming this way, my way, his lips lifting into a sexy grin when he catches me staring.

  Holding up my beer, I smile. “To our people.”

  Chevy reaches for his, clinking the neck of his bottle against mine. “To our people.” Then, rising from his chair with a squeak of metal on metal, he throws me a sheepish grin before heading for the folding table bearing the night’s treats. Heaving a great sigh, he mumbles to no one in particular, “Just one more piece.”

  “And that’s the last of it.”

  Mimi accepts the box of hair products that’s been taking up one corner of my room for the last two months and grins like a kid in a candy store. “Aren’t you going to miss getting all this free stuff?”

  I shrug, folding one of Lenora’s sweaters and tossing it into the donation pile. “Not really. I mean, of course the PR boxes were a perk. But I don’t miss doing the stuff I had to do to get them. It was fun for a while but, you know, things change.”

  I lost interest in it.

  I found interest in something else.

  It happens.

  I filmed my last video a month ago, thanking my followers for watching all these years and explaining what the next chapter of my life entailed. Some of the comments were encouraging and some were dismissive. And of course, a few guys asked to see my tits.

  “Well, thank you for this. I just ran out of that hair mask you gave me back in February. Gotta keep those curls quenched, right?”

  I half laugh, half cringe as she casually tosses out the tagline I used to close my videos.

  I’m Lenny Vane; thank you so much for watching! Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe! And remember…keep those curls quenched!

  All of it said with a smile and an enthusiasm I usually didn’t feel, but often fooled myself into thinking I did.

  So much of my life has been spent chasing things I thought I should want, that I was supposed to desire. It wasn’t until I came to Lost Bay, until I was so far removed from the societal programming I allowed myself to be subjected to, that I finally started to realize what life—mine, at least—is all about.

  My world shifted on its axis, and now I see everything differently.

  And who knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll change again.

  I’m learning to become comfortable in uncertainty, familiar with the unknown.

  Mimi takes the hair products, along with one of Lenora’s books I just finished reading, and departs with a skip in her step, while I continue to purge and clean and pack my room in preparation for my big move down the hall.

  I, or maybe I should say we, are going to move into Lenora’s room. It’s a grand room with a woodburning fireplace and vaulted ceilings and a stunning view of Lake Superior from the east facing windows. An
d since I plan to stay here indefinitely, it’s time I get settled in. Finally make this place mine.

  It’s so funny, how I came here with the intention of leaving so quickly, not to mention the anger that followed when I realized that I had to stay or forfeit my inheritance for another decade. Now, I never want to leave, feel more myself in Lost Bay than I ever have anywhere else, and rarely give Lenora’s money a second thought.

  Sifting through a pile of clothes on a rocker in the corner of the room, I come across the coat Ben lent me on the day of Lenora’s funeral and, remembering how I shrugged into it more than once during those first few cold weeks in Lost Bay, feel all warm and mushy inside. Hell, I can’t even pretend that I kept it around for the warmth, because Lenora’s closet was bulging with coats and sweaters and layers that I could have bundled up in. No, I kept it for the smell, the delicious scent that is Ben, that somehow smelled familiar, smelled like home, even way back then.

  He never asked for it back, and I never offered.

  But now, because I can get the smell directly from the man himself, I toss the coat in the crook of my arm and pad downstairs, finding him where I always do, at the kitchen table beneath the greenhouse windows. He’s lounging in one chair with his bare feet kicked up on the one across from it, jeans and a deep green t-shirt making him look even more resistible than he smells. The plants I bought last month are lush and blooming next to him, and as they catch the sun, they cast spindly shadows over his face, his shoulders, the book in his lap. When he looks up, they quiver, and a slant of light catches his eyes, making them spark.

  And then he smiles. He smiles simply because it’s me, because I walked into the room, and no one has ever, ever smiled at me like that before.

  I squint, playfully suspicious. “Why the sappy grin?”

  Ben shuts his book and drops it on the kitchen table. “You.”

  His frank answer makes me blush, because I know he actually means it. With Ben, there are no games, no spurts of hot or cold. Well, not anymore. Not once we gave in to each other, made a silent commitment that, through actions alone, developed into a connection so deep words simply can’t define it.