I took a very deep breath, walked through the door of Hillside Café, and nodded a greeting to Deb. I’d noticed when I pulled in that the sign was lit up outside and she raised an eyebrow. I shook my head.

   Not today. Not anymore.

   She nodded. “He’s waiting for you.”

   “Thanks.”

   I walked towards his table, past nosy diners who stared. When he saw me he smiled. And for a moment I remembered when I used to live to see him smile.

   We made small talk while we waited for a teenaged waitress to bring me my coffee. Because this was private. Our story, not their gossip. He asked me about my new place and I asked him about work. Then he said he was sorry about Rachel. He even said he was sorry that things didn’t work out with Brian, and it almost looked like he was. So I told him I was happy to hear that he’d found someone and I asked him about her, even though I already knew. Kim had told me everything he was telling me now, which wasn’t much, but it was enough.

   Amy. Guidance counselor. Smart. Pretty. Twenty nine. September wedding.

   And he looked happy.

   “Is she upset that I’m here? That we’re talking like this?”

   “Not really. She knows why you came. And,” he gave an embarrassed chuckle, “at least you had the courtesy to call first.”

   It was my turn to laugh. And it felt good.

   “She is meeting me here for lunch, though. She’ll be here at about twelve-thirty.”

   Which meant, of course, twelve-fifteen. I glanced at my watch. I had twenty minutes. More than enough time. Teenage Waitress finally brought my coffee. Cream. Probably sugar, too, and I knew what that meant. I smiled and looked over at Deb and she smiled right back.

   He waited until the girl was safely away, then reached for his wallet, took out an envelope and slid it across the table. I looked at it; at my full name and new address in his nice, neat penmanship. What that meant was: I could have mailed this and we both know it.

   “I want you to know that it’s not about the money. If it was just that then I’d let you keep it. I only asked for it because...”

   I took a quick glance around the café. Staring faces. Still.

   He looked too. Then he boomed, “Is there any way you could all just mind your own goddamn business? Just this once?” There were nods and smiles all around us. No more stares. And no hard feelings. Of course.

   He was Jason Dyer. And he could do no wrong.

   I nodded my thanks and continued. “It wasn’t fair of me to…leave it with you. To make you hang onto part of us while you were trying to start a new life. And it was wrong of me to say what I did to you about it last summer. I know that’s not what this money…is. And that was a really shitty thing for me to say.”

   He shrugged and told me it was okay. Even though it wasn’t.

   I took a sip of coffee. And another one. Sipped till my cup was only half full. I could have said that over the phone and we both knew it. So I took a deep breath and tackled the real reason I’d driven for an hour to talk to him in person:

   It was like love. A stupid, ineffective word. Too much emotion for just one word. What’s a stronger word? A better word? I hadn’t been able to find one even though I’d actually looked.

   Remorse. Repentance. Regret.

   Those words didn’t even come close. Because this is what sorry is: deep icy pits lined with spikes and razors that live in your gut and heart and brain and soul. Frigid misery. Sharp reminders of your mistakes and the sadness they’ve caused people you love. People who love you. And how can you say those words to someone? You can’t. And so I was stuck with:

   “Jason...I never told you that I was sorry for cheating on you. I was stupid and selfish and I hurt you. I did it like it was nothing. I did it without even thinking about it. Without thinking about what I was doing to you. I was just thinking about me. And I want you to know that I am sorry. I was sorry even...even while…”

   Even while it was happening, oh God, even before. Before I ever touched him, before I reached for him. Even when it was only a seed of an idea. I wanted you, Jason. Goddamn it I wanted you. I loved you so much, for so long, before I even knew what the word meant. Before you taught me what it meant. I was just so scared…so scared of losing you. Of being a mother. Of turning into my mother. And I should have told you, all of it, so you could have known. So you could have told me it was alright. Because it would have been. And we would have been alright. I know it. I know it…now…

   They were the words I wanted to say, but, of course, I couldn’t. There are some things you just can’t say out loud. But I looked at his face again, at his eyes. At the man I’d held back so much from already. And that’s when I knew I was wrong, that I’d been wrong the whole time. Some things have to be said. Out loud.

   So I cleared my throat and I used those words, for once; used the words that meant all of the powerful feelings I’d held inside of me for so long. I knew it was too late for those words to change anything, but it wasn’t too late for him to know.

   “I just…I hope you can forgive me, Jason.”

   It was probably too late for friendship again. I knew that and it hurt, but it was my own fault. But maybe--please, God--maybe forgiveness...

   “Tess, I forgave you a long time ago, the second I closed the door behind me that night. I was just too stupid and proud to open it back up again and tell you.” He shook his head. “It was my own fault. I hurt you first. I gave up on you…I gave up on us. I pushed you away and then I had the nerve to play the part of the injured husband when someone else caught you. And I’m sorry for that. I really am, because...”

   He lowered his voice.

   Our Story.

   “…I loved you, Tess. I loved you so much.”

   “But I woke up one morning and…I was thirty-five. And I felt so damned old and useless, like my half of my life was gone and I hadn’t done anything with it. My dad was thirty-five when he died, and I got to thinking about him...and that got me thinking again about starting a family of my own. I wanted it so badly, I’ve always wanted that, because I thought I lost mine when he died. I grew up feeling like it wasn’t…whole anymore. Like it wasn’t real.” He shook his head. “I know that probably sounds stupid, but--”

   “It doesn’t sound stupid.” But it made me feel stupid; like the biggest idiot in the world. I should have known that he didn’t just wake up one morning with a baby craving. I never bothered to find out what was really bothering him. Never bothered to look past my own hurt and fear…

   “It wasn’t until my mom died that I understood what the word actually meant. It didn’t occur to me until that moment. I had it, all that time. She was my family. And you were my family, Tess. You and me. And I blew it. But I thought--I really did--that if I went down to see you and told you all that then we’d be able to pick up again and start over.” He shook his head. “But it was too late. I knew that the second you got out of your car that day, the way you looked at me. The way you didn’t look at me. Then he showed up and…it’s how you looked at him. And when I left your house I knew I’d lost everything, because…”

   He looked me steadily, with bright blue eyes; the eyes I had once loved more than anything in the world.

   “You know that we were all set, don’t you? We were set. If we hadn’t been so stupid we would have made it all the way. One of those couples who get to their fiftieth anniversary and even beyond that. One of those couples who look back and wonder how the hell it all went by so fast. That was us, Tess. That was us.”

   I could only nod. My heart hurt too badly to let me speak, because he was right. That was us. It was what we had let go of; what we had thrown away. Just like it was nothing.

   Forever.

   And there we were. Jason and Tess. We were sitting less than two feet apart from each other--close enough to touch if we’d wanted to. And each of us was holding inside our heart and mind and soul exactly what it was the other had needed two years before. What we needed right now. That’s what our time apart had given us. It had given us everything. Except for the most important thing, of course. The love. That’s what it had taken away.

   We were sitting there, having our private conversation in public, so Amy wouldn’t feel threatened. That was my idea, because I knew the raw, nagging, achy fear that was probably eating at her; the fear that came from that one little word: Ex. The word that meant a history of love and passion that had once been strong and powerful and real. But Amy could show up right now or she could wait an hour or she could leave us alone completely and never show up. And the result would be the same. Nothing would happen. Because there wasn’t enough love or passion left for the two of us to salvage anything from our history. Nothing left except an occasional, sad flicker of memory.

   And a tiny glimpse of the life that could have been. I looked at his eyes and he looked at mine. Because the other thing was there, too, the other part of Us; the one that would never be. We were both seeing it, the first time we’d ever seen it at the same time. And it hurt so badly that I had to look away from his eyes, because I couldn’t let him see mine. Couldn’t let him see the sudden, irrational spasm of jealousy that twisted my heart at the thought of him having our family--our beautiful blue eyed family--with someone else. Someone new.

   I looked instead at the envelope, held it in my hands, concentrated hard. My name. New address. Neat cursive writing. I took another deep breath.

   And the spasm was gone.

   Only five more minutes until Amy’s arrival and I had absolutely no desire to meet the woman. Not yet. There’d be another time for that awkward introduction. It was going to happen. But not today.

   “Kim’s due in December.”

   “Yes. I know.”

   I knew he did. It’s not why I said it.

   “I’ll...I guess I’ll see you guys at the hospital then.”

   He nodded. “Yes you will.”

   I opened my purse, deposited my new fortune safely inside it. Pulled out my keys and an Abe. A big tip for the teenager who’d brought me a one dollar cup of coffee. The best coffee in the world.

   “Before you go, Tess, there’s something I need to ask you. Something I’ve always wondered about.”

   “What is it?”

   He smiled at me. Smiled. And it was the biggest one I’d seen on him since...I couldn’t remember when I’d seen it last.

   “Did you really beat my Space Invaders score? Or was that just a pick up line?”

   And there he was. Jason Adam Dyer. My friend. The man I had loved forever. The man I had once loved more than anything. And for just that moment he was mine again.

   “I really did beat your Space Invaders score.”

   Damn right I did. January 17, 1982. 3:05 a.m.

   I smiled back at him. “And it was a pick up line.”

   He nodded. “It was a good one.”

   We both stood up and he gave me a very quick kiss on the cheek, barely enough to give me a hint of his beard. Then we said it. Because we had to.

   “Goodbye Tess.”

   “Goodbye Jason.”

   And I walked away. Without looking back at the diners who were staring once again. I nodded to Deb, then to Coach. He glared back at me, and I didn’t care. Not about what he thought of me, not about what Mike thought, either. Not even a little.

   They just weren’t worth it.

   But I wasn’t done with Brookfield yet. My next stop was my dad’s new place. It was just a small house but very clean. He asked me how work was going and told me about his. He worked only part time now, even though he didn’t have to work at all. Even though he hated it. Because if he retired, he said, he’d go crazy with nothing to do. Then he told me about a woman he’d met online who lived only two towns away. He called her a Chess Friend. He only told me a little, but what little he said let me know that he was happy. Finally. Just like he deserved.

   Then he cleared his throat, reached over to the coffee table, and handed me an envelope that had my name on it. Inside was a picture of my mother that he’d taken long ago, during that Summer of Abandon. Nineteen years old. She was surrounded by flowers and trees that were full of color and life. And she wasn’t. Her eyes were filled with Pain. Fear. Exhaustion. Even though she was still just a kid. Even though it was summer outside and beautiful. Even though she was. Even though there was no Dave or Tess in her life yet. It was there already, all of it. And I didn’t know why.

   Neither did my father, even though he’d wanted to. Because he really had loved her, once; at least he had tried. But she never let him. Never let him in. And I remembered that night, the middle of the night, when we’d been yanked from our sleep by a phone call. A grandmother I’d never known was dead. Her mother was dead and gone. But there were no tears. None. And I still didn’t know why. Maybe I never would.

   I thanked my dad, then tucked the picture back inside the envelope and put it in my purse. Gave him a kiss and told him I loved him. Told him that he’d been a good dad. Because he had been, even though he could have been a better dad. He could have done more. But he did what he could, which is all any of us can do, and he’d done the most important things. He’d stayed. And I’d always known he loved me. Even if he’d never said it.

   He said it to me now.

   “I love you too, Tess.”

   And it sounded so beautiful. Sounded just like a song.

   My next stop was Dave’s house, but he wasn’t home. He was out battling Injustice, even on a Saturday. So I hung out with Kim and we talked about a Christmas baby. She wasn’t very far along, just a few months, so there wasn’t enough belly for me to poke. She didn’t know if the baby was a boy or a girl yet but I called the kid Bertha anyway.

   When she asked about Brian I told her, he’s not doing good. Because the week before we’d finally buried Rachel, deep inside the cold, hard ground. Brian, Zeke, Rick, the Burkes and me. We all cried, big horrible tears, and I thought again of all the things, all of the beautiful words, I could have said to her, words that might have made a difference. Helped her to hold on, maybe for one more day. And maybe that would’ve been enough. I tried saying them to her at the cemetery, silently, but I couldn’t. Because she wasn’t really there. Just a headstone, beside her mother’s, with two dates. The dates that told us she really had been much too young to die. And her name:

   Rachel Carson LaChance.

   And after the service was done I took Rick aside and said, “Stop at a bookstore sometime soon and buy a copy of Silent Spring.”

   He nodded and promised that he would, even though I knew he had no idea what I was talking about. But when he read it--if he read it--he’d understand exactly what I meant. And he’d know a little bit more about his wife. He’d know where his daughter had gotten her name.

   Then I spoke briefly to Brian. It was the first time I’d seen him in almost two months. He looked worse than he ever had, like he was still buried, even deeper than Rachel was. And I knew he’d be buried for a long time. I gave him a hug and tried not to smell his shirt. But I couldn’t help it. And I wanted it to last forever, to just hold onto him and never, never let go; but of course I had to. And even though I wanted to I didn’t tell him I loved him. Even though he knew it, just like I knew he still loved me.

   And once I got home I cried on my couch for the rest of the day. Because I really had thought, right up until the moment I saw him, that he’d be stronger already. That he’d be better. But he wasn’t and that meant that he really wouldn’t be knocking on my door. Not any time soon. Maybe not ever.

   Kim held my hand and said she was sorry, and I told her I’d be alright. Because I knew I would be someday. And I spent the next hour playing outside with Matthew. He was fifteen months old now and walking and running faster than ever; with cute chubby legs and a great big smile and big blue eyes that only hurt a little to look at. When I held him he smiled even wider and when I blew bubbles on his belly he laughed. Then he said my name and it sounded like this:

   “Dessssh!”

   My name in my nephew’s voice. It sounded beautiful.

   And then Dave came home. When he gave his wife and son their kisses and hugs he had glowing eyes, and I wondered why I’d never noticed them before. He smiled when he saw me, even though he’d known I was there before he came through the door. Because my car was right out there in the driveway. And because I’d been out in public with Jason. Brookfield was bigger than New Mills, but it was a small town just the same. Then we talked privately in his den. And it started like this:

   “I never said thank you for being strong for me all those years. And for loving me.”

   He was crying just a little, and it was the first time I’d ever seen it. “I don’t think it was enough.”

   Of course it was enough. More than just enough. He’d done a good job, done a job that wasn’t his. He’d put down part of the burden already, some of the load that had my name on it, in big, bold block letters. But I knew that he hadn’t put all of it down. And he had his own family now. He needed to be free of TESS so he could help them with their loads, and to let them help him with his.

   So when he asked me how I was doing I told him I was doing good. Because I was, for the most part, and I was getting better all the time, even if it was slow in coming. Then I said I love you, Dave, for the first time ever and he said he loved me, too. And then I said, Oh, there’s one more thing. And he listened and he gave me the Something that I needed.

   An address.

   Before I left Brookfield I stopped at the post office. It was closed, of course, but there was really no hurry. My letter would get picked up on Monday and it would make its way to France. And when my mother read it--if she read it--she wouldn’t see the words I love you. But she would see I forgive you. Because that was the best I could give her.

   I couldn’t see her heart, her soul, and I didn’t know why her soil was hard ground, too. I didn’t know what or who had trampled it down, so long ago, long before there was a John or a Dave or a Tess in her life. But if there was anything left that was soft and lovely and fertile, even if it was way down deep, underneath the hard, trampled path, then maybe my seed would fall through the cracks and land there. And maybe love would grow. But even if it didn’t, what I knew was this:

   I was gonna be alright. Either way.

Chapter 39

Chapter 41

Table of Contents

rj-keller.com

© 2007 R.J. Keller - All rights in this book are reserved by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.