Tiny Drops

  I know exactly where the key is hanging. It’s been taunting me from its spot on the hook for too long now. I can do this.

  “It’s in the kitchen.” His left eyebrow reaches maximum height, the Garrison genes fully present in my little boy. I’m overwhelmed with the urge to bend down and wrap him in my arms. The effort it took to stand up is the only thing holding me back.

  I lace my fingers through his. “You know what?”

  “You love me,” he replies with a dramatic sigh, and I chide myself for saying it so often. “Now come on! Let’s do this.”

  The frantic beat of my heart is reverberating back to me like a drum in an empty room. My palms are sweaty as I slide the key into the lock. On the outside, I’m calm and collected…that’s what I tell myself. A quick glance at Charlie puts that lie to rest. I stumble, momentarily, to find another one. He only looks worried because the world on the other side of the door is unknown to him. Sure, that’s it. It has nothing to do with me.

  I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath, and turn the key.

  You can do this.

  Plastering on my brightest smile, I give the door a little push. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dark room. I step in from the sunny porch, my hand grasping wildly for the switch beside the door.

  “Wow!” The honey in his eyes sparkles as the light from above rains down on us.

  It’s different.

  Everything is different here.

  The classic cream walls have been replaced with a fresh, spring green. The long bookshelf that lined the back wall has been halved, its pieces used to build a work table. In the center of the room is a large black rubber mat, with an easel sitting on top.

  Charlie erupts into delightful giggles as he comes to a stop in front of the large painting on the wall above the work table. “Look Mama, they’re so happy.”

  He points up into the center of my very first painting from all those years ago. I had forgotten all about it and the happy little water ducts living inside each blade of grass.

  “They are, aren’t they?”

  Peace washes over me as I stand, enjoying the wonder of nature, the beauty in the little things. Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten that. The world inside of me had become so large, it was the only thing I could see.

  I pull the chair out from the desk, slowly lowering my tired body into it. The lazy circles I trace across my belly are met with a flutter of movement from inside.

  She’s mine. I’ll have her.

  “They are! They really are!” He runs circles around the easel with the kind of joy known only to children.

  He stops in front of me, his mind a combustible engine. “What is this place? Is this your place? For painting? Why don’t you paint in here? Can we? Can we paint in here?”

  I had begun setting up a small paint station for him with watercolors when I was working. It usually lasts roughly seven minutes before he’s ready for the next adventure.

  I don’t know which question to answer first; they’re fired in such rapid succession.

  When did he do all this? Was it the first year? The second?

  The emotions begin to drag me down as my thoughts swirl around how I continued to let him down, day after day, year after year. His love and hard work sat here, unseen. Unused.

  Charlie’s eyes never leave mine as I continue to weigh his questions. “Hey, don’t forget to breathe,” I tell him as his cheeks begin to color.

  He pulls in a sharp breath followed by a stream of words. “Please, Mom, please? Can we—can we please?”

  I reach my hand out, and he helps pull me from the chair. The heavy drapes that are covering the windows will have to go—I need natural light.

  I reach the first one, pulling the cord to open it. The May sky greets me with its pristine beauty. My heart catches in my throat as I see Harrison open his truck door. He slides out, reaching back in to grab his bounty.

  “Daddy’s home! Do you think he’ll see us?” Charlie asks, waving frantically from beside me.

  “If you use your Jedi powers, he will.”

  I smile as he stills instantly, a look of pure concentration taking over his face.

  Come on, Harrison, look over here.

  My pent-up breath leaves me as Harrison turns toward us. Confusion flashes on his face, but he’s quick to recover with an easy smile. The echoed drumbeat of my heart begins its staccato rhythm, deafening me to the rest of the world.

  “Hi, guys. Is there anyone in here who likes tacos?” Harrison questions, pushing open the door.

  The delectable aroma of authentic pork tacos tantalizes my senses, and every other thought leaves me. I need those tacos.

  “I love tacos!” Charlie yells, jumping up and down.

  Does his love for them stem from the fact that I ate them nearly every day of my pregnancy with him? There could never be enough tacos.

  Harrison’s golden eyes land on mine, and he holds me captive for a moment. My cheeks flush as a satisfied grin causes the deep dimples to grace his face with their presence. The dimples get me every time. I hope she doesn’t have dimples. I shut down the thought as soon as I have it. She’s not mine yet. Nothing in life is guaranteed. Reassuring me from the inside, I feel her move—I’m here. I’m yours. I exist.

  I make my way across the room. The scent of fresh cut wood—his smell—finds its way through the succulent taco haze. I never understood how he could smell like that, day after day, whether he’s been working with his favorite medium or not. Tree sap lives in his veins. I run my nose up his neck, drinking him in. My lips find his, and I lose myself to home for a moment.

  “Eeeew gross!” Charlie makes gagging sounds behind me, and I pull away from his dad.

  We share a knowing smile before I make my move. I feel the weight of the plastic handle, pulling it from him, my insulin the only thing stopping me from eating right here on the floor of this little house, but I know I have to wait. There are steps—a routine. Compliance at all costs, a must.

  The screen door slams behind me. Moments later, the damp grass tickles my feet. Their laughter dances in my ears as I near the back porch of our home.

  37

  Whispers in the Dark

  “I’m proud of you.”

  Faint butterfly kisses tickle my shoulder, and I feel the same winged creatures take flight in my belly. Twenty years of loving this man and he still affects me with every touch.

  “Oh yeah, why’s that?” I let out on a sigh.

  His hand slips over my side, rubbing slowly across my lower abdomen. Settling there, his fingers lightly caress her movements, the weight of her coming to rest against him. He always calms her. Him behind me like this feels just as necessary as the enormous body pillow, cradling me from the front.

  A stillness fills the air. For a moment, I think he’s fallen asleep.

  “For turning the key, for stepping inside.”

  I snuggle in closer, filling every space, so I’m completely cocooned. I let his statement linger.

  “Me, too,” I whisper. “I’m sorry it took so long. When did you set it up for me?” I hold my breath, afraid for the answer.

  “When you were pregnant with Charlie.” He lets out a strange laugh. “For some reason, I thought having him would just sort of erase all of that pain—move us through it. Like holding him would put us on the other side.”

  I can’t respond, thinking about how awful I was after Charlie. Postpartum depression is what they called it. I knew better. It was grief. Holding him, breathing him in—it made the loss of her feel even more cavernous.

  “Hey, I’m not trying to talk about the things that didn’t happen. I was talking about what did.” I hear an ancient fatigue in his voice, warning me not to slip down the rabbit hole that is our past. “Today, you were a badass, and I’m proud of you. That was all I was trying to say.”

  My mind is a sticky web of self-torment—one wrong step and I could be lost for days. I take a shaky breath. He deserves
this. So do I. “I want to move my studio out there.” The words come out in a rush, an invisible monster close on their heels, threatening to gobble them up before they can escape.

  The bed dips as he sits up. “Really? Do you think you should wait until after?”

  His words are left hanging. After—a place of dark waters both of us are afraid to enter.

  “I think I’ve waited long enough. It’s time to tell my old friend goodbye. It’s time to honor him and all the words he left behind. You didn’t get rid of any of that, did you?”

  “Of course not. Everything’s stored in the bedroom. I’ll take the day off tomorrow and help you go through it.” He settles back in.

  The idea of freedom from the ghosts of my past lulls me to sleep.

  The weight of the small, pink bundle is simultaneously as heavy as the earth and as light as the sky. The world around me—white. I’m not sure if I’ve been here for a year, or twenty. I don’t know how I know to keep walking, I just do.

  My feet still as I bear witness to a spinning leaf fall from above. I laugh, and it echoes back to me, causing a flurry of leaves to follow the first.

  I don’t know how I know my laugh is the catalyst for the cascade of green filling this white space, but it is. The appearance of color lightens my step, and I start walking once again.

  The soft sound of water over rocks fills my ears, and I start to hum. I don’t hum. When do I ever hum? As confused as I am by it, I can’t seem to stop, so I relax into it, finding that the melody twists beautifully through the sound of the water. The temperature cools, and I know I’m almost there.

  I reach the water’s edge. It’s clear like that in a bathtub, uncontaminated by the white ground below, with smooth, glass rocks visible beneath—but just barely. I close my eyes, wondering for the first time about the absence of the sun. Thinking of it—I feel its presence on my back, warming me from above. Opening my eyes, I smile at the shadow that now cuts across the water before me. Some things should just be.

  The weight of the bundle in my arms becomes too much for me, and I know she belongs in the clear water—it’s why my journey brought me here. I bring my arms down, pulling the blanket from her face. Her little rosebud mouth, suspended in animation before me, causes a cascade of emotion to fill this pristine place. Such a perfect, little mouth. I take great care placing her into the water, pleased to feel that it’s warm to the touch.

  The movement of the water slows. I gasp in wonder as color begins to bleed from the blanket below her. The clear water shimmers with shades of lavender and blue, silver lacing its way between them. My eyes are drawn to the silver ribbon as it coils and moves, creating the most beautiful pattern. I glance back to the blanket just as she sinks below the surface.

  Everything stills. It must be finished.

  I stand, preparing to leave this place, but movement on the water catches my eye. I lean forward just as the surface breaks and hundreds of colorful butterflies paint the sky.

  She’s home now.

  I open my eyes to darkness and the sound of Harrison’s even breaths beside me. Squinting, I can just make out the numbers on the clock—1:37. The middle of the night.

  I need to paint.

  It’s been weeks since I took a brush to canvas, all desire missing. I slide Harrison’s arm off of me, pushing my pillow to the floor. With a grace that can only be obtained by a woman in her third trimester, I push myself out of the bed, holding my breath as I watch him roll to the other side, snuggling in. That was close.

  Making my way down the hall, I stop at the first door beside ours. The night light casts a soft glow from inside. My sweet baby boy is fast asleep, his little, blue elephant held tight to his chest—the soft satin of its blanket grasped between chubby fingers. I feel an ache that only love can bring, and I thank God for letting courage find me when I thought sorrow was my only friend. I back out of the room and continue to my studio.

  I flip on the light, happy to see a blank canvas already on the easel. Slipping in my earbuds, I scroll through my playlist, seeking “Disturbed.” It’s just what I need. I’ve been obsessed with this song for weeks. As “The Sound of Silence” fills me, I load my palette with purple, blue, and silver. Then I dip my brush into the paint.

  Placing the first stroke on the canvas, I let the emotion and vision of what I just went through slip from the brush’s tip, and, like magic, the water from the dream reappears before me. Once the blues and purples are in place, I take my finest brush and dip it into the metallic paint. The ribbons of silver dance from the bristles, taking on the appearance of lace over water. I feel a single tear slip from my eye.

  Goodbye.

  38

  Trip to the Past

  The oil sizzles and pops as I place the next batch into the hot pan. How long will it be before the tantalizing scent reaches them in their own private dreams?

  Thirty-six weeks pregnant, and I feel as light as a feather. I grab a piece from the plate, unable to resist any longer. The taste explosion pushes me over the edge. I moan. As the sound leaves me, I feel his breath across my bare neck. His lips taste the skin there, and I moan again.

  “You’re so fucking sexy when you eat bacon,” he whispers. Reaching around, he steals a piece from the plate. “How did I get lucky enough for this kind of treat?” Harrison asks, grabbing the coffee pot to fill the cup I set out for him.

  “I had the weirdest dream,” I say, laughing at myself. I say this about as often as most people say “good morning.”

  “And?”

  “And it was good. I feel really good.” I let the words settle for a moment. Their simple truth washes over me as I scoop the last of the bacon from the skillet. I. Feel. Good.

  I drain most of the grease from the pan, then grab the colorful array of veggies waiting on the cutting board. The sweet peppers’ fragrance freshens the air as they begin to warm with the mushrooms.

  “I called and talked to Jim.” He pauses to sip from his cup, letting out a soft sigh as he swallows. “I’m yours for the day.”

  Jim Reynolds took over when Ms. Brand passed a few years ago. She’d been dodging retirement for years, somehow charming her way out of just one more year each time the board met to discuss it. Harrison had been happy that she passed before they managed to get her out. He said it was how she wanted it.

  “Perfect, because I called your mom, and she said she’d love to spend the day with Charlie.”

  “Grandma Steph?” Charlie walks in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair’s a nest of wild curls. “Do I really get to spend the day with Grandma Steph?” His excitement is tangible as he pulls his chair out at the table. “Did you make us breakfast, too? Is it a holiday?”

  Questions are never-ending when you’re four.

  “It’s not a holiday, Captain, but the rest is true.”

  His obsession with all things nautical earned him the nickname when he was just two. I’ve always sort of loathed nicknames. Until him. I used several when he was a baby, but Captain is the one that stuck. He loves it.

  “Where do you want to start?”

  Harrison flips on the light to the small bedroom, and I take a step back. I wasn’t anticipating so much. I knew Bernard wrote regularly, but I wasn’t expecting this.

  “I organized it a few years ago, so the journals are boxed by decade. The stories have their own boxes, there.” He points to the far corner where there are two boxes separated from the rest.

  “How did you…” I trail off as I walk into the room, dumbfounded by the amount of work my husband poured into this.

  “Bernard was one of the building blocks of my foundation. I looked up to him. I loved him. I chose my career because I wanted to be like him. This is what I needed to do to deal with his loss. Honestly, I felt like I understood him better, knew him better, after he died than I ever did in life. His journals and philosophies on life helped me through those rough years. I’m not sure we would be where we are now without him.”

&nb
sp; “I’ll start with the 90’s,” I say, running my hand over the box marked 2000’s. I’m not ready for that yet.

  “Not every box is full, and honestly, I haven’t read them all. I boxed the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s together. I tried to read those a few years back, but it’s all very dark and personal. It didn’t feel right to read them.”

  Our eyes meet and the history we share is exchanged in this moment. He breaks the contact, grabbing the box labeled 90’s. He walks it to the small sofa that’s taking up the back wall, setting it in front of the familiar relic.

  The rough material scratches the back of my legs, sending my mind to earlier days, to conversations that long ago became whispers in the wind—faint words trickling through the haze of time. It brings back the hurt of losing Bernard that I had buried beneath the loss of Amelia.

  Last night’s dream felt like a release from all of that pain, and I know I need to do that here, as well. It’s time to reconnect with my old friend.

  Harrison crouches down in front of where I’m sitting, taking my face in between his hands. The years pass between us in silence, and I sense that he’s about to leave me here, alone, in this room full of memories.

  “Stay with me,” I whisper, the words barely audible.

  He’s quiet, and I catch the quick glance he takes to my belly, having the same thought I’m wrestling with. Will she be okay? Will the penalty for my emotion be more crushing pain?

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” I toss into the room, much louder than anticipated.

  His fingers slide through mine and I feel his calm. I close my eyes, trying to let it wash over me.

  “You need this, Brice, and if you want me by your side, then that’s the only place I’m going to be. She’ll be okay. You both will.” His last words come out in a whisper—a promise he doesn’t hold the power to make, but I snatch it up anyway, needing to believe in his words.

  The cushion sinks with the weight of him as he takes the seat beside me. I’m envious of the length of his shorts, wishing I had chosen something other than the summer dress I’m wearing. Lately, dresses are the only things that’re really comfortable. I laugh, surprising us both.