A Borrowed Life

by Kerry Anne King

  “Sit, sit,” Rosie says. “What’s one more person? You want coffee?” She doesn’t wait for my answer, setting a cup down on the table and filling it. “Tom, pass Liz the pancakes.”

  The boy beside me sets down his fork long enough to comply. Mo, at the far end of the table, obligingly sends along the syrup and a dish of butter.

  “I could use your help this afternoon,” Gil says to Lance, sliding a stack of fresh pancakes onto the serving plate. “Like I said, the cows went through the fence again. Somebody needs to fix that. I’ve got the boys tilling up the garden, and I’m seeding.”

  “I need to take Liz home,” Lance protests. “Plus, rehearsal this afternoon.”

  “We’ll manage fine without you.” Rosie levels a glare at the big blond man. “The cows can stay where they are for a bit.”

  “Don’t let me get in the way.” I didn’t think I’d be able to eat again, but the pancake is extraordinarily fluffy, thirstily soaking up melted butter.

  “Nonsense,” Rosie says. “It’s not every day Lance has a date.”

  I glance over at Lance, but his eyes are on his plate and he doesn’t register that he’s heard this comment at all.

  “Bacon?” Gil brings over a platter that has been warming in the oven. He forks two crispy slices onto my plate. “Liz here is house hunting, Rosie. Lance was driving her around.”

  “Looking at a total shithole,” Lance says. “I think it’s the Mattson place.”

  “What are you looking for?” Rosie asks.

  “Not much on the market that fits the bill,” I reply, ticking off my criteria. “Smallish house, out of town but not too far. At least one tree. Not too expensive.”

  It would be impossible to miss the mental telegraphing that goes around the table. Rosie pauses in the act of pouring syrup over her pancakes. Gil arrests the travel of bacon to his mouth and returns it to his plate. Even the boys go quiet and watchful, although all of them keep eating.

  “It’s time,” Rosie says. “Don’t you think?”

  “I’m certainly sick of renters.” Gil leans back in his chair and looks me over as if I’m a house he’s thinking about buying. Or maybe a horse, or a cow.

  “Lance, you should show her the house.” Rosie’s attention goes back to her pancakes as if they are the single most important thing in the world.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Gil’s hand slaps the table hard enough to make the silverware dance.

  “I thought you needed me for fencing,” Lance says, tight lipped.

  “If Rosie wants Liz to see the house, then you need to show her the house. Rosie is right about everything.” Gil forks a bite of pancake into his mouth.

  Rosie slaps his hand, lightly. “Hush.”

  “What’s a matter, Rosie? You taught me that when I was three. Made me say the words ‘Rosie is always right,’ under threat of having my face washed with fresh cow shit.”

  “You, too?” Lance asks. “I thought it was just because I was the baby.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  The biggest boy laughs. “Wish I’d been around for that.”

  “Don’t you be getting any ideas, son. I think it’s time we all got back to work.”

  Gil gets up and carries his dish to the sink. The boys all shove back their chairs and do likewise. One of them takes my plate.

  “You want us to wash them now, or rinse and do them after chores?”

  “Dishwasher’s empty,” Rosie says. “Load ’em up. Thanks, boys. I’ll go get the key.”

  The following flurry and rattle of dishes is alarming. One plate gets dropped and broken, but one of the boys gets a broom and sweeps it up as if this is a regular occurrence. Gil certainly doesn’t seem bothered by any of it.

  “Nice to meet you, Liz.” He shakes my hand. “If you like the house, Rosie and I would be happy to talk terms.”

  “It certainly looks perfect from the outside.”

  “Hope you love it. I’m sick to death of bad renters. All right, boys. I’m off. As soon as you finish up here, get back to work, you hear me?”

  Lance hasn’t moved from the table. He’s not eating, although half a pancake is still marinating in syrup. Rosie bustles back in carrying a key attached to a horseshoe by a serious-looking chain. Her brow wrinkles as her gaze rests on Lance. She drops the horseshoe into my hand. “Harder to lose it. Plus, good luck, am I right?”

  The horseshoe is heavy and unwieldy. Not a thing to be forgotten in a pocket or dropped without noticing.

  “It’s amazing the way the boys help in the kitchen,” I say as they close the dishwasher, hang up the dish towel, and head for the mudroom.

  She laughs. “I figure since I spend as much time outside working as the men do, then they can spend as much time inside doing housework as I do. Already raised and launched my own, and I am not going to feed and clean up after Gil and his crew. You ready, Lance?”

  He gets up from his place at the table, lines up his chair with the others. He doesn’t look ready at all. He looks like he needs to go to bed and recover from a long illness. “Table first,” he says with a smile that is not a smile. “Rosie’s rules.”

  He fetches the dishcloth from the sink and begins to wipe up crumbs and maple syrup spills.

  “Last one up wipes up the mess,” Rosie says. “Hey, it works. Everybody has some sort of system, I’m sure.”

  My system involved hours in the kitchen cooking, serving everybody while they ate, clearing the table, washing all the dishes, and wiping down the table. I failed at getting even Abigail to help on a regular basis. As for Thomas, he would sometimes enter the kitchen to get his own drink of water or raid the refrigerator for a snack, but all of the unwashed dishes went into the sink, all of the crumbs remained on the counter.

  My mother had cleaned up after my father all the years of my childhood. I’d thought it normal and expected. Now, as I watch Lance go through the practiced motions of wiping down the table, lining up the chairs, rinsing the dishcloth and hanging it neatly to dry, it is somehow the finishing touch on disintegrating my old world and my old life.

  “You know, Rosie,” Lance says, “if Gil really does need my help. Maybe . . .”

  “You know I’m perfectly capable of repairing a fence,” Rosie says evenly. “And Mo can help me. Go on, it will be good for you.”

  She doesn’t say this in the tone of That’s all right, run off and play. It sounds more like she’s sending him off on a vision quest or to war, as if showing me the house will be dangerous and difficult. She hugs him, then stands up on her tiptoes and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s time, Lance.”

  He hugs her back, then squares his shoulders and marches down the hall without another look at me. I hear the door slam. Rosie squeezes my hand. “Don’t mind Lance; he’s touchy about that house. He lived there before his divorce. I do hope you love it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Lance stands by my car, his back to me. A ray of sunlight touches his hair, burnishing unexpected auburn highlights. Somewhere off in the distance, a mourning dove calls and is answered.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  He startles, as if I’ve honked a horn instead of practically whispering.

  “There you are. Let’s go.”

  As soon as I’m settled in the passenger seat, I say, “Look, if you don’t want me to see this house, just say so. Rosie said you used to live in it.”

  He shifts into reverse, doesn’t answer.

  Elizabeth would have quietly tolerated his behavior. Liz has a mind of her own. “This wasn’t my idea. You’re acting like I’m holding a gun to your head.”

  “Are you sure you want to buy a new house?”

  “Sure enough to spend the day looking at them and drag you along with me.”

  “Window-shopping is one thing. Actually buying is another story altogether. Gil and Rosie will sell you that house tomorrow if you want it.”

  “And that’s a problem for you?” I’m not sure i
f I’m more hurt or angry at this shift from the kind man he has always seemed to be into this rude and irrational stranger.

  “I don’t want my family pressuring you into something you’re not ready for. How’s your daughter taking all this?”

  This question throws me completely off-balance. “That’s a pretty roomy canvas. Which ‘all this’ are you referencing?”

  “Selling off your furniture. Buying a new house.”

  “She’s not a fan of change.”

  “Must be hard for her,” Lance says. “First her dad dies. And then her mother sells everything in a flash yard sale and buys a new house three days later?”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything.”

  “Oh, don’t pull that card. You think you know what I should do about my life and my daughter’s life. Guess what? You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  He looks surprised, as if he totally doesn’t understand my reaction. “Look, I’m just saying—”

  “I hear what you’re saying. I am not going to put my life on pause for anybody ever again. Not for my daughter. Not for anybody.”

  “Liz. I’m only trying to say that if I had a daughter—”

  “Do you have a daughter?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I didn’t think so. So don’t try and tell me how to manage mine.”

  We say nothing more during the drive. We say nothing when Lance parks the car in the grassy parking area. Inside, I’m seething. He has completely ruined what should have been an adventurous and wonderful day. Much as I love the outside of this house, I don’t even want to see it anymore. I just want to go home—right after I hit something. But I follow Lance up three wooden steps onto the porch.

  Gil is right about the bad renters. Cases of empty beer bottles are stacked haphazardly by the door, and I nudge one out of the way with my foot so I can insert the key into the lock. Once inside, immediately to my right is a small, open space for shoes and coats. The hardwood floor is smeared with mud. To my left is a laundry room with a washer and dryer and scullery sink. Two black trash bags, open and overflowing, lean against the counter. My nose is assaulted by the smell of mold and sour laundry. I ignore it, focusing on the big window looking out over fields and sky and mountains in the distance. Perfect place to put a litter box and a bed for Moses.

  I follow Lance into an open area with a beautifully designed kitchen and a space that could serve as either a sitting or dining room. A bank of windows lets in the afternoon sun. A fly investigates crusted dishes left in the sink. The kitchen garbage is overflowing, and a pervasive rotten smell of meat gone bad and something sweeter, like bad apples, permeates the room.

  But the maple tree spreads its branches outside the kitchen window. I can easily imagine myself washing dishes in front of that window, watching birds and maybe a squirrel. It’s a small kitchen, neat and efficient, with an island that supplies even more cupboard space, and electrical outlets for appliances.

  Lance’s fingers skim a drawer pull lightly. “All of the cabinets are designed for maximum storage.”

  The house is talking to me. It feels unfamiliar and familiar all at once, as if I’ve walked it in a dream, as if I know the shape of it. It’s been gutted, betrayed, wants a new life, just as I do.

  Inside, I’m murmuring, Hush, I’m here.

  My eyes are drawn by the beauty of the wood, the quality of the light. I start opening cupboards, noticing the way every inch of compact space has been taken advantage of, despite the grime that is everywhere.

  “Bathroom in the hallway to the right,” Lance says, leading the way. “Stairs on the left, as you can see.”

  The stairs are uncarpeted, crafted out of the same aged hardwood as the rest of the floor. I want to climb them, holding to the wooden banister, to see what’s upstairs, but Lance is waiting at the bathroom door.

  A bathroom is a bathroom, I’m thinking, but I’m totally and utterly wrong. It’s a half bath, and small, but the walls are finished with some sort of glorious wood that is nearly golden and looks so smooth I can’t help but stroke it with my fingers. The sink bowl is round and looks like an antique porcelain washbasin set in a stand.

  The window is stained glass, jewel-toned light turning everything into a prism.

  “It feels more like a chapel than a bathroom.” I feel reverent here, more reverent than I do in church, inclined to linger and maybe ask God some of the very difficult questions I’ve been avoiding.

  God will have to wait, because Lance’s boots are already thudding on down the hallway.

  He waits for me in an airy space where a bank of windows provides a full-on view of the world outside. A low, comfortable window seat is built over open shelving that I immediately envision full of books. I can see myself sitting here to read, looking up from time to time for a view of sky and field, trees and distant mountains. It’s easy to ignore the litter of dust bunnies and newspaper on the floor, to see it how it should be.

  “Gets a little chilly in the winter,” Lance says critically. “And hot in the summer, but it’s always wonderful in the morning.” He stomps off, and I hear him climbing the stairs.

  I know already that I want this house. It feels like it was built for me, belongs to me. I want to love it and bring it alive. Alone in this wonderful room, I stretch my arms out as if to embrace it.

  At the top of the staircase, I find an open, cozy nook with a big window and built-in shelves. A railing provides safety from the edge of the loft. I could put a desk in this space. Maybe sit here to write something more than my usual morning scribbles. A story. A play. Anything feels possible.

  “At night, Orion is framed perfectly in this window,” Lance says. But when I turn to look at him, he’s already moved away, his voice shifting into the dispassionate tones of a Realtor selling a house. “Full bath here. Two bedrooms. Small, but plenty of closet space.”

  “You loved this house,” I say, rooted to the spot.

  “I designed it—built it myself.” He stands at the end of the hallway, his face shadowed, closed. His entire body looks like he’s ready and waiting to block a punch to the belly.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say carefully. “Must have been hard to leave it.”

  He takes a step toward me, stiff, as if drawn by an invisible force he is trying to resist. One step, two, then the rest all in a rush until only a handbreadth separates us. One of his hands cups my chin, turns my face up to his. I want to close my eyes, to hide from the intensity of his gaze. His breath is ragged, as if he’s been running, or is in pain. Mine flutters in my throat, shallow and rapid.

  “Buy the house, Liz, if you love it. Don’t let me stop you. I’ll give you Rosie’s number.” His voice scrapes, like gravel on skin. His head dips closer to mine, his breath warm on my face, but then he withdraws and drops his hand, the walls going back up so fast it makes me dizzy. “We’d better be getting back. There’s rehearsal this afternoon.”

  He turns away, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. I follow, my hand gliding down a satin-soft wooden banister that would never dream of giving me a splinter.

  Back in the car, Lance is still quiet, but he no longer looks angry. “About the other night,” he says, finally. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Don’t be sorry.” I don’t want him to apologize for the sex. I want him to apologize for today. He’s got everything backward.

  He glances at me, and then away, before I can interpret what I see in his eyes. “You deserve more. I’m not emotionally very available.”

  “Good.” I project a certainty I don’t necessarily feel into my voice. “I’m recovering from one questionable relationship. The last thing I need is another.”

  “You’re really okay with how things are?”

  “I’m okay with Lacey and Darcy and doing research for the play.” It’s an evasion, and I think he knows it. I breathe a sigh of relief when he lets it slide.

  Chapter Twenty-One
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  May 15, 2019

  Dear Me,

  Abigail has put me in the deep freeze. She comes home late, eats dinner, and goes to her room. In the morning, she eats breakfast and leaves early for work. We need to talk, really talk, but she’s all surface right now, hiding behind extreme politeness. I can guess she’s going for “honor your father and your mother,” but I feel far from honored. More like I’m walking through a minefield. The only way for me to fix this is to apologize profoundly and go back to being the mother she wants me to be, which is the one thing I can’t do.

  It will be a relief when she finally explodes. Wait, is that true? Because if it is, why haven’t I told her that I’m buying a house?

  No. I don’t want her to explode. I’m a coward.

  On Monday I called Rosie and then I called Bernie and then Bernie called Pastor Steve and today I’m going in to sign paperwork. It looks like we have a deal, at least if Steve and Felicity can get a mortgage. I keep catching myself holding my breath and have to remind myself to breathe. This has all been so quick, so easy, so too good to be true, and I’m afraid it’s all going to fall apart at any minute.

  Lance is a problem. He hasn’t been as cold as Abigail, but he’s put the brakes on so hard, there are skid marks. There certainly haven’t been any more dessert nights, or exploration of Lacey and Darcy. He doesn’t want me in that house any more than Abigail will. And there’s so much I don’t understand. If it was his house, why is his sister the one to sell it to me?

  I’m buying it anyway.

  But first I have a stupid physical that I want to cancel but decided to keep. Dr. Lerner will want me to have a mammogram and colonoscopy and get a flu shot, and I just want to focus on the play and my new house and finding some way to bring Abigail around.

  What happens at the doctor stays at the doctor, or so they tell you. When it comes to the medical record, this is probably true. Staff can get in a lot of trouble for sharing actual test results or diagnoses. But there’s no penalty for curiosity, for casually saying, “I saw Elizabeth Lightsey at the clinic today. Poor woman. Such a loss.”

  So far, I’ve encountered one receptionist and three patients who are church members. It’s like today is a Super Medical Sale for the Church of Thomas or something. Every one of them felt compelled to hug me, to ask how I’m doing.