From This Moment

by Melanie Harlow

  “Well, she’ll have to get over that.” She sniffed as she started whipping something in a large mixing bowl. “She’s not the only one who misses him. She can’t just shut us out.”

  “She’s not shutting us out. Give her a break.”

  “I have,” she said petulantly. “I’ve tried to help her. It doesn’t seem like she wants my help. I offer to watch Abby at least once a week and she turns me down. Says her sitter is already booked.”

  “Are you giving her enough notice?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. A day or so, I suppose.”

  “Why don’t you try giving her a week?”

  Another sniff. “I don’t always know when I’ll be free a week in advance. But she needs someone to look in on her and Abby. She didn’t even catch the warning signs with Drew.”

  “Mom. Drew’s death was not her fault. It was no one’s fault, you know that.” My voice was sharp.

  She didn’t say anything, just kept whipping and whipping and whipping. I was amazed whatever was in the bowl didn’t slop onto the counter.

  Finishing the apple, I tossed the core in the trash. I was beginning to realize why Hannah might have turned down the dinner invitation. “Well, if you’d like to go over and see Abby with me tomorrow or Friday, let me know. I’m going to take a run before dinner if there’s time?”

  “Yes. There’s time.” Suddenly she turned to me, her eyes wide with fear. “Be careful, Wes.”

  “I will.” After Drew had his heart attack, I’d had all kinds of tests done, but there was no sign of the hypertrophic cardiomyopathy that had caused my brother’s sudden death. I gave her a hug and she wrapped her arms around my waist. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, okay?”

  “I miss him so much.” Her voice was muffled against my chest.

  My throat tightened. “Me too.”

  “Oh, Wes, it’s so good to have you back home.”

  I hugged her, thinking there was at least one person in town who might disagree.

  I ran along the beach, waving at neighbors, smiling at dogs and kids, getting my feet wet where the lake encroached high upon the bank. After two miles, I paused to take stock of my body, making sure my heart rate wasn’t too high, my chest felt loose and pain-free, and breathing wasn’t too difficult. I’d brushed off my mother’s concerns, but the truth was that hypertrophic cardiomyopathy was usually inherited, and our father had high blood pressure. Like many physicians, I’d tended to ignore my own health concerns over the years in favor of helping others, so a little extra vigilance when it came to monitoring my own health was warranted.

  But I felt good, and my pulse was in the normal range. Rather than turn around and head back, however, I decided to take advantage of the empty strip of beach I was on and stretch a little. Looking out over the lake I’d grown up on, I caught the top of my right foot in my right hand and felt the pull in my quadriceps. After counting to twenty, I repeated it on the other side and then switched positions to stretch out my hamstrings.

  Childhood memories skimmed across my mind like the rocks Drew and I used to skip across the calm surface of the lake. I remembered the day our dad had taught us to skip them, and how we’d both struggled at first. I’d caught on before Drew, but after seeing the crestfallen expression on his face after I’d successfully skipped three stones five times, I’d stopped doing it and instead helped him find flatter, smoother stones. Showed him exactly how I angled the rock—he kept trying to skip it completely flat, but that didn’t give him enough friction—and flicked my wrist for just the right amount of spin. Once he got the hang of it, we had endless stone skipping contests every summer.

  There were other competitions too—sand castles and rock throwing, and later, kayak races and waterskiing tricks. Drew loved showing off daring feats on the water, especially if there were girls on the boat. I wasn’t bad, but I was too scared to make an ass of myself in front of girls to try anything really crazy.

  Sometimes, after a day out on the water with friends, we’d have bonfires on the beach at night, sneaking beers and cigarettes and first kisses. I could still hear the crackling of the fire and the pounding of my heart as I leaned toward Cece Bowman, fueled by curiosity, two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a raging hard-on. She’d tasted like beer and bubble gum. Later we’d gone to my room—our parents must have been out—and made out on my bed, where I’d fumbled my way through removing her bathing suit top and feeling her up in clumsy disbelief. She’d put her hand in my shorts and I’d immediately come all over her fingers.

  Shaking my head, I started jogging again, hoping that experience wasn’t as terrible for her as I imagined it. Drew, who’d already had sex five times with two different girls by the summer we were seventeen, couldn’t believe I hadn’t even tried to go all the way. “How could I?” I’d asked him. “It was over too fast!”

  “Yeah, you have to think about other things, or else that’s what happens.” We were in his room, me on the floor and Drew on the bed tossing a baseball in the air and catching it again right above his face.

  “What kind of other things?”

  “Whatever will distract you. Hockey or baseball stats usually work for me. Or I say the alphabet backward. Shit like that.”

  It wasn’t until college that I had the opportunity (and the nerve) to try again, and I’m pretty sure I recited at least the Preamble to the Constitution before losing complete control.

  I liked to think I’d come a long way since then.

  I’d never had the kind of feelings for someone Drew and Hannah had shared, but I’d at least learned a thing or two about sex during the short-lived fuck flings I’d had in the last ten years. Those kinds of relationships suited me best—physical gratification with little to no talking, especially about feelings.

  “Don’t you want to get married? Have a family?” my mother would ask me any time I came home.

  I’d shrug. “Maybe. If I find the right person.”

  “Leave him alone, Mom.” Drew would always defend me. “It’s his life, and he’s doing important work.”

  “Having a family is important too,” she’d insist. “And I know some nice girls who’d just love to meet a handsome doctor.”

  Drew and I would exchange an eye roll and then he’d change the subject. But I wouldn’t have him around to defend me anymore. Or change the subject. Or commiserate about our mother’s meddling.

  Fuck. I miss you, Drew. I should have come home more often. I should know your daughter better. I should have reached out to Hannah sooner.

  But I knew why I hadn’t, and it didn’t make me feel any better.

  When I reached the stretch of sand in front of my parents’ house, I slowed to a jog, then a walk, pacing the length of their beach as my heart rate slowed. Then I yanked off my shirt, ditched my shoes and socks, and waded into the lake. When I got deep enough, I dove beneath the surface of the water and stayed under for a long, long time.

  Three

  HANNAH

  On Friday afternoon, while I was getting ready to leave work, I got a text from a strange number. My heart began to pound as soon as I read the first four words.

  Hey Hannah, it’s Wes.

  Fuck. I’d been on edge the last day and a half, expecting him to turn up on my doorstep unannounced. My stomach started to churn as I read on.

  I wanted to come by and see you and Abby. Does this evening work?

  “Everything okay?” asked Georgia Valentini, one of the two chefs and owners of Valentini Farms B and B. She was technically my boss, but I considered her a friend as well. “All the color just drained from your face.”

  I looked up and blinked at her. Gave her the usual lie. “Fine.”

  “You sure?” She cocked her head as she tied an apron at the back of her waist.

  “Yes. It’s…” I felt dizzy and sweaty hot all of a sudden and had to close my eyes, take a few deep breaths.

  “Hey.” Georgia took my arm and led me over to a chair. “Sit down. I’l
l get you some water.”

  “Thanks.” I lowered my head between my knees and waited for the uneasy feeling to pass, listening to the clink of ice cubes in a glass and the running faucet.

  “Here.” Georgia placed the glass on the table and took the chair opposite mine.

  Grateful, I took a few sips of cold water. “Thanks. I had a little dizzy spell there.”

  “Have you eaten today? Did you have lunch?” Her eyes held concern.

  I nodded, but I couldn’t recall if I actually had.

  “Probably not enough.” She got up and went to the huge fridge, pulling the door open. “I’m getting you something.”

  I didn’t have it in me to argue. Sleep hadn’t come easy the last couple nights, and exhaustion was catching up with me. “Okay.”

  A moment later, she set a plate of chicken salad in front of me with two deviled eggs on the side. I wasn’t hungry, but I dutifully took the fork she held out and poked at a grape in the salad. “Thanks.”

  She sat down opposite me again. “Want to tell me what’s going on? You’ve been sort of tense and quiet the last couple days.”

  “Have I?” I frowned. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You’re entitled to be quiet sometimes. Everything okay?”

  “You don’t have time to deal with my issues. You need to prep for dinner.” It was Labor Day weekend, and we were fully booked with reservations.

  “I have time. And Margot will be here shortly to help. Spill.”

  I took a breath. “It’s Wes. He wants to come over later, and seeing him is really hard for me. I ran into him the other day, and it’s got me all messed up.”

  Georgia nodded in understanding. Her husband Pete, who was the other owner and chef here, had grown up with Drew and Wes, and she’d met them both. “I bet.”

  “And the thing is, rationally, I know I should just face the fact that I have to get used to seeing him. It’s not his fault he looks just like Drew or that being around him is a trigger for me.”

  “But fuck rationally.”

  I sighed. “Exactly.”

  “So what’ll you do?”

  “What can I do?”

  “Tell him it’s a bad night.”

  “Putting him off tonight only delays the inevitable, though. And it isn’t fair to him. Or to Abby.” I pushed some chicken salad around the plate.

  “What if you dropped Abby off at your in-laws’? Then you wouldn’t have to be around him.”

  I shook my head. “I thought about that yesterday, but I feel like I need to be there for Abby. At least in the beginning. I don’t want her to be confused.”

  “So say yes. See how it goes. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Uh, I could have a seismic emotional meltdown in front of him?”

  She shrugged. “At least he wouldn’t want to come over anymore.”

  In spite of everything, I laughed a little. “Right.”

  “Listen.” She scooted her chair in and put her hand on my forearm. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready to do, but you’re stronger than you think. That much I know for sure.”

  I’m not, I felt like saying. I’m just fooling you all. I’m pretending so you’ll stop asking me how I’m doing all the time. I’m pretending in the hopes of fooling myself. I’m pretending because the alternative—the truth—is that I’m sad, scared, sick, worried, angry, guilty, lost, and alone. I’m so fucking alone I could scream.

  But I didn’t say that.

  “Thanks.” I set down my fork. “I’ll text him back.”

  Hi Wes. Yes, tonight is fine. Six o’clock will give me time to feed Abby dinner first.

  Georgia patted my shoulder and started prepping for dinner, and I picked up the fork again and ate a few bites, tears dripping into my chicken salad.

  When I got home, I made spaghetti for dinner and sat at the table with Abby while she ate. I wasn’t hungry enough to eat anything, despite what felt like an ever-widening pit in my stomach. Instead, I poured a glass of wine, hoping it would take the edge off my frazzled nerves.

  “So you remember I told you about Daddy’s twin brother, Uncle Wes?”

  “The one that looks like him?” she asked as a blob of meat sauce fell off her fork and into her lap.

  I got up to get a paper towel. “Yes. He’s been in Africa for a while, so we haven’t seen him much, but he’s home now.”

  “Does he live at Nana’s?” She shoveled in a forkful of pasta.

  “Yes,” I said, wiping up what had spilled. “But he wants to come over here for a visit. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “It might be a little strange because he looks just like Daddy, but it’s not him.”

  “Okay.” She reached for her milk.

  “And it’s okay to feel sad about it.”

  After a few swallows, she set down the cup. “Okay. But does he have any kids he could bring?” Abby had recently learned what cousins were and was desperate to have some of her own.

  “No, he doesn’t have kids. Maybe he will someday, if he gets married.”

  “Oh.” She dug into her spaghetti again, and I lifted my wine glass to my lips. I was tempted to keep talking about Drew and Wes, press further, tease out any ambivalence she might be trying to hide from me, but it appeared the only mixed feelings about Wes around here belonged to me.

  She’s five, reasoned a voice in my head. She doesn’t realize how difficult it might be.

  I’d keep a close eye on her while he was here. If the visit seemed too traumatic for her, I’d cut it short. “Do you have any other questions about him?”

  She thought for a moment. “What time is he coming?”

  “Six.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “In about half an hour.”

  “Maybe he’ll want to get ice cream. Daddy liked to get ice cream after dinner.”

  I wasn’t sure if she actually remembered that or if it was a memory manufactured after the fact based on stories I’d told her. It was one of my favorite memories, going to get ice cream after dinner on summer nights, and Abby asked me about it often. We’d walk into town, and he’d carry Abby on his shoulders. We always ordered the same thing—Moose Tracks in a waffle cone for Drew, pistachio in a cup for me, Birthday Cake in a sugar cone for Abby, which would drip from the bottom of the cone all down her shirt. God, we’d had everything in those days. And I thought we’d have it forever.

  “Mommy?” Abby was looking at me. “Do you think he likes ice cream?”

  My throat had gotten tight, and I swallowed hard. “Um, yes. At least, he used to. You can ask him.”

  She looked happy about that, and I peeked at the clock again before taking another sip of wine.

  He was a few minutes early.

  Abby had insisted on waiting for him outside, so I was sitting on the porch when he drove up, my stomach in knots. He parked a black Cadillac I recognized as his dad’s in the street in front of the house, and waved at us through the passenger window. Abby, drawing on the sidewalk with chalk, waved back before scrambling up the walk to stand next to me. I rose to my feet, feeling a little dizzy and short of breath.

  Wes got out of the car, and Abby took my hand. Together we watched him walk toward us, carrying a brown paper bag in one hand. He smiled at both of us, and it was so familiar I wanted to cry. To throw myself at him. To beg him to be someone else and give me my life back.

  My knees felt weak.

  “Hey,” he called as he came up the walk. “How’s it going?”

  Abby looked up at me, and I knew I had to keep it together for her sake. “Good,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Abby, do you remember Uncle Wes?”

  She looked at him and shyly shook her head. But then, to my amazement, she let go of my hand and went right to him with open arms. He crouched down and hugged her, balanced on the balls of his feet. Over her shoulder, he looked at me and smiled in surprise. Then he closed his eyes a moment, and I knew he had to be thinking of Drew.
A huge lump formed in my throat.

  Abby was an affectionate, loving child, but I’d never seen her cling like that to someone she didn’t know very well, especially a man. I miss him too, baby. I twisted my wedding band around on my finger.

  Eventually she let go and he straightened up. “She’s beautiful,” he said to me.

  “Thanks. She looks like her daddy.” Abby came and stood next to me, and I tousled her hair.

  “I see a lot of you in her too,” he said, his eyes on her face, then mine. I’d forgotten how much more quietly he spoke than Drew.

  I took a deep breath. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Sure. Thank you.”

  I opened the screen door and let Abby go in first, then Wes held it open for me. Automatically, I went into the kitchen. When I’m nervous, I tend to fall back on what I know how to do—feed someone. Pour them some coffee. Offer a drink.

  “Smells amazing in here,” he commented, looking around. “And it looks great, too. But were the walls a different color before?”

  “Yes.” I poured some more wine for myself. “Can I get you anything? A glass of wine? Some pasta? Are you hungry? Have you eaten?” Whoa, Hannah. Whoa.

  “I’d love some pasta. It smells delicious.”

  “Nothing fancy, just some tomato basil sauce.” I pulled the leftovers from the fridge, glad to have something to do.

  “We growed the basil!” Abby climbed into her chair at the table. “And Mommy let me pick it.”

  “She did? I bet you’re a great helper in the garden.” He set his bag on the table and sat down next to Abby.

  He chose Drew’s chair. That’s Drew’s chair.

  Squelching the urge to ask him to sit somewhere else, I stuck a bowl of pasta in the microwave. Don’t be ridiculous. Many people have sat in that chair since Drew died. And it’s not his chair anymore, because he’s gone.

  “We don’t really have a garden,” I said, trying to keep my tone natural. “Just some pots in the yard. But I’d like to plant one.” It’s on my list of Things Drew And I Wanted To Do Together But Now I’ll Have To Do Alone. “Would you like a glass of wine?”