by Desiree Span
We decided to take it one step at a time, and he said he would be patient and not expect me to make any promises of commitment until I was completely sure I was able to accept a future that meant having no children with him.
Months passed by and Jan did his utmost best to sweep me off my feet. He was charming, loving, and completely smitten with me. During the day he was like a genie in a bottle, pleasing me in everything my heart desired. And at night he would make love to me and hold me tight, whispering sweet words in my ear. He was completely dedicated to me and nothing I said or did knocked me off the pedestal. In the beginning there were times when for a fraction of a second his devotion preoccupied me — a realization and a slight fear that this might be mildly unhealthy. But it would slip my mind almost instantly and in the end I gave in to letting him treat me like a princess.
* * *
One afternoon at my place, I was cooking dinner for us and he took some papers out of an envelope and waved them in the air.
“She signed them,” he said, grinning.
“Who signed what?” I asked while I was standing in my open kitchen, absently peeling potatoes for a new recipe I had found on the Internet.
“Naomi signed the divorce papers!” he said with delight.
“Oh, she did?” I replied while putting down the knife. “That’s good news.” I tried to sound a little more excited than I actually felt.
But Jan noticed. “I thought you would be more... I don’t know... happy,” he said with concern.
“I am!” I said a little too hastily. What was wrong with me? I should have been jumping with joy and relieved that I was no longer “the concubine”, and that Jan was now a free man. But the truth was, Jan’s new acquired freedom meant that there was no reason our relationship could not make another step forward, and that thought was stifling. I suddenly had slight difficulty breathing.
“It doesn’t mean you have to move in with me tomorrow, Erica,” he said, reading my thoughts.
I preferred to stay silent than to lie to him by denying what he had just said.
He walked over to me and took me in his arms. “I promised you time and time is what you’ll have.” And he kissed the top of my head and walked to the living room, humming cheerfully.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Jan said after taking a sip of his coffee. It was a beautiful summer night. We were sitting at my favorite Italian restaurant and I was enjoying my latte macchiato after a delicious dinner.
Jan and I had been together for some eight months or so and things were good. My relationship with him wasn’t as intense as with Oliver though, for Oliver was much less compliant, which kept things interesting and me on my toes. Jan was well disposed; he never put up a fight and he made it easy for me. Maybe too easy. I guess I missed some resistance.
“Really?” I said.
He smiled at me and reached for something in the pocket of his jacket, which he had hung on the back of his chair. It was a white thin envelope. He gave it to me and signaled me to open it.
“What is it?” I asked curiously.
“Open it,” he said with twinkling eyes, and took another sip of his coffee.
I opened the envelope and in it were two plane tickets; destination London. I gestured as if asking what it meant.
“I’m taking you on a trip,” he explained.
I smiled at him, and at the same time a memory of me making backpacking plans with Oliver suddenly popped through my head.
“I know school is out, so teaching your classes won’t be the problem, but what about your column at the magazine?” I asked.
“I’ll take my laptop. Besides, this trip will give me more to write about. Consider it research,” he said enthusiastically.
“Okay,” I said. “But what about me? I’m in the middle of preparations for the exhibition in Berlin. Ingrid won’t be happy with me taking off for some trip while there is still that much to do,” I replied. Ingrid was the owner of the gallery where I worked as a gallery manager.
“Last week you told me that you were practically done and that you would leave the details up to your colleague and that new intern. I’m sure Ingrid will be okay with it,” he said. He then fell silent for a moment and observed me. “What is it, babe? You don’t want to go?” He sounded slightly hurt.
“No, of course I do,” I replied hastily. “It’s a wonderful surprise.” I gave him my most charming smile. I then leaned over and pecked him on the lips, but when I pulled back he tenderly held onto my chin and kissed me again. It lasted just a couple of seconds, but he had intensely taken hold of my mouth, caressing it with his, while inhaling deeply.
“I love you,” he whispered with his lips still on mine. It was the first time he had actually said it and for a split second I held my breath. But I composed myself instantly and kissed him again, avoiding having to say the “I love you too,” which he so desperately needed to hear. But he noticed and he pulled away from my kiss, held on to my chin and said.
“Why you are having such a hard time with this? Is it because you’re having doubts... about me and you?”
I turned my eyes away, but he sought them with his and forced me to look at him. I swallowed visibly.
“I’m not having doubts. I really want to be with you,” I said in whispery tone. “You have to believe me, Jan.”
“Okay. It’s okay, babe. You’ll get there when you’re ready.” He smiled at me encouragingly and I couldn’t help but give him a weak smile back.
And as we headed home I just couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt. This guy was too good to me and I felt I didn’t deserve him.
* * *
Two weeks later we were sitting on the plane, destination London. He had called it a “quick getaway weekend,” but in fact it was a whole week of sightseeing. From London he took me to Cambridge and then to Wales, where we crossed the Irish Sea and ventured another day or two in the beautiful surroundings of Ireland.
The whole week Jan had been the ideal man. He had cleverly used this trip for us to grow closer by being romantic, thoughtful, and, as always, by treating me like his princess. We were already on the plane heading back and I couldn’t deny seeing all the effort he put into pleasing me.
I lifted the armrest of the seat, snuggled next to him and closed my eyes. I thought about Jan and me, and as I tried to picture a future with him, I felt content.
* * *
Later that evening, we cleaned up after dinner and were laying on the couch watching TV at my place. I couldn’t concentrate on whatever it was we were watching; thoughts were racing through my head. I then made a decision, stood up and walked toward the small sideboard I had in the entrance hall. I opened the drawer, took something out, and walked back to the couch.
“Give me your hand,” I said, smiling. He looked at me intrigued and did as I told. I opened mine and let the small set of spare keys of the front door fall into the palm of his hand.
“Are you sure?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes. I know it’s not much, but it’s a little step,” I replied, nestling myself next to him.
“It’s perfect. Thank you,” he said. He shoved the key in the pocket of his jeans and put an arm around me. We sat quietly for a moment. Jan stared absently at the TV and I rested my head on his shoulder.
“I love you too,” I said out of the blue.
And I heard how at that moment he held his breath. He then sat up straight and took my face in his hands, exhaling softly as if relieved, and I felt his smile on my lips as he kissed me gently.
Chapter Seventeen
OLIVER
2003
* * *
I walked in through the kitchen door unannounced and found my mother doing the dishes. She was wearing a green sweater and had pulled up the sleeves to avoid getting them wet. She was concentrated on her task and didn’t notice I had come in. I observed her for a second and thought she had gotten thinner, and while she passed a sponge over the plate I noticed her hands had ag
ed and that the veins on her hands had begun to bulge, just like Nana Rose-Marie’s hands had been. The silver streaks in her dark hair shone in the soft light that passed through the kitchen window. Looking at her made me realize how long I had actually been gone.
She gasped when she saw me and dropped the plate she was holding in her hands to give me a warm embrace. With tears of happiness in her eyes, she let go of me only to inspect me from top to toe and then hugged me again.
“I thought you would never come back to us,” she emotionally said. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”
“Cause I didn’t really plan it or anything. I just suddenly felt the need to come home,” I replied.
“Well, you have no idea how happy I am, and your father will be ecstatic.” She smiled and then hugged me tightly one more time.
We sat at the kitchen table for hours, and it wasn’t until my father came home from work that we noticed it was already dark.
“Oh my, and I haven’t even started making dinner.” Mother laughed as she joined my father and me in another embrace.
And while my mother fixed us some of her deluxe sandwiches, Dad and I took our beer outside and sat on the terrace. I had a good view of the treehouse and smiled to see it still standing there, intact, as if waiting for my return.
I had kept regular contact with my dad during these years and had kept him up to date of my whereabouts, but still he wanted to hear all about how I had been and what I had been doing during this time.
* * *
I finished my beer, kissed my parents good-night and went to bed, feeling happy to be home again. But even though I was really tired, I couldn’t sleep. The jetlag kept me tossing and turning, and when I looked at the time it was five o’clock in the morning. So I gave up, got dressed and went downstairs. To my surprise my mother was sitting at the kitchen table in her nightgown.
“Hey, Mom, what are you doing up?” I said and sat in the chair next to her after pouring myself some fresh coffee my mother had made.
“Nothing much—I just couldn’t sleep,” she said, putting her hand lovingly on the side of my face. “How about you? I thought surely you would sleep in. Too tired to sleep?” she asked with a smile.
“I guess,” I replied, rubbing my red eyes. Then after a moment of quiet I said, “Mom? Have you gone to see him lately?”
“Once every three weeks, for the past six years. Just as I promised, honey,” she said softly. Then she grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly.
I looked down at our hands.
“You know, Tess also goes regularly,” she said.
I looked up at her again. “Have you kept contact with her? How is she doing?” I asked.
“Mmmh, well, after you left we didn’t really keep in touch. It was all too painful for her, and she preferred it that way. But I run into her mother now and then, and I can tell when Tess has been there because of the fresh flowers I find. She does her best taking care that his grave remains tidy. The last time I actually spoke to her was about a year ago; she told me she had gotten engaged to Felix Smith’s boy. I think the eldest one. If I’m not mistaken, his name is Sam,” she said. “I suppose they must have gotten married by now.”
“Yeah, I heard. Mike told me in an email,” I replied.
“Well, other than that I don’t have much to tell about her,” she said.
We then fell silent for a moment; both deep in thought.
“I’m thinking about going,” I said slowly and then hesitated. “Will you go with me?” I then asked.
My mother looked at me with slight surprise. “Of course, honey. Let me get dressed,” she said, and she quickly stood up and put her mug in the sink.
* * *
A few hours later my mother and I were walking side by side in the cemetery. She had her arm hooked into mine and in my other hand I was carrying six white roses I had bought on the way. One for every year I had been forced to miss him. And though I had never been able to bring myself to go back after he was buried, I knew exactly where his grave was and didn’t need my mother to guide the way. I needed her for I just couldn’t bear going alone.
After all these years one would think I was somehow healed, but as I approached his grave, I recognized that me running away and trying to escape had in fact postponed the mourning and subsequently prolonged the healing process.
I lay the flowers on his grave and noticed the fresh flowers set in a vase with teddy bears on it. The heart-shaped headstone read, “Here lies our angel. Held for too brief a moment, but loved for a lifetime.” And underneath that it said “Joseph Benjamin Blake,” with the name “Joey” written in parentheses under it. We had named him after our grandfathers. As I stood in front of his grave, the pain of losing him was just as sharp as it had been all those years ago. My mother held onto me tightly as the tears, held in for too long, finally found their release.
“It’s okay, honey,” she whispered, and she rubbed my back while I hugged her tightly and sobbed.
* * *
When we arrived back, my dad greeted us at the door.
“Where were you guys?” he asked.
“Attending some long overdue business,” I said and managed to give my mom a weak smile.
She smiled back at me, winked at my father and then gave him a peck on the cheek, while entering the house.
“Well, seeing you are up so early, how would you like to join me and your brother Timothy fishing?” he asked.
“That sounds terrific Dad, but I’m really tired. I’ll take a rain check on that, if you don’t mind.”
I went up to my room and dropped myself on the bed. I was exhausted, but felt as if a load had fallen off my shoulder. And for the first time in years I fell in a deep, tranquil sleep.
The next day I woke up and it was already past noon. The house was empty, but my mom left me a note in the kitchen saying that there were eggs and bacon in the fridge and the pot of coffee was fresh. Well, it had been fresh up to a certain point that morning. So I threw the contents in the sink and made myself a new pot.
After a while the simmering ceased and the smell of fresh-roasted coffee filled the air. With my steaming cup in one hand and the newspaper in the other, I went out to the backyard and sat down on one of the terrace chairs to check the paper ads for interesting jobs, apartments, cars... well, practically everything a twenty-nine-year-old, homeless, carless and jobless person would be looking for. I scanned the ads for potentials, but it was clearly hopeless.
Then the treehouse caught my eye. I put my coffee and the newspaper down and walked barefoot toward it. I stood under the tree, looked up and admired the magnificent carpentry work my father and Dan Johansson had done at the time.
I walked up the stairs that coiled around the trunk and circled the house over the 360-degree balcony. I then reached the front of the house again and opened the door.
Walking in felt as if I was entering a memory box. It was evident that nobody had been up here for quite some time. Someone had put a huge sheet on the old sofa that was now covered with dust, as was the rest of the place. I looked around for a while, browsing through the stuff on the shelves, and came across a box with cassette tapes. Next to it I found the old cassette recorder and I plugged it in. The room suddenly filled with the sound of my favorite grunge band. Ha! It still works, I thought.
I kept on nosing through stuff and found an envelope with some Polaroid pictures of Mike, Jeff and me hanging out at the lake. We must have been sixteen or seventeen. One of the photos included Erica. I studied her beautiful face for a second and smiled to myself; she was sticking out her tongue, while Mike was giving the middle finger and Jeff had his shirt pulled over his head, showing off his farmer’s tan. I remembered taking that photo with my dad’s old Polaroid camera and suddenly felt nostalgic. I put the photos back in the envelope and headed back to the house. I picked up the phone and called Mike.
* * *
That night Mike came over. He brought a six-pack of beer
and we decided to drink them in the treehouse, just as in the old days. “I’m so glad you’re back, man,” he said, hugging me and slapping my back cheerfully.
We had a good time reminiscing about high school, our summer days spent at the lake and going to concerts together. All the while, Mike filled me in about what had become of the people we knew back then.
Mike and I had kept in touch during the years I was in Europe, and sitting here talking with him was as if we were just continuing a conversation we had been having a couple of weeks ago. But I realized that in all those conversations he had always avoided talking about what had really been going on in his life... the painful stuff. For instance, we had never really talked about how he had been when his mother was diagnosed with cancer, nor when she passed away.
Mike was the light-hearted type, never to dwell on setbacks, approaching life with a c’est la vie attitude. But tonight was somehow different. After a couple beers our talk became more serious. He told me how he had at no time regretted his decision to not leave town, because he knew how much his father needed him. He also said he was planning on asking his girl to marry him, but was worried she might say no, for they had hardly saved up any money. That Jeff had just had his second child. And that Tess was pregnant with a baby girl.
And then: “You know, Olly, I never apologized to you about what happened between you and Erica,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I answered, surprised at his comment.
“I was the one that convinced Tess to tell you about the baby. And I somehow always felt responsible for the breakup between you and Erica,” he said.
“No, no. You did the right thing,” I said. “I would have found out anyhow and Erica would still have left me. You had nothing to do with it,” I assured him.
