by Holly Jacobs
When I looked at Bruce sleeping on the rug in front of the fireplace earlier, and now, as he’s curled up on the loveseat, I can see that I was always meant to have a dog . . . I just didn’t know it until Ned showed me that I did. Now, I’m on top of Robin Williams’ desk, looking at my life from a different perspective, and I realize I was always meant to have a dog . . . this dog.
I hope you have a pet, too. If not, I hope when you’re older, you get one.
Love,
Piper
Junior Year
Chapter Nine
Thanksgiving’s a crazy time for me. We gear up at Amanda’s Pantry, trying to make sure everyone who uses our services has the ingredients for a proper holiday meal. All our volunteers show up to hand out baskets the weekend before.
Ned, my parents, and Cooper were there this year.
Anthony was not.
He was involved in a big case and said he didn’t have the time.
I tried not to let it bother me, but it did. He’d still never come to the food pantry. I was on my way to Thanksgiving at his parents’ place in Pittsburgh, because it was important to him. But I’d never felt he placed any priority on what was important to me.
Little things. I kept trying to tell myself that I couldn’t let the little things wear away at what was a good, comfortable relationship, but they did.
Just a few weeks ago, Anthony called and invited me to lunch with him, Josiah, and Muriel. I said I would have loved to join them, but I was working.
He laughed and said I could do that as easily before lunch as after. Later in the conversation he said something about me just sitting around my house with my dog.
He still didn’t like Bruce.
I’m not sure why I was thinking about that as we headed down I-79 toward Pittsburgh. As much as I tried to tamp down the feelings of being underappreciated, they kept swirling around my thoughts.
I wanted Anthony to understand that my work and Amanda’s Pantry were as important to me as his work was to him. I wanted him to be involved in my life and passions. I’d joined him for a number of other parties and gatherings because they were important to him. I didn’t feel the consideration was reciprocated.
I tried to hold back a sigh because I was back to feeling annoyed about him skipping out on Amanda’s Pantry. To be honest, I hadn’t told him about Amanda, but even without knowing about her, the food pantry was obviously something I felt passionate about.
The question nagged at me. Why hadn’t I told him about Amanda?
It wasn’t embarrassment that I’d been a teen parent. Amanda was my heart. She was at the very core of everything I’d done since she was born. Maybe the reason I didn’t talk about her was that sharing my heart didn’t come easily.
I’d sent such a large piece of my heart away with her that maybe I simply safeguarded what was left.
I had not planned on making the drive to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving, but again Anthony simply assumed I’d go with him. I chafed at his making plans for us, as if we were joined at the hip and functioned as a pair. But I’d gone because it was important to him. He’d shared holidays with my family, so it seemed fair I share one with his.
Ned volunteered to take Bruce for the day and teased about the massive holiday dinner he was going to make the dogs.
I’d never spent a holiday away from my parents. They decided to go out to dinner instead of cooking. Maybe my mother would enjoy the break.
Still, it felt wrong not to be at home.
Most years Mom and I did most of the meal preparations.
Except the turkey. Dad was not a cook, but brining a turkey was his one cooking expertise. For more than a decade now, he brined them, then stuffed and prepped them. Each year he experimented with the brine. Last year he used an apple wine in it . . . it added a little something delicious to the taste.
Dad said as long as a man could excel at one dish, the rest was gravy. Then he always added the word literally and laughed. It really wasn’t funny, but we always laughed, too.
Once the prep was done, we had another family tradition. We pulled out White Christmas and picked at leftovers as we watched Bing, Danny, Rosemary, and Vera dance and sing . . . and fall in love.
“You’re very quiet,” Anthony said, and without waiting to give me a chance to respond, he added, “We’re almost there.”
The tree-lined sections of I-79 gave way to city views. And finally, he turned off the highway all together and made his way to his family’s Squirrel Hill neighborhood. He pulled up in front of a lovely brick home in the middle of a cul-de-sac. “This is where you grew up?”
“Yes. It’s considered a classic revival.” He laughed. “I’m not sure precisely what that means, but my stepmother will probably explain it to you at length, whether or not you want to know.”
“I love to talk about things like that,” I said as I got out of the car and smoothed down my dress.
“Did I mention how nice you look today?” Anthony asked. “You should make some effort more often.”
He leaned down and kissed me.
I felt nothing but another spurt of annoyance and I knew that wasn’t fair. I’d dressed up, hoping to make a good impression on his father and stepmother. That Anthony had noticed and appreciated the attempt shouldn’t have bugged me, but it did.
His parents were delightful, and some of the vexation I knew I’d been stoking faded.
His stepmother, Anne, was a petite brunette with a large smile and bubbly personality. His father was also named Anthony, but there was no confusion since Anthony and his stepmother both referred to Anthony’s father as the judge.
Dinner was a catered affair. It arrived at two o’clock from a local restaurant. I helped Anne put everything into serving dishes.
The four of us sat in a formal dining room with hardwood floors, dark wood trim, and a stained glass transom that ran above the windows.
It was the kind of meal that required multiple forks.
The judge and Anthony talked about cases and trials for a while. When there was a break in that conversation, I asked Anne about the house. She talked about meeting the judge because of her work for a preservation society.
Anthony said, “Piper does a lot of volunteer work as well.”
“And you’re a writer, correct?” the judge asked.
“Yes. I volunteer for a local food pantry—”
Anthony interrupted. “She’s being modest. She started it and runs it. And she reads to kids at the school across from her house.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Anne.
“They’re my audience. It’s a nice way to try out new material,” I said, feeling uncomfortable.
“You write children’s books?” Anne asked.
I nodded.
“The volunteering and children’s books . . . those are the kinds of things that are very marketable for a man who has political aspirations,” the judge said in such a way that I suspected that Anthony had some political aspirations I’d never heard of.
“Just throw in a kissable baby and there’s no race that can’t be won,” Anne said with a laugh.
“Unless the baby barfs or cries,” I pointed out.
Three sets of eyes shot me looks that said clearly that in their world babies did not barf, at least not as a matter of dinner table conversation. I took a long drink, hoping to cover my embarrassment.
“Speaking of babies,” Anne said, steering away from my faux pas. “I know I won’t be their real grandmother, but I’d do my best to spoil them rotten when you and Anthony . . .”
She let her words die off as I started to choke on my drink. When I stopped my spastic coughing, I said, “There are no babies in my future.”
She changed the topic once again and we finished dinner, but I’d seen Anthony’s expression.
After dinner, I h
elped Anne with the dishes while the men discussed more cases. Then we regrouped and continued discussing . . . legal issues and added a few political things into the mix. Every time I tried to steer the conversation to something that was more group friendly, the gambit fell with a thud.
I tried not to compare the experience with the thought of sitting at my parents’ watching White Christmas, but I’m afraid I did. And Anthony’s holiday, by comparison, was lacking.
On the ride home, he said, “About kids. You don’t want them or you can’t have them?”
“Does it matter? Kids are not in my future.” Now. Now would be the time to tell him about Amanda and explain. I tried to push the words out past the huge lump in my throat, but couldn’t manage it.
“We could adopt,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say. We’d been dating a year, and I guess that’s why Anthony had begun thinking beyond simply dating. But I . . . I hadn’t. At least not about the two of us.
I’d never felt as if we were close enough to have a discussion about hypothetical children, but then I never felt we were close enough for Anthony to assume we functioned as a unit and he could speak for me.
“Anthony, I am not planning to have children, biological or adopted,” I said as clearly and succinctly as I knew how.
“Why? You’re so good with kids. You make your living dealing with kids. I’ve never read your books, but I’ve looked at them online. The reviews all talk about how you understand your audience.”
“I guess in a way, I have a lot of children already. Every book I write is like a child. I take it from conception to book. And then I turn it over to the readers, and in another way, they’re my children, too. I don’t need anything more than that.”
“I do,” he said slowly.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
The conversation fizzled after that.
I knew I should tell Anthony about Amanda. If I explained, he might understand. But I couldn’t. I’d always known that if I ever fell for someone, I would tell him about the daughter I’d given away.
The fact that I couldn’t share this with Anthony was telling.
And I was pretty sure exactly what it was telling me, but I didn’t act on it because I wasn’t truly ready to admit it. I thought maybe if I gave it some time, we’d figure our way around the issue. Maybe if I gave it more time, my feelings would change.
When we pulled in my driveway, Anthony kissed me and said he had a lot of work the next day, so he was heading home.
It was late, after midnight, and though I wanted Bruce back, I wasn’t going to wake up Ned in order to get him.
After Anthony pulled away, I realized I was too wired to go to bed, so I went out to my porch.
I thought about getting Amanda’s journal.
I’d found that sometimes writing to her helped me clarify things in my own mind. Maybe if I explained my reluctance to tell Anthony about her on the journal’s pages, I could make sense of it all.
After all, Anthony was a nice man. We’d been dating a year now, and I enjoyed his company, even if I occasionally bristled at his heavy-handedness lately.
Part of that was my fault. I’d let him. I was going to have to say something.
As nice as his father and stepmother were, I missed being home, surrounded by my family.
I knew that wasn’t fair. When two people were in a relationship, there had to be some give-and-take. Maybe the fact that I resented spending the holiday with his family made me selfish.
Maybe not wanting to have more children made me selfish, too.
And not explaining Amanda to Anthony, that more than anything probably made me selfish. I held onto her, unwilling to share her with anyone else.
I never spoke of her to my parents, who knew about her, or my friends, who didn’t.
It wasn’t from embarrassment or even pain.
I stared at the empty school. Most nights, lights glowed from windows as the cleaning crew worked. But tonight was a holiday and it was empty and dark.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t talk about Amanda.
I was afraid if I shared her, only emptiness would remain, so I clung to the moments that I had, hoarding them like some miser who was unwilling to share the wealth.
I was selfish.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Ned, interrupting my self-examination.
Bruce and Princess greeted me with more enthusiasm than manners. “I missed you, too,” I assured both dogs.
“I was just going to take them for a quick walk before bed,” Ned explained. “Want to join us?”
“Sure. Let me change shoes.” I ran back inside, kicked off my heels, and slipped on a pair of sneakers. “These look absurd with the dress,” I said when I came back out, “but I wouldn’t have made it much past your house in the heels.”
“That’s fine with me. You always look a bit . . . well, ‘not you’ in dressy clothes. I mean, you look nice and all, but I’m used to you . . .” Ned stopped. “I’m making a mess of what was supposed to be reassurance.”
“No, I took it as a compliment.” It felt nice to have someone think I looked okay when I was dressed in my regular clothes. “I never quite feel like myself in dressy clothes. I’m more at home in my jeans, a laptop balanced on my thighs, or out in the backyard planting something new.”
“Sipping out of your fancy teacup and talking to the voices in your head.” Laughter tinged his voice.
I smiled as we walked along in companionable silence. The dogs paused every now and then to sniff some fascinating smell or do what dogs did on walks.
“So, why were you heading out walking so late?” I asked.
“I was on the job and just got home a bit before you must have.”
“You worked on Thanksgiving?” I asked.
“We have a witness who has been . . . well, not easy to find. I figured he’d find it hard to stay away from his family during the holiday. Most people want to be home. And I was right. He showed up at his parents’ and I tailed him back to his new address.”
“Definitely a Magnum, PI move,” I teased.
He laughed. “So how did ‘meet the parents’ go?”
“They were very nice.” It was a noncommittal response. I was afraid that Ned would push and I’d have to say the words I was just beginning to suspect.
I should have known better. Ned never pushed me.
We walked in silence. The dogs were leash trained when we’d adopted them, so walking was easy with them.
I’d always thought that autumn smelled of cinnamon. I breathed deeply and decided winter smelled of peppermint. Not peppermint candy, but the real herb I had growing in the backyard. Sharp, cold, with a bit of a bite. Clean. Not that it was officially winter yet, but the season arrives early on the shore of Lake Erie.
As if on cue, it started to snow.
“And thus it begins,” Ned intoned.
I laughed. “Another Erie winter.”
“Snow shovels and snowblowers,” he said.
I added, “Snow brushes.”
Ned took it as a challenge, thought a moment and said, “Snow pants.”
“Come on, that’s a bit of a cheat. When’s the last time you wore snow pants?”
“Last time I went skiing at Peek’n Peak with Mela,” he said.
He hadn’t mentioned her in a long time. “Do you miss her?”
Ned shook his head. “No. I thought maybe, if nothing else, I’d miss the companionship, but it’s been six months and I don’t. That seems harsh to say.” He sighed. “I do feel her absence sometimes, but it’s not quite missing and more of a passing thought than a heartache, if that makes sense. And now that I have Princess, the house seems full enough.”
I nodded. I understood that. I’d always been someone comfortable being by myself. Even as a child. Give me
a book and a comfortable chair and I could make an entire day of it.
Other people needed people. I couldn’t imagine my mom without my dad. Even the judge and Anne seemed to . . . well, fit. Josiah and Muriel, too.
Ned and Mela? Obviously not.
And Anthony and me?
I knew the answer, but I wasn’t ready to face it.
Ned and I walked, in the peppermint-scented snow, and I wondered if I was one of those people who were simply meant to be alone.
I pondered my relationship with Anthony for the next two weeks. The annual snowstorms began arriving in earnest. Band after band of cold Canadian air blew over our warmer great lake, picking up moisture. When it reached land, it dumped not inches of snow but feet.
The back garden became a winter fairyland. Snow coated the branches. My birdbath froze over, and every day I trudged along the packed-down path and melted the ice and replaced it with water before I filled the feeders.
Some days, when the weather wasn’t too harsh, I walked through the snow-covered garden, enjoying the starkness that was so different from the lushness in summer . . . different but equally beautiful.
I missed writing on my porch, but truthfully, the chair by the window was only a foot from where I normally sat. It was a Stickley chair and I swear they designed it for me to write from.
From my seat I could still watch the rhythm of my neighborhood.
I watched school begin, then end each day. Kids arrive and depart.
I saw delivery people drive by and occasionally stop.
Being inside served to separate me from everyone else. I felt more removed, and the world seemed much quieter than it felt in other seasons.
In that silence, there was nothing for me to do but think.
I saw very little of Anthony. He was busy with a case; I was busy with a deadline. When he did come over, we didn’t talk about Thanksgiving or children. We also didn’t speak about what I now suspected were his political ambitions.
Moving to a new city as a partner in a law firm. That might have been a strategic business move, or it might have been the first step in a political career.
