by Bree Dahlia
He either sighs or yawns. “Why don’t you just leave the house? Try to work somewhere else for the day.”
“Yeah, I considered that.”
“There you go. Drive out to The Gardens and spend a few hours there. You told me that place always inspired you.”
“I suppose—”
“Sorry to cut you off, but I really do have to go.”
“Oh, okay. See you tonight.”
I disconnect the call and tuck my phone into my purse.
Bonk, bonk, bonk.
Damn it.
I grab my stuff and I’m out the door, making the trek to my car. I no longer worry about getting lost. Without traffic or a tractor hogging the road, I can make it to the Capitol building in nineteen minutes flat.
I hop in my car and back out the long gravel driveway. This will be my third return to the city since the garden center. The other two times were spent meeting Cain for lunch. I’ve been feeling my way back slowly, knowing how easy it would be to devote my days there. The atmosphere alone could suck me in, never retracting its claws. That’s not a productive way to build a career.
But neither is zoning out in a big empty house all day.
My nerves spike the farther I go down the Beltline. I wonder when the butterflies will chill out. If a time will come when I’ll be able to make the simple drive and have it be just that: a simple drive.
I know there’s more to the manic jitters. It’s not about some nostalgic longing for my beloved hometown. It’s not a “where” that has me neurotic but a “who.”
I’m not ignorant, just in avoidance.
I do my Ocean Breath—“breathe into your ribs,” the instructor coos from the one yoga class I took—and I’m much more relaxed by the time I arrive. I park near the shoreline crisscrossed with paths, and I miss the simplicity and freedom of using a bike to travel anywhere I need to go. Of being a kid in a place that offers so much.
The public beach is set off to my left with a few brave kids splashing around. The sunny low-seventies air requires a trip outside, but nothing could get me in that freezing lake right now. I smile as I head toward the meadow, past the picnic tables filled with schoolchildren on a field trip. A sandy-haired boy yanks the ponytail of a little girl as she’s about to sip her juice. I silently root her on when she turns around and smacks him.
I near The Gardens, my oasis. Memories. So many memories. They infiltrate with every step, and I need to issue caveats to keep them in check. I remind myself it’s been a long time. It might not be the haven I remember. The beauty is wilder than ever, the backdrop of the lake radiating a sense of peace, but once I walk the stone path and get to the bench at the end of the footbridge, it all could change. I’m no longer looking at it through the eyes of a sixteen-year-old girl, after all.
My destination comes into view as I cross the bridge, and I was right. It’s not the same.
It’s better.
The park is far from empty, but my bench is unoccupied. In fact, it’s always been available whenever I needed it, as if it were invisible to all but me. The bright yellow is a bit faded but still lively. I plop down underneath the crabapple tree and take a moment to absorb the design and colors of the landscape. An art lover’s dream.
I catch sight of the bleeding heart flowers dripping beside me, and it hits hard, like a waterfall crashing down on the arid sand. I pull my pad and pencil out of my bag and sketch. And sketch. And sketch. It’s automatic, pouring from me as if I no longer have possession of my hand.
I create a whimsical scene to add to the portfolio I’ve been compiling since my design program, drawing a sea of daffodils flowing through a grove of pine, scattered with woodland creatures. It has a fairy-tale flair to it, just waiting for a prince and princess to skip through.
I’m soaring high, no longer feeling as if I lost something precious. I ride that wave all the way back to the parking lot until a different sensation fills me, less “coast down a rainbow” and more “one foot away from being buried in my basement.”
Jake.
Home. Separated. Jake.
Jake.
Fucking memories.
I rest my head against the car door, my arms crossed over my midsection. Coming today was a mistake. I glance down at the bag that hangs from my shoulder and think about what it contains, the fire that returned. I do my breathing.
No, the only mistake was allowing my past to bleed into my present.
The minute I’m in the car, I call Rowan, hoping I have her new schedule straight. I need to talk to my best friend. Texts aren’t cutting it anymore.
“Mads!” she shouts, picking up on the first ring. “How’s Madtown?”
“The same as I left it. Missing anything there?”
“No, just my drunk asshole neighbor forgetting he put a pizza in the oven again. Set off the fire alarm at two in the morning. Asshole. You’re lucky—” I hear muffled voices and papers shuffling. “Wait, hold on a sec,” she tells me, and then a “Thanks, Chase.” A door closes. “Okay, I’m back.”
“Please tell me I didn’t just call you in the middle of class.”
“Nope, I’m free for the next half hour. Just giving my hot coworker something he asked for earlier. Of course, I couldn’t resist telling him I’m talking to Madison from Madison.”
She giggles and I roll my eyes at her long-standing joke. Barely anyone calls me by my given name, but she still finds it hilarious. Like no one’s ever ribbed me about that before.
“I want to hear more about this hot coworker.” I hope he can also add “worthy” to the attribute. She deserves a decent guy for a change.
“Settle down. Hot married coworker. But a girl can dream.” Her chair scrapes across the floor, and I imagine her kicked back with her feet crossed on the desk. “So, as I was saying, you’re lucky you have your own house now, all to yourself. You don’t have to deal with anyone else’s shit.”
“Yeah, that’s a bonus. But it needs way more work than we originally thought. I wish my business was already established so I could bring in some money to help with that. I’m not even ready to reach out to anyone yet.” I’m still adjusting.
“You only quit your job two weeks ago. Are you expecting insta-success?”
“No. It’d just be nice, that’s all.”
“Well, you’re talented as fuck. It can’t not happen soon.”
“Thanks. That’s what Cain tells me too.”
“Good man.”
A pang strikes my chest. “I sure do miss you.” This is her hectic time, wrapping up the end of the school year, but we would’ve at least squeezed in a lunch or two if I were still there.
“Me too. But not much longer. I cannot wait to see you and check out the new place.”
The ache dulls. A whole weekend. It can’t come fast enough. Her recent switch to a small private school comes with the perk of an earlier start to summer vacation, but then they’re required to attend a weeklong teaching conference right after, so it’s a wash.
“Hey, um, just out of curiosity, how far is the Wilkes Mansion from you?” she asks.
I smile. It was going to be a surprise, but what the hell. “Already on it.” A high-pitched squeal comes through, and I wince. “I take it you’re happy?” I tease.
“Best. Friend. Ever.”
I keep telling her she’s in the wrong field. She needs to ditch the teaching gig and become a ghost hunter. It’s her passion—obsession, really. I can’t count how many times she’s dragged me to one place or another in the hopes of hobnobbing with the otherworldly. I even sat with her all night in St. Agnes Cemetery. If that’s not friendship….
“Man, I’ve been dying to go there forever.” She cracks up and I groan. “It’s supposed to be Wisconsin’s most haunted, you know.”
“I know, you’ve told me.”
“Ooh! We need to get a table in the back room, if possible. That’s where that one mirror is, where the blue lady appears. And the staircase is right there too. Maybe
I can sneak upstairs into the freaky red room. They say if you take a bath in the claw-foot tub, blood drips out.”
“Oh my God, you are not taking a bath there.”
“Of course not. But that same room is also where her music box is. It belonged to her daughter who died of diphtheria. They say she can’t rest until she finds it. Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could help her?”
Her voice gets higher and more excited as she rattles off all the unexplained phenomena in the historic Victorian restaurant, all courtesy of a nineteenth-century innkeeper’s wife. It’s all stuff I’ve heard before, but I don’t interrupt. This shit makes her happy.
When she pauses for a breath, I say, “I’ll make sure to ask for a reservation in the haunted section.”
She gives me a loud kissy noise, and I make a mental note to get on that right away. I am so looking forward to her visit, even if it means playing second fiddle to a dead blue woman.
“And after that, maybe we can swing by State Street. I know you were gone before you could fully appreciate the bar scene, so maybe one of those whatchamacallit fish bowl drinks is in order and—”
“Jake’s back,” I blurt out.
“What?”
“And separated.”
“What?”
I’m suddenly sweating, trapped inside a car-shaped microwave, getting nuked. I open the door and let in some air. I want to get out and walk around, but I have this sudden fear of being overheard. Crazy, considering no one’s within earshot, but still.
“Jake’s back,” I whisper, feeding my irrationality.
“Back where exactly?” I know she’s choosing her words carefully.
“Back here. Madison. To live.”
“Shit.” Now I picture her jerking upright, her spine ramrod straight. “Seriously, Mads?”
“For about a year now.”
When I told Rowan I was leaving Milwaukee, we first vowed not to let it affect our friendship—“What’s a measly eighty miles?”—and second, she made me swear I could handle coming back to the area. After all, I left my hometown for a reason.
No problem, I assured her. Even if I hadn’t emotionally moved on, Jake was physically long gone. It’s all good. After that, we went to Rosie’s and got shit-faced.
What I wouldn’t give for that now.
“You’ve seen him, then?”
“No.”
“Talked to him?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know Mr. Gyllenhaal-Dane is really back? And for that matter, separated?”
That earns a partial smile from me. Based on pictures, Rowan thinks he looks like the love child of Jake Gyllenhaal and a younger Eric Dane. I disagree. I think he’s way better. Or he was. For all I know, he could be sporting a bloated beer belly and meth teeth as we speak.
“Because I ran into a walking information booth from high school and she told me. I’m pretty sure it’s true.”
A rolling sensation starts in my stomach, reminding me of the mysterious noises inside the house. Reminding me of Cain.
“Destroying your cuticles won’t help the situation.”
“I’m not….” I glance down to see that I am. I shove my hand under my thigh to hide my nasty little habit.
“Tell me what’s making you so nervous. I mean, I know why. But why?”
“I thought of Cain, and now I feel guilty.”
“Why the hell would you feel guilty?”
“Because I never told him. He thinks Jake’s still in Chicago.”
Because we don’t keep secrets from each other, and I’ve been keeping this news festering inside. It’s gnawing my gut to shreds. And ignoring the bite isn’t making it stop.
“First off, you didn’t do anything wrong here. Why stir things up when you don’t even know for sure if it’s true? ‘Pretty sure’ doesn’t count.”
“I guess.”
“And let’s say it is true. You’re out in hickville now, not even in the same city.”
“I’m close enough. And I plan to drive into Madison often. God, I’m here now. And Cain works here. Can you imagine how strange it’d be to walk down the street and—”
“All right, stop. You’re forgetting the most important thing. You’ve moved on. You have an amazing husband and a great life now. Focus on that. Don’t let past ghosts come back to haunt you. Leave that to the professionals.”
She laughs and I join in. “If I need an exorcism, you’ll be the first one I call.”
“You’d better. But seriously.” Her voice grows softer. “It’ll all be okay.”
“I know. You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Hey, how about we get together next week? Even if it’s for an hour. We can meet halfway for lunch or something.”
“Sounds great.”
“And Mads?”
“Yeah?”
“It’ll be okay,” she repeats.
“I know.”
I return home with two bags of groceries and ten paint samples. A bouquet of daisies in vibrant shades of magenta and teal go to the kitchen table. The hues are unnatural, resembling some over-the-top cartoon character acting loony to get your attention. And it works. This house is screaming for eccentricity, or at the very least, any color other than dulled white and mud brown. The hideous drapes don’t count.
Cooking is more Cain’s forte than mine, but I’m attempting a dinner tonight. I unload my haul onto the counter and take a stab at what food items complement each other. I really suck at this, but Cain’s been so busy with work, and I want to fill his stomach with something other than takeout for a change.
I set aside egg noodles and chicken breasts, my plans for a creative meal thrown to the wayside in favor of something simple. Something I know I won’t mess up too badly. Then I grab my short stack of swatches and take them to the half bath in our crooked hallway.
I’m starting in the creepiest part of the home, save for the basement. I’ll need to be tranquilized before I tackle that project. I hold up colors to the water-stained wall, narrowing it down to lemon chiffon or seafoam green. If this area transforms, it’ll have a snowball effect on the rest of the place. That’s my goal anyway.
Time loses meaning until I hear the front door. Then I realize how late it is.
Shit. Dinner.
I go to greet Cain and inwardly cringe at the sight. Not that he could ever look bad, but if he could, he’d resemble something that crawled out of a sewer right now.
“Hey,” I say and he gives me a weak smile, as if he already used up all his strength walking from the car. I wrap my arms around him. “Rough day?”
“Just long.”
“Hungry? I can whip us up something quick.”
“No, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
“Oh.” I take his hand. “How about you go sit down and relax, then? I can show you some paint samples I picked up for the bathroom. Once we lock down a color, I can add some other—”
“No, baby,” he cuts me off, as if my conversation is exhausting him. “I just want to go to bed. I’ll look at it in the morning.”
“Okay, no problem.” Probably not the best time to remind him about the unexplained noises either. At least they’ve retired for the evening. “Can I bring you up anything?”
“No.”
He moves away from me and trudges up the stairs. Damn, that man needs a decent night’s sleep. If I thought it wouldn’t annoy him, I’d go up there and rock him myself.
I watch to make sure he’s not going to tumble back down, then go to the fridge and pull out the peanut butter. A generous spoonful will tide me over until morning.
I stand there with the hard, cold plastic against my back and think about nothing in particular. The quiet vastness of the space makes me feel so alone. I almost wish for a creak in the floor or a crackling of foundation in a home that is long past its settling date. I know it’s an acquired pleasure, but I wonder if I’ll ever get used to the isolation. I miss the energy of the city.
&nbs
p; My warm bed calls to me. I’m certain by this point Cain is comatose, so I have no worries of disturbing him. I do my nightly ritual, brushing my teeth and scrubbing my face, before joining him.
I slide in under the sheets and rest my head on his chest, listening to his heart music, giving me the connection I was deprived of a short time earlier. Everything about this moment feels so perfect. So right.
And why wouldn’t it?
I’ve moved on.
Four
I’m a morning person. Always have been. It’s when I’m most productive, and recent past aside, the most creative. I love to wake up at dawn and spring into the day with guns blazing and pencils sharpened.
Just not this early.
The sun is still tucked in when I haul myself out of bed, the dampness blanketing my bones. No indoor air pollution here.
I throw on one of Cain’s Bucky hoodies and set out to find him. There’s a direct link between my concern and my eyelids—the higher they rise, the greater my worry. I wouldn’t be up this early if my husband didn’t already beat me to it.
Oh, sweetie. Another restless night.
I find him at the kitchen table, his back to me in the semidarkness, my flowers pushed aside. Steam billows from the cup in front of him. If it weren’t for the small lamp emitting a soft amount of light, he’d blend in with the shadows. The coffeepot serves as a beacon in the dimness, and I head over.
“Good morning,” I say, almost tacking on the ridiculously obvious question of “Can’t sleep?” I pull a giant mug out of the cupboard.
“Hey,” he replies without turning.
I fill it to the brim, then carry my morning juice to the table, pulling up a chair beside him. “How long you been up?”
He shrugs. “Too much on my mind.”
“Like what?” I touch his wrist as he continues staring straight ahead. This isn’t my husband. It’s something that’s risen from our cellar.
“So much to do.”
“But—”
He slams the rest of his coffee, then slides the chair back with a screech, probably knocking out a tile or two.
