Sadie's Mountain

by Shelby Rebecca

“And I WANT you to be my wife. I want to make babies with you and see them running around the house I bought for us. I want to make love to you every morning and every night on every possible surface of said house. I want to laugh with you, cry with you, hold you in my arms, protect you, and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. I want to sit on the porch and play music together so I can hear your soft voice when you sing for the rest of my life.”

  I just stand here. Whoa!

  “I want to know the feel of your skin reacting under my fingers and to know the scent of your hair under my nose. I want to kiss you every day a hundred million times. I want to fall asleep to the sounds of your breathing. I want to lay my head on your breast every night so I can hear your heartbeat until I grow old with you. I want to watch our grandbabies from the porch when we can no longer get up and chase ‘em around. I want all of that and more. I want the life that was stolen from us. That’s what I WANT, what I’ve wanted ever since we were kids,” he says, his hand reaching out to me as if there’s a barrier he cannot cross. His breath is ragged and he begins to pace back and forth along the trail.

  There’s a hole in my chest that I could easily fill with the life he’s just proposed to me. But, I can’t. “I’m just not capable of that kind of life, Dillon,” I say, honestly.

  He won’t look at me. He’s still pacing.

  “Look. You’ve taken this too far. This was just a crush you had a long time ago with an innocent girl who no longer even exists, Dillon.”

  “Doesn’t exist? You’re freakin’ standing right in front of me. Of course you exist.”

  “What I’m trying to say is, you have an idea of the person I am. But I’m not her. I’m a totally different person than the girl you knew all those years ago. The girl you loved went into that shed and never came out,” I explain.

  “Shed? What shed, Sadie?” There’s a panicked sound in his voice as he looks like he’s remembering something he can’t place.

  I let it slip. “What I’m trying to say is I’m not her anymore,” I clarify, and look down.

  “No, you’re not. You’re a grown woman now. What, do you think you were prefect back then?” I peek up at him again. “Do you think I’m delusional? I know your faults. I know everything there is to know. All that does is make me love you more.”

  “I just think you’re in love with a memory, and you should let go of that so you can have all of that with Miss Robbins,” I say, not knowing what her first name is.

  “Look,” he says, eyes piercing into mine so deep it makes that hole in my chest feel rough and new—like ten years ago new. “I am in love with you, Sadie,” he states, his voice as clear as a blue sky. “That will never change, ever. I’m in love with my best friend and there’s nothing that will ever change that. We grew up together. We shared everything. You know me better than anyone ever has or ever will. Miss Robbins, Claire, is a friend I spend time with. She’s not my girlfriend, not really. To be honest, we both just pretend, I mean, how do I say this?” he says, bewildered. “She lost her husband three years ago. You remember Mike Robbins, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was killed in combat in Iraq four years ago and I take his place a little for her. She takes your place for me. It eases the loneliness, that’s all. It’s entirely different than what I feel for you. It’s not even on the same planet as the feelings I have for you,” he explains.

  “But it could be if you’d just let go of this asinine idea that you have of who I am to you. She obviously cares for you or that tattoo wouldn’t matter. You’re not even giving her a chance.”

  “I know who you are to me. That will never change,” he says, solid in his conviction.

  “Well, I don’t. I can’t,” I try to explain, looking down. Ugg! This hurts. The lump in my throat is back and all I want to do is go back home and take a bath and sleep forever.

  He looks exhausted, too. Fighting will do that to you.

  “I have to go,” I say, blandly. The numbness starts taking over while I’m grabbing Monty’s reins from the tree he’s tied to.

  “Can I walk you home?”

  “No!” I say, and then he winces.

  “Ummm. I can get myself home, I mean.” I have to look away. “No need to go out of your way.”

  “Please,” he says, earnestly.

  I turn and walk down the trail and he follows, saying nothing. We walk in silence, kicking rocks down the trail for, I’d bet, about fifteen minutes.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, finally.

  “For what?”

  “For yelling at you. That was wrong.”

  His arm brushes mine and I tense. He notices and gives me more room.

  “Hey, why don’t you get up in the saddle? I can ride my bike up ahead. I can see you’re really tired. When did you get here?”

  “Just today,” I say drone-like again.

  “Here, let me help you up,” he says, holding my elbow. Electricity shoots through my arm where he’s touching me. It’s like two live wires if they were to meet and make sparks. My body feels tensed. “Up you go,” he says, as I swing my leg over. As he has hold of my arm, he pauses as he notices the scratches I got from riding my scared horse into the trees. “These look bad. Let me get my first aid kit.” I don’t say anything as he gets it from his bike. I have to pull Monty’s reins so he doesn’t leave Dillon behind.

  He pulls out an astringent already imbedded in a little cloth and stings me with it. I wince but say nothing. What’s weird is it does feel nice to have someone take care of me for a minute. His long fingers rub ointment on all my little scrapes, taking his time. I study his face, his hands. I watch the muscles in his arm as he touches me. “There you go,” he says, smiling.

  I look down. “Thank you,” I say, ever so softly.

  He moves his bike ahead of us and I watch him ride all the way down the trail and up to the border of Momma’s place. He’s a skilled mountain bike rider—a very fast one, and that’s why I’m in this mess in the first place.

  He helps me, as much as I’ll let him, to get down off Monty’s tired back. I watch as he un-straps the ‘Sadie’ saddle, sliding it onto the wooden horse it’s stored on near the wall. He hands me the thin sack that holds the yellow roots wrapped in cheesecloth and the tools. I just stand here as he pulls the blanket off and shakes it. I’m a tired, mute statue who’s biting her thumbnail.

  “Come,” he says, taking my hand and it’s all live wires again but I pretend not to notice. “I bet dinner’s ready by the smell a’ things up at the house,” he chuckles. I don’t even want to fight him about coming in. I’m too tired. I open the front door and he slips in at my side holding my elbow again, so I pull it out of his grasp as nicely as I can.

  “Personal bubble,” I say, making my arms wide around my person to show him how I like my space. He steps away to give me what I want—his face impassive.

  “Missy,” he says, standing near the door with me in tow. “Look who I found wandering around.”

  “Dillon. Hi, there. You want some dinner?” Missy says with an inward wave.

  “I’d love some.” He’s looking at me as he says it. I just lift my shoulders like ‘I don’t care.’

  Jake and another teen who I’m guessing is Seth are sitting at the table holding their forks and knives waiting for food. I thought people only did that in cartoons.

  There’s two little kids, too. Missy’s kids. They look like the ones in the pictures she puts on Facebook. One is a girl and she’s probably about five. The other is a boy, about two, and he’s sitting in a highchair looking like he’s too big for it but it keeps him still so she keeps him in it anyway.

  “Long time no see, Dillon.” She gives me a silent nod and a wink. I don’t do anything back, so her eyebrows furrow. She always liked Dillon for me. She used to tease me about being up a tree kissing him and rocking cradles.

  “Yeah. Too long. Seth. Jake,” Dillon nods and smiles.

  “Hey,” they both say in unison. I
think Jake kicks Seth under the table because I hear a thump, Seth jumps and then scowls.

  “Hi, Sadie,” Seth says, with his teeth clenched.

  I nod at him. I don’t want to try to win over angry fifteen-year-olds right now.

  “I’m going to have a bath,” I declare.

  “Not until you eat,” Missy says, glaring at me. “You’re too skinny as it is.”

  I hand her the thin sack. “You got some roots!” she says, excitedly.

  “Three good ones,” Dillon explains. He looks at me and then knits his brow. I can feel it. It’s Numb Girl. She takes over when I’m weighed down—to protect me sometimes, Dr. Amy says. Not like I have a personality disorder or anything. It’s just a numb thing I do when I’m overwhelmed—diseased molecules that run as deep as a scar.

  “I didn’t know what you’d eat so I made you a Cobb salad with some boiled egg and green tomatoes. There’s blue cheese and carrots, beets. Green onions too. Oh, and some cucumbers. All of us are eating pork chops, and mashed taters though if you change your mind.”

  I shrug as she hands me a salad filled plate.

  “‘S fine,” I mumble.

  “You okay?” Missy asks, a worried look on her face.

  “Just tired,” I say.

  I mope because I’m too tired to pretend-smile as the rest of them talk about randomness. To be honest, most of the time, their voices sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher as I crunch lettuce and other veggies. Then Missy asks Dillon how he’d come to see me and how he ended up sitting here for dinner. He explains the whole thing, but leaves out the part where he almost fainted when he saw me and the part where we were yelling at each other at the top of our lungs.

  The little girl, Elise I think her name is, grabs Missy’s shirt sleeve and says, “What’s wrong with her?” as she looks at me like I’m an alien from Planet Weird. I stare at my plate like it’s my saving grace.

  “That’s your Aunt Sadie. She’s had a long, long day, honey. She’s just real tired.” I try to smile at her but she’s not convinced. I look back down, uncomfortable.

  When I look up, Dillon is staring at me, concern written all over the lines in his forehead. He moves his hand toward me so slightly no one else even notices, but I tense and he stops.

  I crunch the last bit of salad and get up before I’m done chewing.

  “Goodnight,” I say to the room.

  The room answers back, “Goodnight, Sadie.”

  Chapter Seven—The Rules

  Last night I sat in the old fashioned claw foot tub up to my nose in water trying to un-numb myself like one defrosts a chicken. The numbness is a reaction to anything being too much to handle. It started that night in the shed and comes back once in a while.

  Seeing Dillon would have been enough but then add to that the nine hour flight, the three hours of driving, the nerves all day, the memories being just right at the surface, seeing momma so sick, riding my horse, meeting my little brother, finding out Dillon has a girlfriend, Monty getting spooked, and getting thrown off him. Arguing with Dillon was just the last straw.

  He’s really infuriating. I’d forgotten how stubborn he used to be—still is apparently. But patient is another adjective I’d use to describe him.

  He’s just not going to stop until he gets what he wants—but what he wants I can’t give him. Let’s take Donnie out of the picture for a minute, wherever he is here in town. I’m just not capable of having a loving relationship with a man. So even if both of our lives weren’t on the line here, I couldn’t be the girl he thinks I am. Let’s say he moved to California with me, I’d never quite fulfill this ideal he’s created in his mind. He’d get tired of my anxiety, of the fact that he has to handle me and my moods. I’d fall in love with him and then...he’d leave. That’s the order, I do believe

  It’s not like I haven’t tried—Californians aren’t much on waiting ‘til you’re married—but the crying is always a turn off. At some point, the guy will do something, say something, make a noise, or move a certain way and I’m there again in that shed. No one has been able to get past the crying—especially me.

  Well, there was the one guy, Longhaired Seth from the Berkley Library, who I made out with after we ate lukewarm pizza together out of soggy boxes. I started crying when he kissed my neck—I have neck issues. He asked me to tell him everything as he looked at me like he really cared.

  I explained the story in short form enough to let him know I was a girl with a past. He said maybe I just needed to cry through it one time. He was willing to try, no doubt more for his own pleasure than mine. But after the crying came Numb Girl. I just got stiff and unresponsive and he decided he liked his criers a bit more sentient. “It feels like I’m trying to rape you,” he said, before he scooted out the door.

  I’d better get up and do something with those goldenseal roots for Momma. It’s still dark outside. My internal clock is all wrong. I would still be sleeping at two a.m. if I were still in California. Here it’s five a.m., but I can’t force my eyes shut. Sleep likes to play hide and seek when I’m nervous. Right now it’s hiding and I’m not seeking.

  I put on some faded jean shorts from my old closet and a fitted white t-shirt that smells like my least used sheets in the linen closet in my new house. I give up on my hair. I shouldn’t have slept with it wet, so I just pull it back in a ponytail. At this hour, I don’t even worry about a scarf for my scars. No one will be up for ages.

  I pad along the wooden floor and find the roots in the refrigerator. It’s still the same old refrigerator I remember being here when I was a kid. I run my fingers over the dent from when I accidentally slammed daddy’s hammer into it. That was a bad whooping I got for that one.

  I busy myself with taking some of the root and boiling it in a sauce pan to make a tea with it. This will be perfect for Momma to use as a mouthwash for her sores—I guess cancer gives people mouth sores.

  The other root I put in the spice bowl and with the masher I smash it to smithereens until my upper lip is sweaty from exertion. In the pantry I find some coconut oil and in the yellow mixing bowl of my youth, I combine the coconut oil and the mashed up yellow root to create a nice smooth paste. I put that in a large mason jar and seal it up with the lid.

  The last root I wrap in cheesecloth and tie it with string. I hang it from a nail in the pantry to dry it so I can make a powder out of it in a week or so. Doing this for Momma reminds me of her teaching me how. I try to reconcile the sickly woman up there in her room with the dark-haired strong woman of my youth. It feels like a loss I can’t fathom. I realize that I’d put Momma a certain way in my mind kind of like filing her away in a mental cabinet of memories. I just don’t want to add this to the file.

  It’s almost light outside; the sun is just a little haze over the hills. I’m sure everyone will be up soon—probably another hour or so. I think about making coffee but I don’t know how to use the percolator on the stove. I decide to go sit with Momma while she sleeps. I’ll take the goldenseal paste and rub it on her skin.

  As I’m creaking up the steps, someone taps lightly on the front door. For a moment I consider ignoring it, but they tap again. Resolved to get rid of them, I pad my way over to the door and open it. It’s not just the breeze that knocks my hair back.

  Dillon stands there looking sophisticated in the door frame. He’s wearing dark fitted jeans, a brown linen button up shirt, and some grey canvas high-top TOMS Botas. My heartbeat accelerates. My eyelashes flutter. Stop that, I tell myself. What? Do I think I’m immune?

  He swallows hard. “Can I talk to you, Sadie?”

  “On one condition.” I decide on the fly, my voice raspy and deep from no sleep.

  “Anything,” he says, curiously.

  “I want coffee and I don’t know how to use that contraption on the stove top.” He peeks over to the stove and smiles at the percolator.

  “I think I can figure it out,” he says, as he walks in and moves effortlessly toward the kitchen. Suddenly, th
e contraption is in four pieces and he’s rummaging through the drawers. “Filter?” He looks at me questioningly.

  “I’m not sure.” But I help him look.

  “Ah, here we go,” he says, holding the filters up like a prize, obviously proud of himself for having found them in the drawer, neighbors with the tin foil and the plastic baggies.

  “I’m glad you’re up,” he says, as he unfolds the filter and then pops it over the center stem inside the basket part of the percolator. “Coffee grounds?” he says, pointing at the empty basket and scanning the counter top.

  I hand him the tin that has always held coffee grounds since the beginning of time. As he spoons the grounds in he says, “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither,” I agree.

  “Maybe I’m sleeping right now. It’s like I’m dreaming seeing you here,” he says, as he stops and looks at me as if I might just evaporate into thin air.

  “I feel that way, too.” It’s true. Seeing him here, like a warm memory in Momma’s kitchen folding the filter over the dry coffee grounds with his long thin fingers, reminds me that for the past ten years I’ve tucked Dillon away in my mind in that filing cabinet, too. At first he was real-like in my memories but lately he’d kind of blurred and become really small like a driver’s license picture. Not anymore—he looks very real now.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice sweet and smooth like red velvet cake.

  “Caffeine,” I reply dryly as I rest my elbows on the counter top and stare at him impassively from under my eyelashes.

  “I see,” he says, smirking. “Well, it seems this is the one thing I can do for you then.” There was a bit of sullenness in his tone there at the end.

  “What did you want to talk about?” I ask politely. Let’s get this over with.

  “Hey, um, can you fill the percolator with water?”

  “Sure, I guess I can handle that,” I say as I turn on the faucet.

  Well water tastes like childhood, I think as I poor myself a small glass before putting the percolator under the stream.