The One Who Got Away: A Novel

by Bethany Bloom

  She looked out over the expanse and thought how her grandmother would have looked across this same expanse, each June morning, with Grandpa by her side, and how they would have shared dark roast coffee from their French press, sweetened with two sugar lumps and whole table cream, no half and half. Olivine smiled, remembering how her grandmother had lived by superlatives, too. She, like Olivine, always yearned for things to be richer, deeper, and darker.

  Something caught Olivine’s eye just then, and she turned and this is when she saw Henry’s door, in place now on heavy hinges of pounded steel.

  Olivine walked to it, fingers outstretched, and she grazed her fingertips over the carvings, the inlays of wood. There, laid out, under a deep amber stain, was her family tree, in abstract: pieces of wood, reclaimed from life itself and presented patchwork style. At the top, a square of lighter, whitewashed wood; narrow slats alternating and butting against one another. She drew a sharp breath when she recognized them as pieces of her grandmother’s rocking chair. The very chair that Grandma had rocked Christine to sleep in. And here, a lap of siding from the first house that her grandfather had built, after the war. It was signed “Claude Eriksson, 7/8/1946.” And here, pieces of her family’s dining room table; the tiny marks she had made one day as a child, poking the tines of her fork into the soft pine. Here and there a series of rusted square-head cut nails were visible, and she knew then that these were from carpenters that Henry had known. Henry. His father. Her father. Her grandfather. And then she saw a small bright spot in the bottom right. A shape like a sun, etched into the sandblasted wood, retaining its orange tint even under the darker stain.

  And she was glad, then, that Henry had come. Grandpa would be pleased with the door. And she wondered if there had been an unveiling. If Grandpa had come to see it while she was gone.

  She touched each part of the door with the palm of her hand, and in the center, she pressed hard, without knowing why, as though to feel its heartbeat. And slowly, slowly the door creaked inward and, for a moment, she was confused. Had the door not been latched? And then a figure emerged from the other side of the door. Henry. Standing before her.

  The porch spun once and righted itself, and, still, he was there. In a bright white t-shirt. His eyes luminous and searching. His lips pink and full.

  And she put her hand on his chest, in the center. In that place where she knew her face fit just so, in profile. And he placed his hand on her arm and she felt his warmth. His fingertips were rough against her skin and she felt a hum in her arms and in her legs.

  Henry began to speak and he told her he had no expectations of her. That she would never need to pretend. That she could close off, or she could close in. That she could invite him in or push him out. That he just wanted to sit there with her, on the edge.

  And then he whispered to her. His explanation. It was the same explanation she had heard from his messages on her phone, which she had never returned. “When you came by, the last time I saw you, my son had just driven all night to see me. He found out that his mother had initiated divorce proceedings. That she wants to marry again. And Max lost his mind a little. When you came by that morning, he had just arrived. He was beside himself. So angry and demanding to know if I was in love with someone else, too. If I was having an affair. And I hadn’t had time to explain anything to him. He’s sixteen. And he loves me. And I love him. And I froze. But I knew you were strong, and I knew it would be okay. That you would be okay. I had faith. In this. In us.”

  Her chest swelled and she realized that she was okay. She was okay whether Henry was sitting here talking to her, explaining himself, or whether he was not. No longer did she need this. But she would enjoy it, and she would enjoy him, and she would let him in, and she would share her light with him, and she would bask in his.

  And when Henry had finished, she asked, “How is he? How is Max?”

  “He is okay. His mother loves him, and his birth father loves him, and I love him and his father-to-be loves him. And I’ll always have a relationship with him.”

  “And Clara?”

  Paul’s chest lifted. “Clara is going to be just fine. She is in love, and she has my blessing. Of course.”

  Olivine looked out once again to the land, scanning the property, breathing full, deep breaths. “So, where is your bus?”

  He chuckled, “Your mom and dad took it. They went to the beach. Christine said Artie needed some lower elevation and moist sea air.”

  Olivine laughed. “So when will they be back?”

  “No one knows.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “Well, I am now,” he said, and he looked into her eyes.

  “So you’re staying here?” she asked, not looking away.

  “Your mom and dad insisted, when they took my bus.” He laughed again.

  “When they get back, can we go somewhere?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever. Wherever is next.”

  And then he moved his hand behind her head, to the nape of her neck and he tipped her head upward, and he moved his face in close, and his lips met hers and they were as soft as she remembered, and he kissed her with a gentleness and then with probing intensity, nearly a desperation, as though to make up for all the time they had lost. And their bodies began to move in the rhythm that she only just now remembered, like the swells of the sea and then the feel of velvet, pure and rich and deep. And they came together the way only two people who have searched and who have missed one another can, in the end.

  And then they lay on the planks of the porch, and they looked out to the canopy of the waking trees, to the aspens that had been slumbering all winter and now stood brimming with leaves, emerald green.

  Epilogue

  Olivine and Henry were seated up front, next to Christine and Artie on one side and Yarrow’s family on the other. It was hot and the sun bleated down, and she had to be careful not to shift her weight on the aluminum folding chair or the heat would cut right through her dress.

  She had never before been to a military funeral. Hundreds of men and women, sweltering on the lawn, coming to pay tribute to a veteran, a carpenter, a father, a grandfather, a friend.

  Olivine looked at Henry’s hand, clasped in her own. This hand, bronzed from the sun, fingertips rough with tiny woodcuts and splinters. This hand that she would be holding until the end.

  In the months between her grandmother’s funeral and, this, her grandfather’s, Olivine and Henry had traveled the world, both of them seeking new source material. Henry’s material was wood: the veneers of old world churches, benches, and barns. And Olivine’s source material was experiences and ideas and stories, which she strung together like pearls on a string. She had written a book, to be published the following fall, filled with essays about the things they encountered. The gems and tiny miracles they saw each day. Unfettered, it was to be titled.

  But, by then, they would be fettered. At least a bit. She was three months along, and she moved Henry’s hand now to rest on the tiny baby bump willing itself into the world, pushing against her skin each day, and sending a fullness into her throat and into her belly. She and Henry would take their child along with them on their travels until they decided, together, to live in a different way.

  As the ceremony drew to a close, she spotted Paul, standing near the back. It was nice of him to come. She waved toward him and he gave her a sheepish grin and put his arm around his new wife. A nurse with kind, hazel eyes. Coco. She whispered something in his ear, and he smiled.

  Christine and Artie had asked Henry to create a wooden capsule for Grandpa’s ashes, and he had, piecing together the wood from Grandpa’s life and securing it with nails from his workbench. Olivine had sat beside Henry as he made it; as he chose each piece.

  A blast cracked the air, and then another, and then another. Three volleys from a rifle, fired by young men, standing tall in white gloves and starched uniforms, who then presented she and
Christine and Yarrow each with an empty shell casing, and Olivine held hers for a moment, the hot metal stinging her hand, and then she slid it into her pocket where it would be stay, no matter where she took it next.

  THE END