Where Hope Begins

by Catherine West

  I may as well have thrown the glass. He recoils and pierces me with a look that says more than any words could. “Do you want to keep seeing him?” Kevin is full of loaded questions tonight.

  “Brock has become a friend. And, last time I checked, I’m still married. It shouldn’t have happened but it did, and I don’t really know why I told you. Maybe it was to hurt you. Maybe . . .” My thoughts run wild like the deer in the surrounding woods and I can’t catch up with them. “Maybe I don’t know what I want either.” Not right now. Not in this moment. “You’ve blindsided me, coming here today. Telling me you broke things off with Alison. I don’t know what to say, Kevin. I don’t want to feel like I’m your second choice.”

  He sits in silence. His dark hair, just starting to curl around his ears, is longer than when I last saw him. His eyes shimmer with seriousness under the kitchen lights. I don’t really want to know what he’s thinking.

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting this.” He’s trying to assimilate the information. Line it all up, put it into neat, prioritized boxes, each of which he will deal with when he feels the time is right.

  I slash my arm through the air like I’m knocking all those invisible boxes off the table. “You don’t have the right to judge me.”

  “Uh. Okay.”

  He props his elbows and puts his head in his hands, taking me back in time . . .

  “You’re what? Savannah, are you sure?”

  My stomach has been churning like an angry sea for days. Between the nausea and that sinking feeling that as soon as I tell him our relationship will be over, his questions are too much.

  “Do you want to see the pregnancy test, Kevin? Why would I make this up? Look at me!” Tremors shake my entire body and I suck in a sob as he raises hooded eyes, catches my gaze, and shakes his head in what I can only assume is utter disbelief.

  “Oh. Wow.” He puts his head in his hands and utters a low moan.

  The sun dips low behind the massive oak at the bottom of my parents’ garden. They’re out for the evening. Kevin and I were supposed to be going out too. There have been a lot of nights like this one. Nights when we said one thing and did another.

  “When?” He leans back in his chair, curses, and slides his hand slowly down his face. “I mean . . . how far along are you?”

  “Two months, I think. It was probably sometime over the summer.”

  “At the lake house.”

  “Probably.” I reach for a paper napkin and blow my nose. We’re suddenly like strangers, sitting across the table, discussing dates and times while the new life inside me cares not for either. Or decorum, apparently.

  In the two years since we became an official couple, we did our best to take it slow. But last summer something shifted between us. I felt Kevin drifting . . . little changes at first, like not calling every night. Not coming back to Boston so often. We knew a long-distance relationship would be difficult, but so far we’d made it work. So when Kevin told me he’d secured a job at a resort near our place in the Berkshires, I decided to do everything I could to hold on to him.

  It’s interminably hot. Everyone is out for the day on the boat. I wasn’t feeling well so I stayed home, finding refuge in the cool basement. It’s the place Mom puts the boys, stores old boxes of memorabilia, art easels, and who knows what else. For us kids, it is our playground.

  I spend the morning lounging on the old four-poster bed—how they got it down the rickety steps is a mystery—reading Danielle Steel and listening to my favorite CDs over and over again.

  Humidity clings to my skin and makes everything damp. There’s a slight breeze through the small open windows, but my eyes are slowly closing.

  “I didn’t think anyone was home.”

  I bolt upright, staring at the figure standing on the bottom step. “Kevin?”

  He grins, jumps off the step, and enters my space. “Surprise.”

  I’m in his arms before I can ask what he’s doing here. He was supposed to work this entire long weekend. Somebody got sick or something. But now he’s here, staring at me with those dark-blue eyes that I dream about every night.

  “You’re here.”

  “So are you.” His grin sends sparks of light into his eyes. His fingers brush hair out of my eyes as he raises a brow. “Alone, I gather.” His gaze wanders over my face and downward to the string bikini top I’m wearing with a pair of cutoffs I’d never wear in public.

  “Completely. They’re all out on the boat. I couldn’t stand the thought.”

  “No, you wouldn’t survive the day.” He’s witnessed my seasickness firsthand. “I’ve missed you, Savannah.” His hands slide around the sides of my face as he brings his lips closer to mine. “Kiss me.”

  He doesn’t have to ask. I would kiss him all day . . . and we have hours to spend right now, doing just that.

  “You’re pregnant. I can’t believe this . . .” Kevin finally speaks, his eyes wide and filled with fear. “I . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, that makes two of us.” We’re both still in college. Kevin will graduate this summer; I’m a sophomore in my first semester. We haven’t even talked about marriage, although I dream about it. But I don’t know if Kevin does.

  Fear pushes me out of my chair and I escape the stifling kitchen and the look of horror on his face. I can’t bear it. I haven’t cried so much in all my life but I can’t seem to stop. A few minutes later the back door squeaks and Kevin’s arms wrap around me. He sighs into my neck, holds me tight, and just stands there for the longest time. Then he slowly turns me to face him, brushes away my tears with his thumbs as he caresses my face.

  “Marry me,” he whispers . . .

  The past takes a final bow as I blink away the memories, and the kitchen is deathly quiet.

  Kevin just sits there, staring at me.

  Somehow I find words and force them out. “If you expect me to apologize, I’m not going to.” The look of betrayal in his eyes makes me angry. Defiant. And sorry I told him.

  He gets to his feet and gives a slow nod. “Whatever.” He’s shut down again. I recognize the look. The one that says, “You’ve hurt me and I don’t want to talk about it.” And part of me is glad he’s hurt. Glad I have been the one to inflict pain this time. Another part of me wants to take back my words and pretend the past ten minutes never happened.

  “You’re leaving?” The question doesn’t need an answer and he doesn’t give one. There’s so much I could say now. Point out his flaws. How he’s so good at walking out when he can’t take anymore, but what good would it do? Instead, I follow him into the living room and watch as he pulls on his jacket. The fire has long since died and the room is cold.

  “Do you know where the kids are?” He raises a hand to brush his hair back and I see the tremor, recognize he’s holding it together by a thread. But all I can do is shake my head.

  Kevin clears his throat. “I’ll call tomorrow. Tell Zo to leave her cell on. We talked about lunch.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Cold air slices through me when he opens the door. “Kevin . . .”

  He turns to face me. “Don’t say anything else, Savannah. Not right now.” He shakes his head, his haunted expression like long fingers that stretch through me and squeeze compassion from my heart. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I don’t know if I really am.

  “Paul should be here tomorrow. When are you going home?” Home. I’m not sure where that is anymore or what it means.

  “Probably sometime in the afternoon or the next day. I haven’t decided.” He puts a hand against the doorframe and shoots me a sidelong glance. His blue eyes shimmer with moisture. He doesn’t speak for a few moments. “Are we really done? Did I destroy us for good?”

  “I don’t know.” My whisper seems more like a wail, a prayer perhaps, one neither of us truly believes will be answered. “I know we can’t go back, but I don’t know how to go forward.”

  “Neither do I.” He zips his jacket, faces me, and takes a few ste
ps forward until he’s bridged the gap between us. His eyes move over my face in a way that makes me tremble and ache with sorrow, and when his hand brushes my cheek, it’s almost more than I can bear.

  “Oh, Kev.” I clutch his hand and press it against my face. My pulse picks up in a fast rhythm, pounding faster still when I meet his questioning eyes, frantic to find something I’m not sure even exists anymore. But as he pulls me against him and releases a shuddering sigh, I think it might.

  “I’m not giving up.” His hoarse whisper infiltrates the hardest part of my heart. “Not this time. Not until you tell me there is no hope.”

  Just a few words, but they rock the foundation of this new normal I’ve worked so hard to construct. How alarmingly easy it would be now to give him what I think he wants. What he might even need. Right now I want back what we had. So badly I think I could wind my arms around his neck and let him kiss me. Let him take me upstairs if he wanted and make love to me the way he used to, back when there was more love than anger and hurt between us.

  But there is no going back. I can’t bring myself to absolve him. So I step out of his embrace and retreat to my own space. “We had a sacred trust, Kevin. You broke it. I don’t know how to get past that.” And I don’t know for sure, right now, whether I want to. If I can. But I don’t tell him that, because there is already too much heartbreak here tonight.

  “I know. I understand.” He nods and pulls on a slim gold chain around his neck. It’s been hiding under his sweater and I haven’t noticed it before now. He takes it off and reaches for my hand. Then he places the chain that holds his wedding band into my palm and presses my fingers over thick, warm gold. “I never should have broken our vows, Savannah. I never should have taken this off. But since I did . . . maybe you can hold on to it until we figure this out.”

  He turns and walks away, down the steps and into the cold, dark night.

  Instead of returning to the warmth of the house, I stand on the threshold and watch him go. Icy air stings my nose and freezes the tears on my cheeks. For a moment I’m drawn back to the day he left. The day I stood at the edge of the patio and looked beyond the fields, beyond the horizon, and wondered. Wondered if there was a way to get things back, a way to return to that sacred space we once shared. Tonight I still wonder. I have more questions now than I did then. I know less about my heart and mind and soul, and I can’t claw my way through this confusion.

  It’s in this moment, as I stand here utterly bereft and broken, that I feel it—a tiny flicker of a solitary, soul-deep flame—warmth that somehow seeps through to the hidden parts of me, floods every unseen inch, and asks me to hold on. Asks me not to give up. To keep talking, keep praying.

  Because somehow I have to believe there is still a chance for us. That I have not been abandoned.

  Not completely.

  A small cry leaves my throat and I drag my eyes upward.

  And I watch the stars.

  CHAPTER 18

  “I gave in, and admitted that God was God.”

  —C.S. LEWIS

  We’re all mad here.”

  I sip coffee and stare at the plaque on the wall of the kitchen, a Christmas present from Kevin to my mother years ago. I find the Alice quote rather appropriate this morning.

  It’s still early and the house is silent. I barely slept; my thoughts raced all night long, ping-ponging between anger and sorrow and stupefaction. As I ponder what to do with Kevin’s questions, I catch a glimpse of the amaryllis on the windowsill above the sink. I rub sleep from my eyes and look again. The vibrant red flower, in proud full bloom yesterday, has withered into drooping brown, about to fall off its shriveled stem.

  How did that happen? I know they usually last for weeks. I stick my fingers in the dirt, but it’s not too wet or too dry. I should check the others.

  The three white pots are lined up along the red-checkered table runner on the dining room table where we enjoyed our feast last night. These flowers are also dead, the green leaves and stems shriveled.

  I ignore the urge to blog, finish my coffee, force down half a bagel, then bundle up, pull on my boots, and trudge through the snow toward the greenhouse.

  The old door creaks in welcome as I push it open and step inside. Clarice is already there, huddled under her brown fur coat, examining the other pots we put the amaryllis bulbs into a few weeks ago.

  Hers are dead too.

  “What’s wrong with them? Why did they die?” I don’t even bother to say good morning. Clarice sighs and puts down the one she’s holding. She moves along the newly erected shelf and touches each sickly plant in turn.

  “Yours also, Savannah?”

  “Dead. All of them.” I grab a broom that sits in the corner, wrap my gloved hands around the wooden handle, and start to sweep. I smack at fallen leaves and leftover debris in furious motion, pushing the deadness away into corners, scanning the room for any signs of life.

  We’ve planted bulbs and seedlings and created space for flowers and plants that we’ll get going in warmer weather. Somehow my mind has convinced me I’ll still be here. Maysie has an area mapped out for hydroponics. Apparently she’s been learning about the practice and wants to try it out. “Do you think they had a bug or something?”

  “I don’t know.” Clarice stands in front of what I believe to be a rosebush. She pulls a new green branch gently toward her, inspects it, then turns to me and smiles in that way that is both heartwarming and disturbing. “Did you talk with Kevin last night?”

  “We talked.” I kick at some stray gravel, study the newly repaired windows, and watch a flock of birds heading over the pines on the other side of the garden. “I’m sorry for that. The tension. Dinner was pretty awful. It wasn’t how I’d planned Christmas this year.”

  “Oh, my dear.” She laughs with the raspy good-natured sound I’ve grown used to. “Think nothing of it. At my age, a little drama is most welcome.”

  “At least I didn’t throw anything at him.”

  “I suspect you wanted to.” She moves to the other side of the shelves and starts stacking new pots. “Didn’t you?”

  At the far side of the greenhouse, there’s a cherry tree. At least that’s what Clarice tells me it is. The light-beige trunk is mottled and quite thick. She figures it’s about twenty years old. Thin branches stretch long fingers toward the light. If I look closely, with enough faith to believe there will be blossoms in the spring, sometimes I see green shoots on the branches.

  I don’t understand the way things work in here, but I’ve come to accept it.

  We’ve talked many times by now, Clarice and I. She knows all my stories. Some days I wonder if she knew them before I got here. “Kevin told me he ended things with Alison.”

  “I see.” She starts to whistle a haunting tune that is somehow familiar. Somewhere in the depths of my memory, I know that song. “And how do you feel about that?”

  We turn to look at each other at the same time. Her steady eyes burn into me, and I clasp my hands behind my back, feeling very much like a child about to be reprimanded.

  “It’s too late.” The words that kept me awake all night spill in welcome release.

  “Too late?” Clarice’s size 5 brown boots crunch over new white gravel as she comes toward me. She takes my hands and stares up at me, searching my face for God only knows what. The truth, perhaps. Truth I can’t yet face. “Do you really believe that?”

  My heart beats fast and it’s difficult to catch a breath. Difficult to form words that might convey the vast depths of emotion I’m wrestling. “Sometimes.” The whispered word bounces off frosted glass and floats back toward me. “I thought I was ready to move on. Move past all this.”

  Clarice tips her head, folds her arms against her thin frame, and takes one step back. “With Brock.”

  Cords of guilt tighten their hold again. “He told you?”

  “Not in so many words.” She smiles and shakes her head. I think there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I’ve l
ived a lot of years, Savannah. I see things. And as much as I adore my nephew . . .” Her chest rises and falls and she looks away for a moment. “He is not yours. You have no claim on him. To think you might . . . is neither fair to him or to you. Or to Kevin.”

  “Kevin left me! He’s been sleeping with another woman.” Anger surges and reminds me my heart still hurts. Still bleeds and pulses with voracious wounds that have not healed. Wounds that may have no intention of healing.

  “Yes, he left you, Savannah. But it sounds to me like he’s starting to regret his transgressions. And perhaps trying to make amends.” She moves around me and runs a finger along the blotchy branch of the cherry tree. “May I ask you something?”

  I almost laugh but sniff instead and shrug. “You will anyway.”

  “Well, that’s true.” She sets that knowing smile on me again. “Last night, when you and Kevin talked, did you show your husband grace, Savannah?”

  “Grace?”

  Her look says she doesn’t need to explain what she means. She’s right.

  Did I?

  Of course I didn’t.

  I was too angry.

  Too hurt, too blindsided, and too eager to strike back.

  Grace is no longer part of my vocabulary when it comes to Kevin.

  “You don’t have to answer. Just think about it.” She coughs, the rattle in her chest alarming.

  “Are you all right, Clarice?”

  “Of course. Just a little bug I caught from Maysie.” Her smile returns, but she moves away from me. “I’m going in. Come inside for some tea if you like. And I believe Hope may be ready to go home with you this week. If you still want her.”

  “Oh yes.” That I do know. I want that bundle of fur more than anything. When she sets her deep golden eyes on me, I don’t feel so sad. So vulnerable. I feel like I might actually get through this overwhelming season of my life. Brock was right. I did choose well.

  Once Clarice disappears, I slide down, sit on the cold ground with my back against the cherry tree, and put my head in my hands. “Okay, I give up. Help me out here, God, because I don’t know what to do.”