Of course it was.
“I haven’t had a chance to—”
I leapt from the bed.
“That’s cool. I have a lot of stuff to do, like I was saying before.” I looked around and spotted clean undies on top of the laundry basket. I yanked a pair free and pulled them up in record time. Then I grabbed my bathrobe from behind the bedroom door and had one arm in the sleeve as I continued.
And then I panicked.
My rings.
“I have to get the website organized, and I have some…” I quickly peeked down at the deck from my bedroom window and back to him. “I have some stuff around here to do, too, and—”
Now it was his turn to cut me off, by snatching his jeans from the floor and pulling them up. He did it fast, his expression said he was pissed, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.
“Rylie…” he began, but seemed to do some kind of deep breathing exercise before he continued.
“Quentin—”
“I am not gonna fuck you over. I meant every word I’ve said to you.” He finished closing his belt and tucked in his shirt, running his hands through his hair. Then he moved close to me, his tempered reaction easing as he pushed the sleeve of my robe up my arm and over my shoulder. He was quiet as he went on, “Loose ends are as follows. Something is going on with my mom, and my dad isn’t saying a word. I haven’t seen her in a long time, but whatever it is, it isn’t good. To be clear, I’m worried about him, not her. Also, I’ve been waiting for my place here to be available.”
“Quentin, I’m sorry,” I said. “But I really—”
“My brother and dad have always butted heads, but it got worse when Miles turned twenty-one. Again, Miles doesn’t talk about it, and I haven’t asked. But when he moved to Santa Rosa, I followed. He was the one who found the barrel business. He saved it, added new technology…made it successful. But, for our own reasons, I think we both missed being here. Miles said he’d found a run-down bar on the edge of town. So he sold his part of the business and bought The Boon.”
He held my arms and went on.
“I’ve been serious with two women in my life, but cut them loose because I wasn’t in love with them. The woman I’m gonna see tonight, she’s one of them, and she knows better than anyone, I’ve been waiting for the right woman.” He clenched his fist and brought to his hard stomach with force. “A woman who I knew in my gut was going to be the only woman I’d ever love…I dreamed she’d come back, then heard she got married, and thought that was it. It’d be me and the river and whatever or whoever came along to pass the time in this shitty life.”
“Quentin—”
“And she fuckin’ finally came back to town. At first, I wanted to run to you. But I hesitated. I hesitated until I got it. You came back,” he said, he voice breaking on the last word. He reached into his pocket and took something out, then opened up my hand. “So now,” he said in a pained whisper. “I’m putting down roots here and tying up loose ends, so I can have a chance with the one woman I have ever truly loved.”
He dropped something in my palm, and I looked down to see my wedding rings laying there.
“I’m here,” he said, punching an angry finger to his chest. “I’m here when you need me, and I’m gonna keep being here. You have history I want to know more about, out of your own mouth, and I’m gonna need to know about it. Don’t hide it from me.”
“Quentin, something’s different,” I said, tears coming fast, shaking my head in disbelief at how quickly he rose to anger. “What happened to you?”
He looked out the window, then let go of my hand and tried to leave before I stopped him.
“Quentin?”
He turned just enough so I could see his profile, his fingers wrapped tightly around the door frame, but he didn’t give me his eyes. Instead, he moved them to gaze down at my closed fist. “I think you need more time. More time to tie up your own loose ends, Rylie. And I wish I was wrong about that.”
When I didn’t answer, he dropped his hand, giving me his back as he walked to the door and said over his shoulder, “I told you before, I need you to be sure.”
I don’t know why I let him walk away. But I couldn’t even begin to find the right words, nor did I want to blurt everything out. And the pain on his face was clear as day when I met him at the top of my stairs. He turned with one foot on the landing, another on the next step down.
“The thing I had, it’s been casual for a while, Rylie. We also haven’t seen each other in months… six to be exact. But I owe it to her to do it in person, and that happens to be tonight. I wanted to do it before…but I haven’t had the chance yet.” He turned his head to me. “I thought, by explaining I hadn’t betrayed you before, you wouldn’t have a reason to not trust me now.” He took a breath and got quiet, so quiet I barely heard him say, “I’m not like her, Rylie. I’m not like my mother. I wouldn’t betray you like that, and I think you know it.”
I closed my eyes tight, just wanting a minute to catch up, digest everything he’d said, and figure out how to tell him…everything. But my silence was met with impatience on his end. He turned, moved down the steps and out the front door as I stood there, wondering what the fuck just happened. I opened my hand and threw the rings down the stairs, and if I found them later? Great. If not? Who the fuck cared. After all, those round bands were nothing more than chains. Except that wasn’t true. I wished I could be so carefree and unfeeling about my past, but that wasn’t me at all.
Without any great ceremony, I easily found them and went to the little antique desk I’d recently acquired. I’d stopped writing postcards, but as I’d taken them from their stack on my mantel the night before, I noted there was one left. And now, more than ever, I needed to get my feelings out. But the words I needed to say weren’t meant for Nick.
They were meant for Quentin.
And not long after, the drab day hung grey all around like it was drifting right out of me and into the sky. I went back out to the deck, took off my socks, and walked down the steps to let the wet earth touch the soles of my feet. The cold stones and sharp rocks along the path that led to the river below reminded me that jagged edges were all part of life’s journey. And I remembered a time, one summer, when the weather turned cold. It was a quick storm, sudden, but that didn’t stop me and Quentin from wearing shorts and letting our feet hang into the icy water.
“Once you get past the fear,” he said, closing his eyes and stepping in up to his knees, “you realize the thrill is worth the risk.”
Funny how his words came back to me, right when I needed them. For a brief moment, I was tempted to run inside, get the rings, and throw them into the river. I imagined their final resting place below sodden branches in a silty bed of mud. Somehow, casting them into a watery grave felt like the act of a bitter, angry woman.
And that was no longer me.
The desperation was long gone. The sadness had faded into something distant. But I missed him, still. I almost wished he’d gone off to war. Something like that was senseless, but made more sense than the answers I did have. But I knew, like I’d always known, he’d want me to be happy.
And I needed to trust that belief before I lost my chance.
****
My car arrived a few weeks after I did, though I’d barely used it since. At first, I was in the cottages and didn’t venture far enough to drive. When I moved into my place, it was only a fifteen minute walk to my aunt and uncle’s. But today, I needed a distraction, and the idea of trying to solve computer-related woes felt like an enormous task. Instead, I gave myself the day off, hopped into my neglected, little car, and went to the farmers market in Graton. I learned that nothing said distraction like a ten dollar jar of preserves and freshly baked muffins. A few things for the kitchen, white wine and mushrooms for risotto, and a hunk of locally-made parmesan cheese to top it off.
I dropped everything perishable back at my house and decided to suck it up and get some work done. Considering my aunt and uncle
had made the transition as easy as possible for me, I made sure to always offer my services. The buses were at a standstill seeing as I had to wait until the kitchen guy returned my calls.
After some searching, I discovered Aunt Ardie in her garden, weeding a jungle of vines I knew would later grow into long beans or eggplants…I couldn’t decipher which. But I grabbed another pair of gloves from her shed and spoke so I could warn her of my approach.“I brought an offering of ten-dollar preserves you could probably make better.” I chuckled. “Now what can I do to help?” I’d managed to distract myself from the nine-thousand warring thoughts in my head this long; a little hard work would probably keep me going for a least another couple of hours.
But the closer I got to Aunt Ardie, her head down, face hidden behind the brim of an aging, floppy, straw hat, I heard her breath hitch and knew she was crying.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She sat back onto her heels, knees in the sandy dirt that lined the paths of her raised garden beds, and put the backs of her wrists over her face. I waited, knowing sometimes you need a moment to recover.
And then she told me.
“You know…” she said, trying to catch her breath through the words. “There was a time when I could barely get out of bed. For two solid years. Each time I tried to take a breath, I just prayed it would be my last.”
Startled by this confession, I discarded the gloves and sat next to her with my hand on her back as she went on.
“I know it’s not the same as what you went through, Rylie. But when I lost my babies…it never left me.”
She was wrong; loss was loss. And loss wasn’t the kind of thing you measured by degrees.
“I never told you this. But the first time, it was early, six weeks, maybe seven. The second time, it was longer, nine weeks. The third time, longer again, sixteen weeks…like you.” Then she sobbed, a sound that came from her gut and forced me to remove her gloves myself and take her hands in my own. “But the last time…” Her shoulders rose up and I, too, held my breath to prepare myself for this final blow. “The last time, it was eight months. Long enough to think this time would be different. Long enough to love him. Long enough to hold him, to kiss his tiny face, and feel the warmth of that little body against my own.”
When I stayed with my parents after leaving the house, Mom took me to a support group meeting she’d found. She thought it might help to hear women with similar tales and at varying degrees of grief. I sat with Mom, holding my paper cup of coffee and listening to these voices…that’s all they were at the time, faceless embodiments of a self-help book. I could name them all…Denial, Shock, Depression, Anger, and a stage unique to me, Detachment. That was me. I was detached. But there was the moderator of the group who I remembered as Acceptance. She’d been every woman in that room at one point, but was proof you could come out of it.
At the beginning of the meeting she’d said, “One day, because of this terrible time in your life right now, you’ll be able to hold the hand of a friend or a stranger, another woman who’s been right where you are now, and you’ll be able to empathize with her. And she’ll know you’ve been right where she is. Because no one knows better than someone who’s walked in the same shoes.”
I took my aunt’s hands and gently pulled her toward me, resting her head against my chest. I held her as she cried and wondered what had brought it all on. Was this an anniversary of her heart-wrenching loss? I had no idea, but I wish I’d known. I wish I’d known so I could have spoken with her when I went through it myself.
“I couldn’t breathe,” I told her.
“Pardon?” she said, wiping her eyes.
“I couldn’t breathe. At first, I thought it was anxiety. But it wasn’t that exactly. It was like drowning on dry land. That house…our house…I was drowning in what remained of my life with Nick. What I mean is, his absence was suffocating.”
She took my hand and squeezed it hard. “I missed my chance to have my own children, Rylie. But you’re young,” she said with a small smile. “Don’t give up.”
“Aunt Ardie…” I began, but hesitated. It didn’t think talking about myself would be appropriate.
“Please, say whatever’s on your mind. I’m done wallowing. Today would’ve been my baby boy’s birthday. Every year is hard, but this year is worse. Now, what’s going on with you?”
“Quentin. I’m waffling. I have to tell him everything, and I’m not sure how unless I just blurt it all out.”
“Then do exactly that. Blurt it all out.” She patted my leg. “That kid, because, in my mind, he’ll always be a kid.” She smiled. “He endured things a kid…no, no, that’s not right. He experienced things no human being should ever see or feel or experience. Don’t disrespect him by thinking he can’t handle it. More importantly, he’s only ever wanted to take care of you. Because he knows you can take care of him. Don’t hold back. That’s my advice.”
“I’m afraid of drowning,” I told her.
“Lifejackets, honey.” She smiled a small smile and took her discarded gloves and put them on again. “You threw me one today. When you need it, I’ll throw it right back to you.”
She reached into the planter bed and ripped out a large, leafy weed hidden in the mess of vines.
“Now, make yourself useful and tell me more about Quentin,” she said. Following her lead that the moment had passed, I began to unearth happy weeds from the rich soil of Aunt Ardie’s garden, and told her all about Quentin.
****
I shared a late and awkward lunch with my aunt and uncle. The conversation revolved around the buses, my parents, the cottages, the weather, and the coming summer season. Uncle Lee had a friend who would revamp and link the websites, which included photography. But from the minute my uncle sat down, I knew something was wrong and assumed it was a hard day for him, too. I rambled on about the kitchen guy, who’d finally messaged me only an hour before. I’d meet him late in the afternoon after taking more pictures of the last buses. From the pictures on his website, he was a talented carpenter, a skilled craftsman, and seemed to understand my vision as if it were his own.
But explaining all this to my aunt and uncle fell on deaf ears.
Uncle Lee finished the meal in silence, went to the sink, and tossed his plate into the basin with the desired effect of shattering it. Aunt Ardie jumped in her seat at the sound of ceramic shards landing on the tiled floor. I said nothing, didn’t move, didn’t make a peep. I waited to see what was going to happen next.
“He has to do it,” she said quietly, rising from the table and leaving out the back door, following Uncle Lee.
I couldn’t help myself and found a place at the back porch window to watch as she ran behind him. His hand came out to halt her advance, and she grabbed at his shirt to stop him.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
I went back to the kitchen and cleaned up the broken plate and what was left of our lunch. After I cleaned up, I went to find my mom and ask her advice. Though they’d moved from the bus to the cottage I’d been living in, Mom still spent a few hours each day hanging out at the bus. She’d bring a book and sit outside, later telling me this was her way of supervising Dad and Uncle Lee as they worked on the second bus. But as I grew closer, I heard my dad raise his voice. Then my mom, the peacekeeper, got involved, as well.
“She’s here now, and, sooner or later, the truth is gonna come out. Give the woman what she wants, Lee.” That was Aunt Ardie, tearfully pleading with my uncle. For what? I had no idea.
“I can’t believe you’re actually considering this! That fucking crazy woman. Fuck!” His booming yell made the windows of the bus rattle.
I moved to the back, hidden in what used to be a wheel well. It was a total breech of their privacy, but curiosity and shock won out over manners.
“Lee…” Dad said. “Let’s sit down with Pete. Let’s just…talk about this. Rylie’s stronger than you think. I don’t doubt, when it comes out, Quentin’ll handle i
t, and she’ll help him. And Miles is gonna handle it, too.” Then Dad seemed to soften and changed tactics. One I liked to call guilt. “He can finally know what a real family should be. You and Ardie can give him something he’s never had.”
“Fuck!” Uncle Lee screamed, and I sunk to the ground, covering my head like I expected to hear something else break or shatter. But nothing like that happened.
All I could hear was my aunt crying. And not long after, I guess the storm ended. Mom announced she was going to get some air, and, fearing I’d be discovered, I made a quick decision to run down to the river and cut up through the meadow behind the cottages. I hoped it would appear as if I’d just arrived from the parking lot…like any other day. I opened my phone and stopped, carrying on a pretend conversation, even laughing at one point so I’d be heard.
Mom waved at me as she moved closer.
“Okay,” I said to the no one on my phone. “Yeah. Bye. Hey Mom.” I smiled and hoped it didn’t look as forced as it felt. When she was only inches away, I asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“He and your uncle are having a heated meeting of the minds. Your aunt wants one thing, your Dad is siding with Ardie, and I’m Switzerland.”
Her smile looked forced, too. “Aren’t you sourcing kitchens for the other bus today?” she asked.
That was indeed my plan.
“Mom…” I began and looked down at my feet as my shoulders of faux confidence fell. I couldn’t keep the ruse up any longer. “I’ve never heard Uncle Lee yell like that.”
She took a deep breath. “What did you hear, Rylie?”
She wasn’t angry, but my overhearing of all that was not something she was real happy about either. “Not much,” I confessed.
With her arm around my shoulders, she moved us toward my old cottage. “Now’s not the time. We need to give the three of them some space. Feel like eating something decadent and high-calorie with me?”
“This must be where I learned to eat my feelings.” I smiled, her arm squeezing me tight.
“Yes,” she said on an exhale. “But you know I’m happy to play good cop to your haggling bad cop so you can get that kitchen done. And honey…” I waited while she took another breath. “I’m hearing things. I want you to talk to me about Quentin?”
Watching the Sky Cry Page 9
