by Laura Miller
I trace every black line, before my eyes stop on the place in the tree house where her initials are carved. I run my fingers over the I and the S. And I try not to remember the taste of her lips, but I can’t stop my mind from going there.
I force out a long breath, and then I set that frame down next to the first one. And I stare at both of them. I stare at both of them, until that grandfather clock in the hall chimes me out of my trance, urging me toward the third box.
The next frame easily slides out of the cardboard, and I take it and hold it out in front of me. This one is in color. It’s a painting of a bright red Chevelle, with a license plate that reads: NASCAR. And in the bottom right corner of the painting above her name is the title. It simply says: She Was Red.
I smile.
Then, I let my eyes wander around the painting. Even the scuffs on the dashboard are there. I close my eyes and try to feel the wind on my arm that first day I got my license—the same day I went back home to get her. I was so happy.
I hold onto the memory for as long as I can. Then, it slowly fades away, and I’m just left staring at the box labeled 4.
I sigh, and then I gently set the painting of the Chevelle on the floor against the wall. And I pull the last frame out of its box and turn it so that it’s facing right-side-up. And instantly, I walk backwards and fall into the chair behind me.
It’s a painting. And for a second, I think it’s a photo. But it can’t be. There’s a man, who looks an awful lot like me. But I can only see his profile. I can’t see his full face. So, I can’t know that it’s me, for sure.
The painting is in color. And the man is standing on a shore. His body is toward the ocean, but his face is turned back toward the beach. It looks as if he’s looking at something or someone that isn’t in the painting. He looks happy. My eyes quickly go to the bottom right corner of the frame and to the title. And in her black handwriting, I read over the words: My Dream.
I slowly force a breath out, as my heart speeds up in my chest. And I don’t know why—I don’t know if I’m looking for something more, something that might confirm my suspicions, anything—but I turn the frame over. And I notice a few words written on the back.
In her handwriting, in black ink, this time, it reads: That little boy from Sweet Home will always have my heart.
I read it.
And then, I read it again.
And then, I put my hand to my heart as it, at once, both aches and soars.
I love this girl.
And I’ll love her until my heart stops beating.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Did You Love Her?
Present
Berlin
“Uncle Berlin, who drew this picture?”
“Which one, baby?”
“This one.” Madeline points to a spot up on the wall above her. “The one with the ocean.”
My chest expands with a breath. “The artist’s name is Iva Scott.”
“Iva Scott,” she repeats in her little voice.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “Iva Sophia Scott.”
I watch her stare at the painting. It’s the one of the man on the shore. I can’t quite tell what she’s thinking based on the puzzled look on her face, but I know she’s thinking.
“It’s you, Uncle Berlin.”
I smile. “You think?”
She gives me a hard nod. “I know.”
“Well, if you say it is, then it is.”
“You look happy,” she says.
I glance at her and then at the painting, and then I feel my smile start to fade.
“It’s because I am happy, baby.”
“But why are you so happy?”
I let go of a lungful of air and then put my hand to my mouth. “Because Uncle Berlin is looking at a very special person he used to know.”
“Who? Who are you looking at?”
“Well, she was a girl who Uncle Berlin grew up with—a girl who made me smile.”
She looks back at me.
“Did you love her?”
I meet her pretty, blue, curious eyes. “I did,” I breathe out.
“Like you love Mommy and me and Oliver?”
I shake my head. “No, not like I love your mommy and you and Oliver.” I reach down and wrap my arms around her and whisper into her ear. “No, I love all of you each differently. See, when you grow up, you’ll find out that your heart is pretty big, which means you can give different pieces of it to people who are very special to you along the way. And along the way, I gave a really big piece of my heart to you and to your brother and to your mommy ... and also to the girl you can’t see in the picture.”
She looks back at the frame. And for a good while, she doesn’t say anything. Together, we just stare at it in silence.
“What was she like—the girl you’re smiling at?”
I laugh to myself. “Well, she was ... a banana Popsicle.”
She giggles, and her little body falls back into my arms. “A Popsicle, Uncle Berlin? People can’t be Popsicles.”
“Well,” I hum. “She was. And she was an orange with extra sugar in a mason jar. And she was tractor oil and paint and chocolate milk and red and blue lights. And she was beautiful and different. But best of all, for some reason, her heart wanted me.”
She keeps her eyes trained on the painting.
“See, Madeline Bear,” I go on, “me and her, we got lucky as friends. We were lucky enough to find each other sooner than most, so that we could have a lifetime of friendship. And it didn’t matter that we lived far, far away from each other at times. Because you know why?”
She rests her finger on her chin, as if she’s thinking really hard about it, and then suddenly, her eyes come to rest on me. “Because she had a piece of your heart, too,” she finally says.
Instantly, there’s an ache in my throat.
“How did you get so smart, munchkin?” I ask, trying not to choke up.
“Mommy,” she says.
I laugh. “Yeah, that’s definitely true.” It sure wasn’t her daddy.
“And yes,” I say, once my laughter grows faint, “it was because she had my heart. So, it didn’t matter how far the waves took her away from me, she was always right here.” I put my hand over my heart, and I watch as her eyes trail to my chest.
She’s quiet after that, while I just stare into the blue and white waves in Iva’s painting.
“Does she still have it—your heart, Uncle Berlin?”
I know she looks at me, but it’s hard for me to tear my stare away from the painting.
“Yes,” I say, eventually meeting her bright blue eyes. “She still does.”
Suddenly, the screen door slams, and the dog dashes into the hallway.
“McMarbles!” she yells, leaving my arms for the German shepherd.
I watch her through the doorway wrap her little arms around the dog that’s at least twice her size.
I love that little girl.
I notice Elin next. She bends down and kisses Madeline on her head, as she walks past her.
“Hey,” Elin says, stopping when she gets just inside the room.
“Hey,” I say, standing up.
“Thanks for watching her.”
“It’s no problem,” I say.
She looks at me and then at the painting on the wall, and then back at me. She’s putting two and two together; I can see it on her face.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and Vanessa.” She stops and shifts her weight to her other leg. “But no one’s ever gonna work out if you don’t let Iva go.” Her tone is patient but stern.
I follow her eyes to the painting. “For all we know, she’s married,” she adds.
Her gaze eventually wanders back to me, and then she gives me that look she likes to give me. It’s a mom look. I know it too well.
“She’s not.”
“What?”
I shake my head. “She’s not married. I talked to her mom.”
“You talked to her mom?”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging a shoulder.
She scrunches up her brow. “When would you have talked to her mom?”
“I, uh ... still had some of her things at the house.” I pause and refit my cap over my head. “I just didn’t know what to do with it all.”
She keeps her stare on me for several, long seconds. “O-kay,” she finally says. But her eyes are still narrowed, and now she’s giving me a look—as if she doesn’t really buy anything I’m saying.
I don’t react to it.
“Dad says you’re going on a trip on Monday,” she says then, thankfully giving up on the last subject.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have a race next weekend, right?”
“Right,” I say.
“Then where are you going?”
I don’t say anything at first, as I hook my thumb into my back pocket. “The coast. Just to get away, clear my head. That’s all.”
Her eyes bore a hole into mine. I know she’s trying every which way she can to read my mind.
“Are you going with anyone?”
“No,” I say.
“So, you’re just going by yourself, then?”
“Yep.”
Several more silent seconds drop to the floor. Meanwhile, she just keeps staring and studying.
“All right, then,” she eventually says.
It looks as if she wants to say something else on the topic, but she doesn’t.
“Well, thanks again for watching Madeline.”
“Anytime,” I say.
She softly smiles, and then she disappears back into the hallway, leaving me alone again.
I start to turn, too, but my eye catches on the painting one, last time. And this time, I just get lost inside of it.
For a little while, we had each other. For a little while, we got to hold each other’s hand and make out and make up and live fast. And best of all, we got to fall in love. And we got to fall in love twice. So, all in all, it was a pretty darn good run we had. And it doesn’t matter that we didn’t get sixty years or even twenty. In the end, we didn’t need them. Someone smarter than us knew that our love, despite the little time we had together, was enough to last a lifetime.
Iva, you always said that a memory was enough to get us through the rest of our lives. You were right.
And you were wrong.
I needed more.
And that’s why I think God gave me that one week in April. I would have loved to have more. But the thing is, I’m not so certain that one week, much less the weeks that followed, was ever originally written in the books for us. I think it was a gift. It’s as if God himself brought you to me and said: Here’s one more day.
One more day.
Here’s one more day to get you through the rest of your life.
Because while I have no doubt a single memory can get some through life, it couldn’t get me through mine. My soul ached for just one more.
And it still does.
And today, those memories float through my mind like a string of white lights. I remember you in the little things. I remember you in the big things, too. Sometimes, I think about who we would be or where we would have gone. And other times, I see your smile or I hear your laugh. In those moments that pass between consciousness, like that split second before I cross the finish line or that pause just before the next song clicks over on the radio, I think about you. I think about that little house in Sweet Home and that first day I caught you in the window. I knew I had caught a glimpse of my future, right then and there. At the time, I just pictured a different kind of future—the one with you in it. But you still are—my future. I can’t pluck you out of my pending thoughts no more than I can pluck you out of my prior ones.
And you’ll always be that dream just out of reach—that one daydream I’ll have every so often, and then just before it dissolves into the fog of the day, I’ll catch myself thinking: What if?
My favorite what-if.
Iva, my heart still wants you. And I’m a little lost because of it, but no matter what happens in this life, I know we’ll meet again. I have no doubt that we’ll meet again, eventually. Someday, I’ll see you in that window of that little brick house across the street, and you’ll look up from your desk, with your hands full of color and oil, and you’ll notice me. And you’ll smile. And without saying a word, we’ll both promise each other that this time ...
I briefly look at the floor and swallow down the ache in my throat before returning my eyes to the painting.
We’ll promise each other that this time, we’ll dream our dreams in Sweet Home. And with my cherry-red Chevelle and your little charcoal drawings tacked to the walls, we’ll build the life we painted in our minds while in that little tree house that Angel’s daddy built. And this time, we won’t look back. This time, we won’t look back on the life we almost had.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out the plane ticket I bought a couple days ago. And I look at the date and time stamped onto the piece of paper. And then my eyes wander to that final destination.
It’s a coast, all right. It’s just not a coast in the United States.
Iva, you might be my favorite what-if, but I was never really a fan of what-ifs.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saturday
Present
Berlin
“Elliot, what do those kids have you working on now?”
I laugh and shove the last piece of lumber onto the bed of my truck.
“Tree house,” I say.
Doug takes out his handkerchief from his back pocket, wipes his forehead and then bites down on the corner. “Spoiled rotten,” he says, shaking his head.
“Yeah, well, don’t get too jealous. I can build you one next.”
He laughs. “Be careful, I just might take you up on that offer.” He shoves the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Can you rig up a TV into one of those things? And then can you camouflage the whole thing, so the wife and kids can’t find me?”
I smile to myself and close the tailgate.
“So, when can I get that ride in your car?” he asks.
“When I know you can keep your lunch down at 200 miles an hour.”
He gives me a long, thoughtful look.
“I’ll work on that,” he eventually says, nodding his head to the words.
I laugh, just as he’s disappearing back into the lumberyard. Then I climb back into my truck. And right before I turn the key, I flip down the visor. Clipped to the edge is a photo of Iva and me. Nobody drives my truck, so nobody knows it’s here. We took it the day she moved in—the day we got engaged. It’s my favorite picture of us.
I smile at the photo, and then I check to make sure the ticket is still safely tucked behind it.
I see that it is. So, I flip the visor back up and head to Elin’s.
I pull up to the house, and then I back into the driveway, so I can get the lumber to the backyard easier.
“Hey.”
Elin comes around the corner of the house, just as I’m getting out of my truck.
“Hey,” I say. “You tell the kids we’re building the tree house when they get home?”
She doesn’t answer me at first, so I stop what I’m doing and look at her.
She’s got a big smile plastered to her face.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She flashes me a funny look. “Why does something have to be wrong with me just because I’m smiling?”
I don’t answer her. I just watch her a little more closely now.
“And yes, I told the kids,” she says. “They’re excited.”
“Good,” I say.
“But before you unload that, just come inside for a second.”
I quickly find her again. “Why?”
“Berlin,” she scolds, before turning. “Quit asking so many questions.”
I watch her walk back around the corner of the house.
What
in the hell is wrong with her?
I shake my head and then make my way to the back door.
“Elin, this better be good. You’re acting like you’ve got that guy you like in here—that one from that movie where he goes to war and then he comes back and builds that big, old house.”
“Ryan Gosling.”
I hear the voice, and immediately, I look up.
Iva’s standing in the kitchen.
And just like that, all my words are lost.
“Were you hoping for Ryan Gosling?” she asks, with a sweet smile.
I feel my mouth turning up into an awkward grin.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just me.”
I still don’t have any words. I almost feel as if I’m dreaming, so I’m scared to say anything and wake myself up. But I’m also nervous. And my heart is about ready to beat right out of my chest. Why is she here? Had she somehow found out? Is she here to intercept, to let me down easy?
I just stare back at her. Her eyes are mesmerizing. I’ve forgotten how much I missed them—her. And after several more seconds, I finally find a small word.
“Hi,” I say.
Her gaze briefly falters.
“Hi,” she says, looking back up.
Neither of us moves. And neither of us says another word. I know time must keep going, but I could swear it’s stopped.
“Berlin ...”
Her word is somber, and I immediately cut her off. “Iva, I just had to give us one more shot. I just ... I had to.” I realize I’m rambling, but I keep going anyway. “We deserved one more chance; that’s all. I know you have your life there ... I wasn’t trying to interfere, necessarily ...”
“What?”
I find her blue-gray eyes. They look lost.
“The ticket I bought to see you,” I say.
Her expression doesn’t change.
“I ... I’m supposed to fly out Monday. I thought that was why you were here. I called your mom to get your address. I thought maybe she had told you.”
“You bought a ticket to New Zealand?”
I slowly nod. “Yeah.”
“Why did you buy a ticket to New Zealand?”
