by R. K. Ryals
I found myself wondering things as I lay awake, questioning myself and my feelings. Fear ate away at me. It was good that I was letting my heart fall, but was I doing it because I truly cared about Heathcliff on a primal level, or was it because I needed someone to help me through the pain of my uncle’s illness?
For two days, Heathcliff worked, and I accompanied my uncle to three separate appointments, two of them for lab work and another with his oncologist.
Each time I saw Heathcliff’s shoes in English class, my heart stuttered, my body heating. Each afternoon, that same heat was doused by chilling grief.
In all honesty, I think my uncle would have preferred to do his appointments alone, but my heart wouldn’t allow it. So, I sat next to him, our feet fidgeting against tiled floors and plastic chairs, the smell of antiseptic assaulting us. There was little conversation, just a lot of hand holding and swallowed worries.
Gregor was patient and understanding, but the doctor’s words washed over me garbled and loud. The cancer had spread, beginning first in his pancreas. They could give him something for pain, could do treatments to prolong life, but it was all very perfunctory. In the end, the cancer was too progressed. In the end, there was no saving him and no telling how much longer he’d live.
I wanted to scream and cry and fight, but I didn’t because Gregor wouldn’t want that. There’s nothing more confusing than knowing you’re going to lose someone you love and there’s nothing you can do about it. I felt like an egg with a fractured shell, the crack growing larger and larger until I was sure the insides would fall out, scrambled and undone. I wanted to ask Gregor how he felt, but I didn’t. I think he needed that semblance of calm strength, as if he needed to be strong for me to be strong for himself.
There were questions he did answer. He wanted to die at home, and the doctor discussed the care he was eligible for, the palliative nursing he may need as the pain progressed and his body became less able to function. For now, he’d continue as he always had until he just couldn’t anymore.
It was the second day that I asked to drive home. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to drive, I’d just never really had to before. There were a lot of things that were going to have to change. Driving was the least of them. I had a driver’s license, had taken both the written and hands on test when I was sixteen, but I’d rarely been behind the wheel.
Climbing into my uncle’s dented Ford Tempo, I took the steering wheel and stared as he stooped to get in, his face creased.
“I love you, Uncle Gregor,” I said suddenly.
I’m not sure what made me say the words just then. We’d said them plenty of times before, but this time was different. I needed him to know that someone loved him, that someone cared enough about him to change the way they lived to be there for him. He’d always been there for me.
Uncle Gregor shut the door behind him, his fatigued smile wide when his gaze met mine. “I love you, too.”
He settled back against the seat, and I began to drive, the road speeding beneath us, the trees outside blurring into one long line of green and brown, like a stroke of wild paint.
With one unreliable vehicle, I’d always walked while Gregor used the car, so it kind of surprised me that Heathcliff was right. Driving felt good.
“Why don’t we roll the windows down, Uncle?” I suggested.
He didn’t seem loathe to the idea, his eyes on the world beyond the metal body, and I opened the windows, the air rushing in around us. It smelled cleaner and wetter than the closed interior.
“Feels good, right?” I asked loudly.
Uncle Gregor glanced at me, his lined eyes crinkling. “I like you this way,” he replied.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel, a smile forming on my lips. “You look funny with the wind messing with your hair.”
He chuckled.
We passed a line of chicken houses, the foul odor rushing through the car, and Uncle Gregor threw me an amused look. “Hawthorne, how could you?”
“That was totally you,” I teased.
My laughter joined his, and it felt good. Outside, the world was pressing in on us, but it didn’t matter. Life wasn’t about the world beyond anymore. It was about moments. Little moments.
Something caught my eye outside, and I pulled the car over on the side of the road.
“Remember this?” I gasped.
Uncle Gregor sat up, his gaze finding an old silo. It was empty and rusted, the grain long gone. Beside it was a path, a trodden trail leading down to a small lake.
Gregor’s hand went to the door’s handle. Pushing it open, he stepped out, his fatigued face lifting to the bright sun above.
I joined him. “Gosh, I think I was maybe thirteen the last time we came here.”
My uncle had brought me here often when I was growing up. It was his thinking place, he’d told me. We’d play hide and seek in the silo, then trek down to the lake. He’d search the shallow water near the edge for things to study, and I’d fish. Occasionally, we’d take a boat out on the water, letting it float as we ate sandwiches or talked about things; books, people, school, or the future. We’d even fought on the lake’s edge. The first time had been about a cat. I’d had a list of reasons why we needed one, and Uncle Gregor had an equally impressive list of reasons why it wasn’t practical.
Then came the year I turned thirteen, the last year we’d come together. It had been a bad year for me. It was the year I started my period, and the year I found myself resenting Gregor for my parents’ absence. It was normal, he’d told me then, to hate him. It was my hormones, my repressed rage. At thirteen, I hadn’t cared about any of that. I just wanted someone to resent other than myself.
“I hate you!” I’d yelled, tears rushing down my cheeks.
Memories assaulted me as I stared at the silo and the path beside it.
My hand found my Uncle Gregor’s, my fingers wrapping around his. “I didn’t mean it, you know.”
He leaned against the car, his foot tapping. I think he wanted to walk to the lake but was too tired to attempt it. “Children often never mean it. I never thought you hated me. We all say that to the people we love at some point or another.”
Despite the winter month, the temperature outside wasn’t frigid, though it’d drop when night fell.
“Did you ever love anyone?” It was something I’d never thought to ask my uncle, something I’d never stopped to think about. “I mean, other than me. A significant other kind of love?”
Uncle Gregor smiled. “I did. It was remarkable, too. The kind you never forget.”
My startled gaze found his profile. “Where is she? Why didn’t it last?”
He sighed. “It wasn’t a she, Hawthorne. It was a him.”
I stared, his words and their implication sinking deep. “What?” My hand tightened in his. “Why didn’t I know this? Why didn’t you tell me?”
His smile was somewhere between sad and content. “Life happens. I guess I was worried about what my relationship would have done to you at the time. You were so little when your parents left, so young to be surrounded by the stigma their abandonment caused you. I didn’t want to add to that. By the time I realized I was wrong, that I was being selfish, I’d lost him.”
I gasped. “He found another partner?”
Gregor shrugged. “Maybe. He’d left the country for work, and it was impossible to follow him. I was tied up in court finishing up the paperwork for legal guardianship of you. You needed me, Hawthorne. I don’t regret the decision to stay.”
“Court?” I whispered.
He glanced at me. “There’s something you need to know. It’s time, and this is the perfect place to say it.” He took a shuddering breath. “Your parents planned to leave. I knew they were going. I figured it was easier on you believing that they’d just up and left one day rather than knowing they knew they wanted out. They decided to sign away their rights, and I went through the adoption process. Legally, you’re mine, Hawthorne. You’ve been mine
for a long time.”
A lump formed in my throat, a tear sliding down my cheek. I wasn’t sure which was worse. Being abandoned or having my parents plan to abandon me. They hadn’t just left on a whim, they’d put a six-year-old child up for adoption. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He studied my face. “Because everyone needs hope. At the time, I thought it was better for you to hope your parents would return than to hate us all. Because if you knew they’d planned to leave, then you’d realize that they never planned to return.” He blinked, and for the first time, I noticed the moisture in his eyes. “What you’ve got to remember, Hawthorne, is that despite what your parents did, there was someone who wanted you.”
The tears came fast and hard now, my chest heaving with the force. He hadn’t just wanted me, he’d sacrificed everything to keep me. Me.
It was in that moment I realized something. No matter how small the family, the love we shared was bigger than the lack of people in our home. Love built on sand is shaky, but love built on rocky shores can endure the strongest of storms.
“Do something for me,” I whispered. “Quit fighting. It’s okay to let go now. It’s okay to rest. For my sake.”
It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to say.
Chapter 8
It was Friday night, and I’d just climbed into Heathcliff’s pickup truck, my hands reaching for his familiar blue jean work jacket when he leaned over the seat and asked, “What’s your all-time favorite memory?”
My eyes came up to meet his in the dimming light. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Because the best nights should always begin with happy thoughts, and I figure you need those after the last two days.”
I stared, my pulse quickening. “You’ve given this some thought.”
He gripped the steering wheel, his eyes on the rearview mirror as he backed up and turned to pull out of the drive. “What? You couldn’t possibly be on my mind.” He glanced at me and winked. “You know, I think one of my all-time favorite memories is kissing you in a pile of hay.”
A laugh escaped me, the crisp night air blowing against my cheeks. “And now you’re fishing for compliments. I see how it is.” Pulling his jacket closer around me, I murmured, “It was one of mine, too.”
He grinned, his lips parting, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by my sudden words. “I was ten-years-old, and I wanted to fly. I was obsessed with books about airplanes, and I’d lie for hours in the fields next to the house and stare at the sky. One morning, my uncle woke me up early, babbling something about seeing the world before bundling me up and ushering me out of the house. He had a friend who owned a small private plane, and he’d arranged a flight. It was an amazing experience. We were so high, and I was looking at the world in an entirely new way. Everything below seemed so small, so distant and far away. From that far up, everything seemed so trivial. I wasn’t Hawthorne. I wasn’t wearing a glaring red “A” on my chest that screamed abandonment. I was just me, and I was flying.” My gaze jumped from Heathcliff’s profile to the window. “That night, my uncle took me to a small county fair on the outside of town, and we rode the Ferris wheel at least a dozen times because I didn’t want to get off. I’m not sure if it was because I wanted to see the lights in town or because I wanted to pretend to touch the stars. It was a magical night.”
Heathcliff turned the truck onto a dirt lane, the bumps making the Toyota bounce. “That’s a good memory, Hawthorne.” His hand dropped to the seat between us. “Come sit next to me?”
I scooted to the center of the truck, the feel of his arm as it fell across my shoulders cozy in the dark. Night made everything easier, made things that would seem awkward in daylight less uncomfortable and more certain.
“I like it when the power goes out,” Heathcliff said suddenly. “You know, during bad weather when the wind or lightning knocks out the electricity and plunges everything into darkness.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My family is so large. There’s always more than just my parents and me at home. We’ve always got cousins, nephews, aunts or uncles staying. There’s so much noise. Sometimes it’s like music, a comfortable sound, the constant laughter, the cheers during a football game or talk about work. But storms are a funny thing. When they knock out the lights, no matter how much noise there is, it’s like everyone just exhales and then there’s silence. Mom lights the candles she keeps around the house, and no one says anything. We just stop and listen to the rain. In those moments, I feel closer to my family than I do when we talk.”
There was silence after he spoke, and somehow I knew he’d never told anyone else that before.
He cleared his throat, lifting his arm from my shoulder long enough to pull the truck over on the side of the lane. There were other pickups, the sound of country music loud through the open windows. Headlights glared onto grass, sand, and dirt before landing on a creek beyond, the beams swallowed by the muddy rushing water. Laughter filled the air, quick shouts and ribald jokes.
Heathcliff glanced down at me. “Is that why your uncle calls you Hawthorne?” he asked abruptly. “Because you have an invisible “A” for abandonment across your chest?”
I sighed. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never asked him. He reads a lot of classic novels, and I guess I’ve just always assumed … I mean, he has all of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s work, including The Scarlett Letter.”
“I think you should ask him,” Heathcliff said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that’s why he calls you that.”
My gaze found his, his hazel eyes black in the darkness. “Maybe I should.”
He smiled, his teeth flashing. “You ready for this?” He nodded at the creek. “Even quiet people fit in here, Hawthorne.”
He pushed open his door and climbed out, his hand finding mine as he assisted me down after him. My shoes had barely hit the sand when Jessica Reeve’s giddy voice washed over us.
“Oh, my God! You came! Look who the cat drug in, Rebecca!” she cried.
Heathcliff’s hand tightened on mine as he tugged me across the sand into the glare of the headlights toward a crackling bonfire, the flames lifting from a large, rusted fire pit. Someone threw a crushed beer can into the blaze and sparks flew.
“Well, I’ll be!” Rebecca Martin called out. She approached us slowly, her gaze raking my form as she paused before Heathcliff. A belted tunic hugged her figure, the true color lost to the bright lights. Tan leggings paired with cowgirl boots adorned her legs, and a longneck beer bottle dangled from her manicured nails. “Max Vincent, I’ve been inviting you to these things all year, and this is the first time you’ve deigned to join us. Makes me miss last year when you were a regular.”
Heathcliff smiled. “I’ve been busier this year.”
“So I’ve heard,” she replied. “How’s Mams?”
“Good. For now.”
Rebecca nodded, and then glanced at me. “Glad you could make it. Ya’ll grab a beer if you didn’t bring any of your own. There’s plenty to go around.”
Brian Henry stumbled forward, two bottles in his hand. “It ain’t a party if you haven’t popped a top.” He laughed at his own joke, the beer shoved in our direction. Heathcliff accepted his. I did, too, but more slowly.
“I don’t think we’ve ever seen you at one of these,” Jessica said suddenly, her gaze on my face. Like Rebecca, she wore a long shirt but hers wasn’t belted, and it hung over a pair of skinny jeans, her boots resting against her knees. My black long sleeve shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes suddenly felt inadequate. Couple that with Heathcliff’s bulky work jacket, and I felt less somehow.
The tops had already been removed from the beers, and I took a steadying swallow. “I’ve actually never been out here,” I responded. “Not this creek anyway.”
Rebecca giggled, and for the first time I noticed how red her eyes were. It was obvious she’d had more than just beer. She kept glancing at her feet as if she wasn’t sure the sand was still there. “You should totally come he
re more.” She tried pointing at me, but her finger poked at Heathcliff instead. “I bet you look utterly awesome under all of those clothes,” she told me. “I know I do, but I’m totally all enhanced.” She giggled louder. “I know you know my mom. Pageant director and all around perfect Southern Belle. I’ve been under the knife three times already, and that’s not counting the boob job I have lined up when I turn eighteen in a few months.”
She turned up her beer, and Brian leaned in to support her as she stumbled.
Jessica laughed. “If ya’ll want something more than beer, we’ve got that, too. Obviously.”
“We’re okay,” Heathcliff said. “The beer is plenty.”
A slow country song came on, and Rebecca gasped. “I love this one! Come on, Brian, let’s dance!”
She jerked him into the middle of the circle of pickups, her body undulating with the beat, her arms coming up to encompass Brian’s neck. He stood behind her, his eyes bright as she clung to him, her movements bringing them indecently close. For a moment, conversation lulled as people watched them dance, pulses quickening. More beer cans hit the fire. Other couples joined Brian and Rebecca, most of them immodest, their lips melded or their hips grinding.
I swallowed more alcohol.
“Is that your first beer?” Heathcliff asked.
He took a long swig of his, and I watched as he sighed, his gaze going to the couples on the sand.
“No,” I answered abruptly.
Surprised, he glanced at me. “No?”
I grinned. “It’s true that my uncle and I haven’t spent a whole lot of time in town, but I’m not that sheltered. Gregor has always had an adventurous spirit. He likes science, and does some consulting work for a company near New Orleans. He’s taken me with him occasionally. I’ve been in bars, and I’ve had beers. Plus, my uncle has a liquor cabinet in his office. He likes adding a splash to his coffee or a coke sometimes, and I’ll usually have a little with him.”
