What the Heart Remembers

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “Any other damage?” Annie asks.

  Oliver knows the news about the back porch will upset Annie—it is where she sits to crochet and read—but he cannot bring himself to tell her the lie she wants to hear.

  “I’m sorry, the back porch is…”

  The word “gone” is on the tip of his tongue, but he holds it back. Gone has such a final sound. Being gone is the same as being dead. Instead he says, “Irreparably damaged.”

  Annie’s eyes grow teary. “Irreparably? You mean it can’t be fixed?”

  He gives a solemn nod. “What was there can’t be fixed, but it can be replaced.”

  Ophelia already knows the porch is gone. She has seen it in her mind’s eye, the same as she saw the tall pine come down on the house. She takes Annie’s hand in hers and pats it reassuringly.

  “The porch was only sticks of wood and patches of screen. It’s not something to fret about.”

  “It’s just that we made such beautiful memories out there…”

  Annie is remembering the night Oliver came home from the hospital, and her voice is thick with the sound of melancholy.

  “And you’ve still got those,” Ophelia reminds her. “The only things lost were bits of wood and screen.

  “I know,” Annie replies, but the sadness is still there.

  In the dark of a moonless night there is no way to assess the damage, so this night Annie and Oliver sleep in one of the downstairs bedrooms with Ophelia across the hall. Although the loft appears unharmed, there is no way to know for certain.

  It feels as though they have barely closed their eyes when the gray light of morning comes. The storm is gone, but the clouds are thick and so low the giant oak disappears into their midst. There is still no electricity, but the gas stove works as does the water heater. After a quick shower, Oliver pulls on jeans and steps outside to access the damage.

  It is everywhere. Two trees are down, one of them lying across the driveway. Shingles and pieces of wood are scattered across the yard, and although the wisteria bushes have not been torn from the ground they are flattened and will need to be staked.

  It’s obvious Oliver will not be going to the courthouse today. When he tries to call he discovers that without electricity the cordless phones are useless. His only hope is the landline in the hallway. He lifts the receiver and after a long wait finally gets a dial tone.

  The call goes through, but it rings and rings with no answer. Just as he is about to hang up, there is a “Hello?” on the other end.

  “Who’s this?” Oliver asks.

  “Fred.” Fred is the night custodian of the building.

  “Oh, hi, Fred. This is Judge Doyle. Is anyone else at the courthouse?”

  “No, sir. Everything downtown’s closed. The stores, everything. The streetlights ain’t even working.”

  “Has there been any news about what happened?”

  “Man on the radio said a storm stalled overhead and there was buncha tornados. Burnsville and Wyattsville got the worst a’ it.”

  “Any fatalities?”

  “He ain’t said.”

  Annie has breakfast ready by the time Oliver hangs up. There is no coffee, but there is black tea, bacon, eggs and biscuits. As the three of them sit down to eat, Ophelia says a prayer thanking the Lord that this was not her time. For years she wished only to be reunited with Edward; now she would prefer to wait a bit longer. The thought of being a grandmother is a future she looks forward to.

  After seeing the tree that blocks the driveway, Oliver is anxious to get started.

  “Do you know if there’s a saw or maybe an axe around here?” he asks.

  Ophelia nods. “I think there’s something in the storage shed.”

  Oliver woofs down the last piece of bacon then pulls on his rubber boots and tromps out to the shed. There he finds a handsaw and a bone-dry chain saw. Taking a chance on the chain saw, he siphons gas from the tank of his car, fills the reservoir then yanks the starter cord. Nothing. He tries again and then again. On the third pull it starts.

  He gives a smile of satisfaction and heads for the tree blocking the driveway.

  Annie is now thirty-six weeks along. Oliver’s first priority is to clear the drive so if something happens he will be able to get her to the hospital. That is, if the hospital is operational.

  Being without news is like being stuck at the bottom of a well. Hopefully the electricity will be back on before the day is out.

  Ophelia

  I told Annie the back porch was nothing to worry about, that it was only sticks of wood and pieces of screen, but that was a lie. The porch meant as much to me as it did to her. Maybe more. Every splinter of wood was filled with memories: memories of the nights Edward and I would sit outside looking up at the stars and planning all the things we’d one day do.

  Back then I didn’t have this gift for seeing how things were going to happen, and perhaps it’s better that way. Just because you can see the inevitability of a tragedy doesn’t mean you can stop it from happening. God knows if I had the power to change the course of events, Edward would still be here today.

  Annie and Oliver are young and just getting started with their life. Before the year is out they’ll rebuild the porch and start making new memories. Me, I’m too old for such a thing. I cling to the old memories, the ones that are worn thin and covered with cobwebs. Even though they are old, to me they are as comforting as a flannel bathrobe.

  This morning I stepped outside, looked up at where the porch used to be and felt the tears coming to my eyes. There was a little bitty piece of white wood lying on the ground, so I picked it up and held on to it. I knew it was part of the baseboard Edward painted all those years ago.

  As I stood there thinking about all that was lost, I started realizing I hadn’t lost anything. I still had all my memories. I even had a piece of the baseboard to hold on to.

  Looking at that piece of wood in my hand made me think back on something Edward once said. I was fretting over a handkerchief I’d lost and he told me, “Opie, you’ve got to enjoy what you have and quit worrying about what you’ve lost. Worry just makes a person crazy and takes away the pleasure of life.”

  A few minutes later I found three more pieces of that same baseboard, and that’s when I knew it was Edward’s way of showing me he’d been there all along. He’d been watching over me, the same as he’s done for all these years.

  The d’Orsay

  On Tuesday afternoon Max is waiting in the lobby of the Hotel Baltimore when Andrew comes rushing through the front door.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” he says. “The meeting ran longer than expected.”

  “No problem,” Max replies, and she means it. Sometime late last night she slid Andrew into the same category as Annie and Ophelia: a friend worth waiting for. A friend with no stigma or expectations attached.

  “I only got here fifteen minutes ago,” she says.

  “Good,” he replies. “I’m glad you weren’t—”

  Without waiting for him to finish she adds, “I stopped at the museum on the way over and got our tickets. It’s a two-day museum pass, so if you want to go to the Louvre tomorrow you can.”

  “Did you also get one for yourself?” he asks.

  She nods. “Of course. I love being at the museums. No matter how often I go, it seems new every time. Even if you’re looking at the same painting, there’s always some detail or unique brush stroke you’ve missed seeing before. It gives me a bit of a thrill when I find something like that.”

  The anticipation in her voice is something Andrew has not heard before. He smiles and says, “I’ll have the desk call for a taxi.”

  “No taxi. The metro is faster.” She reaches into her pocket. “It’s only three stops, and I’ve already got tickets.”

  The corner of Andrew’s mouth curls. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “Well, now that I’ve got some money in my pocket, I can afford to be adventuresome.” She hesitates then adds,
“Thanks to you.”

  As they descend the station stairs, she hands him a ticket and says, “You’ve ridden the metro before, haven’t you?”

  “Afraid not. I told you it’s the airport, ho—”

  “I know,” she teases, “it’s the airport, hotel, the client’s office, then back to the airport.”

  She slides her ticket into the turnstile slot and waits for it to pop out, and then he does the same thing. They wait one minute and twenty-six seconds for a train and arrive at the museum shortly before two.

  The moment they step inside Andrew says, “Wow, this place is awesome.” He is looking up at the rounded glass ceiling of the main hall.

  “Beautiful, huh?”

  He nods. “I’ll say.”

  “The ceiling is high because this was once a train station. The main platform was right here in this very same spot.” She sidles up to Andrew and whispers, “If you close your eyes and listen, you can still hear the sound of trains coming and going from the station.”

  “Hear what trains?” he asks. Andrew, like Oliver, is a left-brain person. He thinks in terms of logic, and there is none in such a statement.

  Max grins. She is a right-brained daydreamer who feels rhythms, colors and spatial awareness. The memories in this hall are stronger than any Max has ever found. It is where she first discovered the auras that are left behind. On the coldest days of January she could come to this hall and smell the aroma of the roasted chestnuts that street vendors once sold. She cannot begin to count the number of days she sat on the side of the marble stair and did nothing but envision the trains rolling in and out of the station. When she let go of everything else, Max could hear the swish of long skirts as women passed by and feel the courtliness of the men who walked beside them.

  She sighs. “I could spend a year in this hallway alone, but since we’ve got less than four hours let’s start on the fifth floor. You’ll love the Impressionists gallery.”

  They take the elevator to the fifth floor then stroll from room to room, admiring the works of the nineteenth-century masters along with paintings just as beautiful but created by lesser known artists.

  Stopping in front of Cezanne’s Apples and Oranges, Max says, “See how he’s captured the fullness of summer? This picture makes me hunger for a piece of fruit that beautiful and sweet.”

  “Yeah,” Andrew says. “Me too.” But he’s looking at Max, not the picture.

  They move past Olympia and several other Edouard Manet paintings, then stand for several minutes in front of the huge painting depicting Courbet’s studio. When they come to Monet’s Blue Water Lilies, it is Andrew who stops.

  “Wow,” he says. “I like the mood he created here. You can see it’s water lilies, but they seem more ethereal than regular water lilies.”

  “The water lily paintings are what Monet’s famous for. They’re supposedly scenes from the garden at his house. I’ve heard it’s beautiful beyond words, but I can’t say for sure because I’ve never seen it.”

  This surprises Andrew. “Why not?”

  “It’s in Giverny, about an hour from Paris. You need a car to get there.”

  For the first time today, thoughts of Julien cross her mind. He had a motorbike. He could have taken her, but every time she asked he had something more important to do.

  “Why not rent a car and drive out?” Andrew says.

  “I was a student back then with barely enough money to pay the rent. Now…” She scrunches her nose. “It’s not much fun going alone.”

  “No, I meant why don’t I rent a car and the two of us can take a ride out there together. I’d like to see it.”

  “You would? You’d really like to see it?”

  “Yes,” Andrew answers emphatically. “I really would. Now that you’ve gotten me into this sightseeing thing, I’m actually enjoying it.” He smiles. “Plus having you along makes me feel like I’ve got my own expert guide.”

  It is the first time in a number of years, but Max feels her cheeks grow warm. She is blushing. Actually blushing.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” she says. “But don’t you have meetings to go to?”

  “I can wrap it up tomorrow morning, then in the afternoon we can do the Louvre and Thursday we can drive out to—Giverny, was it?”

  Max nods. “Yes, Giverny.”

  When they finally leave the museum, it is only because the closing chimes have sounded.

  “Time flies in here, doesn’t it?” Max says.

  Andrew nods. “I never thought I’d enjoy spending time in a museum as much as I have today. Once I got through law school, I wasn’t interested in anything that wasn’t physical. My big interests were racquetball, tennis and golf. But today…”

  “I’ve never done even one of those things,” Max says, laughing. “So I guess we all find our comfort zone and stay there.”

  “Well, since you’ve shown me the joy of a museum, I think it only fair that you let me drag you out for a game of golf. You just might like it.”

  Max grins. “I’d be terrible. I’m so clumsy I’d embarrass you in front of all your friends, make a fool of myself—”

  He chucks her under the chin and tilts her face up toward his. “I doubt you could ever look foolish,” he says. There is more to this thought and it is on the tip of his tongue, but it is too soon so he holds the words back.

  With his mouth only inches from hers, Max fears he is going to kiss her. She could easily enough be carried away but hopes it will not happen. Although it would be good to feel his mouth pressed against hers he is not Julien, and this friendship is too lovely to spoil with a moment of passion.

  She drops her head ever so slightly, but it is enough to take the focus of his eyes from hers.

  “Maybe I could do tennis,” she says. “It seems a bit less intimidating.”

  Andrew grins. “Okay, when we get home, it’s a date!”

  His words cause a worrisome tick in Max’s head. She tries to brush it away with the rationale that he is referring to a date not in the romantic sense but simply as a scheduled event to put on the calendar.

  She gives him a crooked smile and says, “Okay, we’ll schedule a tennis game when we get home.”

  Now that the thought has become nothing more than a scheduled appointment, Max feels relieved.

  “There’s a great little café not far from here,” she suggests. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”

  “Only if you let me pay,” Andrew says.

  “No way.” Max laughs. “You paid yesterday, it’s my turn today. Don’t forget, I’ve now got money in my pocket.”

  “Oh, right.” He hooks his arm onto hers and says, “Lead the way.”

  The Louvre

  On Wednesday Andrew arrives at the Lazar Offices before eight; he is anxious to get the meeting started and over with. Thoughts of Max are stuck in his head, and it is impossible to push them aside. Even as John Connor, the Canadian representative, rattles on about the need to revise a clause in the sixth paragraph on the nineteenth page of a contract, he hears Max’s voice. Her laughter is warm and her words filled with enthusiasm when she tells the story of one painting or another.

  As he thinks back on her delight in Cezanne’s Apples and Oranges, their first meeting comes to mind. Max had not seen him standing in the doorway as she told Annie, “This better not be a fix-up, because I am not even remotely interested in anything romantic.”

  Why would she say such a thing, he wonders? There has been no mention of a boyfriend, and yesterday when he leaned in to kiss her she’d held her face to his. Only at the very last moment did she turn away. Why?

  Perhaps a bad experience, one such as he’d had with Liza. He’d had plans and the best of intentions. He’d already bought an engagement ring and was simply waiting for the right moment to pop the question. The right moment never came, because she left town with a man she’d known for less than a month. After Liza he didn’t date for a full year, and not once has he been inclined to pursue anythin
g more than an occasional concert or a few casual dinners.

  “Well, don’t you agree?” Connor repeats loudly.

  Andrew is caught off guard and stumbles over his words. “Sorry, I was checking the client release form. Can you give me that again?”

  Connor reads the entire clause again. It is long and cumbersome, filled with legal terms such as “amicus curiae,” “de facto,” “concurrent claims” and “ex parte.” He speaks in a monotone voice that is as annoying as the hum of a bee.

  Andrew feigns interest but is still thinking of Max. When Connor finally finishes speaking, Andrew gives a nod of agreement then says they need to wrap this up as he has another meeting this afternoon.

  “I’ve several more contract issues to review,” Connor says.

  Andrew knows these are nit-picky things. A word here, a word there, endless hours of listening to a man who simply wants to command center stage for as long as possible. He glances down at his watch. It is already eleven.

  “I have to leave,” he says, “but why don’t you continue the meeting and send me the minutes with any agreed upon changes.”

  “What if you don’t agree with the changes?” Connor asks.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll agree.”

  “Without hearing them through?”

  “I trust your judgment,” Andrew says. He opens his briefcase, places his copies of the contract and agenda on top, shakes hands with Peter Lazar and leaves.

  Max is leafing through a magazine in the lobby of the Hotel Baltimore when he hurries in.

  “You’re early,” she says.

  Andrew smiles. “The meeting wrapped up earlier than expected. I thought maybe we could have lunch before going to the Louvre.”

  “You like sandwiches?” she asks.

  When he answers yes, she suggests they buy baguettes and eat outside. “We can sit by the fountain in front of the Louvre. It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Yes, beautiful.” When Andrew says this he is again looking at Max’s face. She is even lovelier than he’d remembered. As she stands and hooks her arm through his, a stray thought in the back of his head warns, Be careful. He ignores it.