by Nicole Meier
Cranking on the defrost, she wondered where to go. It was Sunday. The day most people reserved for spending time with family. But right then, that was the furthest thing from her mind. She craved alone time. A chance to gather her thoughts.
It was strange to think that all she’d wanted yesterday was for Charlie to return. And now that he was back, attentive and ready for interaction, Sara couldn’t stand to be in the same room. What did she even want?
She needed some kind of direction.
Inserting her thumb between her front teeth, she nibbled on a rough cuticle and deliberated.
Think.
It was crucial to be somewhere quiet. Preferably somewhere she’d have anonymity. Pampering sounded nice, but she couldn’t exactly walk in and check in to a spa. For one thing, she didn’t have an appointment. Going for a run wasn’t an option either. Her street attire wasn’t optimal, and she had no intention of walking back into the house to get a change of clothes. Letting the car idle a second longer, she did her best to gather her thoughts. Where did she used to go to be alone, before Charlie and Sam? What place always had the ability to ground her in times of chaos? Someplace that would connect her to the joy she’d been missing.
An idea jiggled free. Of course.
Glimpsing the time, she calculated. It should still be open if she hurried. Angling the wheel, she headed the car north toward the city.
Pulling up to the two-and-a-half-block campus of the Portland Art Museum, Sara quickly scanned the streets for parking. The universe must have taken pity on her, because a spot opened up on the road ahead. As she eased alongside the curb, the coils of tension that ran down her back gave way and released.
She glanced at her phone. Four o’clock. She still had an hour until closing.
Climbing the short flight of stairs to the unassuming red brick entrance, she dug around in her purse for cash. A clump of coins jangled into her palm. At that moment, she was reminded of Joanne.
Back when Sara was young, and they didn’t have much to live on, Joanne could sometimes scrape together enough for museum trips, no matter the city. For as wacky as her mother was, with often-unsound decision-making skills in other arenas, Joanne prided herself on being a faithful patron of the arts. And while Sara’s father may not have been around any longer to lend his knowledge or further encourage Sara’s sprouting artistic talents, Joanne at least made a sporadic effort to expose her to a small piece of this world.
Her mother had one good outfit reserved for such visits: a gauzy floral scarf draped around the shoulders of a burgundy dress. Sara closed her eyes for a flash and recalled it like it was yesterday. She used to think of it as her mother’s museum outfit. Joanne would tilt a handful of coins in Sara’s small grasp and tell her to purchase two passes. It was a treat of an outing, and they both knew it. The museum days would stretch from morning until night, not a single hour of rare indulgence wasted.
Sara would wander from room to room in awe. She’d sometimes linger in front of the bronze sculptures, glimpsing around before squeezing her eyes tightly shut, casting a silent wish that one day she’d work as an artist. That was her dream. Even if no one recognized her the way they did her dad, she wouldn’t care. As long as she got to return to the clay creations she loved. That would have been enough.
But sadly, this dream was never realized. Not after TR left, taking his art supplies and Sara’s hope right along with him. After that, the needs of Sara’s fragile mother quickly became all consuming. Sara was forced to grow up too fast, to cast her childhood dreams aside as mere frivolity. More practical matters, like surviving with a depressed woman with spotty income, required her attention. And so the artist’s dream quietly faded away.
Sara paid for her ticket and walked through the cool marbled lobby. Not growing up with any one religion, she imagined this was what church might be like for many people. A warm hug.
She’d been here before with Sam. And while most people came to this particular venue for Monet’s Water Lilies and the vast collection of Native American art, she had other favorites.
The museum was small but had been known to feature an extensive variety of works. Years ago, before Sam, Sara had come two days in a row just to stare at the traveling Degas exhibit. She’d been particularly mesmerized by Degas’s Dancer Adjusting Her Dress, an arresting pastel-on-paper profile of a skirted ballerina. The sketch was of a young girl unaware, her focus cast off in the distance while the artist surreptitiously captured her thoughtful reflection. It had taken Sara to places deeply personal.
She knew that girl. She loved that girl.
The similarities between Degas’s dancer and the Girl Rising sculpture created by her father branded a mark on Sara’s heart. A piece of both of their lives had been stolen and put on display for the world to see.
Sara wondered if anyone else noticed. But she never asked.
TR’s art didn’t ever show anywhere in Portland. And perhaps it was just as well. Despite the fact that he’d spent his later years living a mere stone’s throw away, his creations remained housed in larger metropolitan areas. No, this museum was left for Sara’s exploration without the overbearing presence of her father.
Sara strolled the rooms, wandering from exhibit to exhibit, taking in the strange beauty of twisted sculptures and moody paintings. Each corner held a different mystery: a photo here and an inkblot there. Each had its own narrative.
She drifted into a lower room: cool as a basement and still as a tomb. It was filled with serene music that beckoned her to sit awhile. She obliged her senses, choosing an upholstered bench; she absorbed the subdued aura of it all and imagined what it might be like to let go temporarily.
A dreamy state overcame her. This was what she needed to feel whole again. Whatever anger she’d arrived with had melted away at the door.
Instead of her life constantly being interrupted by others, she could find freedom here, integrating herself into someone else’s reality.
Today was just for her, to leisurely hold an indulgence.
If only for a little while.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SARA
“Where have you been?” Charlie questioned Sara when she came home after their spat.
The corners of his mouth were pulled down; a glint of fear shone behind his expression. Sara noted, for the first time, that Charlie was genuinely troubled. Her so-called disappearing act, as he put it, had disconcerted him.
“I needed a minute to myself. You get that luxury all the time when you travel. I don’t. I’m always here, taking care of people. You don’t know what that’s like day in and day out without a moment’s peace for yourself. How could you?” Her tone was sharp and self-justifying, and she regretted the response almost as soon as it left her lips. She’d wanted to attempt to explain her need to run away. But on reflex, it came out as a heated defense for her actions.
“Right, it’s all just paradise on my end,” Charlie spat, not taking any punches. “I only have an entire flight, crew, copilot, and passengers to care for. No responsibilities at all! No problems whatsoever! My job is inconsequential compared to yours, is that it? That’s pretty narrow of you, Sara.” The pulsing vein in Charlie’s neck confirmed she’d gone too far.
Their conversation had escalated once again, resentment and misunderstanding brewing on both of their ends. It wasn’t the shape Sara hoped their marriage would take. She wanted to tell Charlie this, but stubbornness got in the way. He stalked off, leaving her sad and depleted.
It wasn’t right to fight when their son was in shouting distance; poor Sam kept to his room, likely to avoid friction. Comforting himself with his Legos and books. Sara forced herself to push her marital strife to the side and focus on the other men in her house.
With all four of them under one roof, the house was now suddenly bursting with needs, all of which shared a common denominator—Sara.
Despite their arguing, Charlie made a pronounced effort all week to stick around and be involve
d. Sara supposed that through his anger he’d heard Sara on some level. She was afraid he was removing himself from their lives. Charlie must have realized that right now she needed backup. She thawed a little, thanking him for his helpfulness.
Charlie shuttled Sam places, made small talk with TR, and even dragged the rusty lawn mower out from the depths of the garage to tidy up the yard. Sara was grateful. But also confused and disappointed. All of this self-induced busy work brought him back into the family, but it managed to once again inch out space for everything else.
A palpable absence existed.
Charlie and Sara slept in the same bed, ate at the same dinner table, and shared polite conversation around Sam and an albeit dubious TR. But they hadn’t addressed anything deeper. The activities of a full household kept interrupting them.
Sara quietly agonized. She did her best to compartmentalize her fears—a honed skill she’d taught herself when living with Joanne. Instead, her energy was thrust into a different mission: TR’s departure.
In this regard, her research was proving futile.
For one thing, the police detectives she’d left messages for were hesitant to share their findings. Even when she’d informed them she was TR’s daughter and primary caregiver, they claimed the investigation did not involve her. All findings were kept tightly under wraps. And when she’d asked TR, he snipped that he’d already told her all her knew. It was beyond maddening.
With so little to go on, Sara was even more resolute to get to the bottom of the issue. Her plan to make a change had been simmering for days.
It was now Thursday, and TR’s next doctor’s appointment was scheduled for the following Monday. Nurses from the burn unit had made sporadic phone check-ins since he’d arrived, but the doctor wanted to lay eyes on the wounds and make sure his patient was healing properly. Sara couldn’t agree more. She’d been flying blind. It would be a relief to have a professional opinion.
Sandpoint wasn’t very big; she didn’t foresee any trouble once she got there. It was just a matter of delivering TR to his doctor’s appointment and utilizing her time wisely. She didn’t yet feel ready to share the plan with TR. He’d been cagey at best, and she needed to decipher why without him getting in the way.
Packing up Sam’s lunch, Sara went over a list of ideas for her trip.
“Getting the boy off to school, are you?”
Lost in thought, she hadn’t heard TR come up behind her, and she started. “Oh, good morning,” she stammered. It was silly to blush. It wasn’t as if he could read her thoughts. “Yes, just packing up some food.”
Still in his robe, TR bellied up to the counter and eyed the colorful bento box full of carrot sticks, broccoli, and hummus. He screwed up his face. “Whatever happened to peanut butter and jelly? Or a solid egg-salad sandwich? Now, those are the best!”
Sara shook her head. “Uh, no. Those may have been the best when you were younger, but not these days. Peanuts are out, for one thing. Too many kids with allergies. And mushy egg salad? Gross. Sam would rather die.”
TR parked himself on a stool and slapped a palm onto the counter in rebuttal.
“Nonsense! That kind of food builds fortitude! Besides”—he waggled his fingers over the lunch items—“how’s he going to get excited about a box stuffed with cold vegetables?”
Sara snapped the container shut and shoved it alongside a bag of bagel chips. “Oh, he’ll do just fine. You’d be surprised at the stuff his friends bring to school. Some kid always brings cartons of Thai food, another one is strictly Paleo . . .”
“Why do people like that kind of food? Even the name sounds unappetizing, like a disease!”
Sara rolled her eyes. Her father was an out-of-touch caveman. “It’s a healthy diet that cuts out grains, dairy, and sugar. Among other things. Good, clean nutrition.”
TR’s eyes bulged. “No dairy! What the hell is this world coming to? I don’t understand you Portland yuppies one bit. Too many excuses not to eat regular food. What’s wrong with cheese?”
Her lips pressed together. Criticizing her was never a habit of his when she’d been younger. Why was he so disapproving now? She wanted to inform her father no one had used the term “yuppie” since the 1980s but thought better of it. He clearly held a firm distaste for new concepts.
Reaching for a box of cookies, she responded. “Nothing’s wrong with cheese. It’s just some people have figured out ways to eat that make them feel better. That’s all. You should try cutting some things from your diet. You might be surprised.” Like grain alcohol and five spoonfuls of sugar in your morning coffee.
“Humph.”
“If it makes you feel better, he’s getting dessert with his lunch.” She held out the cookie box and rattled. “See?”
“Someday I’ll take the boy out to lunch, and we’ll eat a man’s meal. None of this vegetarian bullshit.”
Sara checked her periphery to make sure Sam hadn’t emerged from his bedroom yet. TR’s volume was rising.
Was he claiming her son didn’t have the makings to be a man? What defined that anyway? She could only imagine what his remark meant. Consuming bloody steaks and fried potatoes, likely. That and bottomless snifters of bourbon.
“Okay, TR. You get yourself better, and we’ll see about that. And by the way, stop calling him ‘the boy.’ He has a name, you know. It’s Sam.”
“I know that!” TR groused. Avoiding eye contact, he got up and prepared his black coffee with sugar.
Sara wasn’t sure he did know this. If she didn’t know better, her father was having trouble remembering new things. Information in his brain was sticking, refusing to be shaken free. Was it stubbornness or the early onset of dementia? It shouldn’t surprise her that, at sixty-nine, TR had become set in his ways. But how hard was it to learn her son’s name? It was his only grandson, after all.
And come to think of it, he hadn’t really referred to Charlie by name either. Currently, Charlie was out for a run. She’d have to see how TR addressed him when he got back. So far, it had been mostly “that husband of yours.”
Was this a result of her father’s memory escaping him or TR simply not caring? Were these people considered inconsequential? The thought made her heart sink.
There were others TR refused to acknowledge as well. Like Joanne. Surely he hadn’t forgotten Sara’s mother. But he hadn’t even broached the subject. Had he blocked his ex-wife from his memory like something unpleasant, a topic never to be discussed again? Sara tried to tamp down the hurt feelings that came with this notion. If she dwelled on it too long, the stinging behind her eyes would return.
Didn’t TR even want to know the details about Joanne’s passing? Up until now, he’d yet to utter her name. That was the biggest affront.
It was as if her mother hadn’t existed at all.
She supposed TR and her mother were opposite in this respect. Where Joanne would let her messy feelings tumble out without a filter, never bothering to worry how they might affect others, TR held his opinions close to his chest. Perhaps this was one of the reasons they’d split. They were two vastly different human beings.
Was this how she and Charlie were perceived? She shook the notion from her head.
“So, TR,” she began. “How’s it going with changing your own bandages?”
Silence.
“TR?” The week prior, Sara had handed over the reins of wound care to her father. He wasn’t hobbling as much anymore, and his full range of motion had almost completely returned. On top of this, the unsettling seeping of fluids had all but dried up. Things had progressed quite nicely, if she did say so herself. It seemed like the appropriate time to turn over the daily responsibility.
TR shifted in his seat. He fiddled with a spoon.
“Haven’t had a chance to check them yet.”
Sara’s mouth popped open.
Haven’t had a chance? It had been days. He’d had nothing but chances. Between slurping down her cooking and forever lounging on her living roo
m sofa, what else had there been?
“You’ve got to change those things!” she blurted out. This stubborn bastard was undoing all her good work. Didn’t he know this?
“Humph.”
“You’re not so infirm that you can’t handle your own dressing. We were doing so well!” A bundle of carrots cascaded onto the floor as she jerked her arm across the counter. Bending at the knees, she scooped up the spill and shoved everything back into the refrigerator. “What is the doctor going to say when he sees you next week?”
“I’ll be fine. Nothing a little ointment and some gauze can’t fix.” He pushed from his seat, turning to leave.
What was it with the men in this family? At the first sign of confrontation, they took off. She could nearly set her clock to it.
“I’m going to do it right now!” he hollered. “Stop being so goddamned bossy!”
Sara squeezed a tea towel and clenched her jaw until it hurt. She very much wanted to hurl something at the wall. How was she going to get her father to live on his own when he couldn’t perform the simplest of tasks?
She was about to spit out a retort when Sam entered.
“What was Grandpa yelling about now?”
Sara’s gut twisted. Her sweet, beautiful boy was already referring to TR as Grandpa, when the man couldn’t even be bothered to learn his grandchild’s name. Every ounce of Sara wanted to swoop Sam into a mama bear hug and shield him from the heartbreaking relationship he was entering. But she feared it might be too late for that. And she had no one to blame but herself.
“Oh, he’s just extra grumpy in the mornings. Comes with old age. That’s all. Here, sit down and eat some breakfast. We have to leave in a few minutes. If you hurry, you’ll have time.”
Placated by this answer, Sam shrugged and helped himself to a bowl of cereal. Sara watched as he tipped a jug of milk precariously close to the edge. A warning hung on her lips, but then TR’s words rang in her ears. Stop being so goddamned bossy.
