by R. S. Lively
I sigh.
"Alright. Well, what can I do to help you with this?"
"Do you remember anything Gramps taught you about flooring?"
"I remember exactly nothing about anything Gramps taught me about flooring."
Cade smiles at me, and my body involuntarily trembles. The space between us has gradually lessened, and the resistance I've felt toward him is slowly falling away. I feel like we've fallen back into the pattern we've always had. The years have started to blur, and we're moving closer to the way we used to be. I can't deny that my heart flutters when he smiles at me, or that my insides melt when his hand accidentally brushes mine. I want Cade closer to me. I crave the private, hidden space we used to share with one another. There are still so many lingering, unanswered questions hanging over us. I honestly don't know if I’ll ever be brave enough to say the words that have been on my mind for the last ten years. And I really don’t know if I’m strong enough to hear his response.
Cade
That afternoon…
Fiona wipes the back of her hand across her forehead and lets out a long breath, planting her hands on her hips as I toss another armful of debris into the back of my truck. She looks at me, her eyes sagging with exhaustion. I have to admit I'm impressed by all the hard work she's put in so far. It's like something has abruptly shifted in her, leaving her compelled to take part in the various projects I have going throughout the house. When we were younger, she would have run as far as she possibly could to escape having to do anything like hauling soggy, musty boxes or trying to piece together a floor broken under circumstances I'm not sure I want to know. After the visual of Grammie attempting to roller disco, I think knowing what happened to the floor might be too much for me.
After what I witnessed today, it's obvious Fiona's willingness to push herself through challenges has changed. The extent of her skill is roughly the same, but she's adorable when trying, so I'll go along with it. My eyes scan down her body and rest on the full swells of her breasts spilling over the neckline of her fitted olive tank top.
"Maybe we should go ahead and stop for the day," I say. "We've gotten a lot done, and it's hot as hell out here. Heat exhaustion can creep up on you before you expect it. Let's bring this to the dump and then take it easy."
"That sounds good to me," she replies.
We both climb into the truck, and her eyes flutter closed as she tilts her head back onto the headrest.
"It'll be good when we can get a trash bin out here," I say.
She nods, closing her eyes as I pull out of the driveway and start down the winding road toward the landfill. The nice blue and white sign at the entrance now calls it the Hoot Owl Convenience Center, but that does little to beautify the mounds of trash and piles of recycling located nearly half an hour from the house. Following little signs along the way, we keep on a path that brings us to a relatively new-looking section of the landfill. A lone bulldozer, its yellow paint faded and chipped, drives in lazy rows back and forth along one of the mounds in front of us. Occasionally it picks up a scoopful of trash, brings it over to another section of the mound, and dumps it out. I'm sure at the root of this there is a purpose, but at the moment it doesn't seem the operator has fully grasped it.
Fiona wakes up when I shut off the engine, blearily rubbing her eyes. We climb out of the truck and make our way to the back, where we start unloading years of unwanted junk from Grammie's basement. Fiona had added in a few items from her bedroom, and their bright colors stand in stark contrast to the shade of soggy brown shared by the rest of the load. For the next several minutes we gather armfuls of boxes and toss them onto nearby piles of trash. Finally, we each make our final trek and pause to take a brief break. I notice Fiona's eyes drift up and I follow her gaze.
Above us, the sky is starting to look angry again. Another storm is rolling in, and within seconds, the sun is blotted out. Fiona looks at me nervously.
"That doesn't look good," she says.
I shrug.
"It's only summer," I say, trying to reassure her. "You know that’s thunderstorm season out here."
"I like how you say that like I've never been here before. Like moving out to the city has erased my memory of what it was like to grow up in Hoot Owl."
We climb back into the truck, and I turn the engine over.
"I remember curling up with you under a blanket in the living room when the power went out," I say. "You'd grab that huge old flashlight Gramps had, and we'd wrap up in the middle of the floor to wait it out."
She laughs, securing her seatbelt as we start toward the exit.
"I don't know what was always so comforting about the floor," she says. "I'm not sure what it was about a thunderstorm that made me feel like I could no longer use furniture for its normal function. That was always my go-to solution when the power went out, though."
"I think you just wanted to be tucked under a blanket with me," I say. "That was my motivation, anyway."
Her eyes slide over to me as a smile forms on her lips.
"That might have been part of it."
A sudden loud crack of thunder causes to her jump as a tiny yelp bursts from her lips. Her eyes are wide and scared, the way they always used to look when we were kids.
"You're fine," I say. "Don't worry. I didn't even see this storm on the forecast. It probably isn't going to be very bad. Just watch, it will be a few minutes of thunder and some clouds, and by the time we get back to the house, it will all be over, and we'll be grilling supper."
Half an hour later…
"There's a tree on my fucking house!"
"It's going to be fine, Fiona. You have to calm down."
Fiona looks at me, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. She flails one hand at the large oak that once stood at the edge of the backyard. The fact that it is now lying across the roof of the back porch is likely the reason behind the incredulous expression on her face. Yeah, I don’t think she believes me.
"A tree, Cade. It's a tree. There's a tree on my house!"
Just like I had said it would, the storm had been intense, but very brief, and by the time we got back to the house, the sky was completely clear – clear enough for us to immediately notice the enormous root ball sticking out from behind the house. That oak had been massive and old decades ago, so I always knew it was only a matter of time before it would need to come down. I wish it had waited for a tree service to come and do it, but the high winds had done an effective job on their own. Fiona's head suddenly drops, and she covers it with her hand. I see her shoulders shaking so I wrap my arm around her, pulling her against me to comfort her. The warmth of her body seeps through my clothes, and I’m suddenly very aware of our closeness.
"Listen to me," I say, "It's going to be fine. It doesn't look like it caused too much damage."
"Tree... on... my... fucking... house, Cade."
"It's not on the house, though. It's on the porch. It definitely smashed that far corner and broke some glass, but the house itself is fine. I can arrange for a tree service to be out here tomorrow to get it off the roof, and then I can see to fixing the damage. The rest of the house is fine. Come on. Let's go inside. It's not going to do you any good to just stand here and look at it."
As I tighten my grip around her shoulders and start to guide her around and make our way inside, Fiona's phone rings. She steps away from me and fishes it out of her pocket. Glancing at the screen, she rolls her eyes.
"Grammie," she mutters. "Great. What am I supposed to tell her? Oh, I'm sorry, Grandmother. You left me alone with your house, and I smashed it with a tree?"
"Just the porch," I point out again, "and it's not your fault. It's not like you kicked the tree out of spite and it fell over, Fi. Just answer the phone and don't tell her about the tree."
"I feel bad keeping it from her."
"It's for the best. The last thing she needs is the stress of finding out something went wrong. She'd think about what would have happened if you and I had been si
tting out on the porch when the tree fell, and it would only stress her out."
And that might distract her from the next limbo competition.
The phone stops ringing.
"It stopped."
"That tends to happen when you let it ring four thousand times without answering it."
Almost immediately, the phone begins ringing again. Fiona snaps it to her ear, and I see her eyes close as she lets out a breath and starts toward the house.
"No, I'm not dead, Grammie... Yes, Grammie, I'm sure... If I was dead I wouldn't be answering... Because ghosts can't pick up the phone...then why can they walk through walls? OK, Grammie, I'm not dead, what do you need?"
Fiona lets out an exasperated sigh and stops in her tracks, turning to me sharply. She shoves the phone toward me.
"What?" I ask.
"Tell her I'm not dead."
Taking the phone, I try to suppress my laugh. I can see Fiona is nearing her capacity for all she can take, and I don't want to push her any further.
"She's not dead."
"Oh, good," Grammie says.
She sounds genuinely relieved, and I wonder what she had experienced lurking around in the old house during her time here alone that brought about the accusation. Knowing Grammie, she forgot she had hung a nightgown on the line, saw it through the window, and has decided she lives among the ghosts of residents from generations ago.
I hand the phone back to Fiona, and we continue toward the front door.
"Hi," she says as we walk around the side of the house. "Things are fine. There was a storm," she hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder at me, "but everything's alright. How are you feeling?... That's good. I'm glad the therapy is working for you." She climbs onto the front porch, and I see her eyes flicker up toward the light fixtures on either side of the door. "Did you turn those off?" she asks, looking at me again.
"No," I say, shaking my head. "Maybe they weren't on."
"They were on," she says. "I always leave them on. The porch lights," she says, and I realize she has gone back to talking to Grammie. "I always leave them on," she repeats. "I know you say I shouldn't because it attracts bugs... I put in the yellow light bulbs... the yellow ones... They don't attract the bugs as much... We live in the middle of nowhere, Grammie, everything attracts bugs." She opens the door and steps over the threshold, reaching to the side to hit the switch positioned next to the door. I hear a click, but nothing happens. There are a few more rapid-fire clicks, but still nothing. "Damn it!"
I grab the phone away from Fiona's hand right as I see her pull back like she's going to throw it into the darkest recesses of the house.
"It seems the power's out," I say to Grammie as Fiona gives an impressive flail and stomps to the end of the porch to look out over the fading sunlight as if it will give her the answers to unlocking the universe. "The storm must have knocked it out... No, we weren't here. We had taken a few things to the dump and were actually driving back when the storm happened... No, I promise we're fine." I look over at Fiona, her head and her shoulders sagging under the weight of some unspoken pressure she seems to be under. An idea flashes into my head. "Everything's OK. I'm sure they'll get the power up and running again soon, but I'm going to take us somewhere else in the meantime, just in case. We'll let you know when everything is back to normal. Don't worry, Grammie. You just keep focusing on your therapy, and we'll see you when you're ready to come home. Oh, speaking of which, I wanted to ask if your doctor has mentioned any modifications we should make throughout the home to make sure you are safe and can handle living independently when you get back here. I could order you an elevated toilet. Maybe a walk-in tub? Do you need one of those chair lifts to help you get up and down to your bedroom without falling again? Actually, we could just convert the parlor into a bedroom, and then you wouldn't have to use the stairs at all. That would be nice."
Grammie's response is an astonishingly creative stream of words laced with profanity not suited for the potentially sensitive ears of a senior cruise. I turn my back to Fiona and cover my mouth so she doesn't hear me laughing. When Grammie pauses to take a breath, I say goodbye to her and end the call. Stepping up beside Fiona at the end of the porch, I offer her the phone. She takes it without looking at me.
"Are you alright?" I ask.
She tries to glare at me, but she’s so deflated she can't even muster an angry face.
"No," she says. She leans forward, her arms folded onto the rail as her forehead comes to rest on it. "This wasn't supposed to be like this."
"What was it supposed to be like?" I ask.
She hesitates for a few seconds.
"I don't know."
"Well, as long as you have a plan." Taking hold of her arm, I guide her until she is standing up straight again. "Look. This sucks – I'm not going to pretend it doesn't. All of this has become one big clusterfuck, but that doesn't mean you can just give up."
She sighs and stares at me with all the energy and enthusiasm of a teenager who has been asked to get up early on a Saturday and help clean the attic.
"I took all my vacation time to do this," she says. "Three weeks of vacation time I built up so I could…" her voice trails off, and it seems the words started coming out of her mouth without her wanting them to. "That was all the vacation time I had, and I took all of it to come out here to help Grammie, and she isn't even here, then you hired that creep, and then all of these projects have turned into a mess."
Taking her by her shoulders, I straighten Fiona up, giving her a gentle shake so she looks me in the eyes.
"Listen, Fiona, you need to stop complaining. It’s not cute."
She looks stung, her mouth opening and her eyes narrowing, but it's enough to wipe the simpering, self-pitying look off her face, and for now, I'll interpret that as progress.
"Excuse me?" she says.
"You aren't the only person who went out of their way to be here, or who changed their life to help someone else, but all you're doing is whining about it."
"I'm not whining."
"You've been bitching about it since the second I walked in the door, and I can only assume you didn't start then."
"I'm not a child, Cade."
She shakes out of my hands. I've been patient with her, and have tried to talk myself into understanding how she feels, but I've had just about enough of her complaints. I much prefer the strong, determined Fiona that helped me today.
"Then stop fucking acting like one, Fiona. You left Grammie here a long time ago. You’re an adult. That is, assuming you didn't show up somewhere and have someone take care of you and baby you through life since then."
"No, I've been taking care of myself."
"Exactly. I understand you took your vacation time to be here, and there are probably a lot of other places and things you would like to be doing, and there are probably other people you'd like to be with, but this is where you need to be. I put my life on hold to be here, too, and so did Grammie."
Fiona looks at me questioningly.
"What do you mean 'so did Grammie'?" she asks. "She lives here."
"She hasn't for long," I say. "She just moved back out here. The last time I saw her, she was still at the other house."
"Yeah, I wanted to ask you about that," she says, suddenly sounding angry and defensive. "Why do you see her so much?"
"I told you, we have lunch."
"You say that like it's so normal."
"It is normal, Fiona. People who care about each other keep in touch. She was a vital part of my life growing up, and I didn't just forget about that."
Her body tenses up, and I decide the conversation needs to shift a little if I want the situation to remain under control.
"She didn't come out here just because she misses Gramps. I know that's part of it, but it's because of you, too. You have to realize that. You aren't just her granddaughter, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"You're her only son's only daughter. You're all that sh
e has left of her kid. Raising you was her chance to be with him again after your parents died. She came back here for Gramps, but also for your father, and you, too. This whole situation might not be the easiest thing for you, but it isn't for any of us, and you're not making it any better by acting like the entire world is subjecting you to this because of some cruel conspiracy against you."
I wait for her reaction. It could go either way. I'm fully aware she could completely melt down, making all of this so much worse. A few seconds pass before she finally gives an almost imperceptible nod.
"Alright," she says.
It’s a start, I suppose.
"Alright," I say. "So, we are in a pretty shitty situation right now. As we've established, there's a tree currently taking up residence on the roof of the porch, and it seems the storm has knocked out the power. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not interested in reconnecting to the roots of the house and doing the no electricity thing."
"No, me either," she says distastefully.
I smile at her and wrap my arms around her shoulders, starting toward the door.
"Good. Then let's go."
"Go where?" she asks.
"Upstairs to pack. I think we both could use a break."
11
Fiona
Two hours later…
Cade is already out of the truck and opening the door behind him to take our bags out of the backseat, but I haven't moved enough to unhook my seatbelt. My eyes are locked in front of me, and my mouth hangs open slightly. The door slams and Cade appears at the open window beside me.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"Sitting here until you get back in the car and bring us to our actual destination," I say.
He laughs and opens the door. I was leaning against it enough that I tip to the side and brush against him. I reluctantly pull away to sit up straight but don’t make any moves to release my belt.
