by Davina Lee
You’re not going to get me in trouble, my mind screams, it’s a volunteer position and I just do it to keep myself occupied while my husband’s away on business all the time. But the actual words that come out of my mouth are, “Yeah, I should probably get back.”
The windows of Mari’s truck are down for the return trip and I feel thankful that the wind buffeting around in the cab is again making it impossible to carry on a conversation without shouting. It makes the silence between us a little less awkward.
* * * *
It’s raining in the morning as I head out to the thrift store, one of those early June thunderstorms that catches everyone off guard and makes them wish they could remember where they stashed their umbrellas at the end of April. I walk in the door to find both Dave and Katie are working on arranging a display up at the front. I shoot them a little wave and make my way toward the back.
It’s been two weeks to the day that I blew any chance I had with getting to know Mari better. Not that I pretend to know what getting to know her better would entail, but I still can’t believe how badly I had reacted. I always thought of myself as a better person than to let someone’s orientation stand in the way of a friendship.
Though with Mari, perhaps I was hoping for more than friendship. That’s what made it so confusing for me. Oh, how could one kiss all those years ago still be messing up my mind to this day?
I decide to concentrate on work. I had been doing that a lot lately. Even though Adam was home over the weekends, I never hesitated to volunteer for a shift here at the store when somebody called in sick or needed time off. We barely said three words to each other besides hello and goodbye at the airport. And I definitely wasn’t going to be asking his advice on my Mari problem.
I spend most of my days organizing shelves at the store, and thinking. Inevitably I find myself allotting a good chunk of that time to the record bins, looking at the old LPs and dreaming about bright sunny days floating down the Apple River in an inner tube, and sitting on a picnic bench in the sun eating grilled bratwurst and drinking beer.
Most nights I thrash around restlessly in the sheets, dreaming about bonfires and kisses and what it all meant.
After a few days of organizing record bins while generally trying to avoid people, I begin to notice that most of the good old albums from my youth seemed to have gone missing. Not surprising though. What self-respecting hipster could possibly resist the call of The Beatles’ Abbey Road or Led Zeppelin IV on the original vinyl?
Just as I’m working through the letter M, Katie comes rushing to the back of the store to find me. Her face is all scrunched up again, and I try to think what it is that could possibly have addled her little millennial brain this time.
“Missus Johnson,” she says. “There’s a phone call for you.”
I want to remind Katie to call me by my first name, but after seeing the way the color has left her face, I sense this is not the time. I begin to wonder who would call me at the thrift shop. It has to be somebody who knows my name and where I work, but doesn’t have my cell phone number. In my mind, that was a pretty short list.
“Hello?…Yes, this is she…Oh my God, when?…Yes, yes, thank you…I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Missus Johnson?”
“I’ve got to go Katie.” I dab at my eye with my finger. “Adam’s in the hospital.”
* * * *
The next several days are a blur of frantic phone calls, hastily scheduled flights and waiting, lots and lots of waiting. I get to meet the good Samaritan who witnessed Adam’s collapse in that pharmacy parking lot in Fort Worth and tirelessly administered CPR under the hot sun until the paramedics arrived.
I get to meet the doctors and nurses at Baylor University Medical Center who took valiant strides to pull Adam back from the abyss even though it turned out to be a futile effort in the end. I also get to see my daughter Taylor for the first time in two years as we discuss where Adam will be laid to rest and how we will deal with our loss.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
Taylor comes back to the house with me and stays for a few days until the arrangements have all been made and everyone has a chance to say their goodbyes. Though as soon as the formalities are over, she’s on the next flight to California, probably throwing herself back into work as an attempt to avoid dealing with the pain. I wonder where she learned that?
I allow myself a morbid little laugh as I think about my own eagerness to return to the normal routine of the thrift shop tomorrow. Like mother like daughter. I think about this latest turn my life has taken as I watch the timer ticking down on my bit of leftover casserole in the microwave.
Everyone I know is being incredibly kind and supportive. The fridge and freezer have been stocked with enough casseroles and ready to heat meals that I probably won’t have to darken the door of a grocery store for another month. Even Katie made me a batch of minestrone soup that was nothing short of amazing.
I push aside a vase of flowers that arrived this afternoon so that I will have a space to eat. I find it slightly depressing that so many flowers have to die whenever a person passes. Though several people had the idea to send potted plants, which was nice. One of those people was Mari.
Mari. For the fifth time this week I look at the lily she sent and pick up the card that came with it. There is the usual expression of sympathy but also ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just call,’ along with her phone number.
God grant me the serenity, and the courage, I think as I pick up the phone. “Mari?…I’m sorry.” That’s all I manage to get out before I break down and start sobbing. Twenty minutes later she’s on my front doorstep and I melt into her warm embrace.
* * * *
I step out of the shower and wipe the steam from the mirror. I marvel at how clean and organized everything is as I reach for my hairbrush. It’s not just the bathroom, but the entire house, top to bottom. Mari’s been coming by after work every day to make sure that I’m eating a healthy dinner, and then she spends about an hour cleaning up here and there.
I can’t get her to stop cleaning, and after a while it’s a little embarrassing having her do it every time, so I’ve been in the habit of cleaning up right before she gets here. As a result, the house is fabulously organized and I’m treating Mari to another lunch today as a thanks for all her efforts to help me stay afloat.
I think about our lunch outing as I pull my hair into a ponytail and smooth out the front of my floral print summer dress. I feel a twinge in my stomach as if I’m getting ready for a date—something I haven’t done in years. Though in a way I suppose I am. That’s been my take on these lunches, but I still haven’t gotten the courage to ask Mari how she sees it.
I’m afraid that she’ll want to keep me at a distance, thinking I’m moving on too quickly after Adam’s passing. But honestly, it feels like Adam left me a long time ago, the day he agreed to the promotion that required constant traveling and we started spending all of our days apart.
I dab on a little perfume, something else I haven’t felt the urge to do in a while, and head down to a breakfast of hot oatmeal. It’s homemade with bits of dried fruit and nuts in it. Dave from the thrift store made me a big Ziploc bag of it so that all I have to do is measure some out and add boiling water. I sometimes think Mari secretly put him up to it to make sure I’m still eating right, but I don’t think she’s that crafty.
I move to the table, clinging to the edges of my bowl in an effort not to burn my fingertips. The flowers that once dominated every inch of the kitchen table are all dead and composted and the plants have been relocated to various rooms of the house. All that remains are the cards and letters. Truthfully, I should recycle those. It’s not like I’m going to re-read them anymore.
The only card I still look at these days is Mari’s. I’ve stuck it on the fridge with a little round magnet next to my Serenity Prayer. I don’t know why, I have her phone number entered into
my mobile so I can easily call or text her anytime without looking it up, but there’s something comforting about the card, so I keep it close.
I blow across a spoonful of oatmeal to cool it off and think about lunch with Mari. I wonder if I’ll have the courage to ask her where she sees us going, if she even sees us as an ‘us’. The oatmeal is still too hot, so I put the spoon back in the bowl and pull out my cell phone.
“Mari?…Yeah hi…No nothing really. Just wanted to see if we’re still on for lunch…Text me when you get close, OK?…Me too…Bye.”
God grant me the courage to change the things I can.
* * * *
“I’m thinking about selling the house,” I say between bites of taco down by the lake.
We managed to get here early enough to find a picnic bench in the shade. Mari is sitting across from me wearing jeans and a button-down. At least it’s not a t-shirt and a ball cap, that would make me feel completely overdressed for our lunch date. Not that this is a date, I tell myself.
“What made you decide that?” she asks after taking a pull on her bottle of grapefruit soda.
“I dunno, I guess it’s too big for just me. Heck, it was always too big, even before Taylor moved out. And you have to admit, it’s pretty devoid of any unique character.”
“You like something with character?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Like some of those older eastside homes or the Frank Lloyd-Wright style places down by the university.
“Mandy, you know the actual historic Frank Lloyd-Wright homes will never hit the open market, right.”
“I know, but a girl can dream.”
Mari finishes her last bite of taco and wipes her lips with a napkin. “But there is a really cute older home that I’ve been working on rehabbing.” She smiles and lays her hand on mine. “You want to play hooky this afternoon and go look at it with me?”
“Um, okay.” I pull out my cell phone while I think of what excuse I’m going to give Katie and Dave while Mari runs back to the taco stand for a to-go order.
The windows are down in Mari’s truck, letting in the warm late August breeze. We don’t talk, but this time the silence doesn’t seem so awkward. And I honestly think if the truck didn’t have that huge center console, I would be tempted to slide over and rest my head on Mari’s shoulder.
I still obsess about kissing her every so often, usually in the middle of the night, but lately it’s become deeper than just lust. Mari’s been there for me, almost every day for the past three months. She never asks for anything in return, and I think she just wants to make sure I’m okay. A girl could do a lot worse.
We pull up along the curb in front of a little one and a half story craftsman bungalow in one of the older neighborhoods on the east side of town. There’s a big open-top dumpster sitting in the narrow driveway and scaffolding dominates the front porch brickwork.
Mari marches through the front door and waves to a couple of guys wearing respirator masks and attacking plaster and lath with prybars. They stop working as soon as Mari holds up the to-go bag. I step over the threshold onto battered and scuffed oak flooring as the guys slip out the back to enjoy their lunch.
“Looks like a lot of work,” I say.
Mari nods. “These older houses usually are. But once you get past the layers of neglect, you start to see the real beauty come through. Like this.” She points to the floor. “You’re standing on one-inch thick solid oak tongue and groove. Not a veneer, not a laminate, solid white oak.”
I’m not really sure what that means, but I gather that it’s rather impressive by the way Mari is so animated when she tells me about it. Mari holds her arms out to her sides in a big sweeping gesture. “Once this is sanded down and refinished it’s going to be gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.”
“Wow.” That’s all I can say, but it’s fun to watch Mari get all excited about it.
“Come on.” Mari reaches for my hand. “I want to show you the attic. I’m planning to add a bathroom and turn it into the master suite.”
The stairway to the attic is narrow and cramped but I manage to keep a grip on Mari’s hand as she trudges upward in front of me. The heat seems to rise a couple of degrees with each step and I can’t believe she’s not dying in those heavy denim jeans.
“Isn’t it just the best?” she says as we reach the top of the stairs.
I look around the hot dry and dusty space and all I see are exposed rafters, single-pane windows and no insulation whatsoever.
“Um, I guess.”
Mari just smiles and squeezes my hand that she’s still holding onto. “Trust me,” she says. “It’ll be good.”
I look around once more and I can’t quite see it, but if Mari says it’ll be good, then I believe her. God grant me the courage to change the things that I can, I think to myself, and the wisdom to know the difference. I sure hope I have that wisdom today.
I lean in toward Mari and kiss her—right on those honey-colored lips—in that hot and dusty old attic that she’s so excited about.
And just like that kiss by the bonfire there is something electric and indescribably wonderful when my lips touch hers. I cling to her hand to steady myself as my head begins to spin and I get lost in the softness of her touch. I don’t know what’s going on in her mind, but she’s squeezing my fingers in her hand like she doesn’t ever want to let go, so I imagine it must be something similar.
After a moment that seems like forever we part and I am reminded again of our first kiss at the bonfire as I stand there wondering what just happened—what just changed. Again, I am at a loss for words. Mari’s not saying anything either.
I’m shaking ever so slightly as I slowly raise my gaze to look into her wavering green eyes. I think about the last time I stared into those pools of green and how I managed to completely screw things up with my silence. I vow not to do it a second time.
“Thank you,” I manage. “Thank you for being so wonderful to me these past three months. And being so patient. You’ve really made it…”
I don’t get a chance to finish, because Mari has me wrapped up in her arms and is pulling me tightly to her chest. I settle my head on her shoulder and surrender myself to her strong arms as she holds me and strokes my hair. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” I say.
* * * *
“Waffles and bacon tomorrow for breakfast?” I holler as I peer into my refrigerator. “Otherwise one of us is going to have to go to the store tonight, because I only have two eggs left.”
“I’m fine with whatever,” Mari answers from the living room.
I grab two bottles of beer and an opener and try to balance it with the bowl of popcorn tucked in my arm before heading back to the sofa. Mari stands up as soon as she sees me coming and levels a gaze at me that would make my mother proud.
“I could have helped,” she complains. “You don’t have to keep treating me like I’m a guest.”
I just grin and lean forward to give her a peck on the lips while I try to gracefully hand off the popcorn bowl and a beer. Mari has been staying at my house for the past week while the floors are getting varnished in her rehab. When I found out that she had been living there during the construction, I insisted.
Ostensibly she’s staying in my guest room, but for the past few nights we’ve fallen asleep together watching the late movie on television and I usually wind up flat out on the couch with her arm draped over my shoulder. It’s nice. I often think I might like to feel something more than her arm on my shoulder, but we’re taking it slow.
That’s mostly Mari’s idea. She says she wants me to have plenty of time to think and to not feel rushed. I’ve learned that she’s patient. I’ve learned a lot about Mari over the past week. I’ve also learned that she’s usually juggling two or three rehabs at a time, but now that she’s thinking of getting out of the business, it’s only the one.
Mari’s business partner is older by a few years and ready to retire, so Mari figures it is time to throw in the t
owel herself. The cute little craftsman bungalow that she’s working on right now—the one with the hot dusty attic where we kissed—that’s her last big project. It’s the one she’s planning to keep and settle down in. And as a result, she never really shuts up about it.
I don’t mind though. It’s quite a change from the shy quiet Marianne I knew in high school, the one who I had to pry every bit of information out of. This Mari—my Mari—is more than happy to share all of the details of her project with me. She even drags me over there at least once a day to get my opinion on everything from countertops to curtains.
It’s sweet to see her get so excited, and I have to say her enthusiasm is rubbing off on me. She took me along when she was mattress shopping for her master suite and we nearly got thrown out of the store. While she was debating memory foam or traditional, the salesman encouraged us to give them both a try.
Well, after twenty minutes of us rolling around and giggling like a couple of teenagers I think they were glad to be rid of us. But Mari was prepared to drop some serious cash on a deluxe mattress model, so I figure they earned it.
“Another movie or you want to turn in?” I ask. I am secretly hoping she will agree to another one. Not that there is necessarily anything I’m all that interested in watching, but another movie increases the chances of us falling asleep on the couch together, and that I am definitely interested in.
“Nah,” she says. “My eyes are bleary.”
I sigh and watch as Mari pulls out her phone. Bleary eyes, huh?
“You got Bluetooth on this thing?” She motions to the television and soundbar set.
“I think so,” I say. “What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing.” She’s doing her best not to look in my direction, studying the floor instead. “Just a little music from our high school days.”
“Marianne Hoffman, did you make me a mix tape?”
“Maybe.”
And after a few minutes of fiddling with modern technology, a crescendo of guitars and rock organ erupts from the soundbar across the room.
