After the Leaves Fall

by Nicole Baart

  I had called home when I knew Grandma would be gone for her Bible study and left a message on the answering machine telling her that I would be home on the weekend. There was a part of me that was so anxious to leave I could hardly stop myself from jumping in my car and driving away without a single look over my shoulder. Another part of me—a much larger, more insistent part—was seized with an undulating, nauseating horror at the very thought of going home and explaining to my grandmother that I wasn’t going back. Explaining to her why I wasn’t going back.

  It had been a lonely few days of watching and waiting, and the only reason I stayed close to my dorm instead of living in my car or roaming around various public haunts was because I was holding my breath for a phone call or a visit from Parker. He had run away from me on my birthday and hadn’t come back. While I could forgive him if I never saw him again, something in me knew that it wouldn’t be right if everything just ended so unceremoniously. I believed there was more to him than that, and I gave him every opportunity to deliver on his promise that we would work everything out.

  We had to be out of the dorms by six o’clock on Friday night, and when my watch said 5:59, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked out of my room for the last time.

  Becca had left the day before and had actually stopped to say good-bye and wish me well in a voice that bordered on sincere. Maybe she was just happy that she would have the room to herself next semester and any well wishes were meant for her own happiness. Either way, it was nice to leave her on relatively cordial terms, all things considered, but as I slept in the room by myself for one final night, I succumbed to feelings of utter failure and recounted almost sadistically all the mistakes I had made. I collected them in a dismal little pile in my mind—a derisory altar to the god of my own demise—and practiced the apologies that I would make if I were a better, stronger person.

  The one apology that haunted me more than any other was the one that I would never get to make to Parker. I had waited as long as I could, and he had remained silent, secreted away someplace where he tried furiously to either forget my existence or unravel a way out of this mess. There was nothing I could do but walk away and hope that someday he would forgive me, and we would be able to think of each other with something less excruciating than crushing remorse.

  But as I walked away from Brighton on that dark, cold evening in December, I found Parker’s truck huddling beside my car in the abandoned parking lot.

  I could see him hunched over the steering wheel, looking straight ahead, and I watched him for a moment, waiting for him to notice me. When he didn’t, I dropped the backpack on the hood of my car and tapped on the passenger window of his truck with just the tips of my fingers.

  His head swung around as though I had shattered the glass, and he stared at me blankly before reaching across to open the door from the inside.

  “Hi,” I said softly, sliding in and shutting the door behind me with the tiniest click. There was a basic and understood need to be gentle.

  Parker didn’t respond at first, just went back to his original position clutching the steering wheel and staring out the windshield as if he were navigating icy roads in the middle of a blizzard. Indeed, as I looked out the window I noticed that it had begun to snow, and tiny, frozen flakes drifted aimlessly in the slight breath of a breeze. They were uncertain and few in number, and I followed Parker’s gaze to watch them consider the earth beneath them only to swing upward on a gust of air and alight somewhere different entirely.

  After studying the developing snow for longer than was comfortable, Parker reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Still not looking at me, he fingered through a number of bills and extracted a sizable stack of cash. He folded the wallet and put it away, then tapped the money on the dashboard and doubled it in half so that it was a bulging green square.

  “Here,” he said, thrusting the money at me as he continued to stare at the snow.

  I was completely bewildered. “What?” I asked slowly. My hands didn’t move from my lap.

  “Take it,” Parker insisted, pushing it at me again and looking at my face for the first time. His eyes were inscrutable.

  “No, Parker.” I shook my head. “I told you I don’t want your money. I’m not taking that.” I folded my arms across my chest.

  “Take it. It’s enough for an appointment at the clinic. You can get this taken care of over Christmas and be back by next semester. Nobody has to know.”

  “I’m sorry.” My mouth went dry, and I felt each word as if it were cotton on my tongue. “I can’t do that.”

  “What, now you’ve suddenly got morals?” Parker challenged. But in spite of his ugly words, his eyes were desperate, and I could see that he was more distraught than angry. “Just get it over with, Julia. Don’t let this ruin our lives.”

  That was it—he thought if I had this baby it would ruin his life. Maybe he envisioned me showing up on his doorstep someday, my arm around a towheaded two-year-old and my hand outstretched for something he didn’t have to give. Maybe he imagined a wife and children in a life that was worlds away from here and how they would react if one day a teenager came knocking at his door to proclaim, “I am your son.” I had known that this would change my life forever, but I hadn’t taken the time to appreciate how much it would affect Parker, too.

  Gripped by a need to mourn with him, I stretched out my hand and laid it gently on his arm.

  He mistook my motion and slid out from under my touch to press the wad of money into my palm. Taking both of his hands, he closed my fingers around the cash and held me tightly. Seizing my gaze with his own frantic eyes, he made an appeal. “Julia, I know how much you loved your dad. What would he say if he were alive? What would he want you to do? Would he want you to give up everything? ruin your life?”

  I bit my lip to stop a sad smile from passing over my face. Parker knew nothing about my father. “You don’t understand. …” I murmured.

  And then, because my dad had borne my shame before—had forgiven me and blessed me and loved me in spite of myself, had seen hope in something hopeless—I haltingly told Parker my story of the chick. I still didn’t understand it, but I longed to make him realize that no matter how ugly this was, it wasn’t consequentially the very end of the world. I wanted to prove to him that maybe this too could be something more than the misery it seemed to be.

  Parker didn’t interrupt me, but he let my hand slip from his and turned away to look out the window again.

  When I had stumblingly, inarticulately said everything I could think to say, there was silence in the truck. The snow was falling more readily now, and it collected in wispy ribbons of white along the edge of the windshield and began to fill in the cracks in the sidewalk beyond. Each flake was hard and bitter, hitting the windows and the hood of the pickup with an indifferent little thump, almost as if each flight from heaven was a separate kamikaze attack. Parker’s truck was running and the heater was on, but I couldn’t help shivering.

  The money was still in my hands, and I realized with a start that as I talked I had rolled it into a tight little cylinder and was turning it like a spool in my fingers. Suddenly self-conscious, I smoothed each bill against my leg until they were all flat and neat again, then offered them humbly to Parker.

  He glanced at my hand and ignored my offering as he said, “Why did you tell me that? What in the world makes you think that some stupid chick you killed over a decade ago has anything to do with what is happening right now?” He slammed his hands into the steering wheel with the last two words, punctuating the air with his frustration and emphasizing that, as far as he was concerned, nothing was more important than focusing on the present so that the future could unravel itself without the shackles of past mistakes.

  My heart sank because I realized that he didn’t want to try to understand. He didn’t want to know me or work through this or find comfort in a memory that meant so much to me. He wanted to be rid of a problem and then do
everything in his power to forget that it had ever existed. If I had any hope for tenderness or understanding, it was crushed.

  “I just wanted you to know,” I said, trying not to choke on the words. “You asked about my dad. …”

  “Well, Julia,” Parker said, turning suddenly to me. Any of the earlier despair in his voice was replaced by a cool fury that made me lean backward into the door of the truck. “I think your dad got such a kick out of that lame story because it is so painfully obvious as to be stupid. Don’t you see the lesson in it? Don’t you get it? Let go.”

  His eyebrows arched as he reached for my hand and crumpled up the bills inside of it. Shoving aside my arm, he crammed the money into my coat pocket in a flurry of crinkled paper and pent-up aggression. He zipped it closed, giving the bulging pocket a couple of harsh pats. “Let go, Julia. Don’t hang on to this so tightly that it ruins your life. Let go and start over. I’m going to.” He stopped brusquely and then added almost as an afterthought, “And get out of my truck.”

  I reached shakily for the door handle and wondered at how hands that had held me so gently could be so icy and hard. “Good-bye, Parker,” I said so low it was almost a whisper, hoping that I could make it to my car before he saw how profoundly he had hurt me.

  “You bet it’s good-bye,” he shot back. “I don’t want to see you or hear from you ever again. If you’re not mature enough to handle this like a woman, you’re on your own. You are not dragging me down.”

  Parker smashed the clutch to the floorboards with his foot and turned the ignition key though the engine was already running. It made a horrible, piercing screech, and he cursed furiously. “Get out, Julia,” he said again, directing his rage at me. “And for your own good, grow up.”

  I tumbled out of the truck when he put it in reverse and swung the door shut as he pulled away. He left in a rush of squealing tires and exhaust, and I knew if I ever saw him again, it would be too soon as far as he was concerned. I was shaking almost uncontrollably and had to lean against the car to try and catch my breath in great, shuddering gasps.

  I was the solitary living silhouette in a parking lot that had been all but abandoned. A lone exile in a place where there would be no one to hear me cry. But I wasn’t crying. There was warmth radiating from my cheeks, and something like a hot and liquid horror was melting me from the inside out … but I wasn’t crying. I couldn’t. He hated me and I could hardly blame him. I hated myself. Tears were for remorse or sorrow or overwhelming joy. I was none of the above. I was trapped. Though I could take care of everything so easily, though I could erase any future need he or I may have to explain the folly of our youth, I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.

  I yanked the zipper, thrust my hand into my pocket, and dug out each and every bill as if it were a live coal. The notes felt dirty to me, as if Parker were trying to pay me somehow or buy his own absolution. With a sense of growing urgency, I threw them from myself, and they spun in the air and drifted to the ground, carrying the weight of his regret and anger, carrying the pardon that he would not receive. They dropped onto the powdery asphalt without a sound, littering the thin lace of newly fallen snow. I didn’t stop to count, but I saw a few fifties at my feet and more twenties than I cared to tally. I decided the price of my forgiveness was more than a few hundred dollars.

  Lighthouse

  EVERY LIGHT ON THE MAIN FLOOR of the farmhouse was on when I swung my car down the long gravel driveway. The snow had been working itself into a frenzy of white that was beginning to resemble a blizzard, and through the swirling fog of flakes, the sagging little house glowed like a transcendent beacon of warmth and welcome.

  It had taken me much longer than it should have to drive home, and I knew Grandma was sick with worry and busying herself with anything to take her mind off every horrible scenario that was steadily wrapping a stranglehold around her heart. The lights were a purposeful distraction. I could just see her marching from room to room, flipping switches and pulling chains on the single bulbs in the mudroom, pantry, and above the stove. As if light could drive away her fears. As if the brilliant glow from every window could lead me home—a veritable lighthouse on the whitecapped sea of prairie.

  Grandma was so wrapped up in whatever she was doing that she didn’t see my car pull into the yard. I was halfway up the steps before she appeared in the doorway. There was a look of quiet amazement in her eyes, almost as if somewhere deep down she hadn’t expected me to come home, and she found it both startling and wonderful to see me walking up the stairs. She watched me for a moment, a smile just beginning to crease her face and set a sparkle in her lovely eyes.

  I didn’t smile back, though I tried, but I held the look she gave me and etched it in broad, sweeping strokes across my memory so I would never forget it. It was hard not to be melodramatic, to think that I would never see it again.

  When I was within arm’s reach, Grandma said, “Julia, I was so worried about you.” There was only a trace of the worry that she must have felt lingering in her quiet voice.

  “I’m sorry, Grandma,” I said, cringing at what I considered to be unjustified love and concern in her voice. “I should have called you, but I didn’t want to stop for anything.”

  “You did what you had to do. I’m just glad you made it home.” She lingered on the word for a moment, savoring it as if the farmhouse only became a home when it was us instead of just her. Then she reached out and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. Ushering me into the entryway, she helped me out of my coat, murmuring mostly to herself the entire time. “The Weather Channel says we’re in for the biggest storm of the year. … They’ve already closed down a stretch of Interstate 90 west of Blue Earth. … It’s been snowing here for hours. … I hate it that you had to drive in that—”

  “It was okay,” I interrupted. “The roads weren’t so bad until about a half an hour ago. By then I could practically see home.”

  Grandma glanced around for a moment before understanding my gentle rib. She laughed. “It looks pretty ridiculous in here, doesn’t it?”

  The truth was, the kitchen felt like an inquisition room. My grandmother was hardly a fierce inquisitor, but my own guilt clung heavily, and it was hard not to see everything against the backdrop of the things I had to say. But I squinted a bit and shielded my face to tease her, managing a feeble smile when I noticed that even the little trail of lights in the china buffet was lit. “Is the oven light on?” I questioned jokingly, breaking into a full smile in spite of myself when I realized that indeed it was.

  “I have a reason for that one!” Grandma defended. She swept her arm at the counter beside the stove, indicating the pans of cinnamon rolls that were rising there. “I was going to bake them tonight instead of waiting until the morning.” She laughed expectantly, waiting for me to goad her on.

  But the momentary cheer had passed. The smile slid off my face abruptly, and if my shoulders didn’t visibly slump, it sure felt like they did. On any other night, I would have come back with some cheeky comment, and we would have laughed and teased until she offered to pop some popcorn and brew a pot of coffee. We would have settled into the kitchen chairs to play seven-up or some other card game with a name we could never properly remember, and talk until Grandma commented, “It’s way past my bedtime!”

  But tonight I felt like my heart was anchored back in the parking lot at Brighton, weighted down amid all the tainted money I had discarded. Buried under the snow. There was a physical tug at my chest, and I repressed the urge to rub my breastbone with the heel of my hand, wondering how a heartache could actually make your heart ache.

  It was my plan to tell Grandma the truth in the morning. I wanted a good night’s sleep behind me, and I wanted Parker’s hateful words as far away from me as they could get. I had hoped that the morning would bring a little perspective, a little relief to the heaviness that threatened to pin me to the ground. But Grandma knew something was wrong. She could read me like she read her garden, knowing just when e
verything below the surface was ready to be brought up.

  When I was younger, I would spend half the summer checking to see if the carrots were done. I would single out the greens of one little plant, glance around surreptitiously to make sure Grandma wasn’t watching me, and expose the root, only to find that it was thin and white—and ruined now that I had unearthed it. Grandma, on the other hand, would wake up one morning and announce, “The carrots are ready.” We’d arm ourselves with baskets and begin the harvest. Every year they were perfect and crisp and golden orange, even though the date of harvest sometimes varied by weeks depending on the amount of rain and the daily highs and lows. The carrots were never so big that they were woody and overripe nor so small that they hadn’t reached the peak of their flavor. Just perfect. And just as Grandma could sense it in the earth, she could sense it in me—there was something right below the surface.

  Grandma didn’t waste any time. “Julia, what’s wrong?” She pulled out a chair from the table, and I all but fell into it. Never taking her eyes off me, she angled into her own chair and reached across the table to put her hands where mine should have been. I was clutching my fingers in my lap, wringing them out of sight, and I didn’t reach for her. She kept her hands in front of me, an offer that would not expire. “You look sick, honey. What happened?”

  Now that I was blinking in the brightness of the overly lit kitchen, I knew that I couldn’t hide it, not even for one night. My only regret in telling her now was that I had no introduction, no way to ease into the words that would hurt her in ways I could only imagine. There was nothing I could do to diminish it or make it less painful to hear. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say other than the truth.

  Staring at the table, I willed myself to utter the words. They came almost as if they had been waiting eagerly behind a locked door and toppled out hurriedly when the latch was released. “I am pregnant,” I said, surprised at how elemental it sounded, how the baby could already be so much a part of me that I began the sentence with I am. It was so much softer when contracted, so stark when divided. As if the words stood back-to-back drawing unavoidable consideration to themselves—denoting the depth of importance in the word that followed, cautioning a move from shallow water.