by Jodi LaPalm
Hugging the kids tight against my pounding chest, they each wrestled free once I prompted them to obey their father. Having a few days alone with Dad was a rare treat, and I was disappointed to know they’d follow my instructions.
I secretly wished Alex could get the full experience of just one frustrating day as a stay-at-home mother. Instead, it would be one long play-date in which the kids were best of friends, nothing got broken, and Daddy reigned as the coolest parent ever.
“Have a safe drive, call when you get there, and give everyone a big hug from us,” Alex spoke into my ear.
I struggled to let him go.
“I will. I plan to be home Saturday night,” I choked before kissing him goodbye.
The three of them stood by Alex’s car, cheerfully waving while I backed from the stall. Looking in the rear-view mirror for one final glimpse of my beautiful family, I noticed my eyes.
Filled with watery tears, I worried just how long they’d actually been there.
hollow
My sister Jen’s house was exactly one hour and fifteen-minutes away from mine. Seventy-five minutes without work, home, or family to occupy me meant I couldn’t elude him.
Philip.
The first time we crossed paths was unremarkable and would have likely gone unremembered if it hadn’t taken the turn it did.
I was only twenty-three but an old twenty-three. Aged beyond my years by events out of my control, I felt I’d already lived four lifetimes. And yet, without the presence of such intense memories, I would have almost believed it to be the life of another person. Not mine.
Spring Break of my final college semester, and I could still recall how Mom and Dad insisted on paying my way to visit my older sister in Florida. Jen moved there right after Christmas to begin a teaching job, and my parents feared she was homesick for family and the Midwest.
I tried to assure them that while she may miss us on occasion, she most certainly didn’t long for the sub-zero temperatures of a traditional Wisconsin winter. They didn’t listen, however, and went to visit her one week in February. And with the precision of a high-ranking military strategist, my mother scheduled me to visit in late March and for Jen to fly back again once her initial school semester wrapped in early June.
Sitting in one of two terminals in our run-down local airport, I waited for the flight to depart my gray, slushy hometown of 75,000 and land in Jen’s dry, sunny city of more than a half-million. I crouched in the stiff plastic corner seat, away from presumably gawking stares of strange men and out of view from lonely others who might seek social interaction on any level.
From beneath short lashes, I watched the man walk into the waiting area, search for a chair, and finally settle in the far opposite corner. Slowly exhaling between clasped teeth, I continued to ignore him and everyone else around me, pretending instead to have great interest in my paperback, and adjusting my stereo headphones to further prove I was unapproachable and otherwise preoccupied.
Whenever the loud-speaker squawked arrival or departure announcements, I’d reflexively lift my head to better hear its garbled message. And each time my eyes left the tattered pages of my novel, something about that man pulled my gaze in his direction.
By his dark suit and crisp tie, I guessed him to be a businessman. My overactive mind envisioned him leaving a loving family every week and traveling long hours by air to visit ungrateful customers and peddle measly products.
Perched in a hard seat like mine, his posture appeared enviably comfortable, confident. He never once moved from the spot, and I unconsciously spied on him from behind my book.
Fascinated by seemingly athletic grace, I watched as he fluidly crossed strong legs, entwined long fingers. And when he finally turned his head toward the wall of windows to crane his neck and peer over the parked aircraft below, I mirrored his graceful movement in the hope of viewing the exact same scene.
Although barely visible from a distance, I could detect a web of lines around his dark eyes. Obviously more mature than me, I had no idea of his true age. When he moved one last time to fold a business journal and tuck it into his briefcase, his head lifted back to center.
A steady gaze rested over me, and I hastily shifted my own.
I became overly engrossed in a random page, mainly out of lingering fear yet also from sheer embarrassment. But the words in my line of sight never fully registered.
I only saw his eyes.
They were rich, with hints of honeyed speckles flowing from the pupils like sun-rays. And from the outside, their kindheartedness was readily apparent. Yet beneath, far and deep within, resided an affliction so unmistakably identical to the hollow gaze revealed every time I looked into a mirror that I immediately averted my own.
At the prompt of another announcement, he rose to board his flight. And once he completely disappeared from view, an entirely new sadness befell me that I couldn’t explain but soon forgot.
***
Due in part to my wayward reminiscing, I arrived at Jen’s house in under sixty-five minutes. As was their custom, the entire family awaited my arrival outside.
My nephews, Dylan and Trevor, shot baskets into a shredded net while Jen and my brother-in-law, Joe, lounged in white plastic lawn chairs on the small covered porch. They simultaneously smiled and waved as I pulled into their driveway.
“Hi, Court! I’m so glad you’re here!” Jen squealed, and the boys ran to me with hugs.
“Hey, Jen. I’m glad to be here, too,” was my exhausted reply. After pulling me tight into her chest, she stepped back and modeled her blue rayon jogging suit and silver metallic flip-flops.
“Do you like it?” she preened. “I got the entire outfit on clearance!”
I nodded with a knowing giggle. Jen didn’t buy anything unless it was marked down to its lowest price, which meant she frequently acquired things her family didn’t really need or particularly want. A habit that led to twice a year yard sales.
Joe gave me a big bear hug of his own before unloading my truck and placing the items in spaces as directed by Jen. Where real tables couldn’t be found, makeshift ones were crafted from plywood and sawhorses. Things rested in haphazard fashion on every available surface, and what didn’t fit either sat tucked in open spaces below or hung on a closet bar nestled between a pair of paint-splattered stepladders.
The next two days would be spent pacing the concrete garage floor and dickering with bargain-hunters, with little time to ourselves. Preferring instead to donate my items to a worthy cause and take the tax deduction, I became silently grateful to my sister’s hobby for the glorious distraction it would afford this weekend.
While my nephews wrestled through the maze of tables, Jen gave the garage one final review before finally allowing us to head inside. The boys begged to play a new board game and easily beat me both rounds, and when Joe threatened-for the third time-that they get to bed or else, I decided I’d do the same.
Drained, but nowhere ready for sleep, I set my small bag on the guest bed, stumbling over my laptop case in the process. I’d forgotten it was there.
Tentatively resting it upon a thrift store desk in the corner, I unpacked my computer and powered on. A gray box warned of no signal and instantly prompted me to an unsecured wireless internet connection. Unlike most of their frugal shortcuts, Joe and Jen splurged on technology.
The cursor flirted–enticing me to log on when it appeared and to shut the damn thing down when it didn’t. I logged on and walked away.
Poking my head out the door and finding the lone bathroom open, I took my turn prepping for bed. Upon returning to the room, I wasted another fifteen minutes changing into pajamas and setting out clothes for tomorrow.
Looking around at stacks of bright plastic bins filled with who knows what and a closet over-stuffed with four seasons of clothing, my anxiety level quickly reached critical mass.
Lying on the bed, I expertly placed one hand on my chest and one upon my abdomen. Slowly breathing through my nose
, I struggled until there was no movement in my chest. I inhaled, allowing my stomach to fill with air and with every exhale, it would fall deeply against my spine. Despite continued practice, it took more than a half hour to relax versus my usual ten minutes.
I eventually sat up and came to the rational conclusion Jen would have my head on a platter if I organized any of her stuff. Fighting the urge was surprisingly easy since it wasn’t my own home, but I still needed something.
Re-directing my gaze toward the glowing screen, I debated whether to call off another search and just read one of the dime-store paperbacks crammed on a homemade bookshelf. For while the latter route would certainly insure a decent night’s rest, poking around on the computer could only make things worse than they already were.
Ignoring my inner instinct, I settled at the desk with a silent pledge to spend no more than twenty minutes on the computer. And so for the third time in a little more than a day, I typed his name-only now I added O-B-I-T-U-A-R-Y to the search field.
A few new links appeared along with the regular options, and I automatically clicked the first one, scanning it quickly with relief. No mention of Philip.
If I find nothing new...maybe I can let this go, I hoped.
Confidently selecting another new link, I began to envision an enjoyable hour of peaceful reading. The site itself was embedded in a corporate website, leading me to believe it, too, held nothing of value. But I was thorough to a fault and subsequently chose the link with his name listed as a member of the board of directors.
Words faded. And my hands urgently gripped at warped edges of the particleboard desk to prevent me from tumbling onto the shag carpet with a resounding thud and startling the entire family from a deep slumber.
My swollen heart pressed against prickled skin, and I boldly read the obituary. I needed the print–etched there in black and white-to answer the questions feeding off my every coherent thought like ravenous parasites.
Was it really him? Yes. It was him. The listed names of wife and children matched the ones he’d told me whenever he became brave enough to talk about them.
When did it happen? One year and six months ago. Almost the same amount of time we were together.
How did he die? A lengthy illness. Nothing more.
Was he in pain? It didn’t say.
Had he been happy in those few healthy years? God, I hoped so.
Did he ever think of me...or love me...during those many years we were apart? I would never know.
I pressed the OFF button and when it didn’t respond, I furiously punched it, hard, with my right index finger, effectively splitting the nail down its center.
I lost an old friend, and no one could ever know it, I sobbed.
There was no one with whom to share the news–or pain. I had no shoulder to cry upon, and if I seemed out of sorts, it would be virtually impossible to explain its cause.
Unsure what to do, I turned out the light and laid in the dark until I eventually cried myself into an unforgiving sleep.
shattered
Jen was overly particular when it came to her yard sales, and this one became no exception. Her light rap on my door at 7:00AM wasn’t a suggestion but rather a demand to get moving.
Once again sluggish, I didn’t have the luxury of working slowly through the hurt like the morning before. But pulling myself out of bed was mercifully easier today, and for a singular moment I felt normal. One look at that blasted laptop, however, forced me to remember.
Hearing breakfast dishes and smelling brewed coffee lent me little time to dwell. I quickly donned a jogging suit, except mine definitely hadn’t been plucked from the clearance rack. And I couldn’t do anything more than bring my hair back in a loose knot and brush my teeth before I heard Joe call the kids to get packed up and catch the bus. By the time I entered the kitchen, it was already seven-thirty.
“Morning, Court. Did you sleep okay?” Jen looked me over with obvious concern.
I clumsily sat in one of the mismatched chairs around the farm table, and she kindly placed coffee and a whole wheat bagel with peanut butter in front of me.
“I guess not,” I muttered between steaming sips. “Thanks for getting this for me,” I gestured to the food upon my plate.
“No problem! Joe is actually trying to eat more whole grains so I figure he can finish any you don’t eat. They won’t go to waste,” Jen added, now inspecting me up close. “Are you okay?”
Of course she knew my history and the subsequent battle with OCD. But she didn’t know everything about my past, and though I desperately wanted to divulge my secret to someone, I couldn’t bring myself to confide in her.
“I’m fine, Jen. Really. Just need another cup of java to kick-start the day,” I grinned with false enthusiasm.
“Oh, geez!” she exclaimed, jumping from her chair. “I almost forgot about the damn sale!” Her goofy expression made me giggle, and I embraced it as a harbinger of better things to come.
With full cups in hand, we hustled to the garage and opened the overhead door to pull furniture, toys, and other large pieces onto the driveway. Joe already helped the boys onto the bus at its stop down the street and left to post signs before heading for work. By the time we had everything in place, there were five customers coming up the walk.
Jen’s pre-fab ranch was situated near the entrance to one of the newer sub-divisions in our hometown. Its location granted easy access from three main roads, which were well-traveled, guaranteeing a busy morning at least. And when Jen’s neighbor across the street told her of five more sales running in their neighborhood, I thought she’d do a cartwheel on the front lawn.
As a steady flow of shoppers bargained, browsed, and walked away with new-found treasures, morning quickly pushed into noon hour. And once we finally found a lull in the foot-traffic, Joe arrived from his work break with my parents in the cab of his truck and greasy bags of drive-thru sandwiches gripped in his beefy hands.
“How’s the sale goin’?” Dad hollered before patiently helping Mom from the truck. Looking over the merchandise along the way, they casually wove a path up the drive.
“Good!” Jen happily replied. “We’ve already made over three-hundred and fifty dollars!”
“Well, I made fifty, and you made the rest,” I corrected and went to greet my parents. Although we spoke on the phone often, I hadn’t actually seen them in months.
“How are you, Dear?” Mom observed me with a keen eye, and I shifted my gaze to avoid her sharp stare.
Ever since that first college semester, she’d been hyper-aware of my moods and connected to my emotions in an almost maddening way. Despite stellar acting performances, I could never seem to hide the truth from her. It was as if that brutal night triggered her protective motherly role from basic natural instinct to one of supernatural intuition.
Even so many safe years later, I still couldn’t evade it.
“I’m good, Mom. Just tired. Had a couple restless nights in a row,” I explained offhandedly.
Intuitively clucking her tongue, she continued into the house with Dad and Joe. I knew she’d be setting the table, serving the men, and then nervously awaiting Jen and I to take our turns for lunch.
“Why don’t you go first?” Jen offered with a sly grin.
“No way, Lady. You go first,” I insisted.
We laughed over our shared joke-neither of us seeming up to dealing with our parents today. She comically hoisted a pretend gun belt and sauntered toward the door with hands at her sides as if ready to engage in a duel.
“See you later, Pardner,” Jen drawled dramatically over her shoulder before entering the house.
***
With no family or shoppers around, I rested in grateful isolation. Hidden in a back corner of the garage, against the line-up of rusted bicycles and lawn equipment, the disturbing thoughts readily returned.
Only this time they weren’t of Philip.
Seeing my mother and father always brought the gruesome memor
y to the fore-front. And while I’d come to expect it over the years, it was always the opening of an old, yet still raw, wound that became the most upsetting.
Enrolled in a neighboring state university, my first semester began as uneventful and exhilarating as it should for a soon to be nineteen-year-old girl. Rooming with a local friend made the transition easier, and once that first month was complete, campus became my new home.
Growing up in a relatively decent sized town lent me street-smarts to be safe and follow my instincts when nearing areas that may create undue trouble. As a result, I never roamed the dorms or grounds alone in the night and kept to public areas whenever possible.
