Chapter Twenty-Two
__________
Jason
The late afternoon sun spills onto the faded painted blue porch. The familiarity warms something deep in me. My eyes sting at the memories of sitting on the creaking porch swing on a nice afternoon while reading with Ms. Tibball.
There is a slight chill in the air, but the snow has melted from the last drop a couple of weeks ago.
I step up to the glass door, catching my reflection in the window.
A shadow of the boy who used to come here for reading lessons stares back at me.
It’s a familiar shadow, yet…different. Taller, broader, the silhouette of a man, not the little boy who used to ride his bike down the street or play tag with the neighborhood kids.
When the door opens before I can knock, my breath hitches in surprise. I lower my raised fist that’s about to knock. A smile already forming on my face.
“Well, I’ll be,” Ms. Tibball says, opening the door wider. “Benny? Is that you?” Her eyes are already glassing over. Like mine.
Yes. I wanted to say, but my voice catches in my throat. Yes, I’m the same boy who used to scramble onto this very porch, clutching old library books. Determination coursing through my veins to decipher the written word.
Now…I’ve grown up. Forced into adulthood at a young age at the hands of my father.
“Yes, Ms. Tibball?” I finally say when I find my voice. Deeper than when she knew me all those years ago. Not quite baritone, more tenor.
Her smile widens, reaching her eyes. “My goodness, look at you. You haven’t changed a bit.
” I chuckle because it’s true. I’m still the same height as I was when I was a sophomore in high school.
“Come on in, dear boy. Don’t just stand there on the porch looking like a lost puppy.
Though a very handsome lost puppy, I might add. ”
I feel the heat rise in my neck from her compliment.
Jason follows me into the house, and I flinch when I realize I never introduced the strangers.
“Ms. Tibball, this is my…boyfriend, Jason,” I tell her, hoping she doesn’t have a problem with me being gay like my father did.
“Oh, sweetie, that makes me happier than you know.” She tells me before turning her attention to the tall man beside me. “Jason, it’s a pleasure meeting you. I hope my Benny is taking good care of you.” She teases.
“More like he’s taking good care of me,” I tell her.
“We take care of each other,” Jason says, putting his arm around my waist and pulling me into his side.
“That’s how any good relationship should be.
We follow her lead and head into the cozy living room.
It’s like coming home. The room is filled with the scent of lavender and old paper, from the stacks of books not only filling the bookcases but also lying on the end tables and coffee table.
The sun beams through the lace curtains, illuminating dust motes that dance through the air.
“It’s been…a while,” I say, my gaze sweeping over the familiar room.
“Far too many,” she agrees, gesturing towards the couch.
“Please, sit you two. You look like you could use a good sit-down.” That’s what she used to call it when I was a kid, and I had a lot going on at school and needed someone to talk with.
“And I was just about to put the kettle on. I might even have some of those peanut butter cookies you used to love.”
“That sounds… wonderful, Ms. Tibball,” Jason tells her, gripping my hand in his. He turns and offers me a genuine smile.
“Seeing you sitting there brings back so many memories,” Ms. Tibball says.
“I remember those afternoons so clearly. Your determined little face. Your finger tracing each word. You gasping in triumph when a sentence finally clicked into place. It wasn’t just about teaching you to read, for me; it was about opening a door to a world of endless possibilities. ”
I wipe a tear that slips free.
When the tray is set on the coffee table, the delicate china makes a soft clinking sound. I reach over, pick up one of the peanut butter cookies, and place it on a napkin to catch any crumbs that may fall.
Jason picks up a steaming teacup.
“So,” Ms. Tibball begins, taking a sip of her tea, “what brings you back to this neck of the woods? Are you visiting…um, family?”
I take a bite of my cookie, trying to buy some time to settle my nerves.
“I never stopped thinking about the years next door to you. The time mom and I spent in the garden is a memory that will never be forgotten. I’ve been feeling this…
pull. It’s been happening a lot lately. I never had the chance to say goodbye.
It’s like…like a piece of me was always unsettled.
” I admit. My voice is no louder than a whisper.
“Oh, Benny,” she says softly, holding a wrinkled hand to her chest. Her voice was thick with emotion.
“You never got closure, and it’s been eating at you.
” She stands and walks over to me, her arms outstretched.
I stand and let her hug me. It’s almost like hugging my mom.
Her floral perfume fills my senses. “You don’t need to thank me.
Ever. It was my pleasure. Seeing you thrive, that’s the real reward. ”
Gratitude for this moment warms me from the inside. “But I do. You really helped me. I remember feeling so stuck, like the words were just a jumble. You were the one who…who helped me unlock it all.”
“I always knew you had it in you, Benny,” she says, her smile radiant. “Your spark just needed the right kind of fuel.” She glances at Jason and winks.
Jason chuckles. A warm, full sound.
We continue catching up on the years apart. As I lean back against Jason on the couch, a comfortable ease settles between all of us.
After filling Ms. Tibball in on how I ended up in Rockport Ridge and working at Peonies and Petals, she fills me in on the nurse who bought the house next door–my old house. Dad moved a couple of years ago. She only ever saw him in passing, but he seemed to be gone more than he was home.
We share a few more tears along with laughter from times past. It was a beautiful reminder that even after long stretches away, the most wonderful connections can bloom again, as vibrant and hopeful as they once were.
While Jason and Ms. Tibball discuss teaching and bond over classroom stories, I excuse myself.
“I’m going to step outside for some air. I’ll be right back,” I tell them. Jason raises an eyebrow but nods, knowing I need a few minutes alone to process the day. I offer a quick smile, a promise to return.
I step across the stepping stones that lead to the house next door.
As I approach, the first thing I notice is that the old picket fence surrounding the backyard is freshly painted.
A pale pink color, from a distance, looks white.
“Mom would have loved this color,” I whisper to the silence.
The house, too, is charming again. Fresh paint, new shutters.
I bet it looks like a fairytale cottage in the spring with all the blooms.
It looks nothing like the house my dad let slip through his fingers.
Before I can think better of it, I unlatch the gate.
As I step through, my eyes, expecting the barren concrete slabs that suffocated the wildflowers, suddenly widen.
Where the earth had been scarred by my father's misguided anger, it is now a vibrant sanctuary.
A slightly larger potting shed sits at an angle in the yard, with rows of tilled land waiting for seeds.
A memory of my mother and me dancing among them like bees and butterflies flash in my mind, and I smile.
The screen on the back door creaks open. I turn to face the woman, who appears to be in her forties, and looks so much like my mother. Same long, brown, wavy hair, and bright blue eyes. The manner of dress is so familiar. My eyes sting at the resemblance.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
I shake my head and clear my throat. “I-I’m so-sorry. I was visiting Ms. Tibball next door. I wanted to see my old house. I didn’t mean to intrude.” I turn toward the gate and take a couple of steps.”
“You used to live here?” Her words cause my feet to pause.
I can’t speak in fear of sobbing. I nod instead.
“I’m Jennifer. I bought the home a couple of years ago and have been doing small projects since. It’s been a passion project for me. It’s nice to meet you-”
“Ben. I’m…Ben.”
“Ben?” She says, brows furrowing before her eyes widen. “Oh. Ben. Your mom was in a car accident. About five or six years ago?”
I nod again. “Seven. I was only fourteen when it happened.” I’ve gone through so much in life already, and it hardly feels like I'm in my early twenties. I clear my throat. “I was…in the car with her.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss. When I bought the house, my realtor told me about it.
But then, I started piecing things together after I moved in.
Jennifer’s smile falters for a fraction of a second.
“The day you…the day of the accident,” she begins, voice steady, “I was working my shift in the emergency room. I remember the ambulance arriving. The urgency. And then, you were brought in.” A faint memory, like a ghost brushing against me.
“There was something about you… a quiet strength, I saw in you.”
Although Jennifer’s expression grows serious, I don’t find pity in her eyes. Just an acknowledgment of a difficult past.
“I…I don’t remember much of that time. It’s all a bit of a blur. I was mostly fine, just a light concussion, some bruises, and scratches. It was like I was underwater. Sounds muffled.”
“I understand,” she says, her tone laced with reassurance.
“Mom died at the scene,” I whisper. Jennifer nods. “This yard was a wildflower garden. Mom and I would spend hours and hours out here together. My dad demolished it because he couldn't stand looking at it. The memories hurt too much, I think.”
Jennifer just lets me talk as I step over to the freshly tilled soil.
The scent of freshly turned earth is intoxicating, a promise of new beginnings. I kneel down and pick up some of the soil. The texture felt familiar in my palm. A surge of contentment brushes over my soul. This garden, even in its new iteration, already feels like a haven.
“It’s beautiful. I can picture it, all filled with blooms.” I take a deep, steadying breath. “Thank you. It’s like you’ve revived her memory. Her passion.”
I push myself up, brushing dirt from my jeans.
“I’ve been spending every spare moment out here. It’s amazing what a little sunshine and some careful pruning can do.” She gestures around the colorful stakes that label what flowers will be planted. “Ms. Tibball was right, this place has always had good bones, or should I say good roots?”
I giggle, a high, pleasant sound.
“She said the garden had a special energy. It just needed someone to truly understand it.” Jennifer, then her gaze softened. “I’m glad you were able to visit. I hope the new garden can erase the concrete images you had from before.”
“They do,” I admit.
“When Ms. Tibball told me about this house, about your mother’s passion for this garden, it resonated deeply.
She described this place, not just the house, but the way the light falls through the trees onto the garden, as sounding like a sanctuary.
And I knew I needed to revive it in my own image. ’”
My gaze sweeps across the landscape, a genuine smile returning to my lips. “I can feel its energy. Truly. It feels… alive.”
“That’s the goal,” she tells me. My heart swells with a quiet pride. “To create spaces that feel alive. That nurture. Inspire. Just like those moments in the hospital when my patients fight back and defy the odds. It’s a testament to the human spirit. Your spirit, Ben.”
How many tears can I shed today? I wipe my cheek.
“So, tell me, Ben, what do you do these days? Are you in college? Do you work?” She asks, genuinely interested.
As I explain to Jennifer about the flower stand that never happened, my voice brims with the sheer joy of a dream just beginning to take flight. “I now work in a flower shop. I have a friend’s wedding coming up next month, and the mockups we did are beautiful.”
The aroma of damp earth and the faint, sweet perfume of blossoms always made my heart swell. Today, however, there’s a different kind of warmth spreading through me, a hopeful anticipation that feels just as potent.
“It sounds lovely. Your friend Kai is lucky to have you on his side for this special event.” She reaches out and gently touches my arm. "You know, Ben," she said, her voice carrying a quiet certainty, "I have something that belongs to you. Something that might fit right into your new vision."
She doesn’t elaborate.
I followed her, curiosity piqued, toward the weathered potting shed where sunlight dapples through the leaves, casting dancing patterns across the exterior as a gentle wind blows through the leaves.
The door creaked open, revealing a space that smelled of aged wood and earth. And there, tucked away on a dusty shelf, sits a wooden crate.
Inside are an assortment of glass jars. Varying shapes and sizes. Some are tall and slender, others squat and round. Each has its own unique character.
I don’t even try to hide my emotions.
“Are these?” I ask between sobs.
Jennifer carefully lifts one out, a small, clear jar with delicate, pebbled sides. The glass has a faint green tint. It looks like something from the 1970s. Tucked beneath it was a folded piece of paper. My breath hitches when I see the familiar, looping script.
It’s my mother’s handwriting.