11. Elizabeth
Eleven
Elizabeth
I love my new treadmill. I love that I found it, I love that I crammed it in the car by myself, and I love how I feel when I use it.
I can tell it’s poor quality, but it’s so portable.
I can move it around all the different rooms of my house, using it in front of the television when I’m watching, or in my bedroom with my headphones and an audiobook when Jake’s playing video games.
I start to notice other changes that feel related to the treadmill.
I’m more comfortable wearing the capsule wardrobe that reveals the shape of my body, now that I’m focusing more on how my body feels walking around in the world.
I can feel each of my muscles now, and I’m not sure if it’s because I activated them or because I think about them as I walk.
I also feel myself making other impulsive decisions, without analyzing them first. Without second-guessing myself.
Which is how I find myself walking across the street lugging a high chair.
I saw it by the curb as I went to collect a second-hand dining set I found online.
It’s a name brand high chair that had just a few scuffs I polished out in my kitchen.
I place the chair on the brick stoop and knock on Kellen’s door.
Even though I should be used to seeing him every day, it takes my breath away a little when he answers.
He’s so handsome and kind. His dark eyes always seem so honest. “Hey,” I say, greeting him, loving that his smile widens.
“I wanted to thank you for being such a great neighbor.”
“Oh, Beth, that’s not necessary,” he starts. I hold up a hand.
“I heard you say something about wanting to keep a high chair here, so Maddie and Liam’s baby can eat with the family.
And, well, I saw this…” I gesture toward the chair.
Kellen pushes the door open and steps outside, hands on his hips.
I shrug. “I grabbed it for you. I know it’s second hand, but you know how babies are. ”
“They’re a mess,” he says, laughing. “God, Orla used to throw food everywhere while she ate. Callum still does.” We share a smile, likely both remembering the great guacamole fight from the family barbecue. “Beth, this is…well, it’s perfect,” he says.
We stand in silence on his stoop, staring at a piece of baby furniture.
I like everything about his response, although I feel a brief twang of sadness that I didn’t get to see him as a father to young kids.
I remind myself what I’m actually doing is grieving the loss of a great father for Jake, not wishing Kellen away from his life experiences.
He looks up at me and takes my hand. “I hope you and Jake will be here for many more dinner parties once the baby arrives,” he says.
My high from the encounter lasts nearly a week.
I see Kellen outside almost daily. We wave and shout back and forth about the weather, but I don’t approach him again.
I just sit around and think about him instead.
I think about the name of his company, Beltane, how it’s a Celtic festival of fire and new beginnings.
That leads me down a rabbit hole of Celtic astrology.
My father’s family, the Burns family, has Irish heritage, too.
We always sort of thought everyone in the U.S.
was a little bit Irish. Not like the Brady family.
Kellen’s mom was a first generation American and his family used to go visit their relatives in Ireland all the time.
I stumble onto an article about the moon, and how the Celtic druids believed the full moon closest to your birth determined personality traits.
It’s all ridiculous, probably, and I know Lisa would tease me if she could see me wide-eyed and staring at my laptop, but I see that my own October birthday aligns with the Exploring Moon and the ivy.
My Celtic horoscope talks of big transitions, of internal strength and the pull of relocating in the face of struggle.
I start to cry as I read about ivy, a vine that overcomes despite all odds.
“Life can be difficult,” my internet spirit guide says, and I know it’s generic and silly, but for the first time since I left Todd, I feel seen.
“You endure troubling times with silent perseverance and soulful grace,” I read aloud.
I snap the laptop shut and do something else impulsive.
I drive to a tattoo parlor and ask for an ivy tattoo, just a small one, black ink only, on my hip.
Where only I can see. I lie on the table as the artist transfers a sketch onto my body.
The needle burns more than it stings, and I relish the sensation, searing this meaning and awareness into my body forever.
“I persevere,” I whisper. I take root and cling, I think as the tattoo gun inks my birth rite and heritage into my skin.
I drive home with instructions for care and healing, and I tell no one. It’s my secret. My affirmation. And I love it. When I get home, I fast-walk two more miles, loving the quick glimpse of my thigh beneath my shorts with every step.