Chapter 12
TWELVE
Love is nice things, like giving people a hug.
From the text conversation of Ellie Sterns and her mother:
MOM : Good morning.
ELLIE : Hi mom.
MOM : I started my spring cleaning early. Do you know what I came across? That beautiful slipper you made for me a couple of years ago for Mother’s Day?
ELLIE : Yes, I remember.
MOM : Do you think you’ll be able to finish the matching slipper soon? It’s okay if you can’t. I know you’re busy and that’s why you could only finish one of them…
ELLIE : I promise I’ll get it finished soon. I promise.
MOM : How soon is soon?
Gil and I did a fantastic job of avoiding each other the first few days. He stayed out of my way; I stayed out of his.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I still noticed the ten-foot canopy he added next to the tent under which he placed a cooler, a small barbecue, and a folding table.
He strung up fairy lights around the canopy and stretched an extension cord from an outside plug on the house to his camp where he could charge his phone, a laptop, and one of those fancy coffeemakers that made one cup at a time.
He’d made himself right at home out there.
But there were signs he’d been in the house when we weren’t home—almond milk in the fridge, protein powder and oatmeal packets in his cupboard.
(Yes, I peeked.) Sticky notes with questions were placed on the fridge so I was sure to see them.
In fact, it was the only way we’d communicated with each other in three whole days. I approved.
On day three of his first week in the backyard, I drove home from work in a haze.
Work had kicked my butt. Jorge had an existential crisis because we ran out of butter.
Iris left an hour early for class. And me?
Well, everything from my feet to my hair was exhausted.
And let me tell you, exhausted hair is a sight to see.
Unfortunately, Oliver didn’t get the memo about the day I’d had. He was practically vibrating in his car seat. I think it was the class birthday party at the end of the school day; there had been cupcakes.
“Mommy. Mom. Mommy. Mooom. Mommy.”
“Yes, Oliver?” I said, trying to sound like the patient, calm mother I was most definitely not.
“Today Teacher read us a book about a family that goes to the ocean, and they see all kinds of stuff like seashells and crabs and fishes and they made sandcastles and I asked Teacher if it was called sand because it’s halfway between the sea and the land and she told me she didn’t know but to ask you. ”
Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan. I’d have to get her a very special gift for Teacher Appreciation Week.
“Is that why it’s called sand, Mommy?”
I knew he would keep asking until I gave him an answer. So, I did what most parents had been doing for generations when they were exhausted, and their feet hurt, and their kid was bouncing off the walls; I lied. “Yep. That’s exactly why sand is called sand.”
“I knew it.” He shot a fist in the air in victory and settled into a moment of quiet. It didn’t last. “Mom. Mom. Mommy.”
“You know, you only have to say it once, kid. I hear you.”
“Can we go to the ocean?”
“Sure. That would be fun.” I turned down the private gravel road to the house.
“Soon?”
“Soon.” Please. No more questi?—
“Can I have a baby brother?”
I slammed on the brakes and used the rearview mirror to peer back at him. “What?”
Oliver’s face was set in a serious expression. “I want a little brother. Uncle Chris says he and Aunt Mae are going to have a baby soon and I could borrow it sometimes, but I would like a baby brother of my own. Then I don’t have to share.”
A vein in my head began to pulse. That couldn’t be good. After putting the car in park, I unbuckled and turned to see him better. “No, you can’t have a baby brother right now.”
He frowned but was blessedly silent for the twenty seconds it took to pull in under the carport and turn the car off.
Oliver hopped out of the car. Right before closing the door, he leaned in and said, “If it’s too hard to get a baby brother, I guess a baby sister would do.”
He skittered away before I could reply. I let out a tired laugh. “This kid.”
When I got out of the car, he was waiting for me. “Mommy, what is that?”
At first, I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
The carport was attached to the house on the side of the kitchen.
It was big enough for two cars to park side by side.
The right side, closest to the kitchen door, had always been my spot.
Gil’s car was parked on the left where Ollie used to park his ancient pickup.
I followed Oliver to the other side of Gil’s car.
“That, Mommy. Where did that come from?”
That was a shiny red and chrome motorcycle.
I didn’t know much about motorcycles but even I could tell this one was very nice.
Past Ellie would have freshened up her lipstick and hunted down the owner of that motorcycle.
Past Ellie would have been lulled by the siren call of a man who rode a motorcycle once.
Oliver’s father rode a bike with blue flames on the side. The first time we went out, I’d picked the spot and packed the picnic, but he’d driven us there. That feeling of the wind whipping past mixed with that edge of danger? It has been like catnip for me.
Good thing I wasn’t Past Ellie anymore.
“Is it Mr. Dalton’s?” Oliver asked.
“I guess so?” The only thing more ridiculous than Past Ellie’s mistakes was the thought of Gilbert Dalton riding a motorcycle. Did they make khaki-colored leather pants?
Oliver touched the seat. “I like it.”
“No, you don’t. Motorcycles are dangerous.” And so are the men who ride them. “Come on, let’s go figure out dinner.”
Once again, I waited until Oliver was tucked in before making my way out to Gil’s camp. Another camping chair had been added. Gil was standing with his hands on his hips, head tipped back to take in the dazzling display of stars.
“Whose motorcycle is in the carport?” I asked in way of greeting.
“Nice evening, isn’t it?” he said. “So many stars. You don’t see this many in the city.”
“Rule number five: no motorcycles. I don’t want Oliver around them.”
He gave me a sharp look, made a little ghoulish in the flickering light from the campfire.
Over his long-sleeved, navy t-shirt, he had a fleece vest. Practical, sturdy hiking books and jeans rounded out the outfit.
He looked like the cover model for a magazine probably called Camping Attire Monthly .
“What’s wrong with a motorcycle?”
“They’re dangerous.”
He scoffed. “They’re perfectly safe.”
“Is that thing even yours? There’s no way you ride a motorcycle.”
“Yes, it’s mine and what does that mean?” He sounded more than a little annoyed.
“You don’t seem like the type.”
“What type am I, then?” He sat in a camping chair, stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles.
“The kind who remembers to change the batteries on your fire alarms every year whether they need it or not. I bet you get your car oil changed every three months to the day. You never remove the tags from your pillows.”
“Yes, yes, and sometimes I do, if I’m feeling rebellious.”
“You know what I mean,” I said.
“I wear a helmet when I ride and follow all the traffic rules.” He pointed at the empty camping chair. “You can sit.”
I looked down my nose at him. “No, thank you. I didn’t come for a visit. I just wanted to know if I’m going to get a call they had to scrape you off the highway one day soon.”
“Should I be concerned how many ways you’ve imagined my death?” he said and rested his folded hands across his stomach. “I know how to ride. Survived every time I’ve done it.”
“Oh, okay.” I rolled my eyes. “That makes it totally safe then.”
His head tilted to the side. “Why do I feel like you’re not going to be satisfied with any answer I give you?”
“I don’t know. A moment of self-awareness. A realization that your heart might not be as dead as you think it is?”
“Who said my heart was dead? My heart is fine.”
I crossed my arms. “Sure.”
Both of us went silent. In the quiet of the moment, punctuated only by the sound of the crackling campfire, our eyes met.
My skin prickled, and not from the cold.
I resisted the urge to fidget. For one suspended moment, I wanted to know everything going on behind those eyes. What was he thinking about?
“The motorcycle is—was—my stepdad’s,” Gill said, quiet and low, breaking the silence. “A friend had a trailer and dropped it off for me. I’m selling it.”
“Oh.” I blinked, losing some of my bluster. “Was? Did your stepdad…?”
“He passed in November.”
That was just three months ago. “I’m so sorry. Were you close?”
Gil’s smile was small and sad. It slid into my heart like a warm knife in butter. “Yeah, we were close.”
His gaze fixed on the flickering fire in front of us, staring off into memories I couldn’t see. For a minute, I think he forgot where he was completely. Or that I was right next to him.
It gave me time to study him in the firelight. The dark hair not quite as neat and tidy at the end of the day, the merest hint of a five o’clock shadow, the way his mouth naturally turned down in the corners and gave him a resting frown face.
“Well, um, I’ll leave you to it.” I took a couple of steps backwards. “Night, Gil.”
“Night, Eleanor.”
After I closed up the house for the night and got into my room, I moved to close the curtains. But I couldn’t resist looking outside once more. Gil was as I’d left him, sprawled in the chair, legs stretched out, and staring into the fire. Even through the window, I could feel his sadness.