Chapter Twelve #3
“The neighbor came by to offer condolences,” I mumble. He takes a hand and palms my shoulder warmly. I find myself hoping he never stops. I lean back against the wall and breathe.
The next time there’s a knock at the door, I’m in the kitchen. Whatever was left of the lasagna has glistened over and has been covered, and is now being uncovered again. After listening to hear if there is any motion toward the door, I head there myself. I feel like I may have found my calling.
“Hello,” I say with a soft smile as I step out onto the patio to greet an older couple. I let the door close behind me.
When I return, I’m carrying a casserole dish with two potholders, and decide to announce quietly to the room, “The Morrisons brought some extra food. I’ll just place it in the kitchen with the others,” and head to the back.
I vaguely understand that Maggie is removing the lid from the casserole while her two kids are looking on, but I head back to the living room and plop myself down in one of the empty chairs.
The afternoon becomes a series of quiet knocks, casseroles, flowers, and condolences. I answer every one of them. Somewhere along the way, answering the door simply becomes my job.
Martin’s dad has been unmoving all day. Just staring. Martin, too, doesn’t seem to be present, drifting quietly between rooms, never landing anywhere for very long. I dig out my phone and settle into some mindless scrolling, half-listening for the next knock.
Before I know it, the room has turned pink as the sky outside becomes a brilliant wash of light. Maggie’s husband is sitting on the stairs, Martin’s dad hasn’t moved, and Martin and his sister are sitting on opposite ends of the sofa. No one has spoken for hours.
Suddenly Martin’s dad stirs. The room notices. There is a grunt and a moan as he gets to his feet and makes his way toward me. He’s standing directly in front of me when he grunts, “Liam, cup of coffee?”
I look vaguely up at him. His face is sagging. “I’m fine,” I smile. Martin looks over at me, curiously.
“I’m making a fresh pot,” he groans, staring down at me, unsmiling.
“Well, in that case, sure. I’ll take a cup. Black please.” I glance around the room. Everyone is looking at me. Martin’s dad has turned, and is heading toward the kitchen mumbling the words “black coffee.” A chair creaks softly. Someone inhales. I lock eyes with Martin, who is smiling.
We hear a giant roar of a grinding machine and the room fills with the rich aroma of coffee beans. Martin and I share questioning smiles as the sounds from the kitchen play like a video of how to make coffee. I look away, and back to my phone. Martin’s eyes linger on me for a while.
Before long, we hear the shuffling of feet and Martin’s dad returns, carrying a single cup of coffee.
He hands it to me with a nod, then returns to his seat.
No one else has one. I hold up my cup to him with a nod, then sip carefully.
I look back at Martin who is watching me, too.
The smell of coffee fills the room and everyone seems to breathe deeply.
It’s late when I finally decide that I might have just overstayed my welcome. I stand from my chair, and find Martin again, who is picking at a plate of crumbs solemnly at the kitchen table.
“I think I’m going to go.” I whisper to him.
He stands up and engulfs me in a huge bear hug.
We say nothing. He holds me for a long time, and I him, when I realize we’ve broken an important hugging rule: he’s got both arms around my shoulders, which leaves me with both arms squeezing around the small of his back.
This is not a bear hug. I close my eyes and try to treasure the unrepeatable nature of this single moment.
He leans his head against mine and wraps me tighter.
I hear him take in a deep breath and then he slowly lets go.
I step back and smile at him. He’s smiling and dragging the back of his fist over one eye.
“Thank you, Liam,” he says to his forearm, which I reach out to squeeze warmly, then turn to head home.
On my way home, my phone beeps that special GoodWord jingle.
I have a new message from my secret person.
I see the notification on my lock screen, but spend several miles debating whether or not I can handle whatever this message might say.
It’s been a long, emotional day. I don’t think I can feel anything more right now.
Then I think of my secret person, and how difficult the waiting might just feel.
I know how the waiting feels. I spend a moment wondering if the GoodWord app shows that my message has been read.
It probably does. I flip my phone over and click the notification, trying to read the message out of the corner of my eye while driving.
It’s an apology.
“I’m so sorry about Halloway’s. It was a mistake. I will explain soon, if you want me to. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know how to translate this. The word mistake is bouncing around my brain in all kinds of negative ways. I set my phone down and tighten my grip on the steering wheel.