Chapter 7
“Mr. Penrose needed to build a zoo because he received a pet bear as a gift.” I hold out the brochure to Alex, displaying the sepia-toned picture of a handsome man sporting a handlebar mustache and baggy riding pants. He resembles the villain from Penelope Pitstop.
“I want to take a hippo home,” Alex says.
“Nope. Sorry, kiddo. Promised your dad we would leave the animals here.” I pick her up and shift us to face the rest of the wildlife park.
“But how cool is this? Penrose put his bear and all the other creatures he collected right here and carved a home for them on the side of this mountain. It’s like they’re still in the wilderness. ”
Her face scrunches up in a serious manner. “Does Wocky live here?”
I bite my lip to censor myself before I can tell her that Rocky the Wonder Sheep would scare away not just the children but the entire zoo population. “No, sweetie.” I cough to disguise my laughter. “Rocky lives in his home with Rockina.” And some very unfortunate-looking costumes.
“Can I wide the animawls?”
Can I wide the animawls? Wide . . . ride. Can I ride the animals.
Alex is patient with me, and her demonstrative little arms clarify as she points to the historic Allan Herschell carousel.
“Hmm.” How do I ask a small child if she struggles with vomit issues? Better question—how do I explain to a small child what a vomit phobia is? It’s not one of my more attractive qualities.
My imagination hijacks my rational thinking, and I visualize my full-on panic attack when Alex pukes on the merry-go-round as paparazzi report, “Harlan Holcombe’s Child Abandoned by Fainting Caretaker.”
So, no. We’re not going to wide the animawls.
“Alex, let’s wait a little bit because lunchtime is soon.” I slide her body down the side of mine, and when her feet hit the ground, I grasp her hand. “We also need a potty break.”
Navigating the small, personable zoo is easy. We pass a woman pushing a sturdy stroller with a pink bundle inside, bringing the zoo patron total to seven. Signs lead us up a hill to the food court, and I feel a tug on my arm.
“I need my foose fried.”
“What, sweetie?” Foose fried. Foose fried. What in the world?
“I need my foose fried.” Her face contorts and she stomps her foot.
Sometimes I wish children Alex’s age came with a professional translator. My grown-up intellect cannot come up with anything useful. Up until this point she hasn’t been frustrated with me, but now she’s thrusting her foot to the ground in earnest.
Foose fried. Foose fried. I crouch down so my face can be at her level. “Alex, you’re doing a great job using your words. Do you think you can show me what you need?”
“She needs her shoes tied, you idiot.” The sharp voice pelts me from a few feet behind us.
Tingles of complete shock skitter over my body.
As the savage comment registers, Alex peers around me. Her face turns from caution to excited recognition. “Mommy!” She abandons me and runs.
This must be Olivia.
I exhale and close my eyes. Wanting to move to friendlier territory, I stand and turn toward the mother-daughter reunion.
Her toned arms open in a dramatic manner. “Hi, baby.”
Alex takes a flying leap to her mother.
Harlan’s ex-wife is striking. Long, gorgeous dark hair frames the face of a porcelain doll look-alike. Her eyes are an intoxicating green, and I’m not even focusing on her rock-hard body. Yup. She could date a movie star.
Olivia carries her child two steps and pauses in front of me. “Who are you?” She barks her words. “The flavor of the month?”
In spite of Harlan’s warning, I’m caught off guard by her disdain. My face flushes with embarrassment at the public scene, but I’m more upset she’s chastising me with Alex as the audience. I plaster a smile on my face. “Hi. You must be Olivia. My name is Meredith.”
Alex claps her hands. “Merweradith.”
“Whatever.” Olivia’s eyes roll in disgust. “Do you have Alex’s bag?”
Is she threatened by me? I’m nobody. I’m the babysitter for the day.
These are new waters, ones I’m unsure how to navigate. I stay on the shore and pray for safety. “Her backpack’s right here. We were about to go use the potty and sit down for lunch. Alex has had the best time—”
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, Meredith”—her emphasis on my name drips with condescension—“but I don’t want a rundown on what my daughter needs from someone who clearly should go get children of her own.”
I hear the sound of my gasp, but my world stops.
My bottom lip starts to quiver. No doubt those around us can pick up the sound of my heart cracking, but if it isn’t audible, blood should be spilling out of me any minute now.
In one long moment, I take in a labored breath and ask my emotions to do something for me. I ask them to wait. Beg them to wait. As I gulp down the knot in my throat, my damp eyes meet Olivia’s.
Unable to mask the tremor in my voice, I strain for a gracious tone. “I’m so sorry. There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m just a friend who wanted to help out. Alex and I have had a wonderful time today. You’re raising an amazing little girl.”
Olivia’s glare doesn’t soften, and she exhales through her nose like a bull about to charge in the rodeo ring.
We stand in loaded silence, and I’m not sure what else to do or say. My emotional dam is about to break, and the impending tears don’t care where they flood.
I fix my attention on Harlan’s daughter. “Alex, I had a blast with you today. Thank you for hanging out with me. Have so much fun with your mommy.”
She flings herself at me, causing Olivia to step forward and allow the awkward embrace.
Her tight, earnest hug slays me.
I need to escape to an isolated location, because my impending meltdown isn’t going to be pretty.
Olivia grabs the backpack from my hand and huffs as she walks away.
Heading to the nearest exhibit, I swipe away teardrops and search for a secluded spot. When I discover no one in the vicinity of the moose habitat, I give myself permission to let go.
Olivia spewed unfair judgment, yes. But this explosion of feelings has been building the last few days. I shoved down too much, and everything is coming to the surface with a vengeance. Grief found me. It even waited on me. And it will wait no longer.
My emotional pain manifests into physical. Clutching the railing with one hand, I grab my writhing stomach with the other.
Why did I come here? Why did I think this trip would be valuable? Why was I stupid enough to believe there was something for me here?
I’m spiraling down to the Bad Place at an alarming speed.
Think, Meredith. I suck in a choppy breath. Hot tears stream through my closed eyes and down my cheeks.
Molly. Tell Molly.
My touchstone.
I reach inside my purse, grasp the accordion folder, run my thumb across the folds, then release it. After fumbling for my phone, I drop my purse on the ground. My vision starts to blur as I scramble to text my flare for help. A flower emoji. Our symbol that tells Molly I’m not okay.
Her response is immediate.
Loving you.
A few seconds later, my cell buzzes again.
You can do this.
I pitch the phone on top of my belongings and grip the bar again. At the exact moment I think I will double over, I see a shadow.
Someone is here.
Shoot. Someone is here.
“Hey there.” A palm puts gentle pressure on the center of my back. “Meredith, it’s Harlan.” He covers my hand on the rail with his.
No. Not him. Not now.
“I . . . I . . . I . . .” My quivering voice sounds like that of a child.
The hand on my back steadies me. “It’s okay.” He stands perpendicular to me, his face a few inches from mine. “Don’t talk.”
I try to control my twitching body as my eyes dart around the area.
“No one’s coming back here,” his deep voice soothes. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
In spite of my best efforts, I cry out. Grief’s agony sears through me with relentless force, and I release a curse through my sobs.
Harlan says nothing, his hand stroking my back. His presence gives me a temporary reprieve, and my breathing, though still choppy, isn’t as strained.
“Meredith, do you think you can walk a couple of steps and rest on the bench back here?”
Without making eye contact, I nod once. Maybe if I sit down, he’ll leave.
He grabs my purse, his hand on my back guides me, and I lean my weight into his side. When we take a seat, he faces me, places a protective arm around the back of the bench, and rubs his thumb on my shoulder.
My broken inhales struggle to grant passage to the calming oxygen. I’m so mortified. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You aren’t the one who should apologize. Take a deep breath for me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I just want to sit with you, if that’s okay.”
On my next inhale, I whimper.
Waves. Unrelenting waves of mourning.
I think I’m okay, then I can almost make out Clayton’s laughter. I think I’m okay, then I picture Chloe’s silly walk. I think I’m okay, then I remember Steve’s last words to me.
Unforgiving waves of agony threaten to drown me.
After several more minutes, Harlan squeezes my shoulder. “Meredith, what can I do for you?”
“There’s”—I clear my throat—“water in my purse.” My limp hand casts a half-hearted gesture to my bag.
Harlan releases his secure grip on me, and I regret asking him to move. My body shakes in his absence.
He bends to retrieve my purse, returns to me, and rummages through the contents. When he finds the water, he twists open the cap and hands me the bottle.
My unsteady hands grasp the container.
I gather some courage to glance up at him. What I find surprises me.
I thought he would appear uncomfortable at the very least and fearful at the very worst. But the man returning my gaze can only be described as concerned. His compassionate eyes match his calm demeanor.
It’s surprising. Maybe comforting. But also confusing.
Why is he still here?
When I think I can form words again, I pull in a breath and exhale. “I’m sorry. The bad grief isn’t as frequent now. At home, I’m usually alone and no one else has to deal with it. I’m just”—I pick at the edge of the bottle label with my fingernail—“sorry.”
“You don’t have to justify yourself to me.” He strokes my hair with a gentle touch. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”
I don’t understand why, but in the middle of this profound moment of sadness, he is able to provide a foundation of peace, to endure and wait while the anguish passes.
As we sit a while longer, my breathing slows and my other senses return. The bright sunlight streaks through the clouds and draws lines across the moose that relaxes twenty feet from us. When did he show up? An elephant calls from over the hill.
Instead of being consumed with torment, my brain is functioning again. Words and energy evade me, but I’m grateful to be on the other side of the beastly grief attack.
Harlan clenches his jaw, then glimpses around and back to me. “Let’s get you back to the hotel. I think you’ll be more comfortable there.”
My eyes are filled with moisture yet scratchy at the same time. Vitality has drained from me. But I stare at him with a boldness I don’t often allow. “Okay.”
On our way out, it occurs to me that I enjoyed being friends with Harlan, if only for a brief while. But I won’t hear from him after today.
The only people who stick with me through similar episodes are either in my support group or my immediate family. No doubt my massive emotional attack has scared him away.
Meeting Harlan Holcombe will soon fade to an amusing story to tell at parties.
But secretly I will know.
I will know that one beautiful autumn afternoon, Harlan Holcombe bore my sorrow like a champion friend.
And secretly I will know that on that same beautiful autumn afternoon, I fell a little bit in love with him because he did.