Chapter 24. Lenore #2
And I’m angry. At the injustice of it all: an absent father, a mother who couldn’t cope.
And then there was Gran, who filled in all the gaps, gave us a proper childhood, for however much childhood we had left by then.
And the universe had to go and steal her away before I was ready to say goodbye.
First her mind, then her physical presence—and whatever slim comfort it gave me knowing that she was still here in body if not in spirit.
Water freckles the page, ink bleeding from the words. I glance skyward. The sky has turned a gritty charcoal, dense clouds stealing away the afternoon. A raindrop hits my cheek and I close the journal, pushing myself to my feet.
Soggy wood snaps beneath me. My left foot plunges into frigid water.
My grandmother’s journal hits the deck with a smack, one hand splayed atop it to keep me from falling in.
“Shit,” I hiss, and paw at the nearest post with my free hand until I get a solid grip. I drag myself forward but my jeans catch on a rusted nail. I try to disentangle it for all of two seconds before I give up and wrench my leg free, denim ripping.
I stumble onto solid ground, one shoe squelching, and double over with the journal clutched to my chest as I catch my breath. “What,” I gasp at the sky, “the fuck.”
It’s barely a drizzle, over as quick as it started, but my trust in the weather is broken. I hobble back to the house with my ripped jeans and sodden foot, journal tucked under my arm. It’s fitting, in a way, that I’m now as much of a mess on the outside as I am on the inside.
It’s not until I’m passing by the outbuilding that my eyes snag on the classic Chevy truck parked outside. I halt in my tracks. It wasn’t there earlier. The garage door yawns wide, the interior plunged into near shadow.
I march across the grass and stop in the doorway.
Callan rummages in a toolbox with his back to me.
He’s wearing his hat backward, and a grease-stained orange shirt with something about a Burlington charity run splashed across the back.
Seeing him standing there, looking so normal while I’m falling apart at the seams, makes me feel pathetic.
Like a crusty-eyed dog you feel sorry for at the pound.
I want to shake him, to demand why he’s still working here, knowing that the farm will change hands in a week. I want him to go after something that he wants for once in his life, even if it means opening himself up to failure.
“What are you doing?”
Cal tosses me a grin over his shoulder as he extracts a large pair of gardening shears from the drawer.
“I work here.” His smile falters as he does a double take at my appearance—journal tucked under my arm, jeans shredded, one shoe leaking water onto the concrete floor.
The shears clatter into the drawer and he shoves it closed. “Holy shit, are you all right?”
“I fell into the pond. Part of me did, anyway.” I raise my free arm and let it fall against my side with a smack. “So it’s not just you I’m clumsy around. Apparently, I’m a walking disaster.”
It’s meant to be a humorously self-deprecating comment, but it comes out wobbly, on the verge of tears. Callan crosses the garage toward me, but I take a step back, holding up a hand to stop him while he’s still about ten feet away.
He shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw clamped tight. “I don’t think you’re a disaster, Lenore.”
I have so much I’d like to say, but it’s hard to pick apart what’s directed at him and what’s meant for the universe at large. My emotions are sticky, melting together at the edges like gummy candy left out in the sun.
I don’t want to be needy, but I also don’t want to be that person who bottles everything up, because I’ve tried that for six months and it hasn’t worked out in my favor.
“You forgot about our hike today,” I say.
For a split second, his brow pinches in confusion before he remembers. “Shit. I’m sorry. Some stuff came up with my dad—”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I slept all day anyway.” I hesitate a beat before admitting, “I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
Cal gives me a flat look. “Why would I be avoiding you?”
“Because we said we didn’t want to make this weird, but that’s easier said than done, so now maybe it’s weird?”
His eyebrows climb upward. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“More like probing,” I say.
He shrugs. “I don’t feel weird about it.”
“Great. I don’t, either,” I say, confused and a little annoyed that he can be so nonchalant about this.
Everything feels uncertain right now. A little reassurance would go a long way, but I also don’t know how to ask for that without feeling like I’m squeezing it out of him.
I want it to happen naturally. Not a kiss or a stolen touch, but a declaration: I want this.
I want you. Even if it’s messy. Even if nothing else makes sense.
“In that case, did you want to go hiking tomorrow instead?” he says.
“Do you want to hike?” I ask, testing the waters.
“Sure.”
“Great,” I say again. Even though it’s not great. Sure isn’t quite the enthusiasm I was searching for.
“I’ll pick you up around nine or so.” Already, he’s turned back to his work, tools in the chest clattering as he searches the drawer.
Frustrated, I wander back to the house.
Upstairs in my room, I set my grandmother’s journal on the dresser beside the moving box and my art supplies.
My eyes snag on the gouache painting of the farmhouse.
It isn’t finished, but it’s also not particularly good, so I don’t know whether it’s worth finishing.
This is what always happens—a deep conviction, in the middle of working on a new piece, that it’s awful.
Sometimes I lose interest. It’s tempting to start something new—a nebulous idea that holds more appeal than whatever’s already started to take shape, because when you never finish, you never have to face the possibility of failure.
I’m tempted to take this painting down to the kitchen, toss it into the only fireplace that hasn’t been bricked shut, and set it on fire.
My grandmother used to dig my crumpled drawings out of the trash and press them flat between coffee-table books.
“One day,” she would always tell me, “when you’re a famous artist with your work hanging in museums the world over, these will be worth something.
” I think of the antique paintings, forgotten in a musty box in the attic.
I wonder whether she’d be disappointed to learn that I’ve tucked away my own talent, letting it collect dust.