Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Adam
Keri gives me a quick tour of the old home, the inside unexpectedly clean and spacious, especially for someone used to living in a sprinter van.
White sheets cover the larger pieces of furniture left behind, each expansive room built with nine-foot ceilings, intricate woodwork, and transom windows.
I especially like the pocket doors and the unique phone nook off the kitchen.
I can imagine Keri in her teens yapping on the landline with her closest girlfriends. The thought makes me smile.
We’re standing in what was once the formal living room of the house. Molly lies comfortably on the cool hardwood floors, panting. It’s been good for her to run around outside off-leash in the sunshine. I think she’s going to love this private respite Keri so generously offered.
“You’re welcome to stay in any of the bedrooms upstairs. I’m sorry there aren’t any mattresses to sleep on. I got rid of those when we cleaned everything out a few years ago. We could always get you a blow-up mattress at the Walmart in Newnan if you’d like.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got a yoga mat and a sleeping bag. I’ll be fine downstairs.”
“Oh. Okay.” She peels the sheet off the long sofa situated in front of a bay window. “Or you could always sleep on this couch. It’s an antique and belonged to my great-grandmother back in the day. It’s kind of hideously romantic, isn’t it?”
I eye the dark green velvet, Parisian-style couch that has seen better days and grin. “That might actually fit my height.”
“Good.” She seems pleased. “So I was thinking. How about I go and grab us some supper from Mr. Garcia’s?
You know, some street tacos, chips, and salsa.
We could have a little welcome home picnic to christen the place.
While I’m gone, you can start bringing in your stuff or go take a shower. Whatever you want.”
I slowly approach her, my pulse echoing in my ears as I slide my hands down her arms. Her eyes search mine, glowing wide with unspoken emotion. “Thank you for this,” I murmur, my voice catching slightly.
“You’re welcome.” Her voice is soft from behind her demure smile.
“Sounds perfect.”
“Great.” She starts for the door, full of energy. “I might hit the local store and grab a few more things for you. Do you drink coffee?”
“Sure do.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Nope. I like it black. But don’t worry, I’ve got my own coffee maker and supplies in the van. I’m pretty self-sufficient.”
She grins back at me. “I know you are. I just want you to feel at home while you stay here. If you can think of anything you need while I’m out, text me.”
“Okay.”
I watch her practically skip toward the door. “Keri?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your phone number?”
She throws her head back and laughs. “I guess you can’t text me if you don’t have my number, right?”
“Yup.” I pull my phone out of my back pocket and hand it to her. “Give me your digits, and I’ll text you so you can have mine.”
She presses her top teeth into her lower lip to thwart a smile.
“Perfect.” She starts tapping her info into my phone, but before she can hand it back to me, the darn thing pings with a text message.
She frowns, reading it. “Roxy says, ‘You promised.’” She quickly realizes her error and hands the phone back to me. “Oops. I’m sorry.”
I clear my throat. “No worries. Thanks.” I text Keri’s number a quick “Hello” with a dog emoji, her ringtone pinging the air.
“Got it,” she says. I can tell she wants me to explain the phone calls and texts from Roxy, but she doesn’t press. “I’ll be back soon with dinner.”
“Okay.”
She opens the door and pauses, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. “Adam?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you decided to stay a while.”
“Me too.” I hold her gaze for a few beats before she closes the door behind her. I walk over to the large window and watch her pick up the yard sign and carry it to her car. She opens the trunk and tosses it inside before she drives away. I collapse on the sofa and turn my focus to Molly.
“Welcome home, girl,” I whisper, my voice barely steady. The silence is so deep, I notice the thud of my heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting.
***
It doesn’t take me long to unload a few items from my Sprinter van.
The thing I’m most excited about being in a house for the first time in two years, is the full bathroom and large kitchen I’ll have all to myself.
My camper van has no interior wet-bath. I’ve used a pop-up tent for a compost toilet when I’ve gone off-road, or the bathhouse when I’ve rented a campground spot.
I’m proud of my van with its rooftop tent, induction cooktop I can pull out and put away, and my coffee station.
What else does a single guy like me need?
The van can hold thirty-three gallons of fresh water, and I even had a small water heater installed, along with solar panels.
My entire system is self-sufficient with batteries, allowing me to go deep into the woods without depending on a campground for water or power.
But there’s something special about this old farmhouse with its open space.
I feel like I can stretch and, as Keri put it, “breathe a little.”
I bring in my sleeping bag and fold it over the couch for later.
I unload my mini fridge, arranging everything on the old Frigidaire’s top shelf.
I loop a towel over the downstairs bathroom bar and set my toiletry bag on the counter.
I even stack some books on the built-in bookcase, my meager belongings dwarfed by the expansive home.
An hour goes by. I wonder what Keri might be up to as Molly and I sit on the back porch steps, watching the sun dip below the horizon, the apricot sky gorgeous at dusk.
I eye the old cast-iron farm bell outside the kitchen and ring it.
The deep, resonant clang booms across the wide-open field.
I hope I haven’t summoned the neighbors.
I find a spot in the kitchen for Molly’s doggy bowls and feed her, thankful for the fresh water from the spigot.
It feels nice to meander through the empty rooms, my mind wandering to snapshots of when I lived in my own home in California.
I remember what it felt like to fall in love with my house nestled in a grove of giant incense cedars and Douglas firs, the trees dwarfing my little slice of heaven.
My favorite spot was outside in the yard, taking in the breathtaking beauty, the air filled with the thick scent of pine and earth, much like the lavender fields here in Heartsboro.
My home was cozy and filled with countless treasures.
A sign hung above the door; “Love Grows Best in Little Houses.” A lifetime of photographs.
Trinkets and tokens of love. My mother’s cedar chest. Stained glass windows found at the local flea market.
Generations of jewelry—pearls, diamonds, gemstones, and gold.
Collections of race medals and shot glasses, Christmas ornaments, and birthday cards.
My old tools in the shed out back. My countless books.
My wife’s wedding dress and my daughter’s favorite teddy bear.
I pause, a lump rising so suddenly I have to swallow hard. My eyes sting, heat pushing behind my lids as I shut them tight.
In my mind, I can still see the porch rockers and musical wind chimes hanging on the front porch.
Our little herb garden and a windmill spinning in the breeze.
The cherry trees I started from pits, and the doggy playground I created for my last dog, before Molly.
My copper rain chain that looked like a waterfall during thunderstorms. The giant boulders at the end of the driveway.
My college diploma and photography awards. Family cookbooks and recipes. My guitars. A wooden sign simply stating, “The Woodbury Home, established 2016.” My surfboards and a pencil rubbing of my grandparents’ names from Ellis Island. Kukui nut leis. Bongo drums.
Searing pain radiates from my temple as memories attack—brutal, rapid. I lean against the wall for support, my breath becoming shallow.
My home and family are gone. Everything but the memories. I couldn’t imagine leaving California. I couldn’t imagine ever losing my life, which was so perfect. A home filled with joy. Warmth. Comfort.
Love. The ache of it—unbearable in absence.
I let the loss flow unchecked, a familiar ache that always follows thoughts of them. Reality shatters me, dropping me to my knees as hot tears flood my cheeks. Molly senses the storm, gently pressing her head into my lap, coaxing me through the waves of grief.
I loved the small California town where we lived for its elevation and mountain air. After the devastating wildfires took my wife and daughter from me, I felt like I was living in an apocalyptic nightmare. I had no desire to rebuild my life there.
I know I should feel lucky to be alive, but something inside of me died that day and can never be recovered.
I miss my wife, Mia, and my precious eight-year-old daughter, Evie.
My old dog, Brutus, and my mountain home away from the city.
It sickens me that they didn’t make it. I was in LA working when it happened.
I have nightmares thinking about them suffering.
I haven’t been able to eat or sleep normally for two years. Nothing brings me pleasure anymore.
Keri asked me earlier if I’ve ever experienced grief. She had no idea how loaded her question was.
I wanted to tell her that grief isn’t just about losing someone.
It’s about missing them over and over, day in and day out.
The loss is final. It’s the sharp break, the event, the moment everything changes forever.
But missing is what lingers. Missing is every day after.
Loss happens once. Missing happens forever.
And that’s where my grief lives. Not just in what was stolen from me, but in the longing for what will never be again. Grief has settled into my chest and deep inside my bones. Some days it feels like I’m a dead man, walking around with no purpose.
“I’m back!” Keri hollers from the doorway.
I don’t have the energy to stand, my hand running continuously through Molly’s thick fur, grounding me.
It’s dark inside the home, Keri fumbling with several bags as she flicks a switch on the wall, igniting the overhead light.
Relief flickers across her face but quickly collapses into disappointment as she surveys the room.
“What are you doing on the floor?”
I shake my head. “Just… taking it all in.”
She walks over to the couch and sets the bags on the cushions. Looking down at me, she asks, “Mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest.” My voice is barely a whisper, my eyes filling with tears again. Slowly, she lowers herself to the floor and leans her head against my shoulder. I’m thankful for her presence. Thankful she’s not hounding me with any questions.
A few minutes pass, and I hear her whisper, “I’m here for you, Adam.”
I watch her hand gently stroke Molly’s fur near mine. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I realize I want to stay where I am. Here, in Heartsboro, in Keri’s childhood home, with the moonlight streaming in through the windows.
I don’t want to grieve anymore and burden Keri with my sadness.
It’s the cruelest twist of fate that the thing I’ve missed the most is something I don’t want to think about anymore.
I’ve missed having a place I fit in. A woman who likes me and wants me to stay.
An antique sofa in horrendous green velvet.
My dog fetching sticks on the bank of a babbling creek.
The scent of lavender clinging to my clothes.
But before I can truly exhale and relax in my new surroundings, I’ve got to dig deep and find a way to tell her I’m a widower and that I’ve lost my only child. But how?
Keri gently pats the top of my hand. “Did you hear me? I’m here for you.”
I drag my hand across Molly’s fur. “Sorry. I heard you. I’m listening.”
I flip my hand with my palm facing up. Keri takes the hint and presses her hand into mine. I squeeze, and for the first time in a long time, I feel tethered to what seems like a solid lifeline.