Chapter 8 - Jensen
—
Jensen
“Hey, Uncle Jensen!”
I glance up from the laptop I’m balancing on my lap. Ethan is standing just beyond the porch steps with a neon green ball in his hand, wearing a mischievous grin that would worry me if we weren’t already outside.
Peaches darts back and forth between us, her afternoon case of the zoomies kicking in.
“Yeah, bud?”
“Watch this!” Ethan waves the ball at Peaches, getting her attention, then pretends to hurl it out into the front yard. Peaches takes off, running as fast as she can toward where she thinks the ball will land. Ethan tips his head back, laughing maniacally as he shows me the ball still in his hand.
I snort, shaking my head as Peaches comes hurtling back, nearly tackling Ethan, which only makes him laugh harder. “Peaches, sit,” Ethan commands, giving her the hand signal, and this time when he throws the ball, they both go chasing after it.
It’s nearly dinnertime, and even though the afternoon seems intent on holding on to the day’s sunlight as long as possible, I promised Sutton I’d get Ethan fed, bathed, and into bed at a decent hour. She’s working the late shift tonight, so it’s a sleepover Saturday for Ethan and me.
Sutton offered to come and get him on her way home, but I try to give her as much free time as I can, and after working a long shift, I figure she deserves to go home to a quiet house where she can take a hot bath or sip a glass of wine in peace.
She’s the hardest-working single mom I know, and besides, I love having Ethan here.
He reminds me so much of Kase. They have the exact same sense of humor, and sometimes when Ethan cocks his head, looking at me with that curious expression of his, I swear it’s like my best friend is standing right in front of me.
I eye the empty rocking chair adjacent to mine. What I wouldn’t give to have Kase here with us right now, sipping on a beer while we shoot the breeze and watch his kid play with my dog.
That’s what was supposed to happen. We talked about it all the time.
Moving back to Dayton Springs, raising our kids together.
A lot of people assume men don’t think about that kind of stuff, but Kasey and I talked about it often, what life would be like after we got out of the army.
It was easy to see back then, a bright future full of possibilities, but those possibilities died right along with Kasey.
Watching Ethan now is as close as I’ll ever get to the real thing.
An ache, deep and sharp, squeezes my heart. I never realized just how badly I wanted kids of my own until the doctor told me I couldn’t have any.
It still feels like yesterday. Sitting in that lumpy, faux leather chair while a white-haired, very direct man with decades of experience calmly ripped away a piece of my future with words like “severe oligospermia” and “OAT Syndrome.”
Not impossible, he’d said, but also not probable.
It was as if he had taken a scalpel and sliced away a quintessential part of me, removing it like some kind of organ that they swear you can live without.
You only really need a single kidney, and you can have your appendix and your gall bladder removed and be just fine.
But when they take your future, the one you never even got to fully realize, it’s a wound that doesn’t heal.
It’s like a phantom limb that you never stop missing, never stop mourning.
And the look on Anna’s face when she realized the big family she’d always dreamed of probably wasn’t going to happen was like pouring salt into an open, gaping wound.
The doctor had tried to give us hope, listing out the various treatment plans, all very expensive and not guaranteed, but he’d also very strongly suggested we keep our expectations in check.
With every word, the light in Anna’s eyes faded.
I knew then what was coming, and I was powerless to stop it.
All I could focus on in that moment was the walls of the doctor’s office.
They were painted a dark, desolate gray.
Not some cheery, optimistic color, nothing bright or calming like most people might expect in such a place, but the kind of gray that traps you, suffocates you.
If agony were a color, it’s undoubtedly the same shade as those walls.
And that’s what the last four years have been like . . . gray.
Sure, there are some pops of color—Ethan, being one of them. My cheek lifts as I watch him chase after Peaches, the two of them rolling around in the dirt. They’re both going to need a bath before bed. Ethan is yellow. Bright and happy.
There’s Sutton, too. Her friendship is a lifeline, a calming, soothing blue that makes me feel like I can get from one day to the next.
My RVs. Peaches. A joke told at the shop. A warm patty melt with sweet potato fries—all small bright spots of color.
And Callie?
The voice that whispers in my ear isn’t mine, and I glance over at that empty rocking chair. “Yeah, and what about her?” I swear I can hear Kase’s laughing response, can see the expression he’d give me so clearly in my mind. You know exactly what I’m talking about.
My eyes land on one of the tabs I have open on my laptop browser.
It’s a tab that’s been open for days now, ever since I ran into Callie at the grocery store.
I tap on it, bringing the images full screen.
Mabel’s post about the photoshoot has indeed gone viral, but I couldn’t care less about the number of likes or shares, and I haven’t read a single comment.
It’s the pictures that keep me coming back to this page.
I click on one to enlarge it and let out a breath as Callie’s beautiful smiling face fills my screen. “She’s all of them,” I whisper, looking over at the empty chair. “Every single color of the rainbow.”
I know what Kase would ask next if he were here: Then what the hell are you doing, man?
“What I have to,” I mutter, closing the tab.
I’d hated how weird things were when she ran into me—literally.
Part of me wanted to run after her and apologize for not returning her text the other day.
It had taken everything in my power to stand there, gripping the handle of my buggy as she fled, more like sprinted, down the aisle to get away from me.
I don’t blame her, though I wish she understood. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to answer her text. It’s not that I don’t think about her more times than I should because I do.
It’s just that my life is gray. And it always will be.
I pull up another window, the one I was on before Ethan distracted me.
For the last forty-five minutes or so, I’ve been working on getting my latest RV project listed on a rental website.
The airstream I bought from some old guy down in Florida was in pretty bad shape when I brought it home, but I’ve spent the last eight months restoring it, and I have to say, she’s a real thing of beauty now.
I could probably sell it quickly, but I’m in no hurry to see it gone.
Working on an RV is like therapy for me.
There’s something really cathartic about taking something broken and in ruins and putting it back together piece by piece—if only my own life were like an RV.
But I’m not fixable and I’ll never run right again.
Just beyond the edge of my driveway, down a small lane that curves beside the lake on my property, the 1957 Airstream sits gleaming in the fading golden light.
Two of my other projects, the 1953 Spartan Manor and a 1966 Gulf Stream Cruiser, sit a few feet away.
I snort when I see the neon pink string lights, Ms. Dorothy has strung along the doorframe of the Spartan. Pink—that’s her color. Sweet but sassy.
I never imagined myself with a tenant, but one day this spunky little old lady came waltzing into the shop to get her oil changed, and we got to talking.
She told me she’d fallen on some hard times and needed a place, and it wasn’t long after that I mentioned the Spartan.
I’d recently finished it and wasn’t sure yet what I wanted to do with it, but renting it to someone in need seemed like a worthy cause.
That was a year ago, and she’s the best neighbor anyone could ask for.
She’s also the one who made me realize the potential of rental income.
The salary I take from the shop is more than enough to live on, but restoring vintage RVs can be expensive. Renting the RVs once I’m done with them gives me the best of both worlds.
I return my focus to the rental application, enter in a few lines of information, and press save.
I’ll need to take a few pictures in the morning when the lighting is better, and then I can finish up the listing.
Closing my laptop, I let out a long, deep breath.
Of course, my mind drifts back to Callie.
“It’s better this way,” I murmur, my eyes drifting again to the empty rocking chair. “This is the way it has to be.”
I wait, but this time, there’s no voice that whispers back. No joking word, no teasing bit of advice. Just the empty chair.
Sadness rolls over me like a wave, but thankfully, I’m saved from drowning in it by the thumping of sneakers tromping up the wooden porch stairs.
“Uncle Jensen, I’m hungry.” Ethan rubs at his tummy. “Peaches told me she’s hungry, too.”
“Oh, did she now?” I tease, standing up. “Well, how about we head inside and get cleaned up? Then I’ll make you two some dinner.” I sign the word “eat” to Peaches which makes her bark and wag her tail. Ethan grins and dashes for the door, Peaches trailing behind him.
I follow, but I’m a little slower, my steps—and my heart—heavy.