Chapter 7
one. two. three.
Rowan
Once upon a time, my list of fixes for Pops’ house was manageable.
Ridiculously extensive, but manageable with the time frame I have to work with.
Before I knew it, a test of the sprinkler system revealed a busted water spicket, a peek in the attic nearly ended with me falling through the ceiling when I uncovered a recent infestation of squirrels. And so it’s gone, over and over again.
My list now resembles something akin to the twenty-seven page menu at The Cheesecake Factory.
Separating Pops and Nana’s personal effects from the things to be tossed or donated has proven to be much more challenging than I ever anticipated.
It’s not just the sheer volume of boxes ripe with keepsakes from their relationship that spanned almost sixty years, it’s the memories—the grief that floods in with every faded picture and memento I find.
Then there’s the guilt. The ever-present, soul-crushing ache of knowing I could have done more.
Pops lost the love of his life and I wasn’t here.
I left him to grieve alone while I was wherever the hell the Army sent me.
Even if he had reached out to say he needed me, I never could have made it back in less than two days.
I was half a world away when I got the call about Mom’s accident four months ago, too. There wasn’t enough time to process the full effect of that catastrophic event before the next blow came. Another call, another gut punch, another thousand-mile journey to get where I needed to be much too late.
The wall of door knobs at the hardware store taunts me as I scan the options for a replacement to go on the back door of the house—because that’s broken, too.
Needing a distraction, I decide to check in with Bri. I find her contact and make the call while I tuck myself in a quiet corner of the shop.
“Hey, Ro,” she says.
“Hey, just wanted to see how Mom’s PT went this morning.”
She sighs. “So so. Her nerve pain was flaring up pretty bad but she’s resting now. You wanna talk to her?”
“If she’s awake, yeah.”
The line shuffles for a minute before Mom’s voice comes through. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”
“Oh you know, a little tired but okay. I got a few steps on the parallel bars today.”
“That’s great.” My smile is genuine but I can’t help the pain that comes with it.
The same woman who used to run football plays with me in the backyard and chase me down the beach at Nag’s Head as a kid is having to learn to walk again.
“How’s your pain? We still have those prescriptions for the stronger pain meds if you—”
“And I told you I’m not taking those,” she interjects, tone final.
I slide my tongue over my teeth, biting back my retort.
Bri’s dad disappeared after getting addicted to opioids in the wake of a freak accident at the factory where he worked.
One dumb mistake on a forklift and the trajectory of all our lives changed forever.
Mom lost another husband, an eleven-year-old Bri lost a father, and I got thrust into the role of man of the house at only seventeen.
“I hear you,” I say. My gut tells me Mom would never get addicted the way Doug did, but it doesn’t matter. For Bri’s sake, she won’t take them. End of story.
“Good. Now, how are you doing?”
Spinning around, I lean against the wall and scan the tiny store. “It’s a lot. I just wish I’d been here more. I should’ve been here.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, kiddo. You know Norm never wanted anyone fawning over him.”
Deep down, I know she’s right. But I can’t imagine ever living without this twinge of regret in my chest.
“Your dad was the same way.” She chuckles under her breath. “Stubborn. Obstinate. Refused to ask for help. But at their core they were both giant—”
“Giant teddy bears. Yeah, I know.”
When it comes to Dad, I mostly take Mom’s word for it. He was deployed more than not when I was a kid, so my memories, though all positive, are few and far between.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I’ve got a little over two more weeks here and then I’ll be back.”
“No rush. Walker’s been a big help.”
“Speak for yourself,” Bri scoffs in the background. Mom and I laugh.
She and I chat for a few more minutes before her head starts to hurt and I urge her to take a nap.
Once she gets Mom set up with a couple of ibuprofen and closes her in her room, Bri’s back on the line. “She won’t let me fill those prescriptions. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I know, it’s not your fault.”
There’s a heavy sniff on her end. “Rowan, she’s in pain and she won’t take the meds she needs because of me.”
Silence falls. The bell over the door of the hardware store jingles. I angle myself into the corner and lower my voice. “She loves you too much to risk it.”
I can’t discern through the phone all the worry and unspoken doubt that must be invading her mind.
Before our families merged, Bri and Doug were a solo act much the same way Mom and I were.
Bri’s mom died in childbirth, and my dad had been killed in action in Afghanistan.
For all intents and purposes, Tess is the only mom Bri has ever known since she was barely seven years old.
Her dad may have left a few short years later but my mom has always loved her like she was her own.
Bri never responds so I opt for a subject change. Maybe she needs a distraction like I did when I made this call. “How’s it really going with Dubs?”
She huffs and the mood lightens. “Chuck is on gutter repair duty.” Emphasis on the name Chuck like it personally offends her.
If you ever need Walker Willis to prove his loyalty, just ask him to climb a ladder, jump off a high dive—literally anything involving heights.
The highly decorated, elite-caliber soldier who consistently hits targets over a thousand meters away will fight a guerrilla in hand-to-hand combat, but jumping out of a plane with a parachute strapped to his back has him signing the cross over his chest, clutching his grandmother’s rosary until the last possible second.
But, dammit, he’ll do it for the people he cares about. Every time, without question.
“You know he’s scared of heights, right?” I ask.
“And?”
I snicker.
“Fine,” she concedes. “He’s been mildly helpful. A modicum, really. Happy now?”
“Mildly. A modicum, really.” I push off the wall and head back to the doorknobs. “Listen, be nice to him, okay? He’s a lot but he’s a good guy. One of the best, actually.”
Bri lets out a long breath. “I know. And I will.”
“I’m sorry again about the timing of all this.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s been a sucky year…for all of us.”
Grief is a complex web that expands and molds itself differently around every person. It’s moments like these when I’m reminded that just because she doesn’t call her Mom doesn’t mean Bri isn’t as affected by Mom’s accident as I am.
Her grief and mine are the same. But also different.
My reply is thick and weary. “Yeah, it has.”
At the cashier counter ten minutes later, my phone call with Mom and Bri still occupies prime real estate in my mind—front and center.
An assault of images flash through my brain.
Mom, forced to use an assistive walker on her worst days, a cane on her best. Pops, alone at the lake house, lifeless in his bed for hours before the police arrived to perform a well-check at my request.
The beep of the register as the cashier drags my items over the scanner jolts me back to the present. I shake my head, dislodging the swirl of thoughts I can’t afford to dwell on at the moment, and accept the bag the attendant holds out for me. I give my thanks and make for the exit.
One hand buried in my pocket to grab my keys, I push the door open with the other.
Before I can gain control, the glass, which apparently weighs negative ounces, catches a breeze and propels forward with the torrential force of a wrecking ball.
It launches ahead of my flattened palm and I’m unable to pull it back in time as it swings out of my grasp, straight into someone’s face on the sidewalk.
Smack!
The woman stumbles on her feet. In the span of a millisecond, her head launches back and slingshots forward, ending with her hinged at the waist, face in her hand.
I kick the door shut behind me and rush over. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry, are you okay?”
Sweet baby Jesus, please don’t tell me I broke her nose or gave her a concussion.
She mutters something into the phone she impressively still has held to her ear.
Her hand forms a fist on her temple when she finally straightens to her full height. Eyes pinched shut, she mouths a string of curses that reads a lot like holy mother effing shit balls.
Three heartbeats is all it takes.
One. Hair the color of warm honey.
Two. Smoothest legs I’ve ever seen in a tight black dress.
She drops her fist. Her lashes lift, eyes open but unseeing as she shakes away the dizziness. I think she curses some more, but I’m too distracted to notice because…
Three. Irises of speckled brown, green, and gold.
Hazel eyes meet mine, and I smile. I smile like a proud, smitten, happy fool.