Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Henry
December 13th, 2003
“Why do you even want to go back to school? I thought music was just some hobby you finally grew out of. It’s not a career, Henry.” Kimberly passes another ornament to Delilah, who places it too close to the other baubles on the tree for her mother’s liking. Kimberly sighs, reaches past her, and moves it to a better location. “We finally have a bit of free time now that your mom is out of the house. Do you really want to fill that with classes and homework?”
I focus on the knotted string of lights in my hands, realizing it looks a lot like how I feel. All tangled up inside. If only I could find the right loop to pull to make it all unravel in my hands. “Music has always been more than a hobby to me, and you know that.”
“But you make so much more at the factory than you would teaching.”
Delilah’s eyebrows lift. “If you’re a teacher, does that mean I don’t have to ride the school bus anymore? Like Truett?”
“Yes,” I say at the same time her mother says, “No. ”
Our gazes meet but part just as quickly. I add, “We’ll talk about it when the time comes.”
“ If the time comes,” Kimberly corrects.
Delilah’s shoulders droop, and the corners of her mouth follow. She reminds me so acutely of my mother when she makes that face that a fist clenches around my heart and squeezes. I know Mom has more hands-on care now than we were able to provide at home, but I wish I could’ve had this one final Christmas with her. I would’ve slowed down, taken more of it in.
When Dad died, I often wished I’d known ahead of time what was coming so I could say the things I wanted to, do the things I should’ve. Yet even though I’ve watched my mother deteriorate for years, I still didn’t make the most of it. I don’t know if you ever can.
There will always be one more memory, one more word. What little time we get together will never be enough.
“You’re finally in your career. Delilah’s in school.” I shrug, probably looking as lost as I feel. Our cat, Skittles—a tiny, calico sweetheart—rubs herself against my calf, and I reach down to stroke her back absent-mindedly. “I want to do this one thing that will make me happy. Surely you can understand that.”
Kimberly’s gaze goes flat. No longer sun-warmed fields but the dull brownish-green of fall grass. “Are you not happy now, Henry? Is this life we’ve built not enough for you?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I—” My gaze drops to my hands. Once calloused from guitar strings, now rough from manual labor. This life is not bad. But there is so little of the version of me I used to be in it. I tried so hard to make space for Kimberly to have that. To go to school, finish her degree. Have her career. Is it so bad to want a little of that for myself, too? I shake my head. “I want to make music. And I want to give music to other people. To kids.” I smile sadly at my palms. Curl my fists closed. “That’s all. ”
“I can learn music!” Delilah interjects, glancing quickly between her mother and me. “We can play together. Miss Lucy said she’d teach me. You wouldn’t have to hear it if I was at her house, Mama!”
“No,” Kimberly says, a tight-lipped grimace stretching her mouth taut. “No lessons. You can do what you want, Henry, but Delilah isn’t getting dragged into that bullshit.” She passes another ornament to our daughter, holding her gaze when their fingertips brush. “You’re gonna make a good life for yourself, Delilah. A big life. Piano lessons with Lucy Parker aren’t going to do that for you.”
“Kim—”
“What?” There’s a dare in her eyes. An invitation to disagree, but only if I have proof that she’s wrong. And I don’t. Not really, anyway.
Delilah places the shimmering red globe on a low branch, and it slips, shattering on the hardwood floor. She jolts back, startled, and brings little hands to her wide-open mouth. Skittles darts beneath the couch.
Kimberly groans. “I knew I should’ve just done this myself.”
“You all right, sweet pea?” I sweep an arm around Delilah’s waist and pull her close. Her sniffles vibrate in my ear, and I squeeze tighter. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.”
“Sure do,” Kimberly mutters, dodging my glare as she stares at the mess on the floor.
March 4th, 2006
The days are so long when you’re in them. But now, looking back, they seem unbearably short. I would take a million more long, back-breaking days over a single one like this .
The church cemetery is overflowing. Patrons from the diner, ladies Mom used to brunch with, even the nurses from her care facility show up. I asked the director at the funeral home to lead the ceremony, but Pastor Timothy still insisted on attending. He stands at the back of the crowd, head leaned close to hear something Waylon whispers. Lucy looks on, offering me a soft smile and polite wave when I catch her gaze on my cursory scan of the crowd.
Delilah sits on the lowest branch of the big live oak near the entrance to the cemetery. Truett is perched beside her. She hasn’t said much since we told her Nana passed. Not to me, anyway. As the choir begins to sing a slow rendition of “I’ll Fly Away,” Truett slings an arm over Delilah’s narrow shoulders. She sucks in a breath so big I can see it from here, and I hold the same one. I’m glad she has him. Some small part of me wishes I could climb up in a tree and observe this from afar, too. Maybe it’d hurt less that way.
As it stands, I get to be the one to stand up here and listen as everyone tells me how much they’ll miss my mother, like it’s anything compared to how I feel.
“So sorry for your loss,” Odette Love says, reaching for Kimberly’s hand, then mine. “Your mama was a good woman.”
“The best,” I try to say, but my throat swallows up the words. Odette smiles in understanding, like she speaks the language of grief.
“She kept us laughing till the very end,” one of Mom’s nurses at the memory care facility says. She places a hand on my forearm, a breathy laugh stretching her pink lips into a smile. “She was so determined not to be bathed by us that she’d hide in her bathroom and wash herself with a rag in the sink! Said she was a dignified woman, and she could take care of herself.” The nurse—Lana? Lena?—shakes her head. “She was a strong woman. You ought to be proud. ”
I don’t remember how to make this kind of small talk. How to laugh at these well-meaning jokes when inside I’m falling apart. All I want to say is that the real Loretta Ridgefield was dignified and proper, but she also loved to dance in the living room with my dad and garden with no gloves just to feel the earth between her fingers. She was so much more than the confused, scared woman her disease reduced her to, and they can’t even see it. They don’t even know.
“Thanks so much for coming,” Kimberly offers on my behalf. The nurse smiles, dips her chin in a nod, and leaves.
“I want to go home,” I whisper.
Kimberly plasters a smile on her face and takes my hand, but her eyes fire a warning shot in my direction. “You’re not leaving me here with all these people.”
I sigh. Of course I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t dream of doing it every second until the line finally dwindles to our closest family. Kimberly’s closest family.
I have none left, I realize. My grandparents are gone. My parents are gone. It’s just me, Kimberly, and our little girl. The family I created.
“You might want to tell that daughter of yours to wear hose the next time she climbs a tree in a dress,” Nancy, Kimberly’s mom, chides. “Reminds me of Helen at that age. Such a tomboy.”
“She’s just having fun,” I say.
“Delilah!” Kimberly yells. “Get down from there, please.”
Our daughter and Truett exchange a glance. He nods, then launches off the tree branch and lands with a thud in the dirt below. I start toward Delilah, but his arms go up and she leaps. The idea, I assume, was that he’d catch her, but they both tumble to the ground in a heap of flailing limbs instead.
Giggles ring out, and it’s sweeter than any music the choir sang. So at odds with our surroundings. So joyous. I stop in my tracks and listen. Let it calm some aching part of me .
“She’s moving to Italy for the summer, you know,” Nancy says.
Kimberly’s head whips around, meeting her mother’s gaze in a flash. “Who?”
“Your sister.” Her father smiles and shakes his head. “She called last week with the news.”
“What for?” Kimberly asks.
“Oh, some boy she met told her about an art program. It’s three months long. She’ll basically be in a commune, from what she says.” Nancy loops an arm through her daughter’s and starts toward the tree, where Lucy is dusting dirt from Truett’s little suit and Delilah’s baby-blue dress. You don’t dress kids in black, Mom always said. So I didn’t.
“You know how she is. Helen’s always off on some new adventure,” Greg muses.
“Of course she is.” Heat floods Kimberly’s cheeks. I reach for her hand, but she dodges it. The air around us compresses, like it’s holding its breath for what comes next. “She’s gallivanting around the world with zero responsibility while I’m stuck here in the middle of nowhere working as a glorified assistant rather than an actual accountant. My life consists of shuttling an eight-year-old to birthday parties and making small talk about the latest fad diet with the other boring moms who also have no life.” She throws her hand, cutting the air.
Greg’s gaze meets mine briefly, brow raised, then slips back to his daughter’s profile. “You could always move.”
“No, we can’t. You think my husband is ever going to let us leave this town?” She says it like her husband isn’t walking right beside her.
“Kimberly,” Nancy whisper-shouts. She may agree with her daughter on some level, but she hates a scene. And with the heads of a few stragglers turning our way, that’s exactly what this is becoming .
I can’t bring myself to care. I’m so numb, all the way to my core. This has been the worst day of the worst week of the shittiest year of my life, between balancing school and Mom’s declining health and Kimberly’s digs. If she wants to be angry about her sister living the life she wanted, so be it. My body aches with exhaustion and residual grief. I want nothing more than to get my daughter and go home.
I double my step, putting distance between us at the same time I’m closing in on Delilah. She turns to me and smiles. “Daddy!”
I sweep her up into my arms and hold her for the first time in ages. Her legs are getting long and she’s heavy enough that my back will ache in the morning, but I need this. Need her.
The one thing I did right in this life.
Waylon and the pastor are locked in conversation with the funeral director up ahead, and he glances up, measuring the distance between me and his wife. About four feet, I want to tell him. But don’t worry, I can smell your piss from here.
“You okay, Henry?” Lucy says, voice as cautious as her eyes. Her delicate fingers are clasping Truett’s shoulders, holding him in front of her.
“Yeah,” I reply gruffly. My breath disturbs Delilah’s hair, sending it off on its own wind. “Just hate funerals.”
She nods. Her gaze is wide and knowing, a shimmering slate backdrop for all the words I can see brimming in her mind. But she keeps her mouth shut. After all, Kimberly and her parents are mere steps away.
“They’re more fun from a tree,” Delilah says sweetly. Her hands are folded together at the nape of my neck. She leans back to get a good look at me, holding tightly to her anchor point. “You think Nana minds?”
My vision glosses over. “No, sweet pea. I don’t think she minds one bit.”
“Sorry about your mama,” Truett drawls. Tears well in his eyes as his gaze slips from mine to Lucy’s. “I don’t ever wanna lose mine.”
“No one does,” Kimberly interjects. “Thanks for being here today, Lucy. Truett.” She doesn’t look at them as she says it, only me. “Let’s go home, Henry?” Her voice lifts like it’s a question, but her eyes say it’s not.
“Right.” I swallow past the lump that’s been living in my throat for the past week, ever since we got the call that Mom was gone. I press my lips together. I want so badly to crumble beneath the weight of it all. But I don’t. I can’t. So I wet my lips and nod, turning away from Lucy and her son to follow my wife out of the cemetery, where I’ll leave both my parents behind. It’s the finality of it that weighs like a stone in my gut. I pat Delilah’s back. “Let’s go, sweet pea.”
“Bye, Tru!” Delilah calls over my shoulder.
“Bye, Delilah!” a small voice replies, already muted by the space I’ve put between us.
August 3rd, 2009
I thought the reality of it all would hit the moment I started student teaching. Or when I walked across the stage, diploma in hand, to start this phase of my life. Maybe even when I sat for the state teaching exam.
But it’s not until this moment, when I step into the classroom that will be my own, a box of recorders in hand, that it really starts to sink in.
I did it. I’m here.
I wish my parents could see this.
If Dad were alive, he’d pat me on the back and ask where he gets to put an Alabama football poster. Mom would roll her eyes, then lean in and kiss my temple, leaving behind a smudge of red lipstick. I didn’t get to have many of those moments with them. Dad was gone too soon, and though Mom was so proud of me becoming a father, it’s not the same as this. Being Delilah’s dad is the thing I’m most proud of in the world, but becoming a music teacher? Going back to school when it would’ve been so much easier to keep trudging forward in the life I fell into? I wonder if this is how it felt for Kimberly.
It’s the first thing I’ve done for myself in so long, and I want to revel in it. Soak it all in.
“Knock, knock.”
I turn too fast and nearly drop the recorders as I do.
Lucy’s standing in the doorway, arms intertwined in front of her body. She’s in jean shorts that brush the tops of her knees and a pink T-shirt with a logo I recognize as the camp the church takes the youth group to every summer. Her golden hair is swept up in a claw clip, with a few strands falling softly around her face. She tucks one back, an amused smile playing on her lips. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”
My mouth snaps shut. I shake my head. “No. Just thought I was the only one here other than the custodian… What was his name?”
“Woodrow Pugh. The other teachers call him Woody.” Her nose wrinkles, and she snorts a laugh. “The kids call him Pee-Yew.”
“Wow, kids are assholes.”
She unfolds her hands to point at me. “Watch your language, sir. There could be children listening.”
I make a show of glancing over both my shoulders, then level her with a flat look. “Nope, no kids. Summer is still in full swing for them.”
Lucy sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Yep, for a couple more weeks anyway. I think Tru and Delilah have been down at the river every day this summer. I’m surprised they haven’t shriveled up from being waterlogged.”
“Don’t you miss that? Summer as a kid.” I walk over to the piano and set the box of recorders down beside it. “No responsibility, just playing outside and getting a tan.”
“I was usually taking care of a little sibling or two,” she says, laughing. I hear her footsteps on the tightly woven carpet as she follows me. “Or cleaning the church.”
“Yuck.” I glance over my shoulder. “I mean, no offense to your siblings.”
“But offense to the church?” she deadpans.
“Well…”
She manages to hold the expression long enough to make me uneasy before bursting into laughter. “I’m just picking on you. And besides, my siblings would probably agree with you.”
I take a seat at the piano bench and peer up at her. “What are they all up to now?”
“Cyndal moved out to California. Something about becoming a scriptwriter. I’m lucky to hear from her on holidays and birthdays. Always a text, never a call. Colton swore off God and everybody after he graduated and hasn’t talked to any of us in years.”
“Wow, I’m really sorry.”
Her gaze flutters to the carpet between us, lashes brushing her cheekbones. “Can’t say I blame them. Dad is nothing if not overbearing.”
My eyebrows lift. She glances up.
“What?” she asks, a little wrinkle forming between her brows.
“Nothing,” I say, shrugging. “I’ve just never heard you be critical of your dad before. Or anyone, for that matter.”
“Oh, I can be critical. I just keep most of it in my head.”
“What a wild place that must be to live.” I smile, my gaze traveling over her face .
The creamy skin on her neck flushes crimson. Her gaze flits past me to the piano I’m sitting at, and the corner of her mouth twitches. “I’m really proud of you for doing this, you know. You have a real gift. The world deserves to witness that.”
Nerves unravel in my stomach. “I don’t know if I’d call Fly Hollow the world.”
It’s her turn to shrug. “It’s our world.”
I click my tongue. “Right you are.”
“Whether that’s a sad thing or not is still up for debate.”
I groan, tipping my head back. “Now you sound like Kimberly.”
Lucy doesn’t reply. When I lift my head to face her again, her expression is guarded.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” I run a hand through my hair, then drop it onto my thigh. “Do you feel like your life here is sad?”
Her gray eyes are storm clouds, building toward an inevitable downpour. She blinks, clearing the clouds, but the memory of them is there. The smell of rain. “Not sad, really. How could it be when I have Truett?”
“I say the same thing about Delilah.”
She smiles. “Delilah is one exceptional girl.”
“I’d be inclined to agree.”
“You know, last week she helped me bake ten dozen cookies for the church fundraiser. I didn’t even ask her to; she saw me making the dough and told Tru they needed to help.” Her gaze sparkles in the dull classroom light, her hands moving as she talks. “She’s good for him.”
I think of the way Truett brings Delilah out of her shell. Helps her live in the world I always worried would be too tough for her. “He’s good for her, too.”
Lucy closes the distance between us, walks around the opposite side of the bench, and sits facing the keys. It’s a simple spinet piano, but it’ll do for now.
“Sometimes I get so caught up in thinking about how life would have turned out, if only one little thing had gone differently. If I’d married someone else.” Her gaze nearly meets mine, then darts away at the last second. “If I’d gone away to school. But then I wouldn’t have Truett. And a life without him is a life I never want to see.”
I’m toeing a line here. Lucy and I have been friendly over the years. We’ve had to be, with kids as close as ours. But I’ve always kept it surface level. Refused to stray too far. Looking at her, with that forlorn expression painting her face melancholy, I know exactly what question I want to ask. I also know it’s not my place.
“He’s a lot like my dad.”
“Truett?” My brow furrows. I’ve never thought of the kid as anything like the pastor. He’s kind and confident, a little wild but so good-hearted. Nothing like the man I know his grandfather to be.
“Not Truett. Waylon.” Her gaze finally meets mine. “That’s what you were going to ask. If I was happy with him, or some iteration of it.”
“Iteration. Good use of your SAT vocab, English teacher.”
She rolls her eyes, but when they return to mine, they’re a little bit brighter. “Are you happy? With Kimberly?”
I blink. “I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that.”
“Well, I’m asking you now. Are you?”
There’s always an undercurrent when Lucy’s this close. A spark that flows beneath my skin, jolting me awake. I feel it now, pulsing. It’s the kind of thing you could get addicted to, even when you know you shouldn’t .
“I’m happy now”—I sweep my arms out toward the barren classroom—“with this.”
She presses her lips together and nods. Settles her fingers over the keys. “Okay.”
Before I can reply, she starts to play. At first I assume it’s an original, but then a familiar swell reverberates through my chest and I remember a different piano, in a room with green carpet and vaulted ceilings. I remember a girl with a purity ring and a yellow sundress, and the song we played together.
I pivot on the bench and join in, rusty at first and then in perfect sync. There are so many words we’ll never be able to say to each other. A lifetime of conversations missed. But in this way, we can be honest with each other. With ourselves.
We are happy. And we are sad. We want more from this life, and yet we’d never change it. All these things can be true at once. We’re not bad people for it. We’re just people. Just Lucy and Henry. A breath apart, but also a lifetime.