Chapter 33
I PULL THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND ME as I enter the kitchen. The house is eerily quiet, as if even the refrigerator dares not hum in the aftermath of such upheaval. With the appliances on high alert, I hear no one wandering about. Erika has likely evaporated up into her room.
“Clint?” I call out as I place the rest of the white dishes, sticky with syrup, into the dishwasher and grab the reusable bamboo-fiber square from its hook.
We now hide the paper towels. I run the replacement cloth with the twin pears under running water to soften it up and then scrub the counters.
At first it felt good to be saving the planet one rip of the roll at a time; now it is somehow anticlimactic.
I realize I miss the satisfaction of dropping the mess into the trash at the end, but I don’t miss it enough to endure the guilt of melting polar caps.
“I think we should go to the Poconos.”
I startle. “I thought you went upstairs.”
Clint grabs a length of paper towel from a roll stashed under the sink, wets a large corner of it, and attacks the table.
A bloom of jealousy erupts in my chest. I breathlessly watch as he then stomps on the trash pedal and drops the wad in the trash.
My eyes shut tight. How can I have emotional bandwidth to waste on disposable cleaning supplies?
I bite back a laugh and realize I want to laugh more.
Maybe this trip to the Poconos is what we need.
Maybe we can leave this all behind and just enjoy each other.
Everything, everyone can wait. We need to get at the business of being a family. I need an escape.
“Maybe we can get checked in, and then I can come back tomorrow, or we all can, to pick up Reid.” Clint settles in the farthest kitchen chair pulled a couple feet back from the damp table.
I dry my hands on the blueberry tea towel hanging from the stove and take a chair opposite him. “With all that’s going on for us, I’m so thankful for our family.”
Clint cocks his head.
“Doesn’t it overwhelm you sometimes, the love? Especially today.”
Clint’s eyes, which are usually squinted with tiny lines in starburst formations, grow round. “You remembered.”
My heart clunks in my chest as I reach both arms across the table, ignoring the wetness.
He squeezes my hands.
“I don’t, but I want to,” I whisper. I decide in the moment to only speak full truths to this man I desperately love.
His fingers stiffen, but he doesn’t pull back. “Today’s my mom’s birthday and, uh, the day she passed.”
I yank back before I can stop myself. My hands shoot to my mouth. “Today is October fifth? Oh, Clint.”
Clint nods. “She’d have been eighty today. Sounds so old, especially since she was younger than you when she died.”
“Why didn’t you say something? What about Maine this weekend? We haven’t even talked about it.” I scramble to find the right thing to say.
“Seemed not the year. I thought I could move past it, but when you started talking about family, I thought maybe you . . . It’s strange being alone in the world.”
“How can you say that?” I jump up from my chair and go to him. Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I lay my head on his. “You have me.”
“Do I?” His words are pure.
I yank the empty chair next to him and sit with our shoulders touching.
I wiggle my fingers to interlace with his.
“Tell me about her.” Even with everything going on at work and with Erika, this seems the most important thing to do right now—speak of the woman who both nurtured and damaged my husband.
“I’ve told you.”
“Tell me . . . tell me something that would make her laugh.” I squeeze his hand.
“Oh, Mer.”
“Come on, tell me for her. For her birthday,” I say as softly as I can without whispering.
“I, uh, what do you want to hear?” Clint suddenly stops fidgeting and then slouches back into his chair. “Okay. She’d laugh every time she told the story of the box turtle.”
“What box turtle? You never told me you had a turtle.” I cuddle in closer.
He shakes his head. “Not mine. Mom’s either.
She must have been in maybe fourth grade on her way home from school.
Walking all by herself. A silver-white car was coming toward her on Windham Center Road, driving a bit too fast. I, uh, like to imagine it as one of those Chrysler Thunderbolts with the sleek encased bodies. Know what I mean?”
I say nothing but smile big.
“Anyways, a huge box turtle was in the middle of the road. Without thinking, she ran to it and waved her arms. The car came to a screeching halt right in front of her. From the first time she told it, I’d squawk about her getting taken out, but she’d wave me off.
She’d only say that the turtle would have been crushed.
With the car waiting, she tried to encourage the beast to move, but at this point the turtle had retracted its whole body into the shell.
So, she picked it up and ran to the side of the road.
Just as she was about to place it in the stream, it poked its prehistoric head out and blinked at her.
She tossed the turtle into the water as quick as a flash—her words—and then her whole body shook like her Aunt Bea’s tambourine.
She turned around, and the man driving that cool car was laughing, not just chuckling but full open-mouthed, let-it-loose hysterics.
Of course, she was mortified and grabbed her book bag and ran home. ”
I giggle into Clint’s arm as I hear the huge smile in his words.
“When she’d share that story, she’d always try to shake like she did that day when that crazy turtle head looked at her. She said she could never make her body move that way again.”
“Can’t believe you never told me about the turtle.” I shove against his shoulder.
“Yeah.” He holds me tighter. “She was amazing. That’s why it’s so hard to fathom what my brother did.”
“I know.”
This is where we go every year. The unfinished anger that lingers and sprouts up on this day like the green nub of a bulb that’s been sleeping all winter.
“He killed her, you know.”
He’s never put it so bluntly. I squeeze his hand. “You were both still kids. He was only four years older than Erika is now.”
He pulls his hand back and stands.
Is that comparison as startling to him as it is to me?
“Every year I tell myself to let it go,” he mumbles.
“Maybe it’s time to see him. Talk it out. Maybe he can—”
“He left us, Meredith.” He turns on me with as much emotion as he did twenty years ago when he first told me the story. “We lost the house. She lost all hope. And in the end, all she wanted was him.”
I stand. “I know. I just wonder if it might help.”
His face hardens. “I know this day is unfair to you. I’ll do my best to snap out of it. I know we have bigger issues than something that happened decades ago.”
“I didn’t mean it wasn’t important. In fact, the opposite. I’ve been—”
Clint’s phone rings. He slides it out of his pocket and looks at it. His eyebrows knit together.
“Wait, I don’t want to leave talking about your mother.”
“No worries. I’ve got to take this.” He strolls from the kitchen.
I strangle the rail posts of my chair. I begin to let myself feel hope, and then, again, I’m dashed on the rocks of our crumbling marriage.
I park each of the chairs squarely under the table and then fetch an insulated bag.
We’ll need to take some food to the cabin.
I’m sure there are good take-out restaurants in the Poconos, but it would be nice to have solid snacks and breakfast supplies.
I grab a couple freezer packs and then study the full refrigerator.
Everything will be all right. If I can nab the right food, keep it precisely cold enough, and serve it before anyone realizes they’re hungry, all the rest of the disasters will work themselves out. When all else fails, I just need to be the perfect wife and mom.