Chapter 35
THE BLENDER CHEWS UP BERRIES, protein powder, and almond milk with grating sounds I’ve come to associate with Erika.
“Looks yummy.” I perch on a stool at the island and brace myself for what I’m about to tell her. “We’re all going to the Poconos for a few days.”
“I know.”
“You do?” How is this not a fight?
“Dad mentioned it. Sounds good.”
It does? I slide back to get a good look at my daughter, and my elbow wedges itself in the wrought iron back of my stool.
I tip backward and then try to catch my foot around one of the bars.
Right before smashing forward, I grab the edge of the granite island and wobble precariously back into place.
“You okay?” Erika raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at me.
I straighten. “Yes. Great. Glad it’s all set.” My heart sorts itself in my chest. For a moment there, I pictured busting out my two front teeth on the island edge simply because my teen daughter agreed with a family plan.
“Are we still thinking of leaving today? It’s getting late. We have to find this place, right?”
“Excellent point.” My voice seems overly gleeful. I clear my throat. “Seen Dad?”
She pours the thick spotted slurry into two mason jars. “He was talking to some guy in the garage.”
“Oh.” I glance toward the door. A clean house, a full refrigerator, and Clint has probably already arranged to have the car fixed up. Remarkable how well it all runs without me. And I have trouble remembering to water the lily.
“What do you think?”
I start to say, I think I’ve let go more than I realized and that my husband has silently slipped on both our shoes, and I wonder if he resents me for it, when I glance up and see Erika lifting her glass toward me.
“Delicious,” I say after a quick sip.
“Pasture-raised goat whey.” Erika slumps on the island across from me.
“Wow. Protein powders were just for bodybuilders when I was growing up.”
“And you weren’t allowed potato chips or other processed foods. I’ve heard it.” She takes another sip and leaves the room.
An hour later, I’m upstairs when my phone pings with a text from Terrence.
Running between meetings. All set on the slides on my end. Expect a few thoughts from Phil this weekend. We’ve got a packed agenda with all the funds to review. Thanks for being mindful.
As expected, Phil has already signaled a few thoughts to Terrence, but I’ll probably need to wait until the last minute to get them.
Terrence is also concerned that excitement over my new ideas will overshadow his desire to talk, at length, about our mutual funds.
If consistent with each of my previous appearances, Phil and Hardwin will both ask me to take all the time I need and then will stir up a lengthy discussion with the trustees.
It’s never too early for that, but I’ll feel Terrence’s heat to keep the focus on the bulk of our business.
The heat is more like flames from a campfire than a raging inferno, but in either case, burns are possible.
I respond with appreciation and then notice the battery life on my phone.
Emails will have to wait. I plug in my phone on my bedside table and then am digging in my camping bin when my fingers close around something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
The scratchy fibers are unmistakable. I lower my overnight duffel from the bench at the end of my bed and sit.
Unfurling the sock pair, I raise the wool to my nose and mouth and breathe in.
Earthy winter air smells locked inside the weave.
My roommate and I went missing on a hike in late spring of my sophomore year at Boston College.
We’d been enticed to join a trip by a couple of upperclassmen outdoor club guys in our economics class.
Wasn’t until we loaded the car that we realized there were only four of us.
While Boston was in bloom, Katahdin, Maine’s highest peak, was still in snowpack.
Wet, cold, and without even an extra pair of socks, Katie and I got separated from the guys.
As night fell, and it got darker, we had no choice but to both climb inside my orange safety tent.
Earlier that morning, I’d bought it on a whim from a Walmart endcap.
The guys had laughed when I’d pulled out the folded instruction sheet in the car.
The next morning, as we huddled together inside the reflective material, we heard the voices of wardens. With our bare feet shoved inside one of our backpacks, we hollered back. Katie’s insistence that we peel off our sopping-wet cotton socks had saved our toes from frostbite.
I squeeze the thick wool of the socks. Clint brought this pair in his Appalachian Trail rescue pack. The coarse material felt luxurious, once I could feel anything at all.
“Where’d you find those?” Clint asks as he steps into our bedroom.
“Do you remember?” My throat floods with warmth as tears prick my eyes.
“How can you ask me that?” He pulls open the top drawer of his highboy.
“I want to talk about something real.”
“Something real,” he mumbles.
“Thank you for sharing the turtle story, but it seems lately we only dance around our conversations, avoiding anything that stings. We used to share it all.” I suck in my top lip and then lean forward. “I want to stop the pretense. I want to—”
He swivels toward me. “You’re having an affair.”
I’ve shot to my feet even before I fully comprehend his words. “No!”
His face is blank, as if the act of saying the words has stripped all the emotion from his body.
“Never.” I lurch toward him. He can’t honestly think this of me.
He holds up his hand. “Stop. Don’t.”
“Why?” I sag but my knees knock, keeping me from pooling onto the carpet. “Why won’t you let me close?”
He slams the drawer shut. “Why won’t I? You’re the one. You’ve shut me out. You’ve so many secrets, you’re in knots around me.” Anger flies with each of his words. Only a weariness remains. “I knew I was too old for you.”
Tears flow freely down my cheeks. The platitudes I’ve used so many times before bounce through my mind.
Words of love and assurance. The inconsequence of our age difference.
Phrases that speak to who he is and how lucky I am that he wanted to be my husband.
No matter how I try to say it, my pleading always falls on deafness.
My efforts rebuked, I often walk away in disgust over my inability to get him to believe me.
This time I can’t. I won’t.
This time I try something new. “You’re right.”
His body sags, like he’s crossed the marathon’s finish line. “I knew it.”
“Not about our ages. Irrelevant. And certainly not about an affair. But you’re right about me. I’ve kept too many secrets.”
His chin slowly rises and the muscles in his jaw pull his skin taut. “Tell me.”