Chapter 2 Roots
Roots
Nadine
I woke up the same way I went to bed: alone. Worse, Aaron’s side of the bed had not been slept in.
At all.
Our bedroom had gone through a series of metamorphoses over the years. This latest found me bathed in soft lighting and surrounded in a nest of muted greens and blues, the colors of the lake I loved so much.
But nothing could soothe me in that moment. Aaron had never, in the twenty-five years we’d been married, not come home.
Oh, God.
My blood pounded in my ears.
Something’s wrong.
Two phone calls within 6 months of each other proved things could change in the blink of an eye.
I whipped the covers off and swung my legs out of bed. “Aaron?”
My bare feet skimmed across the wood floors and pounded down the stairs, a high-pitched whimper breaching my lips as I raced through the family room looking for him.
What if something happened to him?
The breath whooshed from my lungs.
What if he didn’t come home for another reason?
I shuddered.
The what ifs and the maybes threatening my sanity.
It wasn’t the first time I’d considered that possibility in the past six months. Aaron had changed. More than anything else, he’d changed toward me.
What would I do without him?
My hands tunneled through my hair and fisted as I spun around calling out his name. “Aaron!”
Maybe he was working out.
I stumbled to the basement door, screeching to a stop as I passed the couch piled high with extra blankets. Collapsing nearly in half, I braced my hands on my thighs and released one panicked breath after another.
Caged behind my ribs, my heart did its level best to escape. Stomach churning, I pressed my palm to my throat and swallowed the bile that burned the back of my tongue.
Standing, I forced my shoulders down. “He’s okay,” I breathed as relief slowly gave way to a quiet fury.
And it stayed quiet.
As I went through my morning routine of dressing, making coffee, and downing my usual orange juice, vitamins, and bagel, I did what I always had and tamped my feelings down so I could go about my day as normal.
In the past few months, Aaron had often left for work before I got up, but he’d never not slept in our bed.
If it wasn’t for the fact he worked with his stepfather, I might think he was stepping out on me.
My blood ran cold at the thought.
Would Max tell me? Would Aaron care if Max knew? If his mom knew? Wren would be horrified if Aaron did that. But would she hide it from me?
Half of me wanted to walk down to his office and see just what was so goddamned all-encompassing. The other half, beaten down by the events of the past 18 months, urged me to bury my head in the sand.
That half won.
There was only so much a woman could take.
A surge of anger resurfaced. It wasn’t like I hadn’t asked, repeatedly, what was going on with him. He’d yet to give me an answer that rang with any kind of truth.
We argued, I pushed, he withdrew, and I begged to no avail.
And so it went.
On repeat.
For months.
A year ago, I would have pushed. Now? Half the time I didn’t know if I was coming or going. I showed up for appointments I didn’t have and missed the ones I did.
Twice I’d stood up Harley, my pseudo-mom, forgetting we had plans.
Harley ran the Sage Ridge Resort and had taken Aaron under her wing when he and I were first starting out. She’d stuck close to us both ever since.
Pregnant at the same time, we’d raised our kids together. With Harley I could open up in a way I never could with my own mother. She was my older, wiser sister and my best friend.
And I had sorely needed to talk.
Wren was always available for me as well, but she was first and foremost, Aaron’s mother.
On top of my newfound forgetfulness, my body threatened me with period pains a few days every couple of weeks but produced no period.
And that wasn’t all.
My poor coochie was as dry as the Atacama Desert, my freaking nipples were shrinking, my sex drive was in the toilet, and I’d packed on at least ten pounds.
And the crying. God, the crying. My freaking eyelids were chapped.
So, no. I didn’t have it in me to push.
Snagging my cell phone, I tapped out a text with trembling fingers. It seemed this was the only way we talked now.
Me: Are you okay?
Three dots danced across the screen. I stared at them, willing him to answer. Finally, when I’d been about to give up hope, his text came through.
Aaron: I’m sorry I stayed so late. I’ll make it up to you.
Make it up to me?
Was that supposed to be a comfort? Was I the only one missing us?
I contemplated texting him back and demanding an explanation, but my early conditioning, growing up with parents who were loving but strict in a way that allowed no room for disagreement, kicked in.
With Aaron as attentive as he was, I’d gotten better at making myself heard over the years.
Now I knew that confidence was a fallacy and falsely based on Aaron’s willingness to listen instead of my own certainty that I deserved to be heard.
My hands shook as I wound the whisper soft cashmere scarf Aaron bought me for my last birthday around my neck. Every year he loved to surprise me with something decadent and far outside the budget I set for my own spending.
Not that I expected or even wanted it, but he insisted I deserved every good thing.
Would he even remember my birthday this year?
I pulled on my boots and coat and trudged through the snow that blanketed the long driveway Aaron had neglected to clear. It matched the road the snowplow hadn’t yet reached.
That was maybe the only drawback to living on a large property on a quiet street in Little River.
Shaking my head, I made my way out onto our quiet street in Little River and made my way to the garden center.
I turned back once to look at the house that was so perfect it may as well have been plucked from my imagination. We’d gone out on a bit of a limb to buy it, but it had served us well.
Backing onto a thick pine forest, it boasted five bedrooms, fully finished recreation and workout rooms in the basement, and thanks to Max and Wren’s exquisite taste, beautiful decor.
With a steady stream of kids, then teenagers, and finally, young adults streaming in and out, it had almost seemed too small at one time. Now I spent my time cleaning a house that never collected any dust. It was far too big for two people, especially when only one of us spent any time here.
I lifted my chin and continued on. One day our grandchildren would race through those rooms. They would fill it with laughter once again.
Not that it had only known laughter.
Money got tight when our eldest, Thalia, ran into some trouble. Aaron and I decided one of us should stay home. He volunteered, but I insisted. He’d worked too hard to build his practice. And for me, with my daughter struggling, cooking had lost much of its flavor.
Years later, boredom and an empty nest pushed this mama bird back out into a job market for which I was woefully unprepared.
I hauled the heavy door of the garden center open and burst inside, stomping my feet on the mat inside the door.
“It’s getting bitter out there,” Carlos greeted me.
Working part-time with Carlos wasn’t exactly my life’s calling, but it got me out of the house for a few hours a week.
I had considered returning to my first love, but long nights running a kitchen along with Aaron’s long days in his clinic would have left no time for us.
“It is.” I toed off my boots and tucked them away before putting on my running shoes. Unwinding my scarf, I hung up my coat then headed over to the counter where Carlos so diligently tended his leafy babies.
If I could have gone back in time, I might have chosen something that could better sustain the family life I craved. In any case, it was far too late to start over. And wasn’t this the time we should be focussing more on us?
I’d chased my career. I raised my kids. I wanted my husband.
My chest ached. I dropped my eyes to shutter the pain. Did my sweet husband still want me?
Closing my eyes, I inhaled the earthy fragrance of rich earth and hothouse roses and let it wrap around my bruised spirit like the sweetest balm. I’d have had a jungle in my house, but I was infamous for killing plants.
Poor Carlos.
Looking up from his work, he grinned and tossed me a saucy wink. “You’re looking gorgeous as always.”
I laughed. “Stop, Carlos. I’ll tell Vera.”
My eyebrows rose. Tattling to Vera would give me a good excuse to drop by Aaron’s office and see what was going on. A ripple of dismay stopped my thoughts in their tracks because I couldn’t remember the last time I walked over to see my husband or bring him lunch at work.
I did it so often, he bought custom TV trays that hovered over those ridiculous beanbag chairs he loved so we could picnic in his office. A smile softened my lips then slowly faded.
When did I stop making us picnics?
And why hadn’t he said anything?
Carlos cackled. “Tell her! I love it when she gets a little jealous.” He grinned again. “Brings out the feline in her.”
“Oh my God.” I shook my head but could not help but laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Married for forty years to that woman. I know her better than I know myself.” He beamed. “And that’s the way she likes me.”
I laughed and peered at the line-up of pots on the counter. Inhaling a centering breath, I pulled my thoughts away from my floundering marriage. “Why do you have all the bonsai trees out again?”
“Ah,” he began. “Today I’m going to teach you how to care for them.”
I looked at him quizzically. “Haven’t we been doing just that for the past three weeks?”
“No,” he shook his head. “We were pruning.” Tugging a new pot forward, Carlos skimmed a gentle hand over the leaves. “See here? See what a perfect job you did pruning the leaves? See how perfectly it’s shaped? You did a good job.”
“Thank you.”
I’d been terrified when he’d handed me those tiny shears, astounded he would trust me with his babies. I swear the man died a little inside every time he sold one.
Gently, he lifted the tiny plant from its pot and brushed the dirt from its base.
Turning it over, he revealed the finely twisted snarl of roots.
“The roots,” he pointed with his shears, “we need to ensure enough room for growth. If we don’t guard against overcrowding, we risk rot.
You can prune all you want, and it won’t make a bit of difference. You’ve got to nourish the roots.”
After demonstrating and ensuring I’d caught on, he left me alone at the pruning table. His deep baritone echoed back to me from all corners as he went about his business, singing his heart out.
You have to nourish the roots.
Is that where we’d gone wrong?
I pulled the next tiny tree forward, its glossy leaves perfect. I gently freed it from its confines and dusted off the roots. The tangled snarl clenched around the taproot like a fist, leaving it no room to breathe.
Suddenly Carlos voice sounded behind me. “That one is overgrown. It needs to be trimmed and repotted.”
Maybe I needed to be repotted.