31. Ezra
Ezra
Amy called on Saturdays. It was their little tradition. It had started because Saturdays he was home from work, and when he retired they still kept the day. This week he called her, two days early.
“Dad,” Amy said, sounding surprised. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, of course.” He bristled. He did not want her to think otherwise. “So how are the boys? What have you all been up to?”
As he listened to her recounting of the week, Ezra’s mind drifted.
Amy told him about the T-ball team and how everyone got a trophy, which she liked because they were so young, but she also worried might set the boys up for disappointment later.
He smiled to himself, reminded of all the little things younger parents worry about: the slights at school, on the bus, on the playground.
Never mind the big things, too. Oh, how Rachel had worried when Amy was growing up.
Sometimes he wondered if it was because Amy was their only child.
Perhaps he was lucky in his profession as a neurosurgeon.
Those parents he met, whose children he got to care for, were some of the most worried people he would ever know, and for good reason.
Watching a mother hold her child’s hand before sending them into the OR, not knowing what would happen behind those doors and not being able to do a darn thing about it on the other side, was a fear he saw too many times in the hospital.
As hard as it was to witness, Ezra considered it a gift, too.
A release from the less harrowing fear of the school bus bully, when viewed through the same lens. Perspective could be life altering.
Ezra had tried to maintain that perspective since he’d left the Cranberry House.
He understood that what happened with Holly and her grandmother was between them.
Just as he understood each time Holly had called since, and left not one but three messages, that he was wanted back.
But the awful plan he’d started the summer with had never quite left him.
He’d come back to it, as one worries a scab that covers a wound that is trying to heal.
For a little time he’d thought he would heal.
That morning, when someone knocked on his door, Ezra did not answer.
It was Holly. He recognized her voice. From an upstairs window he watched her wait, with Bruce, at the door.
He watched until she left something on his step, before leaving with Bruce.
When he was sure it was safe, Ezra opened the door to find a plate covered in foil.
Inside were Greta’s scones, still warm. They had come straight from the oven to his door.
When he took a bite, he did not taste sadness.
Greta was healing. As was the inn, across the way.
Just as Holly and her grandmother would, too. For him, it was too late.
Now, as Amy spoke, he listened. He tried to picture his grandsons, whom he knew he could not picture accurately because it had been so long since he’d seen either boy or picked them up or read a story to them on his lap. “Are you sure you can’t come?” he interrupted suddenly.
“What?” She’d been in the middle of telling him about something at preschool.
“This summer. Is there no way you and the boys, or even just you, could come? For just a little bit?”
The sigh at the end of the phone was his answer; an answer he was unfairly asking her to reissue. He knew she could not; her reasons were sound. They’d been over this already.
“Dad. I’m sorry this summer didn’t work out. And I do miss you—we all do. You know that, right?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry for asking.” She returned to her story about preschool and he tried to listen to what she was saying, but he could not.
Again, he interrupted. He couldn’t help it. The thoughts were firing like shooting stars, and he had to get them out before they fizzled into darkness.
“Did you have a happy childhood, Amy?”
“Dad. Of course I did. Yes, the happiest childhood.” She paused. “Where is all this coming from?”
“Your mother and I, we worried about that. I just want to know, did we do right by you?”
“Always.” He could hear the concern in her voice.
“Because I loved your mother so much.” Here, his voice broke, giving him away. “And sometimes I worry, you know. I worry that maybe I loved her too much for my own good, and maybe yours, too. You know I loved you just as much, right?”
Amy went quiet. “I do know that, Dad. Of course I know that, then and now.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Is everything alright out there?” she asked again. “You’re eating and sleeping okay?”
He’d said too much, and if he didn’t get off the phone soon, he’d say more. “Yes, darling. Yes, of course I’m fine.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Just the rambling thoughts of an old father. Too much time on my hands, if you will.” He needed to wrap this up.
“You’re sure?” She did not believe him. There were so many things he still needed to say, and time was running out.
“Honey, I love you very much. And I am terribly proud of all you’re doing with your life.
Please don’t worry about not making it out here this summer.
We’ve had so many summers. So many golden perfect summers.
” He was starting to choke up. “You enjoy this one with your family. You’re an incredible young woman and mother, and you are right where you need to be. ”
“Thanks, Dad.” He could hear her gearing up to say more, to ask more. Before she could do either, Ezra told her he loved her again. And goodbye.
Exhausted, Ezra rested his head in his hands at the kitchen counter.
Goodbyes were the hardest thing. They signaled to the brain that something was ending, and the brain, being the organ of survival it was, was hardwired against endings.
Now, Ezra poured himself a glass of water and went outside. He stared out at the bay. Goodbyes were always hard. They were inevitable, too.