abadkitty, we know there are no words that can ease the grief you're feeling right now. Please know that we're thinking of you and that we love you dearly.
To everyone who is still reading - Thank you so much.
Love, BelieveItOrNot and thimbles.
Chapter 11.
Edward's truck is parked at my curb. He sits in the bed, legs dangling, hands gripping the tailgate rim, elbows locked. His grin grows as I get out of my car. He looks happy to see me. I correct myself: He looks happy.
I brush the crumbs from my skirt—remnants of an after work Patisserie stop—grab my bag, and pull it over my shoulder. I walk around the back of my car. "You've been waiting for me?"
Edward hops off the tray. "Come take a look."
I trail him to the side gate and out the back. "The space," Gianna had called it, and it seems, with everything green stripped away, that's all it is. Space.
"A blank slate." Arms wide, Edward turns a full circle on the naked earth. He seems almost exuberant—pleased with himself, certainly.
I see the wasteland spread out before me. Only the two original trees have resisted Edward's assault. The exposed soil, dun-colored and crumbly, looks incapable of supporting life. Fingertips to my temples, I take a deep breath.
"Wait… what's up? This isn't good?" Edward touches my shoulder. He leaves his hand there as I shake my head.
"No. It's – it's nothing." I drop my hands.
"Hey." Edward turns me to face him. "I don't know what you're seeing. But I'm seeing…" He passes his gaze over the yard. "It's like a fresh page in a sketchbook. A brand new sketchbook. Now we can really get started. Everything you didn't want is gone. Everything you do want is going in." He squeezes my shoulder before letting go.
Everything I do want. Edward's design on paper is easy enough to visualize, but I can't picture it out here. I try harder. The apricot tree to the left, the vegetable patch below it, the lilac. The image is almost in front of me. It's the shape of something without the blood and guts of it. I remember all the memories the Crowleys' yard holds. Their garden is the past while mine is supposed to be the future. But the waiting future is nothing more than an apparition. The future, after all, is only ever alive in the imagination.
He says, "Look up," and with him, I face the sky. The gold light too bright, I squint, shade my eyes with my hands.
"It's like that," he says.
I don't know if he means to make things more abstract, the open-endedness of possibilities, but I feel I understand him better. I don't necessarily have to visualize what's coming to know it is coming.
"Yeah," I say, because something has to be said.
"Seriously. This is the stuff we should be celebrating. It's onwards and upwards from here. And, you know what? Screw the ribbons and bows. I should've had a bottle of champagne ready." He points at the gate. "I could go get some. Want me to?"
The smile might not make it to my lips, but I feel it in the warming of my blood. "Tempting. But, no. Not tonight." Alcohol and Edward, not a safe combination. "Save the bubbly for when it's all done."
"I'll remember," he says. "Don't think I won't."
"It's a deal."
"Before I go..." He dashes over to my sliding glass door for a clay pot that sits on my stoop. "I saved this for you. In case you wanted it." A poppy, lanky and gold, stands in the dampened soil.
"You potted my flower."
"Technically, it's California's flower." He nudges my arm with a knuckle. "So I thought you might – If you want, I could plant it out there, contain it for you. Otherwise the greedy bastards'll take over again." He quiets, eyes on the flower, and as tall as he is, shrinks back. My reactions have been unpredictable toward him lately, but I didn't realize until now just how uneasy I've made him. "Or I could turn it into compost."
I grab it from him. "No, I want to keep it. Right in the pot. I didn't – God, I didn't even know I wanted it, but I do. Thank you. "
"You're welcome." He moves closer. I can smell the earth and sweat on his skin, and something sweet, soda maybe, on his breath.
I fight the closing of my eyes.
"You, uh, you're going to be okay?"
The edges of the pot dig into my fingers and I have to make an effort to relax my grip on it. "I'm fine, probably just overtired or something."
"All right. I guess I should clear out." He kicks at the dirt that has made its way to the patio as he heads toward my gate.
Left alone, I set the pot next to Maggie's plant on the table. Sprout has grown, from infant to child, a leafy green shoot now. Mr. and Mrs. Crowley have funny Indian Hawthorn. I have loyal Poppy, tenacious Sprout.
.
Eucalyptus-scented steam fills the room as I sit in the bathtub, knees tucked to my chest. I scoop up a handful of water, watch it seep through my fingers. I do it again and squeeze my fingers together until it almost hurts, trying to slow the water's escape, trying to keep it in my hand. It's futile.
I remember the heat of Edward's hand on my shoulder, his comforting squeeze. I feel fingers move down, over my arm, over my body. His touch, no longer comfort, but want. I lie back and rest my head at the edge of the tub.
If things were different, maybe someday Edward would bring me flowers for my birthday, an anniversary, or nothing special. I'd say, "The first flower you brought me was a poppy," and we'd laugh at the memory.
But that's silly, childish. I'm not sixteen anymore. I can't be. I let the water go from my hand and stop trying to keep it.
After my bath, I find Emily sitting on my couch, her feet up on my coffee table. I had a key made for her after the day I found her waiting on my porch. I flop down on the couch beside her, my face lifted toward the ceiling. For a few minutes, neither of us speak. Emily's humming something that sounds like a nursery rhyme. I'm trying to shove Edward's face, his look of concern, out of my mind.
"So, we cooking tonight or is it takeout?" she asks after a while.
I bump her leg with my knee. "We never go out. Let's go out. That new place, Camille's, is opening tonight." I pull the "invitation" from underneath a new bill on my coffee table—old habits die hard—and hand it to her.
She drops it to her lap. "Too tired."
"No, you're not."
She turns her face toward mine, parts her mouth slightly but says nothing.
"You're not," I say.
I can see the movement. Her hand, she's about to bring it to her face, her invisible scar. I catch her fingers before they reach her cheek.
In a rare, bashful moment, she looks down. "I guess I do that a lot."
I let a few seconds pass, wondering what to say. It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her there's nothing there anymore, no reason for insecurity. But that's not exactly true. It might never be. She carries it inside her.
"Not that often," I say. Her hand still in mine, I pull her to her feet. The restaurant's flyer falls to the floor. "Come on. We're going out." I guide her to my room where I step out of my sweat pants and tug on a pair of jeans. I tie my hair back, low at the nape of my neck, in a short, five plait braid, and add a thin, brown ribbon. "You and me. A date." I yank on her arm, maybe a little too roughly. She pulls one side of her mouth upward like she's chewing on the inside of her lip. She's thinking about it. One more nudge from me. I shake her hand and her whole limp arm wiggles. "I fixed myself up for you. Come on."
She glares at me, her eyes tightening, her lips pursing in that way of fighting a smile. I've got her. She lets me lead her to my car.
.
The exterior of Camille's has been painted maroon. The brick looks fake even though it's real. White lights trim the roof and main window. On the sidewalk is a chalkboard sign. Thursdays: Live Music. Sundays: Comedy Night. Fridays and Saturdays must take care of themselves. The line to the hostess stand is certainly long enough tonight.
The restaurant—so dimly lit it's hard to make out the true color of the walls—gives a pretense of quiet and intimacy. On the dining room side are tall, walled-in booths. The bar is more open with bistro tables. This is where we go so we don't have to wait in line for a Booth of Solitude.
"Maggie would love this place," Emily says.
It hadn't occurred to me to invite Maggie. She needs time to ready Pete for a night alone with the girls. Or if they're both going, they need time to find a sitter. When they're spontaneous it's with their automatic party of four. Crayons that include two reds and two blues, and color-sheet menus, please. Pizza and mac 'n cheese options are a must.
"So," Emily says. "You wanna explain the whole 'I have a date. Oops, no, I don't,' thing from the other day?"
I hook my necklace over my thumb and lift it to my lips. "It was a bit Helen Schlegel of me, wasn't it?"
"That's some book reference I'm not going to get, right?"
"Howards End, yeah. We're engaged! Oh, wait, no. Nope. No engagement. But by then, the aunt's gone charging off to intervene. She spills the beans to the guy's family. Chaos ensues."
"Well, I'm not your aunt." Emily grins up at the server as he sets our drinks in front of us. When he's out of earshot she says, "You did get me excited, though. It's been forever since you had a date who wasn't me."
"Forever?"
Emily glares at me over the rim of her glass. "Don't get all literal with me."
"I'm aware of how long it's been. A person doesn't need a reminder about things like that." It's been even longer since I had a second date—Liam was probably the last guy I liked enough to repeat the experience with. We may not have connected the way I'd hoped to, but he did have a knack for making me laugh.
I huff a laugh through my nose as a memory comes to roost. "He called my shoulderblades wings."
Emily stirs her drink, licks the end of her red stirrer, and rests it on the table, slow and focused, as if worried she might place it in the wrong spot. "Is this another time I'm supposed to read your mind?" Elbows on the table, she places her fingertips on the sides of her temples and squeezes her eyes closed. "Nope. It's all a blank."
I reach across and flick her arm. "Liam," I say. "He was massaging my shoulders when he said it."
"Liam? Why is he on your mind?"
"I was just... reminded of him the other day. And he– But that's not the point. The point is, why didn't I think about it back then? About what he meant? I'd been complaining about Murray's class, contemplating dropping it. And so he rubbed my back and said my wings were tight and they needed to be loosened up. I just thought he was being weird, but he was trying to tell me something."
"And the message is just now getting to you."
"I think he was telling me to do what I wanted, which was drop the class. He was telling me that I could do what I wanted." I catch her gaze. "I have wings." I can't keep a straight face, though the feeling is serious.
"Of course you do. All girls have wings. Didn't you ever see 'The Dark Crystal?'"
"I'm going to look for a new job."
"Because of something an ex-boyfriend said to you about a college course five years ago?"
"Partly. But not just that."
"What sort of job?"
I sip my drink. I haven't thought that through quite yet.
"Bella, darling, you're the only person I know who needs to be told she can do what she wants."
"I told you it wasn't just that. I was preparing myself for—I don't know—for a family I thought I'd be closer to having by now." Maggie has two kids. Angela has three. Emily has twenty-six whom she loves but who all go home in the afternoon, and that's the way she likes it, she says. "I didn't think, even though family was way in the back of my mind in darkness, covered in blankets–"
"—And dust."
"I didn't think that I'd be sitting here at almost twenty-six with only myself to think about or care for, now and in the foreseeable future."
She takes my hand in hers and holds it in the middle of the table. "So, do what you want. For you. Without any subtle language or metaphors: Do what you want."
The server stops at our table to ask if we'd like another round.
"Another one for her. I'm driving." Emily stands up. "And running to the bathroom."
"I drove," I say.
"I'm driving your car. You need tonight."
I show two fingers to the guy, a peace sign. We'll take a cab. Emily can bring me back to my car in the morning.
She excuses herself, and I take a moment to look around the bar. I didn't notice until Emily left how the noise level has grown. Tables have filled up. Across three tables, at a bigger one, I spot her accepting a new margarita from our same server while he takes away her old one. It's the hair I recognized first. Gianna. I look away fast, hoping she doesn't see me. This is the drawback, I see, of choosing not to wait for a Booth of Solitude. I chance a glance back at her. Her lips are around a straw, her eyes lowered. She's going to notice me here eventually. Without Emily at the other side of the table to block me, Gianna has a clear view.
I take three or so more sips of my drink and then start toward her table. It's the right thing to do. The mature thing. Thoughts of "I can do what I want" are lost in old, drying up conversation. Besides, they aren't words that can hold true for every single thing in life.
Gianna's "pleasantly surprised" greeting seems forced. She introduces me to the two couples she's sitting with. "Edward's doing her yard," she tells them. "They were friends in high school."
Without thought, I say, "Is he here?" and my heart jumps as I ask about him, think about him, accidentally picture him.
Glances are exchanged. The guy across from Gianna runs a knuckle back and forth under his nose, clears his throat. I bring my fingers to my throat.
"Oh." Gianna flops her hand as if dismissing what she's about to say. "He said he's exhausted after today."
"Right," I say. "Sure."
Her fingernails are rakes down her lips. "Never too tired for ball games, though. Or playing with his little friend." She says it under her breath and mainly directed at her friends whose gazes, lowering shoulders, or head tilts show their sympathy. One girl puts her arm over Gianna's shoulders.
Gianna's eyes moisten. If I didn't know better, I'd think she's holding back tears. But I do know better: She is holding back tears. I know that she and Edward are having problems, and have been for who knows how long, that they don't share a bed anymore, that it seems most of Edward's stuff is in the garage, and now I know that a part of this, or all of this, brings Gianna near tears. I swallow a lump in my throat. Gianna isn't as bitter as she likes to appear.
The blonde woman Gianna introduced as Carmen, who seems to repeatedly smell the ends of her own hair, pipes up. "Better than sticking himself in front of the TV." She mimics holding a controller in her hand, teetering it this way and that, and scrunches her face as if intent on a video game. She pats the man beside her on the arm, lovingly maybe. Or disparagingly. He tightens his brow. Marriage like this, it's what I'm used to—my parents—but even after years of living in the bullseye of it, it still baffles me. That isn't at all what I picture when I think of a future family. At this moment, having only myself to care for, I feel like the lucky one.
"I'd better get back," I say with a glance over my shoulder. Emily's retaking her seat at our table. "It was nice to... Have a nice night."
Emily's the one with the right idea. Don't prepare your future for anyone but yourself. As I slide in across from Emily I tilt my head for one more glance at Gianna. If all of this is inside of me, itching its way to the surface when I have only myself to think about, how much more must be inside Gianna. And if it doesn't climb to the surface, get out, does it rot?
"I was thinking about Liam in the bathroom." Emily's voice startles me.
I relax into eye contact with her. "It happens."
"What if he never meant anything by that? What if he just calls them wings on everyone?"
I throw my stirrer at her and she doesn't even flinch. It hits her face. She laughs.
"It doesn't matter," I say. "Think about it. Really. What really matters? Someone's intent or how you perceive it?"
"Obviously, how you perceive it years later is what matters." She gestures behind her. "Who was that?"
"Edward's wife." I open my napkin and place it over my lap then take a sip of my drink, as if that is the end of that. Of course, with Emily, there is never an end of that. I continue before she prods.
"Apparently she's perfect. Or she wants people to think she is. I don't even know what that is. You wanna know what kind of perfect I understand? The ironic kind. You know, when you're late for work and you can't find your keys—Perfect." I take a gulp of my drink. "When you spill your cocktail all over yourself at a fancy party—Perfect. When someone's waiting on the other side of your door and you can't open it. That's what perfect is to me."
"Maybe that's the kind of perfect she is. Ironically perfect." She orders me another drink and shoves a menu into my hand.
Our pile of fries—called frites here—is rapidly dwindling when Emily pauses, fry poised over the dipping bowl, and looks me in the eye. "I called Rachel."
She dips the fry, takes a bite, smooshes the other end into the sauce, and then chews it slowly while my mind races in a million different directions, wondering when and how and why she's bringing this up now instead of three hours ago when—shit—when I found her on my couch. I was so caught up in my own restlessness that I didn't even ask. Everything okay? That's all I had to ask.
"She was the only person who didn't ask me what I did. You know, to provoke him." She waves away her exaggeration—she knows I'm always on her side. "She just came and sat by me. Held my hand until the nurse shooed her away. And then when I was home again, she came over with some flowers. Yellow ones, I think."
She picks up her empty glass and looks into it, like she might find a mouthful she's missed. "Do you know I hate walking past florist shops now? The smell gets to me. Too many flowers all squished up in one space. It makes me remember those weeks right after. Flowers everywhere."
And that would be why Sprout lives with me.
"Then she just–" She draws her hand down in front of her face, like she's closing a blind. "I didn't hear from her again."
"I think, maybe, she felt sort of responsible," I say. "She set you guys up."
Emily presses her lips together. "I know. And that's – I called her and she didn't answer so I left a voicemail. I told her, I said, I'm the only one who gets to lay blame. And I said that she was my friend first and I miss her and I'm really pissed off that she took herself out of my life because it's like he's stolen her, too, and that isn't fair."
She squints. "Maybe I should've just asked her to call me back. Instead of saying all that."
I wipe my fingers on the napkin in my lap and reach for my drink. "Maybe. It must've been hard for you to call, though. So I get it."
"Yeah. And I had to – I just had to get it all out. Right then. In case I forgot what I wanted to say or the words tried to burrow back in and wouldn't come out the time she finally answered."
"When was this?"
"Yesterday."
"She hasn't called back?"
Emily sighs. She digs through her purse and passes her phone to me. She's had a missed call from Rachel inside the last hour.
"She called back like, an hour after I left the message? She's tried a few times now."
I put the phone on the table and grab Emily's fingers. I give her a small smile. "That's why you came over?"
She slides her free hand through her hair, but her eyes are on my fingers clasped around hers. "I thought maybe…"
"I'm so–"
"No." Her tone is firm enough to halt my apology in its tracks. "You're doing it again. You wanted–" She doesn't turn her head Gianna's direction, but the sideways dart of her eyes is enough "–to have a night out. You're allowed. I would've said no if I really didn't want to come. Would've put on my teacher-voice and everything."
That gets a small chuckle out of me. "We can call her back at home tonight."
"Tomorrow," she says. "I don't want to drunk dial her. I can call her back tomorrow."
"And I'll hold your hand." I let go of it now and indicate to the server hovering by Emily's shoulder that we're going to need another round.
At home, with Emily asleep in the guest bed and all the windows open to let in the nighttime chill, I sit in my oversized USF sweatshirt scrolling through Facebook. The alcohol still swirling through my blood loosens my fingers and I "like" and comment on things I'd normally scroll right on past. It was Angela's wedding anniversary this week, and she's posted pictures of her family through the years, along with a sentimental little story. "I think about you a lot," I type under one photograph. "It's been too long. I miss you."
Two days later I get a notification. Angela "liked" my comment.