NOVEMBER
-Two Months Later -
“Your sandwich is in the fridge and your cereal is on the counter,” Olive says, pulling on her backpack.
I kneel down and wave her over. “You don’t need to make me food anymore, Ollie.”
“You can make me food,” AJ says from the couch. “You know Uncle AJ is always hungry.” He rubs his hand over his growing gut.
“Uncle, you eat all of our food! You’re going to turn into a piggy,” Olive says through laughter.
“Well, if your darn aunt wouldn’t keep me on this clean-eating, inhumane diet, I wouldn’t be so hungry every time I come here.” Olive just looks at him with question. She may sound older than five, but she’s five and has no clue what a diet, let alone a “clean-eating” one is.
“Well,” Olive says, turning back toward me. “If you don’t want me to make you food, maybe Miss Charlotte can make you lunch again, I guess.” A tiny smile pinches at her lips. “I think that would be okay. Don’t you, Daddy?”
“Olive, I’ve already told you—” She places her fingers in her ears and hums loudly, avoiding the words I’m trying to speak.
“That-a-girl, Ollie-Lolly,” AJ says, pointing at Olive with a wink.
“Come on, we’re going to be late,” I tell her, giving AJ the look he was desperately trying to get out of me.
As we step outside, Charlotte and Lana are coming out of their house, as well. Olive’s hand slips out of mine, and she books it down the driveway, stopping momentarily to look both ways before crossing the street. Within seconds, Olive and Lana’s hands are interlocked and they’re running down the street ahead of us.
“I take it she’s feeling better today,” Charlotte says. “Did the soup help?”
“I guess it did,” I laugh. “Thanks for bringing it over.”
“It was the least I could do after Lana was nice enough to share her germs with Olive.” Charlotte folds her arms over her chest and shivers against the brisk wind. “I guess autumn is here, huh?”
I look over at her. Her cheeks are rosy against the rest of her pale skin and her eyes are a bit puffy. For a second, I wonder if she has been crying, but then she sneezes. “Oh no. You’re sick?”
“I’m fine,” she shoos me off, sniffling a bit. “Moms don’t get sick.”
“You should be wearing a coat,” I tell her. She’s wearing a flimsy, long-sleeved t-shirt and I’m guessing the chill in the air is seeping right through the fibers of the shirt. I might be a frigid person, but I’m still a gentleman. I unzip my hooded sweatshirt and hand it over to her. “Put this on.”
“I’m good, but thank you,” she says, pushing my hand away.
“Put it on,” I say firmly. “I don’t make the best chicken soup, so—”
She looks at me with an arch in her brow and her lips press together. “Thank you,” she groans begrudgingly, giving in. Slipping on my sweatshirt, she scrunches up the sleeves and pulls her hands through. The fabric drops down to her knees, making the size difference between us quite apparent.
Her sniffles continue for the duration of the walk, and I notice an increased flush across her cheeks when we reach the bench at the bus stop.
“Do you have a fever?” I ask, taking a closer look at her face.
She shakes her head. “I’m sure I’m fine.”
“She’s not fine,” Lana says from the grassy area. “She was up all night coughing and sneezing. I gave her my cold.” Without thinking, I place my hand over Charlotte’s forehead, instantly realizing how cold my skin must feel against the scorching sensation of hers. I may be cold, but she’s burning up. She recoils at my touch, pulling back with a wide-eyed look as if it were a shock that I touched her. Actually, it’s a shock to me that I touched her. I’ve done a good job at keeping things very vanilla.
“Oh,” she says, finally coming to terms with having a fever. “Good thing I work from home, then.” With a garbled coughing laugh, she pulls her hands inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt and curls her arms up over her chest. I like the way she looks, all cuddled up in my sweatshirt.
“I have to run a couple of errands this morning, and the store is one of them. What can I get you?” I ask. “Do you have anything you can take to get your fever down?”
“I’m sure I can find something, but if you don’t mind picking me up some ibuprofen, that’d be great,” she says.
Lana runs over to us and wrenches her hand around my shirt, pulling me down to her level. She cups her hands around my ear and whispers, “Mom was tearing the medicine cabinet apart this morning, saying she couldn’t find anything that wasn’t meant for a—a damn kid.” I pull away, trying to maintain a straight face, but she pulls me back again, resuming her secret-telling position. “Then she said…‘Goddammit, why isn’t there ever anyone around to take care of me?’ She said a bad word. Two, actually.” I want to laugh at what Lana took out of that statement, but I know exactly how Charlotte feels. We spend every second of our lives caring for someone else and there is never anyone to take care of us when we need it.
I twist around to the side of her face and cup my hand around Lana’s ear, “I’ll have a talk with your mom about saying bad words.” Lana pulls away and slaps her hands over her mouth, giggling loudly, before running back over to where Olive is playing.
“What was that all about?” Charlotte asks.
I clear my throat and slip my hands into my back pockets. “Evidently, someone needs to wash their mouth out with soap,” I say, in my best mock-scolding tone.
Charlotte scrunches her nose and forehead with curiosity. “What did she say?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I laugh. The other moms arrive in their group and the roaring chatter that grew from halfway down the street stops almost immediately as they come within earshot. They are all very friendly, but I can’t help feeling as though they get quiet because they don’t know what to say to me. I assume meeting a single, widowed father isn’t the norm around here.
“How’s Olive feeling today?” one of them asks.
“She’s much better, thank you,” I respond.
“Chicken soup is always the cure-all,” another one sings with a cynical grin painted across her tinted lips. I know Charlotte doesn’t converse with any of these women, which means someone likely saw her walking across the street with the pot of soup yesterday.
Fortunately, the bus interrupts whatever conversation could have ensued and Olive runs over to take her backpack out of my hand. “Don’t forget to eat your mayonnaise sandwich today, Daddy. You’re going to get sick if you don’t eat.” Rather than argue with my little Ellie, I lift her up and place a kiss on her nose.
“Have a good day at school. I’ll see you when you get home.”
“Bring me home a jasmine today,” Olive whispers in my ear. “My last one died.” She drops out of my arms and runs for the open door of the bus. “Bye, Daddy!”
Once the bus pulls away, the other mothers begin to crowd but I break away just in time to hopefully make the obvious a little less obvious—that being said, I don’t want to answer any soup questions. Charlotte isn’t as lucky, though. She’s in the center of the conversation, and I decide not to look back and catch the look in her eye that would most likely tell me she hates me right this second.
She feels awkward around the other mothers, too, since we’re the outsiders—the single parents who aren’t lucky enough to have a normal family.
I jump right into my truck the second I get home, heading out to the gardens early enough to beat the daily crowd of elderly visitors. I’ve learned if I arrive within five minutes of their opening, I can have thirty minutes alone without the gawking eyes and whispers.
The fifteen miles between Sage and the gardens in Glenn blur by as I catch myself thinking about Charlotte. For the first time since Ellie’s death, my mind feels torn between mourning and healing. Mourning and memories are all I have left of Ellie, so if I let go of the mourning, Ellie is really gone. Moving on feels like betraying her, so healing has never been an option for me before, but lately, I find myself wondering if it’s possible to mourn and heal at the same time. Maybe I finally have room in my life for both.
In another life, a life where Ellie didn’t leave her permanent footprint, Charlotte would be a woman I could see myself wanting to spend more time with, maybe even pursuing something more than a friendship. Not that there is anything wrong with the friendship that has budded nicely between Charlotte and me over the past couple of months, but I’ve made it clear...maybe a little too clear...that whatever we are—will continue as is. She hasn’t exactly asked for more or even insinuated anything, but the reason I keep thinking about it may be because recently, the consideration of something more has crossed my mind more times than I’d like to admit. There is something about her that has me looking forward to the moment she walks out of her house in the morning, and waiting for the first laugh that escapes her lips each day. Being around her has brought me a sense of peace I’ve been missing in my life.
I pull into the gardens, seeing only two vehicles. One belongs to the groundskeeper, which means a visitor is already here.
I step out of my truck and head down the narrow, gravel-covered path. The scent of lilies and jasmines permeates the air, pulling me down the earth-made, moss covered steps toward the tree. Our tree. My tree.
We had these plans. Horrible plans that no twenty something year olds should ever be discussing. But we did for a reason I can’t even recall. “Let’s be buried together by the tree in the gardens. That way we can always be together in the one place we love.” I laughed at her that day and told her never to bring up the thought of dying again. It was the one and only time we ever spoke of it, but at least that terrible conversation made things easier when planning my twenty-five-year-old wife’s funeral. Her parents hated the idea. They were angry that it was my right to make the arrangements and decisions. I understood their desire to bury her in the cemetery that contained the rotting bodies of their relatives, but I had to carry out Ellie’s wish, regardless of how much her parents would hate me.
The one thing I didn’t plan for was the owner of the garden telling me it was against regulations to bury a body on their grounds. They would only grant me permission to bury an urn. I had to burn Ellie’s body into dust. Dust had always been an annoying particle I was used to sweeping into the trash can, but now, my wife’s remains are nothing more than dust and it’s the most beautiful, precious dust in the world.
When the cremation procedure was complete, I was called into the office to pick up the urn. My wife was handed to me in a fucking vase. I placed it in a small box down in the passenger seat and then secured Olive into her car seat. It was the one and only time our entire family was together. Pretty screwed up.
I kneel down by the tree, along with the cliché carving of our names surrounded by a heart with the word “forever” below it. Who knew forever ended at twenty-five? With my hand placed up against the heart, I close my eyes and allow the words to flow. “I miss you, baby. So much.” I pull in the thick air that never seems to find a way through my lungs easily while I’m here. Even if I could breathe freely, the knot in my throat makes it hard to speak the words I save for these moments. But with a slight breeze blowing against my skin, comfort blankets me like a warm hand touching my back. “Olive is learning to read. Can you believe it? She wants to be a writer like her mom. She wants to be just like you, Ell. I’ve done my best to keep you alive in her mind. I want her to know you like I know you. I wish she had years with you like I did, but I’m doing the best I can. I know I say this every time I’m here, but I just need you to know how hard I’m trying.” I open my eyes and remove my hand from our engraved heart. “I hope you don’t mind, but I need to steal a blue jasmine for Olive. She requested it.” I lean down and pull the clippers from my coat pocket. If it weren’t for Ellie’s strict rules on how to remove a flower from the soil, I would yank the thing out, but that would be a sin to her. I clip the flower and replace the clippers in my pocket. “I love you, baby. I’ll see you next Friday.”
I stand up and turn toward the jasmine-lined pond. This was the place that sparked Ellie’s passion for flowers, jasmines in particular. They aren’t naturally grown here, but I guess the groundskeepers maintain them; though the temperature is dropping quickly now, so I’m guessing this will be it for a few months. As I pick a couple more, my focus catches something pink across the pond.
A woman is kneeling down, collecting flowers and placing them in a box. I realize I have no right to say anything, especially since I’ve just picked some flowers, too, but I’m not stripping the area of all the flowers. What is she doing with all of them? I’ve never seen her here before, so I’m guessing she isn’t a new groundskeeper. Not dressed like that, anyway.
I stand up and make my way around to the other side of the pond. “This is a privately owned garden,” I tell her. I know I’m no more an owner than she likely is, but I have an arrangement with the owner, who allows me to pick a couple of blue jasmines when I’m here.
Her head pops up, startled by my presence. I didn’t mean to sneak up on her, and normally I wouldn’t approach someone like this...but these flowers—they should wilt on their own. I’m a hypocrite. Why am I over here?
Her jade eyes meet mine and she looks completely distraught like I have accused her of a heinous crime. “Are these your flowers?” she asks in a honeyed voice.
I look down at my hand gripped around a single Jasmine. “No,” I reply, despondently. “I—I got permission from the owner of the garden.”
“I did, too,” she says. “I help the groundskeepers out sometimes since I manage a flower shop downtown. The shop I work for supplies the seeds in the spring and takes what’s left at the end of the season. Since we’re getting an early freeze, I’m making my rounds sooner than normal this year.”
“I had no idea,” I tell her, feeling like my tail is between my legs. She is the reason these flowers continue to grow here.
“It’s okay. I’m sure it looks a little odd to be cutting down flowers in the middle of a beautiful garden,” she says, closing the box up. Tucking it under her arm, she stands and flips her coffee brown hair behind her shoulders. With a couple steps in my direction, she tilts her head subtly to the side with an inquisitive look in her eyes. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Every Friday.” I point over my shoulder toward my tree. “I come to visit my wife.”
The woman places her hand over her chest and clenches the loose pink material of her shirt. Her eyes break contact with mine as she looks down toward her feet. “I’m incredibly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank—” before I can offer her my complete gratitude, she takes off past me. I turn and watch her jog up the moss steps, leaving me staring with wonder. While I’m questioning what I said to make her run, the box she is carrying abruptly flies out of her hands as she trips up one of the steps. The flowers spring out from between the flaps and the woman falls down to the step, looking defeated. Defeated from running away from me? I take my steps toward her slowly, with caution, since I don’t want to scare her again if I already have somehow.
I scoop up the flowers and take the box, laying it flat on one of the steps. I place them in one at a time, careful not to rest any of the leaves up against each other. “Are you okay?” I ask. She looks up at me with a tear streaking down her red cheek. “Did you lose someone, too?” I don’t know why I would assume that, but she’s crying and I feel like I was a dick to yet another poor person.
She nods her head subtly, staring me straight in the eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice shaky.
“I think we covered the unnecessary apologies,” I say, feeling a ghost of a smile find my mouth. I don’t think I have smiled in these gardens since the last time Ellie was here with me.
“Yes, I lost someone,” she says.
“Life sucks sometimes,” is all I can think to tell her. “It’s what I’ve told myself every day for the last five years.”
“Sometimes, but it can be really sweet some days, too,” she argues. “Sorry for this dramatic scene.” Quiet laughter escapes her lips as she runs the back of her hand against her cheek, drying the one lonely tear. “I don’t know what to say to myself to make my pain better, and I definitely don’t know what to say to someone else to ease their pain. So, the only logical thing I can think to do is run away.” She stands up and takes the box from my hand.
“Words aren’t always needed,” I tell her.
“Words are almost always needed,” she retorts.
“Is that what they say?”
“Who?” she asks, appearing puzzled.
“Whoever they are. You know, those who make up all of the crazy sayings that make no sense.”
“Those sayings are like art. You have to let the words sink in, and you have to forfeit your mind to the greater meaning of what is on the surface. It will all make sense then.”
“You must be a philosopher,” I tell her.
“Just a florist,” she reminds me.
“This has been the most confusing conversation about words I will probably ever have.” All because I wanted to accuse a poor woman of stealing flowers from a garden. I really know how to keep topping myself with every stupid decision I make.
“I hope not,” she says, a grin transforming from her grimace. “But I do need to get going. I need to get the shop opened.”
“Where is the shop?” I ask, wanting to know where I can buy these jasmines.
“It was nice to meet you,” she says, avoiding my question.
“Likewise,” I say in return.
I give her a head start before I follow her up the steps and out to the dirt lot, where I look toward my tree once more, sending my last “I love you” to Ellie for the week. When I make it out to my truck, I see the backside of a navy blue hybrid pulling out onto the main road. And that’s that, I guess.
My thoughts feel scattered as I make my way through the grocery store, picking up food for the week, as well as a get-well kit for Charlotte. I may not have been married for a long time, but I think I know what makes women feel better. Or I’d like to think that.
She has made a much larger effort to help me than I have made to help her, so this is an opportunity for me to thank her and maybe prove I’m not as big of an asshole as I sometimes appear to be.
After putting my own groceries away, I jog across the street and knock on Charlotte’s door. I believe I hear what sounds like a crow squawking at me to come in so I open the door slowly, finding her curled up on the couch under a blanket. “Guess working from home isn’t going so well for you today,” I say, closing the door behind me.
“Not at all,” she croaks.
I sit down at the edge of the couch and pull the grocery bag up to my lap. “I got you some stuff.” I pull the tissue box out and place it on the coffee table beside us. Next is the Advil and Nyquil, then a box of chocolates, and finally every single chicky magazine I could find on the racks. As her eyes settle on the magazines, she props herself up on the couch.
“Wow,” she says. “You are quite the desirable bachelor.”
I don’t know why, but her words cause me to back up and switch from sitting on the edge of the couch to the edge of the coffee table. The irony of just rehashing the fact that she doesn’t “go there” only a couple of hours ago, tells me I might have jinxed myself.
Charlotte places her hand on my knee. “Hey.” Her eyebrows knit together with an accompanying look of frustration. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly.
“Was it weird that I said that?” She squints one eye closed as if she were preparing to take a blow to her head.
“I—I am so fucked up, Charlotte.” Truth. Nothing but truths here right now…no point in being anything but honest, as she’s beginning to learn just how fucked up I am.
“I’m well aware,” she laughs through another fit of coughs. One thing I’ve liked about Charlotte is that she doesn’t tiptoe around off-limits subjects. “I have no filter, but I’m not sorry I said it. It’s the truth.”
I look down at my hands, searching my mind for a non-asshole-like response, but nothing comes to me because I know I shouldn’t say anything rude since I’ve been thinking the same thing about her being a desirable bachelorette.
“How was the garden?” she asks, kindly changing the subject. For my sake, not hers.
“It was fine,” I sigh. “Want me to make you some tea or something?”
“No, thank—,” she says through a sneeze.
I stand up and take the empty bag into the kitchen, dropping it into the trash bin. “If you want me to get Lana off the bus today, I can.”
“Okay.” Awesome. I just ruined the only friendship I’ve managed to maintain for longer than two weeks. “Oh, your sweatshirt is hanging on the closet door,” she adds in.
“Thanks.” I grab it and at the same time feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket. Pulling it out, I see that it’s Olive’s school calling.
“Hello?” I answer, immediately hearing the school nurse explain something to me in a way that I can’t understand. Or maybe I don’t want to understand. “What do you mean? Is she okay?”
Panic drives me out of Charlotte’s house without a goodbye or explanation. Panic drives me down to Olive’s school going twice the speed limit, and panic has me racing through the school doors, passing by the preparing EMT’s, praying that God spares me any more heartache.