āOh, sweetheart.ā I stop and place my dirty hand on her cheek. Sadness and guilt hide behind her brave facade. Gosh, I know how it feels. Hiding emotions that plead for release from the stranglehold put on them.
āItās okay. Iām okay.ā Sheās not, and I can tell Lizzieās trying her best to be strong.
āItās always okay to feel whatās inside, even if those feelings clash with what others think.ā
āI miss her.ā It comes out as a whisper, still uncertain whether she should share her words aloud.
āCome here, sweetheart.ā I sit down beside her and cradle Lizzie in my arms. Sheās a tiny seed, already blooming, but doing her best to reach in new directions. Trying to find her way toward the sunlight. I run my palm over her hair with gentle and comforting strokes. āThe past is tough to handle sometimes. Itās a piece of our path that has led us to where we are today.ā She nods knowingly. āItās important to recognize how far itās allowed us to come. But itās also there as encouragement to keep moving forward.ā
The irony is not lost on me, how guidance given to another ends up being the best advice for ourselves. I ponder thoughts of Dillon, my mom, and Jack. Although itās sometimes confusing and difficult to untangle, theyāre all interconnected.
āThanks, Aunt Claire. I love you.ā Her words are stronger and more certain.
āI love you too, Lizzie.ā I pause, allowing her to absorb the emotion in my words. āThe foundation of every relationship, even with yourself, is trust. Talk to your dad. Heāll understand.ā I know he will.
I release her from my embrace and give her space to breathe in the life surrounding her. We put our hands back into the dirt together. I allow my fingers to run through the deep, cool soil alongside Lizzieās. Thereās a connectedness with the past that, once painful, is now cathartic. Removing that top layer of soil allows me to dig deeper and make room to lay new roots. I hope it does the same for the young and beautiful flower blooming beside me.
AFTER A CHICKEN NOODLE casserole for dinner, I pull a blackberry cobbler from the oven. Where did I put that trivet after the peach tart debacle? Searching high and low, I find it in the final drawer, the one I rarely use.
The cast-iron trivet is there, but itās the object beneath it that dumbfounds me. A sudden flush of heat coursing through me needs to be diffused in a manner that no hot pad can accomplish. The waterlogged corner has dried up and shriveled. The vibrant phlox-colored cover has faded. How could Jackās sketchbook possibly find its way into my kitchen drawer?
I pull it out, turn toward the table, and watch Lizzie stop chewing midbite. She swallows her food along with the lump in her throat. āIām sorry.ā
Nothing makes sense until I hear her words. Itās then that all the dots connect in my mind. Lizzieās desire to run errands. Jackās absence from across the street. Her lack of focus on the fruit sheās meant to be painting. And the incredible progress she has made on the bridge.
āHe gave it to me. I didnāt take it from him. Just so you know. He said I could use it as inspiration.ā I never dreamed she would have stolen Jackās property. But I hear guilt of a different type seeping through her words.
Why didnāt she ask me? Why did she feel the need to hide it? Does she think I would have said no? Would I have said no? Iām not sure now.
The trust I spoke of, the one all relationships are built upon, feels violated.
I finally get to see Jack again, even if I no longer look forward to it. Someone needs to give him back his sketchbook, and it wonāt be Lizzie.
His magnetism drew me toward him in unsuspecting ways, but my intuition was right. Something inside me kept pushing him away, to a safe distance. I really know nothing about him. What was I thinking, allowing his subtle charm to seduce me?
For my niece to hide secret meetings like this from me, however innocent they are, is one thing. But for him to do so as a grown man is unacceptable. It violates that elemental trust, breaking a fragile piece of me that had just begun to heal.
13
Before falling asleep, I lie in bed and listen to the steady drizzle of rain on my roof. Iām sure itās Mother Natureās attempt to comfort me, but it isnāt working. At least my closed eyes keep the tears from leaking out. I donāt even know which feelings are trapped inside my emotional downpour. Disappointment. Anger. Betrayal. Confusion. Loss.
That last word sums it up. As innocent as this situation might appear to other people, it runs deep for me. Every time I bare my vulnerability, this happens. It doesnāt matter if itās with family, friends, orĀ .Ā .Ā . others. I always seem to lose in the end.
I WAKE TO THE SONG of cheerful birds. A ray of sunshine peeks through my window. The tireless attempt at inducing a good mood still isnāt working. I fling the covers off with determination, gearing myself up for the task ahead of me. Lizzie timed her midmorning trips to coincide with optimal lighting conditions. Based on the current position of the sun, itās time to go.
I havenāt talked about the situation with her yet, and I will, but there are more important things to tackle first. Returning Jackās sketchbook is the main purpose of my visit, but thereās more to it than that. He needs to be supplied with a healthy dose of what it means to be the adult when interacting with teenagers.
I could drive but walk instead. Should I rile myself up or calm myself down? Iām not sure which would be more helpful. Focused on my thoughts, I donāt notice the friendly greetings from others until theyāre past me. I rehearse the questions hissing inside my head.
Why didnāt you tell me?
What were you thinking?
What else are you hiding?
Did I imagineĀ .Ā .Ā . everything?
Strike that last one. My personal feelings will not cloud the purpose of this undertaking. Iām an adult, responsible for Lizzieās whereabouts and safety. I should have been more careful and aware of what was happening around me. After letting my guard down, I am as angry with myself as I am with Jack.
All my questions are rhetorical. I donāt expect answers. I only want to read the look of surprise on his face when he sees me. Itās my way of knowing whether any part of this perceived connection was ever real.
I arrive at the bridge before realizing it. Heās not here. Does he know? Is he now trying to avoid me? He canāt and wonāt. I recall the perspective Lizzie was painting. Looking up at the stone structure with midmorning sunlight peeking through the trees. I know where I need to go. The small footpath running along the side carves a trail downhill, to the stream babbling below. I step tentatively around the roots and rocks that keep me from doing what I need to do.
Heās sitting on a tree stump, knees pulled toward him with a new sketchbook in his lap, drawing something from memory.
Focus, Claire. These are the thoughts that got you into this situation to begin with.
I slide my shoes along the pathway, allowing the shuffle of dirt to announce my presence. He grins, never looking up from his sketch. āDid you bring me more of those delicious peaches?ā
So thatās where theyāve been going. āNo, but I brought something else you seem to have misplaced.ā
Jack closes his sketchbook, as if concealing more. Hasnāt he hidden enough already? The look on his face says everything, revealing that heās been found out. Iām not sure if itās better or worse this way. If he attempted to handle the situation casually, I could rationalize naĆÆvetĆ© on his part. But the fact he looks guilt-ridden? He understands what he has done, the trust he has violated.
āWhy?ā Of all the questions Iāve thought about and rehearsed, this is the single syllable that emerges. And all the emotions that have been fighting for control over me? The one I least expect to win traces a path down my cheek. Sadness.
āClaire, I can explain.ā
Those are his first words? Not Iām sorry? All he wants to do is justify his misguided choice. āIām not sure I want you to explain anything. I just came to give this back to you.ā
For my entire childhood, I lived in fear. Never knowing what might happen next, I was always darting looks over my shoulder. I am grateful Lizzie has not been subjected to growing up in that type of caustic atmosphere. Still, I canāt shake those traumatic memories from my mind when situations like this arise. I took for granted that I knew what she was doing and where she was going. It was only supposed to involve a walk down the sidewalk and back. What if she found herself in danger? What if something went wrong? How could I allow myself to become so sidetracked with my personal emotions and issues? I failed to look after the teenager left in my care.
I thrust the sketchbook at Jack, as if touching it for any longer will send a crippling electric shock through me. A peculiar energy and sense of courage emerge after releasing my grip on it. My decision to let go has freed me from his beguiling influence.
āHow could you do this?ā The words spew from my mouth with conviction. While that final word, this, pertains to this particular incident, it runs much deeper, and he knows it. āI thoughtĀ .Ā .Ā .ā
No, donāt go there. āIām responsible for Lizzie. Iām the adult, not her.ā How could I allow the innocent charm of small-town life to cloud my judgment? āHow did you think this was okay, hiding this from me? Why did you feel the need to?ā Heās staring directly at me, eyes connected with mine, trying his best to see whatās inside me. āAre you going to say something? Anything?ā
āIĀ .Ā .Ā .ā Another shuffle behind us comes at the most inopportune time. Itās probably a fisherman looking to snag a catfish for dinner tonight. The footsteps stop moving, and all I hear is the stream gurgling past. If only I could toss all these confusing emotions into the water and allow the current to carry them far away.
Jack looks over my shoulder, to the place where the stranger waits to pass. āHi, Hank.ā
Hank? I turn around to find an equally guilty look on his face, along with a bag of peaches in his hand. āWhat are you doing here?ā If my feelings are a jumbled mess, my understanding of whatās happening is even more confusing.
āI guess Lizzieās not coming today.ā I canāt tell whether itās a statement or question.