“Oh, sweetheart.” 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.
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She’s not, and I can tell Lizzie’s trying her best to be strong.
“It’s always okay to feel what’s inside, even if those feelings clash with what others think.”
“I miss her.” It comes out as a whisper, still uncertain whether she should share her words aloud.
“Come here, sweetheart.” I sit down beside her and cradle Lizzie in my arms. She’s 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. “The past is tough to handle sometimes. It’s a piece of our path that has led us to where we are today.” She nods knowingly. “It’s important to recognize how far it’s allowed us to come. But it’s also there as encouragement to keep moving forward.”
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 it’s sometimes confusing and difficult to untangle, they’re all interconnected.
“Thanks, Aunt Claire. I love you.” Her words are stronger and more certain.
“I love you too, Lizzie.” I pause, allowing her to absorb the emotion in my words. “The foundation of every relationship, even with yourself, is trust. Talk to your dad. He’ll understand.” 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 Lizzie’s. There’s 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 it’s 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 Jack’s 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. “I’m sorry.”
Nothing makes sense until I hear her words. It’s then that all the dots connect in my mind. Lizzie’s desire to run errands. Jack’s absence from across the street. Her lack of focus on the fruit she’s meant to be painting. And the incredible progress she has made on the bridge.
“He gave it to me. I didn’t take it from him. Just so you know. He said I could use it as inspiration.” I never dreamed she would have stolen Jack’s property. But I hear guilt of a different type seeping through her words.
Why didn’t 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? I’m 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 won’t 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. I’m sure it’s Mother Nature’s attempt to comfort me, but it isn’t working. At least my closed eyes keep the tears from leaking out. I don’t 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 doesn’t matter if it’s with family, friends, or . . . 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 isn’t 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, it’s time to go.
I haven’t talked about the situation with her yet, and I will, but there are more important things to tackle first. Returning Jack’s sketchbook is the main purpose of my visit, but there’s 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? I’m not sure which would be more helpful. Focused on my thoughts, I don’t notice the friendly greetings from others until they’re past me. I rehearse the questions hissing inside my head.
Why didn’t you tell me?
What were you thinking?
What else are you hiding?
Did I imagine . . . everything?
Strike that last one. My personal feelings will not cloud the purpose of this undertaking. I’m an adult, responsible for Lizzie’s 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 don’t expect answers. I only want to read the look of surprise on his face when he sees me. It’s my way of knowing whether any part of this perceived connection was ever real.
I arrive at the bridge before realizing it. He’s not here. Does he know? Is he now trying to avoid me? He can’t and won’t. 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.
He’s 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. “Did you bring me more of those delicious peaches?”
So that’s where they’ve been going. “No, but I brought something else you seem to have misplaced.”
Jack closes his sketchbook, as if concealing more. Hasn’t he hidden enough already? The look on his face says everything, revealing that he’s been found out. I’m not sure if it’s better or worse this way. If he attempted to handle the situation casually, I could rationalize naïveté on his part. But the fact he looks guilt-ridden? He understands what he has done, the trust he has violated.
“Why?” Of all the questions I’ve 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.
