After ten years and thousands of knocks, the robin blue front door still looks the same.
I can barely lift my eyes off my dirty white shoes–the left big toe trying to peak through a hole in the fabric–as I wait the couple beats it takes for my neighbor to shuffle to the front door.
The familiar sound has all kinds of memories flooding my system at once: me, seven, tripping in front of his house and him tending to my scraped knee.
Me, twelve, embarrassed that I kicked a soccer ball into his backyard and how later that night I found it on our front porch, cleaned up.
Me, fifteen, running away to this very house. I fell asleep on his couch and woke up with a blanket over me.
The same hands that lead me back to my parents’ house now appear curled gently around the door as it creaks open.
I see his speckled blue eyes first, then to the age and smile line decorating his pale skin. He’s wearing a golf shirt and his usual tan pants, but he doesn’t have much hair left to tend to, like he used to. His slight beer belly has gone down over the years, too.
“Hello, dear,” he says.
Hot tears immediately start pressing into my eyes.
I clench my jaw, but give him a smile. “Hi, neighbor. It’s been a while.”
A knowing expression meets mine. Without another word, he opens the door and holds out his hand to welcome me in.
As I step into the entry hallway, the scents of eucalyptus and an aged cologne hit my nose.
“Lemonade and cookies?” he asks from behind me.
I chuckle. “Yes please, always.”
He nods and leads me to his small dining table. It sits between the kitchen on the left, and his family room on the right. I catch sight of the same nap couch I found when I ran away. The rest of the memory starts to come back; how Mom held me so hengtly when I got home… the memory threatens to swallow me whole, so I quickly whip my head back to the table and take a seat.
“How is life?” he asks as he brings the plate and two cups full of lemonade to us.
I reach for a cookie. As it hovers aboe my plate, between my index fingers and thumbs, I start breaking it in half and watching the dough pull apart. My head spins with how to answer. He must know why I’m here… why I found myself on his doorstep instead of my own. Still, grateful for the reprieve from the constant heaviness that seems to follow me around, I take in a deep breath.
“Um, I got promoted.”
He straightens in his seat, smiling like a proud grandpa.
“But I don’t… I don’t feel excited about it. That’s been happening a lot.”
My eyes flash to his face–unwavering in that slight grin that looks so comfortable to sit on his face. I continue. “When Mom and Dad died, the world just… dulled. Friends got annoyed with me. Even my boyfriend–you remember Derek?–broke up with me because I ‘wasn’t myself anymore.’ Like I was supposed to stay the same after Mom and Dad died less than a year apart from one another.” I scoff.
Right as I feel the world closing in, he speaks up again, folding his hands in his lap and leaning back in his chair. “Don’t worry, dear. Everyone has a little ill-fated love story in their time.”
“Do you?” I reply, not totally trying to hide the sass in those two words.
He takes a moment to reply. “Let’s just say, I Have loved some that have not returned the adoration in the same amount. But that doesn’t mean I love them any less.”
“Your kids, right?” I ask, quieter this time.
He nods. “The oldest still talks to me, and Laine calls every week. But I miss my youngest two. Still waiting for them to come home.”
I finally put a piece of the cookie in my mouth. As I chew, I nod with a tight-lipped smile. The silence between us starts gaining volume, and it irks something innate in me.
Almost as if he can sense this, he asks, “And why are you home, dear?”
A rising panic creeps into my chest, along with the lengthy to do list I know i Have waiting for in the life of stuff next door.
“I…” My hands begin to shake against the cookie. “I came to clean out the house, actually. THe–the relator needs it ready by next week. But um… I just got here and I… I couldn’t–”
He pats my wrist with a gentle touch. “I understand.”
I let out a breath.
Then, after a moment, he simply asks., “Want to watch a movie?”
I lift my head. “What?”
“There’s a film I’ve been wanting to watch, but not alone. You’ve always been the perfect company. Care to join me?”
I gulp. “Um, okay.”
“Great.”
We migrate to the couch and the our seats. He puts an old western film on, and I find myself wincing at my own embarrassment as I wonder if he was around when they made it.
As the movie goes on, my eyes keep drifting to all the photos on the two shelves that stand on either side of the TV. I recognize him with his family–all six kids–and his late wife. I find myself wondering how much of her is still around. How long it took him to clean out her stuff…
The film carries us past lunch time. My heart keeps pounding with the reminder of the river of boxes waiting for drown me next door, but I try to focus on that this is good; keeping him company is good. Keeping him company is okay.
It’s not an excuse, I tell myself. Not an excuse not and excuse not–
“Are you hungry?”
I snap back into my reality to see credits coming across the screen. He’s now standing in the middle of his living room with a grin on his face, seemingly already ready for the next thing.
The words “not an excuse” ring through my head like my personal soundtrack as I say, “Sure.”
He heads back into the kitchen; I follow. As the afternoon sun warms the room, I wait on the other side of the counter as he pulls out sandwich stuff.
“Do you know who’s buying the house?” he asks.
My heart trips over itself. “Yes, actually. A couple and their two kids. Son and a daughter.”
He smiles as he puts turkey on the bread. “And how do you feel about that?”
“I’m ready for life to be there again.” My eyes go wide as I realize what I’ve said. He doesn’t seem phased by it–he just keeps making my sandwich–but there is a hint of a bigger smile on his face.
“I understand that,” he says. “I know I get tired of the quietness here. After all my kids have left and my bride went home.”
“How did you do it?” The question comes out a whisper, which is surprising since I’ve wanted to scream it since realizing our new unfortunate bond.
He pauses and sets the down the bread. His blue eyes meet mine gain, and his expression shifts to something between sympathy and strength.
“I didn’t have a timeline,” he says. “I wanted her close, like her stuff would give me a hug every time I passed by them, but then one day I knew all that was just… stuff. She lives on through me. That’s what’s truly important.”
I laugh along with his solemn chuckle, but it fades almost immediately. The tears come back faster, harder, and before I know it, I’m sniffing.
“I don’t know who to be without them.”
Without lifting my eyes from the counter, I hear him come around and stand beside me. The warmth I felt when I walked in has disappeared somehow. I’m left shivering in my tank top and leggings. The hand that softly lands on my wrist is now he warmest part of my body.
“I know,” he says, barely louder than a whisper.
The words are coming up in a hot rush. “It just feels so--ugh, so dark in there. Even with all the lights on. I’m terrified to pick her damn hairbrush so… so how am I supposed to–I mean, how do I–“
“You don’t.”
My eyes meet his. “What?”
He shrugs. “Who said it has to be today? Who says you need to do it all at once?”
“But, the realtor–“
“Will understand.” He winks. “I’ll help her understand.”
I let out a pitiful laugh. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“No one ever does, dear. This is one of those unfortunate things in life that simply have to happen. But they don’t have to happen until you are ready. Hear me?”
I give him a meek smile. “I hear you.”
“Good.”
He passes me the plate with my sandwich. Before I pick it up, I glance one more time and bring in a. fresh breath. “If I do go… can I come back? If–if I need?”
“Of course.”
“Door will be open?”
He doesn’t hesitate for a second. “For you? Always.”
THE END