34 Seconds (3 page)

The shower was a great place think. In less than twenty four hours, I would be flying back home. As each year passed, it grew harder to go home. This time it was almost frightening. So much time had passed between me and home. The place, the people, the lifestyle. So many things had changed over the years. The water running down my neck and face was hot and hid the tears running down my cheeks. The shower was also a good place to cry. And think. And cry. And wonder why I was crying.

My mind began to wander to another time, another place. Another song. I’d never forgotten the lyrics. A song written for me by Will, in a time when we knew we loved one another, but he was backing away and beginning to withdraw from me.

Another place, another time

You would have been so good for me.

Another you, oh it’s in your sign,

you could have been, oh so good for me.

Your lost soul,

searching me,

finding me, longing for you.

Oh, another place, another time,

I would have been so good for you.

Another me, oh it’s in my sign,

I could have been, so good for you.

My lost soul,

it is searching you,

found you wanting me.

Oh another place, another time,

oh you know, I would, would you?

Ohhhh, Another place, another time.

Would you-oo?

Will sat in a rickety little boat with his old guitar singing to all the people lined up on the beach awaiting the start of the regatta. His new song, ‘Another Place, Another Time,’ was written about us. I sat near some tall grass almost hiding from the crowd enthralled with the sound of his voice, his talented fingers running up and down the neck of his guitar. I had given him a new, beautiful guitar, and though I wanted to see him play it, and I wanted to take offense because he wasn’t playing it, I knew he’d never bring it on to the boat where it might get damaged. He did cherish his Takamine guitar I had given him. I wished he’d cherished me as much. I sat there with sand on top of my toes and grass tickling my cheeks wondering why, if we were so perfect, we’d only be a great fit if it were another time. When would it be time for us?

I picked myself up off the shower floor. There were times when I needed water to drench my tears, hide my emotions, and swallow my sorrows, I just sat right on the drain where I felt like I was in a warm rain. I wiped the tears from my eyes, reeling from the memory of the beginning of the end with Will, and tried to shake off the hurt, sorrow, and questions I still had after all those years.

I was a happy person. I felt lucky. I was Nikki Ford, formerly Nikki Jackson, before I married my wonderful husband, Christopher Ford. And he was wonderful. I loved him, and I had loved him for many years. Nikki Jackson once loved a man named Will Westerly. The one who got away, so to speak. The Romeo and Juliet summer love which didn’t last. It lasted more than a summer. It lasted two years, actually, and those years were the best of my life. They were a time in my life when I was who I wanted to be. I was a free spirit, happy, and young. I was a songwriter, an artist, a painter in love, with dreams and hopes. Will was the great guy who
never
wanted to get married and never wanted kids. After two years of bliss, we had to walk away. From each other. Our hopes and dreams were different. He walked away from me. He walked away from my dreams. And then left me with a broken heart.

My family and I had been invited back home, to Deltaville, Virginia, to attend his wedding after all these years. The wedding of the man who never wanted to get married. I was happy for him. And for her. And I wasn’t sad it wasn’t me; I was already married. It was just bittersweet; I guess. And for it all, I cried. Or maybe I cried because I was so tired and couldn’t seem to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Maybe I was crying because I missed sex, and I didn’t know how to get it back. Maybe I was crying because I was going back home. Home was always hard for me to envision. Home was Colorado with my husband, my children, and our cat. But home was also eighteen hundred miles away where I grew up. And it tended to stay the same while I grew and changed, but it also changed each year in ways that hurt my heart. Even without a wedding, change is tough to look at in the face. The shower was a place to let it all out and cleanse my entire system. When I exited the shower, my body and face were both red from crying and from the hot water running down my soft skin. I was glad to not only be free of little hands all over the shower door, but also free of Chris for the moment. I would have hated for him to see me cry. I think he would have hated to see me cry, and not because he’d want to hold me and sooth and comfort me, but because he’d be uncomfortable, would wonder what he did wrong, and turn and walk out of the room anyway. I was glad to not have to face him. I was pleased to have an alone moment. More tears were freed from my eyes.

The rest of the day rushed by in a blur. Getting to the other side of the country alone was a lot of work. Dragging two kids along was next to impossible. There were a lot of things to pack and prepare before getting two small kids to the playground or the mall. To get on an airplane or in the car for a long trip, we might as well take the entire house. My day was spent packing it all up, arranging and rearranging suitcases and carryon bags, and negotiating with a three year old over what could and couldn’t be taken and with my husband over what was needed and not needed. He was an extremely grounded person and traveled often for business. He told me to leave the kitchen sink at home and reminded me entire wardrobes were not necessary because laundry could always be done while visiting my family in Virginia. I still managed to sneak some extras into the luggage because it’s what mothers do. I tried to come and go prepared. It was the least I could do to feel prepared for the trip.

Chapter Two

They say you can’t go home again. I managed to do it about once a year. Each time I did, I was astounded at the change. Boulder changed each year with more and more people moving in, old neighborhoods falling down, and eight thousand square foot homes peppering the Front Range. But for me, coming back to Virginia and noticing the amount of change was almost painful. There didn’t seem to be much progression in the area where I spent my childhood, just tree growth and age. It was the aging all around that pulled at my heart strings. We are all aging, I knew, but Deltaville seemed to be on warp speed for aging but not for growth.

The Richmond International Airport had changed over the years. It was bigger and maybe even better. When we got off the plane, we followed the signs to baggage then to car rentals, spent the next thirty minutes loading the car, before finally leaving the airport. For an airport, it was actually a fairly easy and quick process. I was grateful for efficiency with our children tired and hungry after the long flight. The drive down interstate 64 east towards the Chesapeake Bay was uneventful but served as a reminder that the few trees in Colorado were planted generations before, keeping the views lingering forever and the skies vast. The skies in that part of Virginia weren’t visible beyond the tree line. Nothing was visible. I could feel claustrophobia settling inside my stomach once we were in the car. The interstate was a tunnel of tall, skinny pines. I could only see about a quarter of a mile ahead of myself. After years of growing up in the area, I knew what lay beyond the trees. Deltaville, the town where I moved when I was only six years old. The place where I spent my childhood, staying out in town until sundown, or when my dad whistled to let my sister and me know it was time to come home. Deltaville, the boat builders’ capital of the world, or so I thought when I was growing up. They did have a sign at the entrance of town touting they were the boat building capital of the Chesapeake Bay. At a mile wide and three miles long, surrounded by water, it sure was a beautiful place to spend a childhood, but driving down the interstate heading toward the exit that would take us to Deltaville, I felt a sense of dread. This wasn’t just a visit home to see my family. This was a trip to say goodbye to someone I once loved; goodbye to a love which was never allowed to flourish and grow. This was a journey of acceptance where the past met the present. Where Chris and Will would maybe shake hands. Where Will could look at my daughters with wonder. Maybe I was hoping for too much there; he never wanted children either.

We pulled into town, and I felt as if the past thirty years hadn’t passed. Not much had changed. The once neatly trimmed yards on either side of the road were ridden with weeds, and moss was sweeping into the street bearing small pebbles which flew up and hit the windshield with each bump. There were mailboxes at the end of each driveway. When I was growing up there was no post to the house. We had to drive into town to pick it up at the post office. I dropped Chris and the girls off at my sister’s house for a quick visit while I met Dad at his house about two miles away. I could see my father’s garage peeking through the thick trees and fallen limbs. There was a thick film of mildew and mold growing on the outside of the white siding. My dad’s green Thunderbird was parked in the garage. I remember the day he bought it. I was still in high school. It was a great car, but it was showing its age, with a small dent in the front fender and paint fading in the light shining through the double door pass-through garage.

It had been more than ten years since I left. I’d been home at least once a year in all those years, and each time I saw just how quickly time was slipping away. This time was different. This time I was discovering myself in many different ways through the girl who once lived here. And this time my grandfather is gone. He would be working in his work shop in his back yard making a wooden calendar or a clock or sitting in a lawn chair in his driveway which connected to my father’s driveway making two half circles meeting at the property line; if he were here. It had been three years since he passed away. I still expected to see him, and I waited a moment to hear him calling me to come look at his latest project. Dad’s overly adored adopted dog, Bernie, was also gone. I realized when I get out of the rental car just how much I missed his lopsided run to greet me as I pulled into the driveway. He’d been gone for a few years. It was all really just hitting me then. Every time I visited there I thought I was still the young woman who left so many years ago. I’d locked up certain pains into little compartments inside my heart and inside my mind, and some of them tended to pop open like a Jack in the Box when I set foot onto my father’s property. I forgot just how many years have passed. I forgot how much can change yet still stay the same.

My eyes begin to tear. Home was different. I was different. Everything had changed. Life had moved at such a quick pace, and I was only just then realizing how quickly and how much change had taken place. A town seemingly lost in time, with no stop lights, businesses closed on Sundays, and ladies walking to church every Sunday with baked goods in their arms; seeing the way the area had aged became almost heartbreaking.

“Nikki!” My dad came out with his arms wide open ready for a hug from his baby girl.

“Daddy! You look so good. How are you?” I said while holding him as tight as the little eight year old girl did when he would come home from work. The adult in me looked for signs of change in my father since he began getting older. Each time I came home I tended to look for sure signs of aging or change in his weight. He did look very well and seemed to be handling aging with grace. I had worried about him for years. Since he and my mother divorced, he’d been all alone. It really hit home for my sister and me when we both moved out or got married, and for me, when I moved to Colorado, deciding to live so far away.

“Oh, you know, baby girl, I’m hanging in there. It’s humid, and the knees ache a little bit, but life is good. Isn’t it, Nik? Life is good. Where are the girls? Chris is here, isn’t he?” Dad asked while holding me in his arms. I felt so safe.

“Yes, Daddy, they flew in with me, but they wanted to go see Natalie and the kids. I think they’ll be here in about an hour.” Natalie was my older sister by four years. She had three kids, all boys and all under the age of six. Their oldest was almost six years old, and the twins were four years old and were the best surprise for our family. I’m not sure my sister and her husband always agreed, but like all children, they were instantly in love once they arrived. They continued to surprise us all each day, and my kids adored them. Emily was always talking about how much they looked alike but were not the same person at all. It was fun to see the world from the eyes of a three year old; especially since they didn’t look much alike at all. One was very blonde; the other had very dark, almost black hair. It was even more fun to see two little people who looked so different, but were the same size and same age, shock and confuse a little three year old who was trying to learn about the world around her. I knew soon enough she would understand just how different they were and just how much they were alike as well. Natalie was always telling stories of how one would do something crazy like climb on the roof just to pee off of it, and she and her husband didn’t bother trying to stop him. They could only focus on getting the other boys to not climb on the roof and pee off it. I couldn’t imagine having my own babies climbing a roof at all, but Natalie said they would do anything their big brother could con them into doing. She also said I’d understand it more if I had boys. Natalie once told me boys were different from girls because you could give them the same toy, and a boy would take it apart, put it back together, and maybe even pee on it before he was done playing, but a girl would give it a name, a blanket to keep it warm, and tuck it in at night with butterfly kisses. I guess I still had a lot to learn about parenting altogether. Each year my only hope was that we could continue to come home often, so they would remain in our lives. Anytime I felt overwhelmed with parenting, I called my sister and laughed until I cried. She taught me so much about motherhood; when to take it seriously and when to relax.