A Notion of Love (6 page)

“I don't know, sweetheart,” Jo said, holding me tightly. I knew she didn't understand the question I was actually asking.

Later, I was glad that I had insisted upon seeing him. But nothing, not one thing, could have prepared me for the rending in my soul. He had drowned. It was too unbelievable to be true; my Christopher, who'd spent a third of his life swimming, who had just been dancing around the bedroom with me, night before last, teasing me that it was time to have another baby—or at least keep trying. I would remember him like that, not like this. But I had to see to believe that he had actually left me forever.

I touched him, my fingers tentative and my heart like ice, ran my fingers over his still, waxen face, his hair. His same face that I had kissed a million times, the same hands that had held me with more love than probably anyone deserved in this life. Terror was too thick in my throat to allow for sobs, disbelief too rampant in my veins. The coldness beneath my fingertips was shocking. I wanted to see his eyes, was suddenly overwhelmed with a terrible and perverse need to see them open, because the last time I had seen them open he'd been alive and was kissing me good-bye wearing his snowmobile face mask, the silver one that covered every part of his face but his mouth and eyes. He'd said, “See you later, honey.” And now his eyes were closed.

A panic attack hit me so hard I went to my knees.

The door of the viewing room banged against the wall as Jo came racing through.

Later I didn't remember anything about her getting me into the car and out of there.

More cars were at my house, more people offering sympathy. I wanted to tell them to fuck off.

Jo parked the car. I climbed out and tried to walk up to the house, but instead I sank to the snow drifted on the side of the driveway. All of the sobs that hadn't come when I'd been touching my husband's embalmed body came ripping out with a vengeance. Jo was at my side again in an instant and she was sobbing too, trying to help me up, but like a petulant, inconsolable child I curled in the snow, wrapping my arms around my head. I wasn't sure if the horrible, choking sounds were coming from my throat or from my sister's. The snow froze my body, but I welcomed it, wanted it. I wanted to freeze. The early evening cast long, blue-gray shadows all across the driveway.

“Help me,” my sister was pleading.

Strong arms came around me, lifting me up.
Dodge
, I thought. I tried to fight away, but there was no strength left in me. I buried my face behind my forearms and felt as though something had broken inside of me, cracked or split, releasing a hellacious floodgate of sobs.

My heart
, I realized.

“Bring her to her room,” Gran was saying, holding open the front door.

He carried me down the basement steps, where the roar of voices in the living room was blessedly muted. I was deposited with great care onto my bed, the room dim in the encroaching evening. Blindly I reached for my husband's pillow and pulled it against my face. Seconds later Jo was lying down behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, fitting her body to mine. I didn't know how much time passed before I calmed. Jo stroked my hair and murmured to me until drowsiness began to weight my eyelids. I whispered, “Where's Clint?” through a throat that felt lacerated.

“He's at the café with Mom,” Jo reassured me. “She took him over there earlier today. He's just fine, Jilly. He's all right.”

I put my forearms over hers, clinging to her. Jo pressed her face against my back and held tightly. I had the irrational sensation that if she let go, I would die. I whispered, “Thank you for bringing me down here. I'm sorry…I'm sorry I freaked out.”

“Don't apologize,” she whispered. “Jilly, don't. And Justin carried you down here, not me. I couldn't get you out of the snowdrift. Thank goodness he was here.”

But I'd exhausted all of my words. With Jo holding me, I slept.

***

Chris's service
was the next day, a Sunday, two days after he'd drowned. Early that morning I'd stood before the mirror in our tiny basement bathroom and spread my hair long over my shoulders. Joelle, who'd been staying with me, was still asleep in my bed; I couldn't sleep unless her arms were locked around me. I ran my fingers through my hair, imagining Chris doing the same. I brushed it slowly, carefully to a gloss before neatly braiding it, drawing it over my left shoulder. It was so long these days; I hadn't cut it since our wedding.

The scissors on the counter were the sharpest in the house, wickedly long-bladed. I clutched my braid in one fist and lifted the shears in the other. For a moment, looking into my own eyes, which looked like burn holes in a white sheet, I considered jamming the blades into my wrist and then tearing a long wound. I'd watch the blood rise up and then cover the bathroom floor in a crimson rush. I fantasized about it for awhile. Maybe I could jam them into my neck, my soft pale neck. Then this misery would end, and I wouldn't have to think about facing the rest of my life alone.

But I wasn't alone. I was a mother. It was selfish and cowardly to even imagine killing myself. But I did imagine it, in vivid detail. When the scissors snipped I shuddered a little, but they cut through my thick blond braid easily. My remaining hair was shaggy and the back of my neck too bare, too raw without the hair that had always been there. I tied off the sheared end of the braid as though it was an umbilical cord, making it neat and then laying it carefully on the counter. Almost a foot and a half of golden hair, which would now spend eternity in Chris's hands.

No one questioned what I'd done. When Jo got up, she helped me to even out the hair that was left, tears streaming quietly over her cheeks. At the church I'd clung to her and Gran; Elaine held Clint, who was solemn and pale. Jackson had brought Camille, Tish and tiny Ruthann to his mother's house. I was vaguely aware of the faces of everyone we knew, but I felt a thousand years old and probably looked it, with my shorn hair. I didn't speak, though I felt later that I should have said a few words at the service. I was too overcome; it took all of my strength to walk up to the open casket and place my braid into my husband's still hands. Jo walked with me, supporting me. On the way back to our pew, the waves of crying seemed to flood my ears like icy rain.

“I want Daddy,” Clint said, petulantly, as my knees gave out and I sank to the wooden seat beside my son.

I curled my arms around him and he clung to my neck. I thought,
I want your daddy too, baby, all I want in the whole world is your daddy.

Joelle stayed for another week, though Jackson had to fly home by Monday. She stayed with me in the house, the two older girls bouncing between my place and Shore Leave.

“I'll never love again,” I vowed in my kitchen. My voice was sandpaper gritting over gravel.

Jo, opposite me at the table, didn't contradict anything I said.

“How can I keep going?” I asked her.

“You will,” she told me, her voice soft and certain, holding my hand too tightly. “You will, Jillian.”

“But how?” I insisted. I wanted answers.

“Because you will,” she said, the kind of non-answer you'd give a child.

“I'm a widow,” I said. “Our house. He was going to build it for us this spring, Jo, this spring.”

Again Jo said nothing, just kept holding my hand on the tabletop.

“Jo, why didn't I see? Why didn't I stop him before he went? I should have known…why didn't I know?” My voice was a tortured whisper.

“Because you're a human, not a god,” my sister told me. “You can't predict everything. If I ever hear you say such a thing again, I am going to be really angry.” As though her anger was something to truly fear. I almost smiled.

“Move home,” I said then, which was a pretty lowdown tactic.

Jo's eyes were edged with shadows of exhaustion. Her shoulders drooped and she looked agonized. She whispered, “I wish I could, Jilly. I so do. We've talked about it before. But Jackie wouldn't make near the money back here.”

“So?” I pressed. “Please, Jo, I'm begging you.”

“Jilly,” she moaned. “Maybe someday.”

July, 1995

“Hey, you need help with that?” asked
a voice behind me, and I turned to see Justin, who momentarily abandoned his shopping cart to jog over to us.

“Yeah actually, thanks,” I told him, grateful for the help; I'd been trying to load the Rug Doctor I'd just rented from the co-op into the back of the station wagon, while Clinty watched with interest from the backseat. Though at seven years old, he wouldn't have provided much assistance. In the years since Chris's death, Justin had become a friend…a different sort than the teasing boy of our youth. He was always at Shore Leave for coffee with Dodge on summer mornings; that first June when I could still barely force myself to get up to face another day, he'd taken to treating me a bit like a cross between a mental patient and a beloved little sister, quietly and kindly. He'd asked me if I still had teeth and when I'd stared up at him in an uncomprehending fog, he'd said, “You haven't smiled in so long I couldn't remember, tomboy.” And I'd actually giggled.

“Hi, Justin!” my son said brightly, on his knees in the third row of seats, which were vinyl and hot as hell under the broiling summer sun.

Justin ducked to peer into the wagon and said, “Hey there, buddy. You make a mess on the carpet, or what?”

Clinty laughed, his blue eyes sparkling. He said, “No, Grandma's dogs are potty training.”

I laughed a little, adding, “You know those pups Eddie had for sale? Mom took two.”

“The retrievers? God, they were cute as hell,” Justin said, loading the cumbersome machine swiftly and easily. He'd grown a goatee this summer, making him seem almost like a stranger. The tall, dark and handsome one that a fortune teller might warn you about. I mentally rolled my eyes at myself. Justin went on, “He had them in a cardboard box in the bar for a couple of nights.”

“Yeah, that's where Mom and Ellen spied them,” I confirmed, shading my eyes, the better to see him.

He grinned, bracing one wrist on the edge of the open hatchback. He speculated, “Those two out on the town?”

I smiled in return, replying, “They wanted to hear the music last Friday. So they said, anyway. They drove the golf cart and came back a little tipsy, actually.”

Justin laughed and shook his head.

“And Elaine's house is on the market,” I told him, feeling a momentary shadow over my heart. “I told her I'd get in there and clean the carpets this week.”

Justin's black eyebrows knitted together as he regarded me solemnly for a moment, his smile gone. He asked, “She moved up to International Falls to live with her cousin, right? I thought Dad had said that.”

I nodded and at that moment a horn honked from somewhere behind us.

He said, “Guess that's my cue to get my ass moving.”

I still had trouble disguising my dislike for his wife, and commented, “She can't just come over and say hello, too?”

Justin lifted his eyebrows this time, perhaps amused at my tone, but only said, “Nah, we're heading over to Bemidji tonight, and she wants to get going.”

Oh
, I mouthed, then gathered myself together. It was none of my business. I added, “Well, thanks, Justin.”

“Anytime,” he said easily and jogged back in the direction of Aubrey the bitch. I drew in a breath and then turned to my kiddo, forcing a bright smile.

July, 1998

Dodge was running across the parking lot.

I noticed this from my vantage point on the porch, where I was in the middle of taking orders from a six-top. Not only was it unusual for him, but he'd just been mowing the lawn, and now suddenly his every movement suggested panic. I dropped my order pad on the table, to the surprise of my customers, and darted into the café, calling, “Mom!”

Mom met me halfway across the floor and caught me in a hug; for a moment bile rose up the back of my throat and I was unwittingly pitched back to that horrible February night more than seven years ago. Shaking, I pulled away and asked, “What?”

“It's Justin,” she said, and her throat was raw-sounding. “I don't know…”

My heart banged hard, then harder. He'd just been in here a few hours ago for coffee with Dodge, and I focused on that image of him, hale and whole. What in the hell could have happened in the intervening hours?

In a voice I barely recognized I asked, “What do you mean?”

She shook her head and I turned to watch as Dodge's car burned rubber getting out of the parking lot; the Charger roared away and left us standing in shock. This time I demanded, “What's going on?”

Mom said, “Aubrey just called from the hospital,” and the blood seemed to freeze in my veins. “Justin's there, in Rose Lake. Something happened at the station.”

“But what? What could happen there?” I turned in a panicky circle, reminding myself that it wasn't my place to race there at once and see what was wrong; undoubtedly Justin's wife would dislike that. But I felt tense and twitchy, my limbs ready to dash outside and follow Dodge as fast as I could.

One of the customers from my six-top poked his head inside and inquired, “Is everything all right?”

Mom cupped my arm firmly, her touch conveying the need to calm down, and said in her authoritative tone, “Jilly, we'll find out what's going on soon enough. You head back out there and finish up, all right, honey?”

I couldn't concentrate, and it was two agonizing hours before Dodge finally called us; he got Ellen, and we all crowded around as she talked with him. I could tell nothing from her one-sided conversation and my thumbnails were just about non-existent by the time Ellen had replaced the receiver.

Her face was still. She said, “He got burned with battery acid. He was never in danger of dying—”

“Which someone could have told us!” I couldn't help but interject.

“But he's hurt pretty bad,” Ellen continued, folding her hands together and pressing them against her belly. She added, “His face got the worst of it.”

“When can we see him?” I demanded then, wanting to grip my aunt's shoulders and shake answers free.

Ellen's eyes swam with tears and she said, “Honey, he doesn't want to see anyone right now.”

***

That night
I curled in my bed, unable to get the image of Justin's face from my mind. I pictured him as a ten-year-old, just younger than Clint was right now, his dark eyes always full of mischief, just like Dodge. As a wild teenager, his lips that always seemed to be smiling or about to laugh. In the summers I'd see him almost every morning when he and Dodge stopped out for coffee; it was convenient, just around Flickertail from the filling station and shore shop where both of them worked repairing things, mainly boat and car engines. I considered him a dear friend and if a hint of something more than that ever dared flicker into my mind, if I found myself enjoying his company perhaps a bit more than I should, I stomped it out with determination. He was a married man and I was so lonely, and those two things could be a potentially dangerous combination.

I turned the other direction and pressed my cheek into the pillow, hot and restless, wondering now when I'd see him again.

August, 2000

“Aubrey's left him,” Dodge told Ellen around
the bonfire that night.

From across leaping flames I lowered my arm slowly; I had been about to take a sip from my beer bottle, but my stomach went cold in sympathy. Though the rumors were flying in Landon I had purposely blocked out what I'd heard, determined to find out the truth without asking, which meant: wait for Dodge to elaborate. For the past two years Justin had been infrequent at the café. He preferred to do his drinking after work and I knew Dodge was worried as hell about his son. I worried too, though quietly, knowing that Justin would despise any hint of concern or pity directed his way. He was a changed man since his accident, and it hurt all of us to see it; we were all equally helpless to do anything.

“Oh no,” Ellen said, her voice low with concern. “Damn.”

Dodge drew in a deep breath and directed his gaze over to me, saying, “Jillian, don't let on that you know, honey.”

“I won't,” I promised. “When…”

“This morning she was gone,” Dodge said. “I hated to leave the boy today, but he was…”

My heart constricted further; Dodge was teary-eyed. Ellen put her hand on his knee and squeezed, and he covered her hand with his own, squeezing back. It was just them and me, and I felt restless and uncomfortable, not because they were touching but because I wanted to find Justin and it would be the worst possible mistake I could make.

“Where is he now?” I asked then, my throat dry.

“Probably passed out over his kitchen table,” Dodge said. “Liz was going to go over there this evening, she's the only one who I thought he might possibly be willing to see right now. I'll call her in a little bit.”

“I think I'll take a walk,” I said then, leaving my beer in the cup holder of my lawn chair.

I ambled for over an hour and would surely be pockmarked with mosquito bites by the time I returned home. But I was too restless to remain around the fire, worrying about Justin; I could just as easily walk and let my thoughts turn to him, too. Flicker Trail was so familiar to me that the pitch blackness was no deterrent. Though a milky half moon was glimmering, the dense foliage along both sides of the road obscured most of the appreciable celestial light. I walked the mile into Landon, but didn't angle onto Fisherman's Street as I'd originally intended. I was about to turn and make my way back to Shore Leave when I felt a little jolt, a hint of gut instinct, telling me to continue instead around the lake to the far side, along the gravel road that led to the old state park campsites where Jo and I and all of our friends used to hang out on long summer nights. And so I did.

I came to the public boat landing, which was dark and silent this time of night, the lake lapping the moorings with a constant, soothing murmur. I paused for a moment, looking across the water at the café, our porch lights glinting into the night in a welcoming array. The bonfire was just a speck from over here, where Dodge and Ellen were certainly still sitting and chatting. I hoped that Liz had managed to talk to her brother, and that he was at least partially all right. Aubrey's leaving had been coming a long time, though I realized that the knowledge made the reality no easier to bear. Aubrey couldn't put up with her husband's bitterness, which a small part of me was able to understand; I found a shred of myself empathizing, despite the fact that as a woman she was no less snobbish and bitchy than she'd been as a teenager, definitely not a kindred spirit of any kind. I had long wondered what Justin saw in her, other than the fact that she was pretty. But all the beauty in the world couldn't constantly mask a nasty spirit, a spiteful personality. I believed from the bottom of my heart that he was better off without her. But convincing him of this was not my place; like every other realization in life, he'd have to recognize it on his own.

I sighed and stretched my arms above my head for a moment, breathing in the scents of the lakeshore, when my eyes fell upon a shape at the far end of the boat landing dock, on the L-shaped extension that jutted out over the water, parallel to the shore. All at once I understood that I'd stumbled upon Justin, however unwittingly. Somehow I knew it was him sitting out there; he'd obviously walked over here, as his house wasn't more than a few blocks from Fisherman's. I pondered just leaving him alone, but my feet wouldn't obey. The wisdom of approaching him was perhaps questionable…but I'd wanted to find him and now I had. And I wouldn't walk away.

Just above a whisper, I hissed, “Justin!”

He shifted and turned away from the lake, towards the sound of my voice, calling in a low voice, “Jillian?” The surprise was apparent in his tone.

Instead of replying I made my way out onto the dock, studying him as I walked along the familiar old boards, still slightly warm under my bare feet from the long evening sun. He was sitting with both knees bent, forearms braced over them, his wide shoulders slightly hunched in a defensive-looking posture. In the inky darkness he wasn't more than a silhouette against the silvery sheen of the lake. I reached him and sat down without invitation, folding my legs crosswise without a word, not looking over at him, though suddenly I wanted to clasp his face in both of my hands and touch every inch of his scars, let my fingers trail over him. I was certain that no one had touched him that way in probably two years. But I kept both hands safely in my own lap.

“Is Dad still over at Shore Leave?” he asked me, not questioning how I'd found him here. He kept his face away from me, though because I sat on his left side, his scars were not visible. He looked exactly as he always had, handsome as hell, his profile clearly defined.

“Yeah,” I told him. I didn't explain why I was here, either.

For long minutes after we sat in silence, though not the companionable kind of old. The air between us was charged with tension on his part and uncertainty on mine; I was so scared to say the wrong thing and set him off. But, dammit, I wanted him to know that I cared and that I wasn't about to be put off by his attitude. When at last he spoke, I startled a little, my belly jumping.

“Jillian, I swear to God, if you tell me you're fucking sorry for me, I will come unglued right here,” he said, and his voice was so taut with venom that I almost got up and left him sitting there. Though I understood clearly that it was not me he was so furious with. Aubrey, fate, life…any of these could be candidates for his wrath.

For another protracted moment I didn't say anything. I bent one knee up and caught my chin on it, my gaze directed out over the darkness of the lake too. I sensed that he wanted me to snap back, give him an excuse to unleash his anger. Finally I said, softly, “I'm not, and I won't tell you that.”