Sand in My Eyes (33 page)

He didn’t say anything, but kept on reading and, because I would go anywhere with him if I could, I kept going, reading about the intricate parts of a leaf, and how the arrangements of them on a stem seem to form a mosaic, in which each leaf fits into the space between neighboring leaves without overlapping. The leaves are placed that way to prevent overshading.

“If I were to close my eyes right now and wish for something,” I told him when we reached the bottom of the page, “I’d wish to
leave
with you.”

“Is there any way?” he asked.

I thought for a moment and told him, “When I was a little girl, I’d flip through the pages of these encyclopedias, looking at all the pictures and reading all the fascinating facts.”

“Nice, simple reading for a little girl,” he said.

“The pictures, and the facts, became possibilities I saw for myself in the world, and I believed! I believed I would one day do it all, everything from walking through the Amazon to becoming a zoologist.”

“I think it’s wonderful that a set of books gave you an ability to aspire.”

“Well,” I said, “unlike you, I don’t think I’ll see most of the places I once looked at on the pages of these books, or be all the interesting things I read about, but my children will do more, be more. That’s what every mother wants—for her children to do more than her!”

“Then why are you selling these books?”

“I’m not,” I said then. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“What about your husband? Have you changed your mind about him?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because if you are, if you’re planning to leave him, it would give me something to aspire toward, the possibility that someday soon we could be together—that’s why I asked.”

I shook my head and looked back down at the page still open, the page having to do with leaves, but I saw no facts that told me decisively whether I should
leave
my husband or not. Then my mind roamed the four corners of the Earth, searching the possibilities for how it might become a realistic option in my life, a choice that was sound, an opportunity worth taking—me flying off with Liam to faraway places, like two migrating birds, stopping to rest at refuges as we went. But I was no flying creature with wings. I was a mother and a wife.

“I’m not sure that you fully understand,” I told him, “what I’m going through—the responsibilities that I have here.”

“No, but if I could walk in your shoes for a day, to fully understand, I would,” he said. “But I can’t. I can’t possibly imagine. Despite all of that, what do you want to do?”

“I already told you. I told you exactly what I want to do—fly away with you,” I said with a laugh, and then I grew serious. “My children are coming home. I need to get a grip.”

“Anna,” he said, “you’re more in tune than you think.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m all mixed up.”

“You’re the most contemplative person I know.”

“Then where do I belong?” I asked him, and it was then that I spotted from the corner of my eye my husband coming down the stairs with two cups of coffee. “Because I feel like I belong with you.”

“As much as I don’t want to accept it, you’re right where you need to be, where your children need you, perfect and with a purpose, like a leaf on a stem,” Liam said, hitting the page of the book with his hand. “The problem is—that guy coming toward us is shading you, covering up who you are.”

When my husband spotted us nestled on the ground, sharing one book in both of our hands, I quickly flipped through its pages as if searching for something. “I will never forget,” I quickly whispered to Liam as I pointed to a picture of a wading bird, “how you made me feel—like a bird as beautiful as this.” And when Timothy walked over, I hoped he might think the look of desire in this other man’s eyes was for the set of encyclopedias and not for me.

“Why don’t you give him the entire set for fifteen bucks,” Timothy said to me.

Liam got up and stretched his legs. The two of them were similar in height, just right to stare each other in the eyes. “I do want them,” Liam said, glancing down at me. “I’ve never wanted anything as much, but I think the lady is unsure, and I’ve been brainstorming how to convince her that I might make it all work.”

“They’re worthless in today’s Internet world,” Timothy said. “Take the whole set for ten. You’re only doing us a favor, getting rid of them.”

“Generous of you,” Liam told Timothy, and then looked back at me, still on the ground holding the book. “But encyclopedias will never be worthless, not if they can help one boy or girl to think about the world and imagine.”

“Look, I’ve got to tell you,” Timothy said, giving Liam a peculiar stare. “I’d rather go on a business trip and bring pictures home for my kids to see than have them look through these dusty old books. If you want them, they’re yours and you can have them for five bucks.”

“No, thanks,” said Liam. “What I’m really interested in is that music box over there.” He walked over to the table where it sat.

“Timothy,” I said, following him. “I didn’t bring that down.”

“No, I did,” he said. “What do we have it for? It’s a piece of junk.”

“Doesn’t it work?” Liam asked.

“It works,” I declared, trying not to look him in the eyes out of fear it might give away our secret.

Liam picked it up and wound it gently. I stayed where I was, at a comfortable distance from these two men—one I would grow grumpy and old with, and the other I would soar through the sky with every single night for the rest of my life in my mind.

“I’ll take it,” Liam said. “How much do you want for it?”

Timothy looked over at me. “Don’t ask me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “To me, it’s priceless.”

“Okay, then, a dollar,” Timothy told him.

Liam already had his wallet open and was pulling out a bill. “Here,” he said, handing it to my husband.

“You’re killing me—this is a yard sale. I don’t have change for a hundred! Take the piece of junk. It’s yours for free.”

Liam picked the music box up, winked at me, and said to my husband, “You know what they say.”

“What?” Timothy asked.

“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”

I wanted to wink back, blow a kiss to this man I had only known for one week out of my entire life, this man that I loved, but I had to let him go, let him get on with his life, leaving my yard for the far corners of the Earth.

“I have to get on, too,” I muttered to myself, returning to the yard sale, gathering the pieces of my marriage,
falling down, falling down
, while building it up with
silver and gold, silver and gold
, working overtime trying
to love the man I had vowed to stay with until death do us part. As I held my hand out, letting a woman drop dimes into my palm as payment for a set of old wineglasses, I knew it was time for me to accept the choices I had made in life, and the circumstances to which they have brought me. It was time for me to find beauty in my own yard, I thought to myself, time to spot the daisies.

But as I carried the box of glasses out to the woman’s car, I tried to figure which of us might have it harder—Liam, encountering and falling for countless women from around the world, or me, trying to love one man for the rest of my life. I went about the rest of the sale feeling sorry for myself—growing old with someone who, by default, is there in my life—and feeling sorry for my husband, the one who would have to grow old with me. It was agonizing, trying not to think about Liam and what might have been.

But I never wanted to beat myself up, give myself a black eye someday, over the memory of our week together, thinking that my love for him was a mistake.

At the end of the day I hurried over to a pile of junk and retrieved my brown leather journal that never sold, the one that I bought long ago in Northern California. Late that night, after my husband was asleep and snoring on the sofa, I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning writing fast and furiously, so as never to forget the details leading up to why I did the things that I did and why I fell in love with another man.

But when I closed the journal and climbed into bed, I could still hear in my mind the music box playing “It’s a Wonderful World” again and again. And I could hardly stop my feet from moving. They wanted to dance.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

BELVEDERE

I STOPPED READING, THEN
walked over to the counter, pulled a tissue out of the box and wiped my eyes.

“You’ve never stopped loving him, have you?” Fedelina asked me.

“In all these years not a day has gone by when I haven’t thought of him.” I hesitated and then said, “After he left, I wanted so badly to believe that the love a mother has for her children is strong enough to carry her through life. I didn’t ever again want to think about the other kind of love, between a man and a woman.” I sniffed and blew my nose, then told her the real reason I was crying and couldn’t stop. “In the story, my children are about to come home again, barge through my front door and into my arms. In real life,” I said, “they’re gone. My children are grown and gone. My son called this morning to tell me he wouldn’t be home for Thanksgiving. He met a girl at school who lives in California, and he’s spending the holidays with her family.” I took a big breath in and let it all out. “I’d do anything to have them back—pay a million bucks to have them small again. I feel like I have nothing without them.”

I feared she might refer to the falling-out we had years earlier—the one that was still coming in the story—a difference of opinions that made me retreat from her yard, stay out of sight and look the other way when she waved to me, but she didn’t bring that up or tell me, “I told you so.”

“I know it’s hard. It’s an emotional transition at first,” she said instead. “When children start doing what they’re supposed to be doing, what we want them doing—living their own lives—they’re like the seeds of a dandelion. All of a sudden they’re separated from the parent plant and carried off by the wind, but don’t worry, Anna. They’ll be back!”

“You think?” I asked, and could hardly talk. I already felt embarrassed for crying like I was. I didn’t want to cry anymore.

“I had seven, remember? And trust me, one by one, they return. I didn’t always recognize these people knocking at my door at first, the adults my children had become. The world changed them, but a part of them was the same. Make sure you hear that part.”

“What part?”

“The part that has them drifting back as adults, craving a new sort of time with their mother. Listen for it closely.”

“I will,” I said. “But what do I listen for?”

“Their coming back to you,” she said. “It’ll be subtle, like a soft buzzing sound. It’s not like when they were three and falling down at your feet screaming out your name, but they do come buzzing back, even though it’s subtle and brief.”

“I’m not saying I want them moving back home, living with me into their thirties and beyond. I wouldn’t like that.”

“No, I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about how, when your children turn into adults, your relationship with them starts over, and it’s exciting. You get to know them, and they want to know you, but let me warn you, and I know because I’ve been through it, this is
your
time, Anna! You need to do special things with your life and yourself now. So when they come back, grown and changed, you, too, have grown and changed.”

“You’re probably right,” I told her, feeling much better. “Maybe this
is
my time to start something new with my life.”

“Adult children love seeing that,” she went on. “They love seeing their parents out in the garden, doing what is necessary to keep their lives beautiful.”

I wanted then to tell her that I would try. That I wasn’t fond of gardens without children, but that I would try doing something beautiful with this
new phase of life I was entering. What exactly, I did not know, and I wanted to ask her more, like, how does a mother with grown children go about pulling herself from the rut she is in?

“Read more to me, Anna,” she said, and I decided I could ask her later.