Every Breath(55)
Jacob had dropped by on Friday night, and Rachel had brought over bagels on Sunday morning. Neither of the kids had expressed any curiosity about Hope’s announcement that she would be renting a cottage at the coast again, just as she’d done the year before. Their lack of interest wasn’t unusual. Like so many young people, they were caught up in their own lives. Rachel had graduated in May, Jacob the year before that, and both had been able to find jobs even before they’d received their diplomas. Jacob sold ads at a local radio station while Rachel worked for an internet marketing firm. They had their own apartments and paid their own bills, which Hope knew was something of a rarity these days. Most of their friends had moved back in with their parents after they’d finished college, and privately, Hope considered her kids’ independence even more noteworthy than their graduations.
Even before packing her suitcase earlier that day, Hope had had her hair done. Since her retirement two years ago, she’d been visiting an upscale place near some high-end department stores. It was her one splurge these days. She’d come to know some of the women with the same regular schedule, and she’d sat in the chair, listening as the talk at the salon ran from husbands to kids to the vacations they’d taken over the summer. The easy conversation was a balm to Hope, and while there, she’d found her thoughts drifting to her parents.
They had been gone for a long time now. Her father had passed away from ALS eighteen years earlier; her mom had survived four sad years more. She still missed them, but the pain of their loss had faded over the years into something more manageable, a dull ache that occurred only when she was feeling particularly blue.
When her hair was done, Hope had left the salon, noting the BMWs and Mercedes and the women exiting the department store loaded with bulging bags. She wondered whether their purchases had actually been necessary or whether shopping was an addiction of sorts, the pull from the shelf offering a momentary respite from anxiety or depression. There’d been a time in her life when Hope had occasionally shopped for the same reasons, but those days were long behind her, and she couldn’t help but think that the world had changed in recent decades. People seemed more materialistic, more focused on keeping up with the Joneses, but Hope had learned that a meaningful life was seldom about such things. It was about experiences and relationships; it was about health and family and loving someone who loved you in return. She’d done her best to instill these notions in her kids, but who really knew whether she’d succeeded?
These days, answers eluded her. Lately, she’d found herself asking why about many things, and while there were people who claimed to have all the answers—daytime television shows were replete with such experts—Hope was rarely persuaded. If there was one question she could have answered by any of them, it was simply this: Why does love always seem to require sacrifice?
She didn’t know. What she did know was that she’d observed it in her marriage, as a parent, and as the grown child of a father who’d been condemned to slowly waste away. But as much as she’d pondered the question, she still couldn’t put her finger on the reason. Was sacrifice a necessary component of love? Were the words actually synonyms? Was the former proof of the latter, and vice versa? She didn’t want to think that love had an intrinsic cost—that it required disappointment, or pain, or angst—but there were times when she couldn’t help it.
Despite the unforeseen events of her life, Hope wasn’t unhappy. She understood that life wasn’t easy for anyone, and she felt satisfied that she’d done the best she could. And yet, like everyone, she had regrets, and in the past couple of years, she’d revisited them more frequently. They would crop up unexpectedly, and often at the strangest of times: while she was putting cash into the church basket, for instance, or sweeping up some sugar that had spilled on the floor. When that happened, she would find herself recalling things she wished she could change, arguments that should have been avoided, words of forgiveness that had been left unspoken. Part of her wished she could turn back the clock and make different decisions, but when she was honest with herself, she questioned what she really could have changed. Mistakes were inevitable, and she’d concluded that regrets could impart important lessons in life, if one was willing to learn from them. And in that sense, she realized that her father had been only half-correct about memories. They weren’t, after all, only doorways to the past. She wanted to believe that they could also be doorways to a new and different kind of future.
Hope shivered as a chilly gust swept through the back porch, and she knew it was time to head inside.
She’d lived in this house for more than two decades. She and Josh had purchased it shortly after they’d taken their vows, and as she breathed in the familiar surroundings, she thought again how much she’d always adored the place. It was Georgian in style, with large columns out front and wainscoting in most of the rooms on the main floor. Nonetheless, it was probably time to sell it. It was too much, too large for her, and trying to keep all the rooms dusted felt Sisyphean. The stairs, too, were becoming a challenge, but when she’d mentioned the idea of selling, Jacob and Rachel had balked at relinquishing their childhood home.
Whether she sold it or not, it needed work. The hardwood floors were scuffed and scraped; in the dining room, the wallpaper had faded and needed to be replaced. The kitchen and bathrooms were still functional, but definitely outdated and in need of remodeling. There was so much to do; she wondered when, or even if, she’d be up to it.