A Different Blue(121)

Life returned to normal in painful increments, as normal as it ever had been. I worked, carved,

ate, and slept. Tiffa called frequently to check on me and offered details about the baby only

if I asked her first. She was careful and precise, but mercifully subdued in her descriptions.

Each time I was able to hear a little more, although the first time I heard Melody's new-born

wail through the receiver I had to end the call immediately. I spent the rest of the night in my

room, convinced that my heart was officially broken and no amount of time and no amount of tears

would ever ease the ache.

But time and tears proved to be better tonics than I would have thought. I had spent my whole

life denying grief, holding it back like it was something to avoid at all cost. Jimmy had been

so contained, and I had adopted his stoicism. Maybe it was the hormones, or a purely biological

response, maybe it was the fact that I had pled with a God I knew very little about to take away

the pain, but in the days that followed Melody's birth I discovered I had been given the ability

to weep. And in weeping there was power. The power to heal, the power to release pain and let

go, the power to endure love and to shoulder loss. And as the weeks became months, I cried less

and smiled more. And peace became a more frequent companion.

[page]But as peace and acceptance became my friend, Wilson began pulling away. At first I was

almost grateful, simply because I was terrible company. But as I started to heal, I started to

miss my friend, and he was mostly absent. I wondered if he felt his job was done. Maybe Melody

had been delivered, and so had he.

Just before Christmas, I wrote a couple of days off work and went on a major wood hunting

expedition. I headed into Arizona, hit the corner of Southern Utah, and circled back to Vegas

with a truck full of juniper, mountain mahogany and more mesquite than I could carve in a month

of Sundays. The heavy rains and floods from months before had moved downed timber from higher

ground, filling the washes and valleys and making it fairly easy to find what I was looking for.

Unfortunately, I had to leave some of the heaviest pieces behind because, though I had perfected

using levers, pulleys, and ramps, some of the pieces demanded more than one woman and her tools

could accomplish. When I planned the trip, I had hoped I might be able to convince Wilson to

come with me. With the Christmas holiday he would have some time off. Buy he was so obviously

trying to steer clear of me that I didn't bother.

When I rolled in on Monday night, filthy and tired, sporting slivers, bruises, torn clothing and

a throbbing toe, courtesy of a log that got away, I was not in the mood for any interactions

with Pamela and Wilson. Unfortunately, they pulled up at the house while I was attempting to

unload my truck by the basement entrance. Pamela was wearing a little white skirt with tennis

shoes and a fitted sports tank, her hair pulled back into a perky ponytail. She shivered as

Wilson jumped up into the back of my truck and began to help me unload. She danced in place for

about two minutes, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Darcy, I'm freezing. Let's go inside, shall we?” she complained, and then smiled at Wilson

when he paused to look at her.

“Go on ahead, Pam. It is too cold out here. I'll just help Blue get this in the basement.”

Pamela scowled slightly, her eyes lingering on me doubtfully. She didn't want to leave Wilson, I