In the Stillness(87)

“No.” I was infuriated at his tone, “I haven’t even talked to him since a week or two after the boys’ birthday party.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .”

The fact is, because I just haven’t been ready. And, the longer you go without calling or texting someone, the harder it is to make the next move. Snow is falling, and I’m sure Ryker’s farm is sort of shutting down for the winter, so I haven’t texted him about the boys going there. Until last month, he’d send me a text every now and then asking how I was doing, but through November there’s been no sign of him.

“Natalie,” Eric calls me away from my head.

“Yeah?”

Setting the boys down, he tucks his hands in his back pockets. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Fun.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I’m buying a house.”

“Oh,” I feel a little dizzy, “that’s great!” I force, and I mean force, a smile. “Where?”

“Down on Dana Street.”

Of course. When we’d take walks when I was pregnant, Eric and I would wander up and down Dana Street, admiring the quaint brick houses—some of the most gorgeous in Amherst. We’d point to ones that were our favorites and talk about what we’d do to the lawns.

“That’s exciting . . . wow. Um, when do you move?” I’m starting to feel a little itchy about the life I chose to leave, until I take a breath and remember that it was never my life to begin with.

“Hopefully by January first . . .” Eric launches into a legal spiel about how we’ll have to sit down with our lawyers to hash out that I don’t, in fact, have any interest or money in this house and it’s his purchase to make, blah blah.

By the end, I kiss the boys goodbye and drive straight for the Soldiers’ Home. George was hoping to be able to go to his daughter’s house for their big family meal, but a bout of pneumonia at the beginning of the month has made that impossible. I promised Marion and him that I’d stop over after dinner. I’m happy for Eric, I really am. He worked really hard to be able to afford that house . . . all right, it stings. It stings a lot that he gets to have it all—the Ph.D., the fancy house, the great job.

Stopping my train of thought in its tracks, I have to remind myself that I haven’t lost anything—I get to have my sanity. Without that, I’d just be a sad, sick person sitting inside an expensive brick house, lonely out of my mind while sleeping next to a man I resent.

Trying to stay focused on the present is a harder task some days than others, especially when I’d really like to sit around and be miserable that Eric gets a fancy house. However, as I pull into the Soldiers’ Home parking lot, I set my sights on the sweet elderly couple that’s taken me in as one of their grandchildren over the last couple of months. Marion has tried to coordinate her visiting times with mine, and George teases her that I’m his friend and she needs to go away.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say, setting two pieces of pumpkin pie I smuggled in down on the table between them.

“Amen!” George coughs as he laughs. I shoot a concerned look to Marion, who seems to be watching him carefully. Aside from the pneumonia, George’s emphysema seems to be getting worse. I never ask, though. He’d hate it.

As we eat our pie, George and Marion talk about their best Thanksgivings, including one while George was in Korea. They didn’t piece this together until a few letters later, but Marion received George’s “Happy Thanksgiving” letter exactly on Thanksgiving. Further, George’s brother, Mitch, was stationed in Korea, as well, about twenty-five miles away. George’s commander tossed him the keys to the truck and told him to go enjoy Thanksgiving with his brother, and to be back by dark. As far as wartime Thanksgivings go, that one sounds near perfect.

“How’s Ryker doing?” Marion asks as she sips her tea.

She never asks about Eric. It’s always “how are the boys” and “have you spoken to Ryker.” The answers are always “great” and “no.” She seems to be growing impatient with me.

“I haven’t spoken to him.” I shrug.

“At all?” George’s mouth forms a small “o” under his wife’s tone.

“He hasn’t called me, either, Marion—”

“Get up,” she commands.

“What?”

“Get up and get out. Go to the boy, Natalie.” She stands and starts shooing me with her hand.

“Marion, he hasn’t called me.” I add the emphasis in case she didn’t hear me properly.

“And he won’t. I tell you that young man is a gentleman, and he knows what you’ve been going through. Just show him you’re okay.”

George pipes in, “Men sometimes just need to see that their girl’s doing okay, Bug.”

“I’m not his girl, guys. Wait . . . this is foolish,” I shake my head, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Natalie,” Marion’s voice turns serious. “There’s still a sadness in your eyes. I know you’re doing well getting on with your boys and your divorce, but don’t avoid him. There’s a history there. Ignoring it will do more harm than good. Now, I don’t know if you two will end up together, but I do know that your story isn’t over, as I’ve said. So. Go.”