Fix You (34 page)

We walk a little ways up the trail. “Mom, can I talk to you about something?”

I rummage through my brain for what he might need to talk about. Girls? Grades? I try not to tense up. “Always. Shoot.”

He seems to hesitate, but then he goes for it. “Mom, I know something’s going on with you and Andrew.”

Well, now, this is a total surprise. We’re having a talk about me. “Yeah, honey, there is. What do you want to know?” I’ll be straight with him. I suspected he might be more astute than I thought.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“He was. I think.” That doesn’t sound very grown-up.

“Beau and I like him a lot. Is he in trouble?”

“He was, honey. I think he’s going to be okay now.” I appreciate that we’re walking. I try to keep my breathing in time with the rhythm of our feet so I sound calm.

“Then how come you’re not dating him anymore?”

“Well, it’s complicated, honey.”

“Is it because of me and Beau?”

“Andrew likes you guys—of course it’s not that.”

“No, I mean, are you trying to protect us or something?”

Geez, who raised this kid? He’s too perceptive. It’s killing me. “Kind of. I mean, all three of us have been through a lot. It’s a thing between Andrew and me, honey. But us—you, me, and Beau—we’re going to be okay. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be the same as it’s always been. I’m not going to change things on you right now. Andrew’s going to take care of himself just fine. He has a lot of friends and family to help him right now.”

Hunter stops us from walking. “Mom, you can help him. Beau and I are fine.”

I don’t know what to say. “We’ve all been through a lot.”

“You always handle it, Mom. You take good care of us. You’re strong. And we can take care of ourselves a little bit too, you know. We aren’t little anymore.”

“I know you aren’t.” I feel the cold morning on my face and breathe it in. I can hardly make sense of this discussion.

“Dad’s been gone almost three years. Beau and I are okay. If you like Andrew, maybe you should try a little more.”

I want to laugh at the absurdity of my almost-twelve-year-old sounding more sensible than I have behaved in probably the last ten months.

“We’ll see.” I don’t tell him I’m fairly positive I torched that bridge when I literally ran away. And that even with him and his brother out of the equation, I may not possess the strength to help anyone but myself.

Hunter adjusts his headband and starts to run again, at a brisk pace he seems way too comfortable with. “Well, think about it,” he says, looking back at me. “We’ll really be okay. We’ve been okay for a while now, Mom. All of us have.”

He runs off ahead of me with the dog. I stand there, stunned, until he turns around again and throws his hands up, wondering what my deal is.

I run back to the house, trailing him, thinking.

I spend most of the day stewing over our conversation. Dang that kid. He’s too smart.

Last night I was too exhausted to even worry about the mail. I realize this in the afternoon when I see the mailman stop and stuff our mail in the box. I trot out to the curb and pull out the stack to throw away junk and weigh the pile of bills. There’s a padded envelope among the pizza coupon mailers. It’s not a normal piece of mail.

I stand in front of the mailbox and examine it. It’s addressed to me. I don’t recognize the handwriting.

Inside is a small notecard with another envelope. The card says:

Andrew will be back at work in LA this week.
He wanted you to have this.
Hope all is well.
He’s doing as well as can be expected.
~Tucker

I tear the other envelope open. Inside is my copy of
In Our Time
and an index card. The card has a few lines written on it in a hand I do know:

I’m reading A Farewell to Arms now. It makes me think of you.
Life can crush you, ruin you, kill you.
Or it can break you and make you stronger in the process.
You are strong, Kelly Reynolds.
And you are strongest in your broken places.
~Andrew

I hold on to the items for dear life and walk inside. I stare at both notes, the one from Tucker and the one from Andrew, for a long time. Thankfully Hunter has jumped into the shower and is spared witnessing this odd behavior.

Then I touch the spine of
In Our Time
. It makes me sad to think that Andrew was holding this, now it’s in my hands, and that’s the last connection between us.

I open it to “Big Two-Hearted River.” I scan through it. I think about what Andrew said. How I hold on to my routine—cling to it for dear life might be more accurate. I run my finger over the words Hemingway uses as his character finds comfort in fishing, and then I force myself to think for a moment.

The man in the story focuses on his fishing, avoids thinking, stays safe—where nothing can make him feel. Is this what I want?

I can hear Peter now. I can feel him, standing next to me at the top of a run, asking me if I’m skiing it or going around.

Most of the time I’m a complete and total idiot, but for once in my life, I recognize Andrew’s note and Hunter’s pep talk for what they are: signs that it’s time to figure out of my mess of a life.

And I think I know where I need to go to do that.

41: Indio Again

I S
TAND
S
OMEWHERE
with wet grass. I can feel it between my toes. The mist is thick. It’s morning. I step forward and find the water’s edge at my feet. I look out into the mist and see the sun breaking through. I’ve been here before. Pilings of crumbled docks stand out of the water, and I can hear the lapping of the river now.

It’s the river near school—near college. As I realize that and my brain begins to form a prediction of where this dream is headed, a scull parts the mist like a knife. It’s probably fifty yards downriver from me, but I see the thin line of it pushing through the water even before I can hear it. The single rower has his back to me.

I stand on the shore and wait. The boat slices gracefully through the gray water. It is suspended, the line between air and water blurred in the morning mist.

I’m wearing the crew sweatshirt he gave me one night, when we were walking back from a lecture and I was cold. I can feel the cold of the steel zipper against my skin.

His broad back pulls with the oars, driving the boat closer. The rhythm of the boat, the man, the water, is beautiful.

He shoots past me now and turns to look as he goes. It’s Peter. He is as he was: young, healthy, his curly black hair moist from the river’s mist and the effort. His arms and shoulders are strong under his jersey.

He smiles at me. He breaks rhythm long enough for a quick wave. Then he turns back to the oars and resumes his work, pulling the boat seamlessly along the river’s surface. As fast as he appeared, he disappears again, the scull swallowed by the mist as he glides up the river.

I open my eyes. I lie quiet in bed, thinking. I sit up and swing my legs over the edge. My wedding ring sits on the bedside table. I pick it up, kiss it, and put it down again. It’s been almost three years since I lost Peter.

As soon as school was out June first, the boys and I flew to LA to see Mom and Dad. That’s where we are now. But I needed the space of the desert. I wasn’t ready to run into Andrew by chance, so Mom let me sneak away to Indio. She told me to “sort things out,” if I could. I’ve been puttering the days away and running my loop in Indio all week. But I’m not running my loop today.

I’m in the car. That dream has stayed with me. I cannot shake it, even as the afternoon sun starts to cast long shadows. I definitely need to run, but I’m going to Joshua Tree. I need every ounce of spiritual scaffold I can get, so I’m going to run in the most sacred space I know. If I can’t come to resolution here, then I’m truly lost. And I cannot be lost.

I crank the Coldplay. If I want to completely fall apart, I’ll play “MLK” by U2, but I can’t run if I have a nervous breakdown. Anyway, bawling while running got me into this jam in the first place.

After a short while, the desert floor crunches under the pounding of my soles. I feel my lungs expand. The rhythm sets in. I run hard.

I honestly don’t know how far I’ve gone. But suddenly, I’m done. I stop. I pull out the ear buds. I listen to the empty heart of the desert.

What am I here to do, anyway?

Love.

I can love.

I can’t fix, but I can’t run away from it either. Love might not heal. Love might not last. But it might.

I think I’m calling his name when I turn around. I cannot run back quickly enough.

The sun is setting as I drive the way I came, descending into the valley. The heat of the desert shimmers off the valley floor, and I see storm clouds rolling into town. By the time I turn down the street to Mom and Dad’s condo, I have the wipers on high. Thunder rumbles and the light of the day dissolves into a wet, angry dusk.

I get out. The urgency makes me tremble, and now I’m struck with a terrible feeling of panic. How can I find him? I know in the marrow of my bones that he needs me, and I need him, but I don’t know how I’ll get to him in LA quickly enough. The impossibility of it pushes me to the edge.

So when I walk up the path to the door, I cry out at the sight of him. I wonder for a moment if I’ve gone delusional, but he’s real. He sits on the front stoop. Tessa must have intervened, told him I was here. Thank God for her. He stands as I approach. He’s soaked to the bone, in a hoodie and baseball cap, as always. His beard is a short scruff, and his hands are stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans.

I run to him. My hands are around his neck. Strength fills me. I try to pour the intensity into him, hugging him tightly. His head is bowed.

“Andrew.”

“I love you.” His hands are still in his pockets.

“I’m so sorry.” I kiss him. The rain soaks us. He cries, his shoulders rising and falling in shudders. His arms come up, hands pulling me in at the shoulder blades, pulling me as close as he can.

The rain falls, and I feel strong. I can hold up to this, and I can help him. I can’t fix him, but I can love him. He can’t fix me, but he can love me.

He leans into me, and we walk inside. I’ll run a hot shower for him. We’ll talk about the next steps—how to help him get better, stay better. We’ll talk about me, my past, the things I’ve held just under the surface for too long. Maybe we’ll talk about finding a new place, a private place that’s safe for all of us.

We’ll go meet the boys and fly home to Boise. We’ll be together. All of us.

42: Do-Over

R
ED
C
ARPET
D
ONE
R
IGHT
—that’s what Andrew wants to call this. I do feel a lot less freaked out the second time around. I think it helps that we’re at Andrew’s rented house, and that the boys are downstairs having pizza with Andrew, Jeremy, Todd, and my folks right now.

Which, by the way, is a complete rip-off. I’ve been primped and prodded and preened for like an hour and a half, I won’t be able to eat because I’m terrified of messing up the dress, and they’re all hanging out like we’re going to a football game or something.

Finally Mallory is done. I’m happy, because I convinced her a shiny ponytail would be a good red-carpet look. Actually, I probably didn’t convince her, but she acquiesced. So that part of me is comfortable. And the makeup is tolerable. There was a brief discussion of false eyelashes, but we got real and gave up on that idea.

I walk down the stairs to the kitchen.

“There she is!” Dad likes to announce things that are obvious.

“Here I am.” I look at Andrew to see what he thinks.

“My date!” He leaves the pizza and comes over. “I’d hug you, but I think I’d get pizza on you.” He’s wearing a gray suit with a spring green tie that matches my dress, but it’s obscured by a huge napkin stuffed into the neck of his shirt.

Todd puts his pizza down. “Don’t let Andrew near you. He was shoveling it in, so he’s definitely saucy.” He smiles and wipes his hands on his torn-up jeans.

Jeremy isn’t eating. He’s on his phone. But he puts it aside long enough to comment: “Kelly, you’re a vision. Leave him immediately.”

Andrew rolls his eyes.

Mom comes over and gives me a hug. “Oh, Bug, you look amazing. Now you all go have fun. And don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous, Mom. I’m not the one who has to talk about myself for the length of a football field.”

Andrew carries his plate to the kitchen. “You have to stand next to me and endure it, though. That might be more painful. And I’m not going to win.”

Jeremy claps him on the back. “Blasphemy! I called this one, son.”