When I See You (26 page)

"Jordan, how do you feel?" Apparently, Brock's asked this question more than once. He sounds impatient.

Max gives me this quizzical look, too. My lips part, but I don't answer, too embarrassed in getting caught by my child in the open appraisal of the man in the bedroom doorway. I blush.

"I'm fine. Shoo. Both of you. Let me take a shower and get dressed."

"I called the Holloways. I told them that you both were under the weather."

"We're not exactly
dying
here."

Brock looks guilty for a moment. It matches my own guilt. I haven't exactly been fair to Ethan's parents, since our arrival, even before that.

Brock smiles now. "We can see them tomorrow."

"You'll come with us?" I ask, seeking reassurance. Max looks over at him, too.

"Sure," Brock says, a little disconcerted. I smile at him, but then my smile fades because he can't see it. Max walks over and hugs him around the legs. "Whoa, Buddy, what's up?"

"I'm just glad you're better, Brock."

"And you, too. No more Corn Candy for today though. Okay?"

"Okay," Max says.

I'm confused by the Corn Candy reference, but apparently they have this deal between them all worked out.

Brock raises his head and seemingly looks my way. "If you're up for it, I thought I'd take you to the Lazy J. Well, I'll direct you to it."

"Okay." I slide out of bed, clad in only a t-shirt and panties, and smile a little, since he can't see me half-undressed. There are some advantages to this not seeing thing.
I'm thoughtless.
I silently scold myself for thinking this way.

"Momma, where you'd get that cool t-shirt?" Max asks.

I look down at the 'Go Navy' black t-shirt I'm wearing and try to recall when I put it on.
Is this Brock's?
I bite my lip and feel my face go aflame.

"I let her borrow it," Brock says quietly.

When did he change my clothes?
I remember him holding my hair back, but the recollection of changing my clothes escapes me.

"You woke up later on and got sick again. I changed your clothes. You were a mess. Don't worry; I didn't see anything." He wanly smiles.

Max is looking curiously at both of us. Brock saunters further into the room.

"You changed my clothes." I try to keep my tone neutral, but sound accusing.

"Someone had to take care of you, Jordan." He gets this innocent look and casually shrugs.

"Thank you, I think," I say with a touch of petulance.

"So. Do you want to go to Lazy J? Do you feel well enough?"

"Yes. I do."

"Henry said I could ride Lucy if I feel better. And, I
do
," Max says, running over to me and fingering my hair and face as I sit on the edge of the bed. "I feel great!"

I put my hand across his forehead. It's cool to the touch.

"I guess you can go, but I want you to behave. No accidental mishaps with the coral trough today. You listen to Henry and Tate and anyone else who is nearby, while Brock and I go check out The Lazy J. Got it?"

"Got it, Momma. I'm glad you're better." He wrinkles his nose and looks worried. "Brock couldn't read me
Cat In The Hat
. We couldn't
find
it."

"It's in my suitcase. We'll read it tonight before bed." I glance up at Brock. "Thank you for taking care of him and me," I say, uncertain.

"No problem."

He looks a little unsettled, too, and I wonder why. I feel guilty that I can't remember much about last night other than the pancakes I made for him.

"I'll just get ready and then we can go. Has anyone seen Ashleigh?"

Brock gets this mischievous smile. "She and Tate are going to meet us out at the Lazy J around four. They went into town. That gives us a couple of hours to explore the place and sign the paperwork." He gets a thoughtful look, but I''m drawing a blank. "What do you remember about last night?" Brock asks.

All at once, he's clairvoyant. My face gets hot.

"Pancakes," I say with a shrug. "After that, it's all kind of a blur."

"Okay, I'll fill you in on the way there."

He picks up Max, who puts his chubby little arm around Brock's neck. The two of them make their way out of my bedroom. Max is giggling while Brock looks troubled. I watch his retreating back and wonder what we actually talked about last night, but I don't really remember any of it now.

≈ ≈

After a hot shower and a change of clothes, I feel normal. I've decided to put the whole Brock-Wainwright-heard-you-vomit-and-changed-your-clothes-and-put-you-to-bed into the farthest recesses of my mind that it will go. The man is blind. I''m sure with my vomiting, alone, the idea of touching me beyond the necessity didn't even cross his mind. At least, this is what I tell myself to believe even as I get this uncanny, unexplainable thrill in just thinking about his touch.

Seriously? What is wrong with me?

The house is surprisingly quiet. Janie has left a note saying she's run into town and that Max is with Henry. No word about where Brock or Tate or Ashleigh might be.

I relish the idea that I've been left on my own. Max seems to have attached himself to Brock's father, Henry, as if he's his first mate or Brock, himself, since our arrival. I have to admit, I've felt ill at ease with Brock since the one-on-one conversation with his friend Tate and the mystery of what transpired between us last night beyond pancakes. I'm thankful to have a few minutes to myself to sort things out in my mind. Alone.

There is this underlying sense of awkwardness in acknowledging that I probably shouldn't have come. Ashleigh has moved on to a new conquest in Tate Matthews. Brock is coping with his blindness and a woman named Kate. And me? I'm a widow and Max's mother. These are the roles we play. Ethan isn't here to set the tone, to provide the social ease that always came in being around him.

I've reinvented the memories from my first encounter with Brock Wainwright when I disliked him so much of the time and created all these new ones which do nothing more than confuse me. I return to these memories, thinking only of how we all got along and laughed as we emptied a bottle of tequila among the four of us. I remember making love to Ethan that night, one of our last together, but thoughts of sex with Ethan fill me with sadness and put me further on the edge.

I'm alone. My worst fear has been realized.

Did I bring it upon myself?

Liz would have a theory about that. Or, at the very least, an action plan.

I text her, "All is well in Austin."

She quickly sends back a message: "Liar. Otherwise, you wouldn't be 'texting' me. Met any cowboys, yet?"

"A few. Ashleigh is on the case."

She texts back: "Not worried about Ashleigh, just you! Don't wait. Don't think about it. Just do it!"

"No way," I text back.

"Why do you have to be so difficult? Just go with it."

"So bossy. Talk later," I text back.

I shudder, because, at times, I find myself struggling to remember Ethan. His face and body and even his smile elude me more and more often. Oppression presses down on me. I wander outdoors to escape it and immediately spy Max and Henry in the far distance, tending to some fence line. My son's animated movements indicate his happiness level. It appears Max is thrilled to have found someone to listen to his chatter and share in his fascination of the world.
Why can't I be a better mother?

I gaze in their general direction, but can't make my body move there. Henry leans back and seems to laugh, though I can't hear it. I smile, knowing Max works his special brand of innocent magic on Henry Wainwright.
So like Ethan.

Grief twists its way through me like a serrated knife. I fight for breath for a few minutes as I absently trail my hand along the wooden coral fence as if to tempt fate with a splinter. Maybe, inflicting physical pain on purpose will transport me back to somewhere else. Maybe, this action, alone, will wake me up from the nightmare that is my life—this life without Ethan and a future that no longer includes him.

Melancholy settles in on me. I take another deep breath and hold it. Maybe, this is leftover flu symptoms that have me feeling this way. I lean heavily against the top of the fence line and attempt to find my equilibrium. It seems I've been out of sorts, since I stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac of what is Austin.

Why do I feel this way? Why?

Because Ethan is really gone.

I close my eyes and acknowledge that I've been carrying around this warped idea that somehow Ethan wasn't dead. It's true. On the surface, I seem fine. God knows I've dealt with my share of death and tragedy, but, maybe, the only truth is I'm a really good actor like both my parents were. It's true; Ethan is dead, but I've managed to stay far enough away from that reality for the past six months. I just kept on pretending that nothing had changed. But seeing Brock changed all of that. No more pretending. Ethan is dead. It's true. And, nothing is going to bring him back.

Everything's changed. Have I?

My eyes sting. I close them and see the redness from the warm sunlight. I can
feel
the darkness. I just can't
see
it like Brock can. I open my eyes.

I ponder what I revealed to Tate about my fears in loving anyone else again because of the possibility of losing them. I start to shake when I think of the cowboy's uncanny ability to perceive my feelings so clearly.

With all of my fears, I hold myself back; don't I? I always have. Even with Ethan.

I am seriously fucked up.

Liz would say exactly that if she heard me tell it, so would Ashleigh. I should be the one to say it. "I'm seriously fucked up."

Somehow, voicing this truth out loud comforts me. My body physically relaxes. There's nothing more that can happen to me. I've suffered the worst kinds of loss, and I'm still here. A shell, but here, nonetheless.
Seriously fucked up, but here.

I half-smile and shake my head side-to-side to clear these pervasive thoughts.

The familiar plod of cowboy boots causes me to stir from my reverie. I look back and there's Brock Wainwright stirring up the road dust as he makes his way towards the coral, unaided by his walking stick. He blithely carries it beneath one arm as if taunting fate in not using it.

"Over here," I say.

He sighs. I assume he's frustrated with not being able to see, but he half-smiles at me. "I knew you were there, Jordan," he says softly, tweaking the side of his nose. "Your perfume." He comes up beside me and casually leans both arms against the rail. "Max is having a good time."

I close my eyes and listen intently and hear Max's tinkling laughter alongside the wind that stirs the land all around us.

"Hmmm," I say, opening my eyes again.

Brock rests his head against his hands and seems to stare intently into the coral. After a few quiet minutes between us, he turns towards me.

"There are some things we should talk about. Now, that you're feeling better. I know you've been pretty pissed at me, but there's some things with the estate that you need to know. I just want—"

"I'm not pissed at you," I say, blushing. "Well, not anymore. I suppose I was because it made the heartbreak easier to bear. You promised."

"I know I did."

"It was wrong of me to ask you for that kind of promise. It was unrealistic at best. You both were in a war zone. What happened to Ethan could have just as easily happened to you. It's just fate. The way things are."

I'm overcome by too much sadness again. I hastily wipe away a stray tear and experience profound relief that he can't see me breaking down.

His hand moves to my face and catches a tear.
How does he know?

"I'm sorry. I want you to know that. Ethan had everything to live for. He loved you and Max so much. Know that. I'm sorry I didn't save him." Brock takes his hand away and looks back toward the coral again, unseeing. He casually wipes his eyes with his forearm. "Anyway, we should—"

"Talk," I say.

"Yes, we should talk. There are things he didn't tell you." Brock sighs. "He wanted to keep it a surprise for when he returned, but you should know about the Lazy J.
Everything
. I've been trying to tell you that for months, but you kept sending all the paperwork back, unopened. You might not like me. You might hate me for all I know, but we''re going to have to work together and figure things out."

"I don't hate you, Brock."

I lay a hand on his arm. He looks surprised by my touch.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have done that," I say with hesitation. "And, let's be honest, for a little while, I did hate you."

He looks taken aback. I start to laugh.

"No one has ever hated you before?"

"No," he says and gets this wounded look.

"The great Brock Wainwright loved and revered by all."