In the Stillness (36 page)

“The nightmares were the worst,” she admits. “I could handle him being distant at times during the day but . . . when he was yelling at things that I couldn’t see . . .” She pauses and shakes her head.

“I get it,” I whisper.

Marion goes on to tell me that it took several years for them to be able to have children, and by then a majority of the nightmares had stopped. She says that was no accident, as she looks to the sky.
 

“His drinking came in waves. He’d go months, or even years, without an issue. But, like a switch I couldn’t locate, he’d be down in that dark hole again.” She stands, letting me know we’re almost finished.

Gripping her hand, I lead her into the cafeteria. “How’d you get through it? The uncertainty, I mean.” I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what goes through Ryker’s head on a daily basis.

She stops and tilts her chin into the direction of her husband, who’s sitting with two plates in front of him. “Because I was never uncertain about our hearts.”

“Oh,” I whisper with a nod. “Well,” I clear my throat as we reach George’s table, “here’s your bride, George. Thank you for letting me borrow her for a few minutes.”

“Any time, Bug. See you next week?”

“Of course.” I kiss his cheek, and dip toward Marion.

“Take your time. But, it’s not over,” she whispers into my ear as she kisses my cheek.

The thread of impending tears causes me to simply nod and smile as I wave goodbye and walk to my car in a daze.

It’s not over.

Chapter 43

From the littlest mouths come the most sobering truths.

As I pack Max and Ollie’s bags to take them to Eric’s for Thanksgiving, Max tugs on my skirt.

“Mommy?” He doesn’t sign it, even though Ollie’s in the room. I’ve learned over the last three months that this means he’s sad or angry.

I sign to Ollie that I’m going to help Max in the bathroom and I’ll be right back. Once inside the bathroom, I sit on the toilet seat and hold Max’s hands.

“What’s up, Honey?” It feels weird not signing, but, admittedly, the break is nice sometimes.

“When will Ollie be able to hear again?” His round cheeks redden as he looks at the floor. He learned that from me, so I fix it.
 

Lifting his chin with my finger, I smile as his eyes meet mine. “He won’t be able to, Honey. Not anymore.”

“But I want him to.” His chin quivers as his dark eyes fill with tears.

With a heavy breath, I pull Max into a hug and tell him it’ll be okay. That’s something I miss terribly with Oliver, being able to hold him to my chest and comfort him with words at the same time. Hindsight might be 20/20, but it’s also a cruel bitch. It’s nothing worth beating myself up over, I’ve learned. I can’t go back and whisper stories to him as he falls asleep, or say anything that will comfort him when his eyes are closed in a screaming tantrum, but I’ve been able to form new traditions with him that make us both happy. It’s our new normal. And, it’s one in which I haven’t cut for five months. I’ll take it.

Eric and I arranged to have the boys be with him for Thanksgiving, and I’ll get them for Christmas Eve/ Morning, and they’ll go to his house on Christmas night. Last night the boys and I had our own Thanksgiving feast, and they’re mostly thrilled that they get two days of lots of food. I know we’ll have to adjust schedules as they get older, and maybe even try a holiday together but, for now, this is how it is.

“Hey guys!” Eric swoops them both in his arms when we arrive at his apartment.
 

He’s been dating someone for a couple of months, and he seems pretty happy about it. He says he hasn’t brought her around the boys, yet. I believe him, because I have to. We got into one argument last month when he asked if I was seeing anyone and I said no.

“Come on, Natalie, you don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. You don’t need me to be with someone in order for it to be okay that you are, Eric. It’s fine. Really.”
 

“You’re not seeing Ryker?”

“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.”

I’m not allowed to say another word before I grab my bag and head back out of the Soldiers’ Home and text Ryker.

Me:
Happy Thanksgiving

Ry:
You too

Me:
Are you at your dad’s?

Ry:
No, just got back home. Why?

Me:
Can I come over?

Worst 45-second silence.

Ry:
Sure. Remember where it is?

I text back that I do, leaving out the part that I had his address in my brain long before he drove my sorry, drunk butt to his house.

A half hour later, I’m knocking on Ryker’s door. When he answers, I fight the urge to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him. That’s my knee-jerk reaction to seeing Ryker Manning. Every time. He’s clearly still in his Thanksgiving clothes—dark khakis and a maroon button-down shirt, no tie.
 

“Happy Thanksgiving, can I come in?”
 

“Of course.” He steps aside, letting me in. His features seem a little cold.

“I’m sorry I haven’t really called or anything,” I start, “I’ve been—”

“No, it’s okay,” he cuts in, “I’ve been busy, too.”
 

I notice two suitcases by his couch. “Going somewhere?”

“Jackson Hole. Want something to drink?” Ryker walks to the kitchen.

“Uh, sure.” Something’s off in his tone. “How long will you be gone?”

Ryker shrugs. “Close to three months, I think.”

“What?” Heat instantly hits my cheeks.

“I do it every winter, Nat.” He hands me a glass of water. “I help out at the camp I used to work at, spend time with my mom, you know . . .”

Actually, I don’t know. Though, I suppose that I would have had I taken some time to spend with Ryker over the last several months. Instead, I’m left feeling panicked that he’ll be gone for three months. He was gone for a decade, and suddenly three months seems impossible, even if we haven’t been spending time together.

That’s because it’s not over.

“You okay?” Ryker stares at me from the other side of his kitchen island.

“Uh . . . yeah. I just . . . when are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I whisper as tears sting my eyes and nose.

“What?” He looks away unapologetically, and I know now that he wasn’t planning on telling me.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Were you, um, going to call me, or something?”

“Natalie,” he sighs, running his fingers through his hair as if I’ve been pestering him somehow.

Feeling a wave of tears coming on, I set my glass down. “Just . . . call me when you’re back, okay?” Turning on my heels, I make as quick of a break for the door as I can without it looking like running.

“Natalie, wait!” Ryker meets me at the door, spinning me around by the shoulders. He can easily see the tears overflowing, causing his face to melt from indifference to concern. “Why are you crying?” He shakes his head and pulls his brows in.

“Nothing, I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have just shown up.” Wiping my nose with the sleeve of my coat, I continue, “Have a good time . . .”

Ryker’s thumbs rub against my shoulders as he stares at me without saying a word for a few seconds.

“I know,” he says as if I’ve stated something, “I haven’t called you, either.” My chin quivers as he continues, “I’ve wanted to spend more time with you, Natalie, I really have, but . . . some days it just feels like
so
much, you know?”

“I do.”

“Man. You were so great when I was at your place a few months ago, and you seem to be doing really well and . . . I didn’t want to screw anything up for you.” Ryker releases my shoulders and backs up, sitting on the arm of the couch.

“Are we really here again?” I take a step forward. “Are we really here, acting based on how we think the other person feels?”