30 October
Boston
THERE WILL BE OTHER PLACES AND OTHER TIMES
I park a little way down the street from the house, in need of a couple of minutes to get myself together before I walk up the familiar driveway and ring the bell. I have a key, of course, but I don’t use it these days when I go over. I feel in my pockets for my cell. I should call, maybe, let Susie know I’m coming rather than drop in, as I often have in the past. It’s never been an issue, but now there’s Robert, it feels like it could be. I don’t know if I have it in me to make nice with him, especially after too much coffee to stave off the jet lag. I’d rather not be put to the test any time soon.
It’s such a beautiful house. Not the biggest or grandest on the street, but Susie cried the first time we saw it, and I knew I’d move heaven and earth to make it ours. I look at it now, remembering the hours spent comparing similar shades of blue to paint the clapboard exterior, the graceful curve of the ivory wrap-around porch, the turret room at the far end that made this house the one Susie had to have. Our bedroom is up there; a rocking chair still in the window where Susie used to sit when she nursed the boys. The house was sold to us as a fixer-upper and, man, did it need a whole lot of work. I’ve replaced pretty much every board on that front porch. I didn’t need a hobby for the first couple of years after we bought it, I acquired several new ones when the realtor handed the keys over. Floor sander, kitchen builder, rudimentary plumber – you name it, I learned it, and without the benefit of my father’s experience to lean on. It was okay though because I had Susie’s dad instead. My gut twists at the thought of Walt, and Marie, Susie’s tiny, hilarious mother. I miss them all; I wonder sometimes if Susie realizes how much, how hard it is for me when they’ve been my family too for so many years. The fallout from a separation ripples out across every area of your life; you lose a damn lot more than one person. Friends are forced out to the edges, relationships you count on struggle, people feel compromised and forced to pick sides. Marie won’t bring my favourite apple cinnamon muffins over at Christmas, my mother won’t stay in the yellow bedroom for Thanksgiving. Change after change. It’s bleak.
Susie’s car is in the driveway, telling me they’re home. No other cars around. That’s good too. I wonder how often Robert visits, if my kids’ hearts sink or leap when his car pulls in. Objectively, I know he’s no threat to my boys, a decent-enough man. Dull, but decent. I huff, pushing him out of my head, and then I forget him completely because Nate comes flying out of the front door and runs down the driveway, waving his arms at me.
‘Dad!’ he yells, high-pitched, blond hair flying, all flailing limbs as he runs along the sidewalk. I’m out of my truck, laughing, arms outstretched, and he flings himself at me. I haul him up; God, I’ve missed him. I close my eyes, relieved, and his skinny arms grip tight around my neck. The smell of his shampoo. The slightness of his body. The childish sound of his voice. I blink away the tears and laugh instead, pulling my head back to drink his face in.
‘Hey, you,’ I say, ruffling his hair. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘I caught the biggest fish this year,’ he says, bouncing in my arms.
‘Wow, you did?’ Walt is an avid fisherman, there’s always competition to see who can land the biggest catch.
‘I took a photo.’ He wriggles down, still clutching my hand. ‘It’s on my iPad, come on.’
‘I definitely need to see this,’ I say, letting him tug me along. ‘Is Leo home too?’
Nate nods. ‘He hurt his leg at the lake.’
I frown, hating that I don’t already know this. Nate runs through the door he left open, and I hang back, tapping on the vintage stained glass. Homesickness kicks in hard as I stand and look at the wide central hallway, the floorboards I sanded, the rug we brought back from a long weekend in Nantucket.
‘Hello?’ I call, my hand still half raised. I swallow hard when Susie appears in the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall, a half-carved pumpkin in her hands. Familiar longing kicks me in the teeth.
‘Mack,’ she says, coming towards me, surprised. ‘I thought you were still in Ireland?’
I shrug, aim for nonchalant. ‘It just felt like time to come back,’ I say. ‘How was the lake?’
She blinks, still flustered by my unexpected appearance. ‘Oh, you know. Good. Mom said to say thanks for the flowers.’ She pauses. ‘It was a nice thought.’