Blind Acorn

  © Marianne Holmes 2019

  Print ISBN: 978-1-54398-853-6

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54398-854-3

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Acknowledgements

  One

  I shoved with my elbow and the door swung open, more easily than I expected. Off-balance, I stumbled to my knees, the armload of cookbooks spilling across the floor. The café was small, so everyone heard, and most saw, my entrance. Three patrons rushed to my assistance. Two of them lifted me by my arms, making me feel about a hundred years old and unable to get up on my own. The third stood aside, tears running down her face as she tried not to laugh aloud. That was Gina, my best friend.

  The heat in my face told me that I was the color of a ripe tomato. Gina was about the same color as she looped her arm through mine and assured the others that she’d take care of me. Still struggling to control her laughter, she led me to a table beside a window and went back to collect the cookbooks.

  Mustering as much indignation as I could, I asked her, “Something funny? What are we —like, twelve?”

  She cleared her throat and answered, “Uh, no. Not funny at all.”

  And then we both laughed as quietly as we could for the next five or six minutes. When I finally caught my breath, I stretched my legs under the table and said, “Ouch!”

  Gina instantly sobered and asked, “Are you hurt? I’m so sorry! I thought you were okay!”

  “I’m mostly okay, but my knees are going to be bruised and sore for a while. Not as young as I used to be, and all that. The damage to my pride, though, may never be repaired.” I smiled ruefully.

  “I’m sorry I laughed.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am! It’s just a nervous reaction! I didn’t think it was funny that you fell. Not really. You sit and relax; I’ll get your coffee.” She walked to the counter and ordered exactly what I would have ordered myself. Of course she did; no one knows me better than Gina.

  She returned with a tall, steaming cup of coffee with plenty of cream and a cranberry biscotti on a tiny paper plate. “Can I buy my way out of the laughter?” Her eyes twinkled with her smile.

  “You know just what it takes, don’t you? Anyway, I brought cookbooks.”

  “You did! And I thank you for them,” she bowed her head in my direction. “I didn’t mean for it to cause you pain, but I do appreciate it.”

  “Tell me again why you need them,” I prompted her, hoping to change the subject. And she explained her project and how she would use the many cookbooks she collected, something about the commonality in many recipes and her plan to insert something truly new in her own versions.

  “Sounds like a lot of work,” I responded when she was finished.

  “It will be,” she agreed. “But my collection of new and updated versions of old, familiar favorites will be worth it.”

  Gina was my oldest and best friend and I needed regular doses of Gina to function properly. When I listed toward the really insane, she could usually steer me back to mainstream. Maybe I did the same for her, although she was generally saner than I, so maybe it was less necessary.

  “What’s up, Trin?” she dove right in. “Your grip on that coffee cup is pretty tight. Everything good?”

  “You mean other than falling through the door? I seem to be stumbling through my life these days, so what’s one more?” I sighed and added, “I guess everything’s okay. It’s been a long week and I didn’t sleep well last night. Looking forward to a quiet weekend.” I sighed once more for emphasis.

  “Does that mean you’re ditching the casino night at the high school? I’m debating with myself about that, too.”

  “Definitely ditching. Mitch has a work thing and wasn’t going to be able to come, anyway. Don’t tell them, but I’m hoping the kids go out, too. I need some alone time and I’m hoping to get some tonight.”

  “The uphill climb getting to you? I get it,” she commiserated.

  “Funny that you should mention ‘climb,’” I said. “I had a crazy dream last night about climbing.”

  “I wish I remembered dreams as well as you do,” she chuckled, scraping her chair closer. “Tell me.”

  I shuddered slightly, surprising myself. “It was very vivid,” I said. “Mitch and I had taken up rock climbing. We’d decided to learn together, maybe on a dare, I’m not sure. Anyway, we were alone and climbing. I don’t know where. But we were alone and had no safety equipment with us. It was very hot, and I was scared and tired. My fingers were rubbed raw, but also numb. I wasn’t sure I could trust them anymore and that scared me a lot. The rock scraped my knees and shins and, when I looked down, I saw blood trickling down both of my legs. I began to panic that I’d fall from the rock, a screaming mess, and land in a broken heap at the bottom. I was so scared!” I shuddered again.

  “And what was Mitch doing all this time?”

  “Oh, he kept climbing. He looked confident and comfortable, working his way to the top. I couldn’t understand why he was so sure of himself and I was so scared, almost paralyzed. We didn’t talk; all I could hear was my own ragged, heavy breathing. Finally, with the sun glaring into my eyes, I watched Mitch throw himself over the edge at the top. Terror froze my voice and I continued to creep slowly upward, sure that every step would be my last. I felt so alone! But I kept moving and as I got close to the top, I could see Mitch lying on his back, chest rising and falling rapidly. I inched closer and braced myself as securely as I could so I could rest before trying to get over the edge to level ground.”

  “Sounds like quite the adventure. Remind me not to try it.”

  I sat up straighter in my chair. “But that’s not the most memorable part. While I rested, panting and sweating against the rock, he got up. He walked closer and looked down at me. Then he crouched low, stretched out on his stomach, and reached toward me. We looked at each other and then I looked at his hand. Finally, I reached and took it. I paused for a moment, and
that’s when he let go. His hand opened and he let mine go. Never said a word, just pulled his hand back.”

  “Oh no! That’s awful,” Gina said. But she smiled. “Did you wake him up and slap him?”

  I ignored her question and continued, “I struggled myself up over the edge and collapsed on the ground, so happy to have gravity on my side again. I stayed in that position for what seemed like hours before standing and facing Mitch. We stared at each other, neither speaking. I couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell what he was thinking. And then I woke up. But I still can’t shake those awful feelings. The fear, the betrayal.”

  Gina nodded. “I think I know what you mean. I’ve had dreams that were hard to shake off. Want to go get pedicures? Might help you forget about it.” Pedicures solved a lot of problems in Gina’s life.

  I shook my head. “Can’t today. Too much to do. Raincheck? Sometime when Christmas isn’t looming?”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “These cookbooks are calling my name, anyway.” See you soon.”

  I followed her out the door, careful to stay upright in her wake.

  Two

  A few weeks later, early on New Year’s Eve morning, rain pelted the roof making thunderous music. I wasn’t looking forward to the drive to work and would have been happy to cocoon myself in my robe and hide in a corner of the couch. But year-end reports awaited me, and the holidays were a difficult time for my clientele. I couldn’t stay home.

  Mitch, my husband, was already dressed for work and drinking coffee when I walked into the kitchen. Looking around quickly, I realized that he hadn’t made a full pot and I would be needing extra caffeine this morning. I sighed and ran water to make more. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize you’d be down this early.”

  “You didn’t ask,” I responded. He didn’t react, paying no attention to me. He searched through his briefcase for something, while texting at a furious rate and taking occasional bites of a bagel. That silly dream came to my mind, and not for the first time. I continued to be wounded, feeling that he’d somehow let me down. Mitch had no idea that I was holding this against him, of course, because I’d never told him about it. I knew he’d find it ridiculous. I found it ridiculous myself.

  There was no time to brood about it, though. Lucy, our not-yet-sixteen-year-old daughter threw herself into a chair with a scowl and grabbed a box of cereal. Not bothering with a bowl, she poured a handful and began to eat it piece by piece. “I need a black skirt before band rehearsal today. Preferably knee length,” she announced to the universe.

  Wanting to avoid a scene, I considered possible responses, but hadn’t settled on one yet when she asked, “Mom? Did you hear me? I need a black skirt.”

  “Lucy,” I said, already knowing the answer, “what do you expect me to do about that? Do you have a black skirt?”

  “Of course not! Why would I want a black, knee-length skirt? Don’t you have something I can use? It sounds like something you’d have.”

  “I don’t know, Lucy. I’ll look when I have time, but no promises. You should have thought of this sooner. I’m sure they didn’t just tell you about it with a wake-up call this morning.”

  “You make such a big deal about everything! Honestly, you make things so difficult.”

  Mitch wisely chose this moment to leave, with a wave to us both as he went through the door.

  Lucy found her parents, me in particular, to be exasperating relics of her youth. But she acted as if we were on this earth to cater to her. She proved this by continuing, “And my tablet won’t hold a charge anymore for, like, two minutes. I need a new one.”

  “Well, that will have to wait, I’m afraid. When I’ve taken care of the Christmas bills, we can look at new ones.”

  “See what I mean? I knew you’d make it harder than it has to be!”

  I left her to her handful of cereal and irritation and took the dog outside. I’d rather be rained on than continue that conversation, I thought to myself. The dog didn’t want to be out there any longer than I did, but we were both soaked when we came inside two minutes later. I toweled him off and shivered, reaching for the coffee pot for a refill.

  Lucy had left the kitchen by then and Dylan sat in her chair. Dylan was our almost seventeen-year-old and, these days, the more cordial of our two children. Staring at his phone, he lifted his chin in my direction in a kind of salute. “Good morning, Dylan,” I responded. “Will you remember to bring the trashcans in when you get home? So they aren’t in the middle of the driveway when I get here?”

  “That only happened once, Mom. I always remember.” He still hadn’t actually looked at me. He peeled and ate a banana while browsing through the refrigerator and gathering more food. He ate while putting his shoes on and shoving a towel into his backpack; dropping an empty yogurt container on the counter, he called up the stairs loudly, “Lucy! Leaving in two. You coming?”

  She clattered down the stairs and flew out the door after him, glaring at me as she said, “Thanks a lot, Mom, for the help with the skirt.” I watched them climb into a car already full of teens and they all left for the gym. The silence in the house was deafening but I was used to it. Most mornings began like this one, with small variations. Now I had to hurry, or I’d be late for work.

  Three

  Mitch and I had early dinner plans that night with a couple of old friends. We’d been married for nearly twenty years and had known Mya and Blake longer than we’d known each other.

  “We are officially,” I commented to him as we got ready, “turning into our parents.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Dinner at seven on New Year’s Eve? When did we ever opt for the early seating?”

  “Ah, right,” he said. “But I don’t mind. Do you? It’s been a long and tiring week. Month. Year. I won’t mind sleeping through midnight, if it comes to that.”

  His apathy disappointed me, but I didn’t say so. Sometimes I missed the days when we wore ourselves out having fun. Were we leaving the better parts of us back in those days? We didn’t seem to connect the same way anymore. Maybe December thirty-first made me contemplative. Maybe he was just tired.

  We drove to the restaurant in silence and were the first to arrive. We made small talk while we waited and both brightened visibly when Mya and Blake approached, holding hands and laughing.

  “You two,” Mitch told them when we’d all hugged our greetings, “are having way too much fun already.”

  They looked at each other and smiled the way they always smiled at each other. Like there was no one else in the room. I’d always been warmed and amused by that, but now found myself envious. Did Mitch ever look at me that way? Blake reached for Mya’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. “We’re happy to be here to celebrate the coming of a new year with some of our oldest friends. Not to mention being among adults and not having to discuss fifth-grade math.”

  Mya added, “You two look great! So, what’s new in your life?”

  And, to the dismay of the waiter, I suspect, we enjoyed a prolonged and delicious dinner, as well as fun and entertaining conversation. I didn’t want it to end and suggested we continue over drinks back at our house. “We have to be home to make sure the kids get home when they’re supposed to,” I explained. “But we’d love to have you join us to usher in the New Year.”

  They looked at each other and communicated something that resulted in both heads shaking at the same time. “I wish we could,” Blake said. “We told the sitter we’d be home early, though. I think she has plans of her own.”

  “Ah, youth!” I smiled. They both laughed.

  “Actually,” Mya chuckled, “Liza is older than we are. But she has all this energy! I don’t know how she does it, but it makes her a great sitter. We never come home to find her sleeping on the couch, either.”

  “Please tell her,” Mitch laughed, “that I’d pay handsomely for h
er secret.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” Blake agreed and we turned reluctantly toward the door and the cold night.

  On the ride home, Mitch said, “I suppose it’s just as well. I really am so tired; I can’t wait to get home and sleep. It’s great not to have a reason to get up early tomorrow, isn’t it?” He glanced at me when I didn’t answer right away.

  “Yes, I guess it is,” I finally said. But I was disappointed.

  Four

  The New Year began quietly in our household. Everyone but me slept late, leaving me some time to myself. I’ve always been someone who needed alone time; the only trouble was in finding it. We were four people and one dog sharing space under one roof.

  When Lucy was frustrated or angry or subject to any one of the many emotions of a teenage girl, she would storm into her room and slam the door, causing lots of little rattling noises throughout the house. With or without words, she made it known that she wanted to be left alone, and we all respected that. Honestly, I think we were all a little afraid of her in those moments.

  Dylan played and worked hard. Football, basketball, track, time in the gym —they all offered him an escape from the rest of us. We joked about Dylan going to his happy place when he took part in these activities, but maybe the joke was on the rest of us. It worked for Dylan.

  Mitch loved his job and spent many hours engrossed in work. When he needed to let off steam, he tinkered in the garage. He had any number of projects laid out in various stages of completion all the time. Regardless of the weather, weekends usually found Mitch in the garage, hair falling into his eyes, stubble on his chin, smile on his lips. None of us knew exactly what was happening out there, it was Mitch’s thing and he didn’t ask for our help.

  And the dog had the run of the house. When there was too much noise or commotion, he had hundreds of corners to go off into and hide until he felt like being with us again. He always sought us out when he was ready, and only when he was ready.

  None of these things worked for me, though. I’d feel pretty silly slamming doors and fuming behind them. And, although I enjoyed a yoga class now and then, I didn’t have the time or the energy to be as dedicated to physical activity as Dylan did. And the garage was already taken. That left the dog’s corners, also a no-go.