Blind Acorn Read online

  We’d agreed to leave by one o’clock and I arrived home about noon. I still had to pack, although I saw that Mitch’s bag sat on a chair in the bedroom and appeared to be ready to go. I grabbed my overnight bag from the closet and opened the zipper. I should have thought earlier about what I’d bring but I hadn’t so now I began to make little piles of possibility along the side of the bed. How casual did I want to be? I wouldn’t bring anything that would look like I was trying to impress him because it wasn’t about that. Or, was it? Maybe I did want to impress him a little. Maybe I wanted him to think about how he’d missed me, too. He had missed me, I thought. Right? Ugh! Why was it so hard? Just pretend you’re staying home for the weekend and pack what you’d wear at home. No! Make a little more effort than that!

  Unable to decide much, I overpacked. At least I felt prepared; I could decide the details later. I dragged my too-heavy bag down the stairs and left it by the door. In the kitchen, I continued the notes I was leaving for the kids. Normally, I was reluctant to leave them home alone. I knew that they were old enough, but they didn’t always get along the way I’d like them to get along. I hadn’t told them, but my parents were going to stop in to check on things. I didn’t tell them because they (especially Lucy) wouldn’t like that and I didn’t want to argue about it.

  I wondered if Mitch would have had lunch when he got home. I didn’t want to eat if he was going to want to stop for lunch along the way. But if he didn’t want to stop, I’d be hungry long before dinner. I decided not to eat, but to pack a small bag of snacks that would feed me, or both of us, if necessary. I was sure to include some of those grapes that he liked, and some bottled water. And granola bars. A couple of hard-boiled eggs that I’d cooked the day before. Some cheese and a box of those thin, crisp crackers that we both liked. It was beginning to look like a picnic. Wouldn’t it be fun, I thought, if we found a place to get out and have an actual picnic? The thought made me smile and I hummed as I packed it all up.

  I was ready to go on time, and there was nothing more to remind the kids about. Mitch should arrive any minute. I went to the bathroom one last time and sat in the living room facing the window by the driveway, so I’d see when he pulled in. When he hadn’t arrived by one fifteen, I grabbed a magazine to try to distract myself from growing annoyed.

  The magazine wasn’t that good, and I abandoned it by one twenty-five. My phone rang, and I expected it to be Mitch with an explanation. But it wasn’t Mitch. My dentist’s office wanted to remind me that I had an appointment upcoming on Tuesday. I thanked the recording, as I often did, and hung up.

  I retrieved my tablet from my packed bag and tried to get interested in the book I’d planned to read when I had time. It seemed that I did, indeed, have time. But my irritation kept interfering with my concentration. Relax, I told myself, you’re not on the clock. If you get there an hour later than you planned, so what?

  At two o’clock, I ate one of the eggs and some of the grapes. So much for a picnic. I will not, I told myself, call him. He should have had the courtesy to call me an hour ago!

  At two twenty, I opened my bag and took out the blue dress, the one that Mitch liked. He was obviously not looking forward to this weekend so why should I dress for him, rather than for myself? I’d be more comfortable in those baggy green linen slacks, the ones that he didn’t care for.

  At two thirty-five, I put the blue dress back in the bag. I didn’t know what was going on with him, but I was beginning to move from annoyance to worry. I tried to call him but got his voicemail.

  At two fifty-seven (you remember things like that), the doorbell rang. I opened the door to two uniformed officers. “Yes?” I smiled and my eyes asked the question.

  “Are you Mrs. Barrett? Trinity Barrett?” the taller of the two asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. No longer smiling, I asked, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “May we come in, ma’am?” the shorter one asked.

  I opened the door wider and waved them into the hall with a step backward.

  “Ma’am,” he resumed, “is your husband Mitchell Barrett?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “he should be home any minute now. In fact, he’s late.” I leaned to the side to look out the window and down the street, as if I expected him to appear for them.

  They looked at each other, and then the taller one said, “Ma’am, maybe you should sit down. There’s been an accident…”

  I doubled over like I’d been punched and threw up on his shoes. When I looked up from the egg and grapes, his face was a curious mixture of compassion and disgust. In that instant, we both knew what we both knew. And he said, “Please, ma’am. Please sit down.”

  Forty-Seven

  I’ve heard it said that some things in life go by in a blur, as if the speed of occurrence causes them to be seen and remembered through a blurry lens. I’d been told the details of the accident. Mitch and Paul, a co-worker, were on the way back to the office after a meeting. Mitch had told Paul that he was taking the afternoon off and meeting me at home. Maybe they were hurrying. Paul was driving and pulled into the left lane on the highway to pass a tractor trailer truck. The truck driver apparently didn’t see the car and began to move left into the same lane. Paul tried to move off the road to the left, and he almost made it. But the rear of the truck clipped the front end of the car and spun it wildly back into the road. It came to rest with the passenger side, Mitch’s side, facing the on-coming traffic. An SUV couldn’t stop and had nowhere to go. It slammed into the car at approximately 70 miles per hour. Paul was seriously injured but would survive. Mitch and those of us who loved him were not so lucky. Most of this I would not understand for some time. At first it was a picture my mind couldn’t reconcile. I couldn’t make those details come together in any sensible way.

  Many things about the loss of Mitch were like that. But the speed was emotional speed. Both fresh and remembered emotions came together and created a blur of bewilderment and misery that I cannot describe. Perhaps that’s for the best.

  But there are moments that stand in stark contrast to the haziness. Moments that are sharply etched in memory, crystal clear and charged with emotion, are forever mine. They don’t all make sense, some seeming so unimportant. Was it a self-protective instinct that pulled my attention to them when I couldn’t bear anymore?

  The evening of the wake, I noticed with dislike the pattern in the carpet in the room we’d been given. It was rounded and, to me, too musical. For some reason, it kept gathering my attention at the oddest times. It made it hard for me to concentrate. Or, was my lack of concentration causing me to examine the carpet repeatedly?

  I remember being afraid of the people coming through the receiving line. I was afraid because they had the power to inflict new wounds. Of course, they didn’t intend to do that. But I wasn’t yet at the point of finding memories comforting. Instead, they were projectiles to my spirit. Each reminded me of what we had lost. I tried to blunt them by keeping my distance. But most people, especially those who really knew Mitch, wouldn’t let me do that.

  A short, staccato laugh from somewhere at the back of the room made another permanent impression on me. It was a woman’s voice. I couldn’t quite place it, but it continued to echo through my mind forever after.

  I was trying to stay focused on Lucy and Dylan. I knew that they needed me. That’s not really true; what they needed sorely, as did I, was Mitch. The first conversation with them —when they came home from school expecting us to be on the way to New Hampshire —was, in some ways the easiest. Our common shock gave way to tears, encouraged from each other by our own. After that, we each went to our own mental places and found our ways of trying to cope. Dylan shut down, wouldn’t talk to me or anyone else about his dad. Lucy became a weepy puddle, melting down at a glance. I honestly don’t know where I was myself. That’s part of the blur for me.

  At the wake, Dylan stood beside
me, straight and tall. He was cordial, but no one—nothing—penetrated his armor. I envied his control, but worried about him because I knew how close he was to his father. Nothing would ever bring that back to him. How could I console him for the loss of the irrecoverable, the irreplaceable? I couldn’t, but his grief was so self-contained that I was sure it would eat through him and damage something essential. And I didn’t know how to help.

  And Lucy, what would console Lucy? Her loss took on a life of its own and refused to allow her comfort. If Dylan wore armor, Lucy wore a coat of super-sensitive nerve cells. The merest brush with them left her raw and in torment. I was fighting through my own pain trying to reach her but felt like I had little to give.

  Thorn had been at her side since we walked through the door. As Lucy began to shake with fresh sobs, I saw Thorn’s arm drape over her shoulders and pull her in for a hug. Lucy was sobbing into her hands and Thorn looked in my direction at the same time I looked at them. Our gazes met, and, in one look, we agreed to forfeit our mutual distrust for our mutual desire to see to Lucy, protect her from any more of life’s blows for the time being. That one look was our mutual consent to care for Lucy above all else. That look was one of those sharp, clear memories and I was thankful for it.

  I tried to pay attention to the people passing by and their comments. I wanted to honor Mitch by accepting their condolences on his behalf. But it was so hard! You weren’t even driving, Mitch. It wasn’t your fault. Why aren’t you here doing this for yourself, Mitch? I asked him, but there was no answer.

  Perhaps the crispest, clearest image of that time is of Mitch’s mother. An outgoing, energetic woman, Maureen had been so proud of her only son. Since his death, she had aged and been beaten down in ways that I couldn’t begin to fathom. Further down the receiving line, she sat, the gray of her dress leeching into her face and hands until she looked like a ghost. I looked at my own broken children and was weak with gratitude that they were not who I lost. I felt guilty for that gratitude but couldn’t help feeling it.

  There was a clear moment when the air in the room seemed to suddenly change, charged with something. It was enough to get my attention and I looked to the door in time to see Gina and Jack enter. I began to tremble and when she reached me, I collapsed into her arms. Repeatedly, I tried to speak. I’m not sure what I would have said if I could have spoken. Nothing came out but hoarse sobs.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. And she held me for a long time. “Later,” was all she said with a shake of her head when I was still unable to speak. “We’ll talk later.” I nodded.

  I remember thinking that if I could just get through these few hours, I could go home and shut the door, shut the world out. At least for a while. Until the funeral in the morning. God, how will we all get through that? I wondered. But survivors have only one immediate job —to survive. And, so we did.

  Forty-Eight

  Time is a master trickster. It lulls us into thinking it’s endless. There will always be time. Time to make that phone call, fix that faucet, see that movie. I don’t have to do it right now, we tell ourselves. There’s plenty of time. We can talk later. Enjoy later. Apologize later. Plenty of time. Until there isn’t.

  I walked toward the church for Mitch’s funeral, so painfully aware that I needed more time, time with him. I needed time to talk to him, touch the back of his neck, breathe his air. My steps slowed as I dragged my heavy reluctance like an anchor. This is it, I thought. If I walk into that church, it’s done. No more time. No more chances.

  I’m not sure how I got inside. If someone later told me that they had carried me in, I would have believed it. But somehow, I found myself seated in the front pew as the organ played loudly, Lucy and Dylan on either side of me.

  Although I know I’d been consulted, I don’t remember much of the service. I know there were eulogies and readings; I’m not sure who did them or what they said. I suspect that it was all in wonderful tribute, but I was completely disengaged from it all. My mind was still running to how I might stop all this. It wasn’t rational, but I wanted —needed —to find a way to get more time. As I sensed the service coming to a close, my panic level rose. I knew I could change nothing, knew I was about to run out of time yet again.

  Staring straight ahead, I grasped Lucy and Dylan’s hands and stood. Locked in their own thoughts, they seemed as stunned by everything happening as I was. I wondered if they felt as cheated as I did.

  Maureen joined us and we were driven to the cemetery. No one spoke. We were too broken to even attempt casual interactions. We barely looked at each other. Once there, we walked over uneven ground and sat on white folding chairs that were lined along the side of the open grave. God, I prayed fervently, please get us through this day. I’m not sure I can take another breath on my own. Please get us through this.

  And God must have answered because we were eventually whisked away in the same car and finally brought home. We did rally and spend time with the many mourners who came to the house afterward. At least we were home. Although home had a new definition now, without Mitch. Here, now, we were protected by those who knew what kind of shape we were really in: Gina and my parents, Thorn, Lila.

  Gina and I finally had a chance to talk. When I tried to thank her for coming, her mouth twisted and she said, “Don’t. Just don’t do that.”

  I understood. She was mourning, too, but she didn’t want to be treated like just any other mourner. Not by me. I hugged her close, taking a deep breath, inhaling her strength. But I exhaled it just as quickly. I wasn’t ready to be strong. We talked for a while, I told her about that afternoon. What I was expecting and what happened. There was so much more to say. I hadn’t told her why we were going away for the weekend, what I’d done to our relationship, my hopes for fixing it. I needed to tell her all that, but it would have to wait. We made plans to spend some time over the next few days.

  The kids and I each faded away into our own private space as soon as possible. And the day, that most awful of days, was done.

  Forty-Nine

  Time began to pass us all in a haze of sadness, and for me, loneliness. We returned to as much of our normal routine as possible. Dylan increased the time he spent at various practices and workouts. The physical exhaustion meant that he could sleep at night, so I suppose it was good for him. But I still worried that he kept his emotions locked up tight inside.

  I tried dropping a few hints, like, “I hope you have someone to talk to, Dyl,” and “Have any of your friends lost a family member?” But he wasn’t talking, at least not to me. Maybe it was too soon.

  Some of the puddle that had become of Lucy began to dry up. She seemed a little less fragile, if even sadder. At least she talked to me. A bit. Mostly, she spent time with Thorn when she wasn’t in school. Other friends called, but her face-to-face time was for Thorn or for Dylan and me. We just couldn’t escape the sadness. I really don’t think we wanted to escape it. We weren’t ready to give up what seemed like the last tie that bound us each to Mitch.

  Through all of this, I was haunted by the lingering image of Maureen, ghostly and bereft. Right after the funeral, she had returned to her apartment in Ohio. I knew she had many friends there, but I also knew that most of them had never even met Mitch. It seemed like it had to be especially lonely without someone who knew him around. I called her frequently, and sometimes she even answered the phone. Sometimes she didn’t. When we did talk, she seemed to try, but she just couldn’t muster any interest. Perhaps because I was with them every day, I worried less about the kids now and more about her.

  On a whim, I asked her in one of these conversations, “Mo, would you consider coming back out here for a while? I could use some help with the kids and there’s no one who would better understand what they’re dealing with right now. What do you think? Could you come back for a while?” I knew it was a long shot, Maureen valued her privacy and was always careful not to interfere in
our family life. I appreciated that, but it felt as if she needed some attention right now, too.

  There was a long pause on the other end before she finally, softly, said, “Oh, honey, I wouldn’t be any good to you now. I can barely get out of bed in the morning. I’d be the worst person for the kids to have around. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  I knew that if she thought I was trying to help her, she’d never agree. Her pride and independence would be too much for either of us to overcome. Carefully, I said, “Well, if you’d at least consider it, I’d be really appreciative. It isn’t that they need much, they’re old enough not to need supervision. But I’m at work when Lucy gets home from school and Dylan isn’t talking much, even when he is here. I just thought that maybe they’d find some comfort in having you around for a while. Having the house smell like your super chocolate oatmeal cookies once in a while couldn’t hurt, either.”

  Another long pause before she said, “I’ll give it some thought, Trinity, but I don’t know how much I could do for you.”

  “Well, just think about it. It’s an open-ended request, we could use whatever time you could give us. As you know, we have plenty of room and we’d love having you with us. We all need to talk more about Mitch.”

  I disconnected the call thinking that I had not made her feel any better. Again. I was not doing much to make anyone feel better. I sighed and went to the kitchen to start dinner.

  Later, as the kids and I ate, I told them what I’d suggested. “I asked GranMo to come back and spend some time with us.” They both looked up at that and Dylan said, “What —like for the holidays or something?”