Blind Acorn Read online

  “No. I mean, yes, maybe she’d stay for the holidays, but I mean now. I asked her to come stay with us now.”

  “Why?” Lucy asked.

  I weighed my answer and decided that they were mature enough for the truth. “I’m worried about her,” I said. “I’m worried that she needs people around her now, people who knew your dad and can relate to her about losing him. We cannot know what it’s like to lose a child, but we do know what it’s like to lose him, don’t we? I think she needs us. But that won’t get her here. I told her that we need her. I told her that I could use some help and she could be helpful to us right now.”

  “It would be nice to see her,” Lucy said.

  “Is that fair?” Dylan wondered. “Seems like she doesn’t need any more pressure right now. Is it right to make her feel like she needs to help us?”

  “I think it’s the only way to get her here.” Then I added, “Maybe. She didn’t agree to do it, only to give it some thought. She may not come. I just wanted the two of you to know that I asked and why I asked.” We finished dinner in silence, but I was encouraged by their interest in the proposal. Maybe I was on to something.

  Three days later, I called Maureen to try again. She didn’t answer the phone.

  Fifty

  We were approaching the anniversary of Mitch’s death, and Halloween was coming soon after. Last year, we’d only just lost Mitch and that brought enough terror and fright to our lives. I hoped that, this year, I’d have the energy for my usual celebration but was skeptical. It was sad that there would never be another of those movie nights for us.

  Thanksgiving last year was especially difficult. I felt compelled to uphold my work traditions, but the pain of loss made gratitude a scarce commodity for me. The kids were real troopers and insisted on joining me as they always had. In the end, we had a lovely day. So many of our diners had suffered losses like ours. They were gentle and compassionate to us, remembering Mitch fondly, but also aware of their blessings. The word “bittersweet” came to have clearer meaning that day.

  At Christmas time, I found myself wishing that I’d let Mitch map out the decorations the way he’d suggested the year before. I realized that it wasn’t the décor that I so wanted to restore, but Mitch himself. I never did send out cards; I couldn’t face doing that alone.

  But, hands down, the most difficult “first” without Mitch was Dylan’s birthday. A January baby, Dylan’s tradition was to do something with his dad on that day. Just the two of them. It was usually a sports-related event. Sometimes they’d taken time out of work and school to travel to a sports hall of fame. Sometimes it was a hockey or basketball game. It didn’t matter what they did, as long as it was the two of them.

  This year, of course, that was not to be. On the morning of his birthday, I waited in the kitchen with muffins and a birthday card. But he never came down. Lucy ate and left, asking me to relay a birthday message for her. Instead of pouring a third cup of coffee, I went up to his room and knocked lightly on the door. There was no response and I worried more. Finally, against all precedent, I opened the door a bit and called, “Dylan?”

  He was dressed and sitting on the side of his already made bed. He looked up at me wordlessly and his face looked so fragile, so hurt. I sat beside him and touched his hand and the sobs exploded from his chest, raw and loud. He laid his head on my lap and cried furiously while I stroked his hair. I was so relieved to have him let go of some of the anguish that I knew he was holding onto all this time. When the torrent subsided, I asked him, “Do you think you’d like to go to the cemetery with me?”

  In a hoarse whisper, he said, “Yeah, I would,” and sat up.

  “Okay. Meet you downstairs in five?”

  He nodded and stood. I left to get a coat and boots and poured some coffee in a travel cup for him.

  We drove the few miles in silence as he sipped his coffee. I parked a short distance from the grave and we walked to it together. I hadn’t been there since the headstone was placed in November. I didn’t really think that Mitch’s spirit was hanging around there, but I didn’t know what Dylan thought. After a minute, I walked away to a nearby bench and sat, giving him some space. I watched as he crouched before the stone, where he stayed for a long time.

  Eventually, he rose and came to the bench, sitting beside me and patting my gloved hand. We sat there lost in our thoughts and I, at least, was very aware of the loss and pain we shared in that time. Suddenly, I realized that I’d found something. That companionable silence I was missing with Mitch? Although it was tinged with sadness, I found it with Dylan on a cemetery bench in January. I sent a smile and a mental salute toward Mitch’s grave, just in case.

  Besides these major milestones, there were so many papercuts of hurt, breathtaking reminders when we didn’t expect them. The first visit to the grocery store after the funeral was one of those. As I rounded the corner toward the cereal aisle, I entertained a fleeting fantasy that I’d again run into him again there. Sorrow followed instantly, because I knew that I wouldn’t.

  When my car needed an oil change, I made an appointment to bring it to the dealer. The service manager, who could not have known that Mitch had died, was surprised to see me. “Hi, Mrs. Barrett,” he said. “I thought I’d be seeing Mitch this morning when I saw your car on the schedule.” Knowing that if I tried to speak, I’d break down, I shrugged and gave him a weak smile, putting my sunglasses back on at the same time.

  Mitch had loved homemade waffles and we managed to make them at least once a month on a Sunday morning. About three months after the funeral, I realized that we hadn’t made them in a long time. The next Sunday, before the kids got up, I got everything ready. When they came downstairs, I wordlessly poured the batter and crisped some bacon. When it was all on the table, we sat staring at it. Lucy’s tears loosened without a sound and when Dylan saw that, he left the room. None of us ate; I threw it all out and haven’t made waffles since.

  And I’ve continued to converse with Mitch. In the beginning, it was all in my head; but lately I’ve found myself doing it aloud. It happens when something brings a memory sharply into focus. Last week, I went into the garage looking for a screwdriver. Standing at his workbench, I glanced at the several projects he never had a chance to complete. “Well, Mitch,” I asked him aloud, “what am I supposed to do with all this? Why didn’t you leave instructions?” He didn’t answer. He never answered, no matter how I longed to hear his voice.

  Fifty-One

  We lost him one year ago today. We decided to stay home for the day, regroup together. It’s to be a day of reflection for all of us —Dylan, Lucy, Maureen, and me. Yes, she did come to stay with us for a while.

  A curious thing happened after she got here. Within a couple of weeks, she began to look better. And, so did the kids. Maybe I did, too. She’s in the family room with the kids right now and I can hear them laughing. They’re looking at old photos stored on the computer. They’re picking their favorites and telling each other why they’re favorites.

  Mo had been here about a month when I overheard her talking with Dylan. He was explaining some athlete’s story and she was asking questions and genuinely interested. It was just the sort of thing he did with Mitch. The sort of thing for which I had little patience. After they’d been talking for a while, Mo looked into the driveway and said, “Hey, Dyl, your mom’s car looks like it could use a wash. What do you say we go put on some old shoes and get the hose and do that for her?”

  Dylan looked out at the car and didn’t respond right away. Then he said, “That’s something I would have done with my dad, GranMo. You remind me of him.” They both chuckled. “But you stay here. It’s getting cold out there and I can handle it. Dad taught me well.” He gave her a quick hug and ducked out the door before she had time to reply. That was when I knew she’d be staying.

  The kids are both getting back to whatever is normal for them. Dylan d
rives Mitch’s car now, so we don’t argue about what he’ll drive. Where, when, with whom —we still argue about those. And Lucy is more Lucy every day. She and Thorn make a strangely good couple. Thorn was flawless in her support of Lucy for the past year and I will be forever grateful to her for that. I’d like to say that they make each other happy, but, well, it’s hard to tell if Thorn is happy. But maybe that’s just me.

  And Lucy has been babysitting for Rona two evenings a week. Rona enrolled in the community college and is pursuing a degree in her limited spare time. But she’ll get there. She’s about to change jobs, too. Turns out that she’s well-suited to do my job. I’ve decided to leave, take some time off. We’re going to travel; there are some places we all want to see. When we return, I’ll do some volunteer work, and learn to play the piano. Dylan plans to go off to college and Lucy is still finding herself. Mo hasn’t decided what she’ll do, but plans to do it here, with us. Meanwhile, Rona will be dealing with the missing milk and never-ending reports. She’ll be fine, but she has my number if she needs help.

  What about me? I’ll eventually go back to work, but I’m not in a real hurry to do that. I’ve learned so much and I’m still reeling from losing Mitch. I think —maybe I hope —that I’ll never stop reeling from that. I’ve learned that I cannot control what I most wish I could. So, I’m learning to stop trying. It isn’t easy, but I’m working on it. I still have the treadmill, after all.

  And I’ve learned a lesson about changing the world. It’s not all on me. I don’t need to save the world, just do my best to make it a better place. I don’t need to be superwoman. I just need to be the best mom, friend, daughter, possible. For me. That’s all. It was right in front of me all along. So, I’m trying. I’m allowing my children to see my pain and heartbreak, sharing with them my dashed hopes and my burgeoning ones. And they’re beginning to share more of themselves with me, too. I’m enjoying watching them grow into kind, responsible adults (most of the time). Mitch was and would be proud of them. It’s the best we can give the world.

  I have to end this now. I’m missing out on the photo review and it sounds like they’re having fun in there. I think I have some stories about Mitch that they haven’t heard yet.

  Acknowledgements

  I am, once again, grateful to the many people who supported me in this endeavor. Most of all, thank you to my chief readers and critics, Ken Knox and Joanne Audette. Both gave helpful and valuable feedback and suggestions when I needed them. Thank you, also, to Jane Ellen Freeman of the Florida Writers Association, for telling me what I knew but needed to hear. Finally, thank you to Oliver Holmes, who held me accountable when I needed someone to do that.