Chapter 67

67

An open tract of land somewhere deep within the mountains. A foundation that has been re-laid in the middle of a clearing. The air feels familiar here. I’ve smelt these trees before. I’ve tasted their moisture. Jamie looks at me, beaming. Jamie closes the passenger side door and it echos against the rock walls surrounding us. Jamie grabs a hold of my right hand and squeezes. Jamie jumps up onto the hood of Jamie’s Subaru and lights a cigarette. Jamie brushes her hair from her face. Jamie’s squeeze gets tighter. Jesus Christ, I think to myself. I’ve been here before. Is this what I think it is?

I remember, jarringly, a moment twenty-two years ago. Piled collections, setting them afire, ridding myself of everything I’d ever wanted...never wanted. I left them burning in the living room while I retired to my office...to sleep...to dream...forever?

The smoke seeped in under the door, memories billowing in, enveloping me within. I felt, tasted, metallic. That was my unravelling. I wasn’t patient enough. She wasn’t patient enough. And that was our unravelling.

Twenty-two years ago she was nowhere near, but now she stands beside me, squeezing my hand tightly, firmly, lovingly. Twenty-two years ago I was ready to burn. And now...

“Look familiar?” Jamie asks me, softly, like a kiss.

“Are we really here...together?” The words sound distant. Not my own.

“I bought the land after the divorce. I leveled the remains of the house a couple of years ago. I just couldn’t let them sit here like...like...”

“Ruins?”

“Yeah. Like ruins.”

I let go of her hand and walk the foundation, entering through the door she first walked through on that chilly night in September . Into the hallway where she fell, sobbing, into my arms. Into the living room and on into the bedroom. Our bedroom. Our bed. Our chest of drawers. Pictures hung on the walls, pictures of her and I, pieces of our life together. You could connect them like stars, a constellation, a larger representation of a collective us.

She used to keep a bottle of pills on the night-stand, next to the bed, in-between the lamp and the alarm clock. They used to help her sleep on nights when the thunder would shake the house like a tree. She would curl up next to me, finding her way into every soft nook of my body, as if she were hiding from the storms themselves. And in a way she was. She was always hiding from the storm of life, the turmoils that shake us all like leaves on the proverbial tree.

I’m biting my finger nails, almost viciously, as I walk through the kitchen. We made dinners together, on the nights when I was in town. We drank wine and listened to the wind. Occasionally we’d put on a record and dance while cooking, singing into our spatulas and spoons. She’s wearing her favorite pair of jeans and wool socks, which float along the linoleum dance-floor, effortlessly. She’s smiling enough for the both of us, ear to ear, cheek to cheek. She grabs me by the waist and stares up into my eyes while mouthing the words to the new Talking Heads album:

Home is where I want to be, but I guess I’m already there.

“Jamie and I have been saving to rebuild your old house,” she says, startling me back into reality. She’s found her way onto the foundation, back into my home that she left so long ago.

“I know it’s sounds sentimental, and probably crazy, but I wanted to live here again. I loved being in these woods with you. We need to get out of that city, out of the suburbs and into something that feels a bit more like home.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” I reply, as she slides her arm around my waist.

“You could live here too, with us, if you wanted.”

“But I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.”

“Neither do I,” she says as the wind picks up around us. “But at least it’s something we can look forward too. At least it’s a tomorrow.”

Which is more than we had. Much more than we used to have.