Apart at the Seams (8 page)

I remember slamming the door in his face and locking it, Brian shouting to let them in, that I was being ridiculous, that I'd brought it all on myself, and then pounding his fist against the door, shouting and pounding.

Gasping, I bolted upright in my bed. My heart was pounding, and my throat felt raw. My eyes were hot, filled with unshed tears.

I got up as quickly as I could, ran downstairs in my pajamas, grabbed a raincoat off the hook by the back door, stuffed my feet into a pair of green Wellington boots, snapped on the porch lights, and ran to the wall.

It was dark and raining, but it didn't matter. I was used to it by now; it had rained every day that week. I reached into the crate where I kept the dishes, grabbed a blue saucer, heaved it at the wall, and missed. No matter.

I grabbed a second saucer, a plate, two cups, a bowl, throwing them as hard and fast as I could against the wall of rounded stones, hurling curses, sobbing my frustration, howling for vindication, finding none.

I smashed every piece of crockery left in the crate, at least a dozen pieces, but it didn't help—not like it had before. Desperate for relief, frightened of my own fury, I looked around for something else to throw or kick or do. Something
I
could control.

A rusted shovel was resting against the silver-gray boards of the barn. I grabbed it, circled to the side of the house, and started digging.

The grass was soft after so many days of rain. My boots made muddy impressions in the sod as I pushed the metal blade into the ground and scooped up green shovelfuls of sod.

It was easy going at first, too easy, but the soil was harder a few inches below the sod, partially frozen and unyielding, studded with stones. I had to pound the blade against the dirt and stomp my foot against the top of the shovel to gain even a few inches' entrance into the earth. My breath became labored as I continued to dig, adding more and more soil to the growing pile, grunting as I wedged the metal blade under the edges of flinty stones, pried them loose, and tossed them into another pile, the cold rain falling from above, dripping from the edge of my hood and onto my bare hands so they slipped against the wooden handle of the shovel, making the work even harder.

I didn't care. I wanted it to be hard, so hard that it would tax every muscle of my body and clear every thought from my mind. I dug and grunted and sweated and cursed and cried, my tears mixing with the rain, sinking into the soil. I dug until my hands were blistered, until my arms were shaking and so heavy that I couldn't lift them.

After a time—I don't know how long—the sun rose and the rain stopped. So did I.

I loosened my grasp on the shovel and watched it drop to the ground, then trudged into the house, pulled off my boots and coat, and collapsed onto the living room sofa, too exhausted to climb the stairs.

It was enough. I was done.

S
omebody was knocking.

I sat up, blinking as my eyes adjusted to daylight and my brain cleared enough to remember what I was doing on the sofa and why my clothes were wet.

“Be right there!”

Maybe it was Drew. Or Jehovah's Witnesses. Who else could it be? I didn't know anyone in New Bern.

The man standing on the back porch had blue eyes and brown hair that needed trimming. Not a Jehovah's Witness. Jehovah's Witnesses had short hair and wore dress shirts and ties, not flannel shirts and jeans. My inner New Yorker felt nervous about opening the door to a strange man, but I did it anyway. I couldn't very well leave him standing there.

I opened the door a couple of inches, ready to slam it closed, just in case.

“I'm Dan.” When the announcement of his name elicited no spark of recognition from me, he said, “Dan Kelleher? Drew's dad?”

“Oh. Oh, right!” I grabbed his outstretched hand. “Hi!”

I knew about Drew's father, but we'd never met. If I hadn't been so groggy, I might have guessed. He had Drew's eyes and sharp-angled jaw. However, the senior Mr. Kelleher was just a little shorter than his son, probably about six-two, and more filled out. His voice was deeper, too, so deep he could have gotten a job as the midnight DJ on the cool-jazz radio station.

“Gayla Oliver,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

I opened the door wider and smiled, even though the act of smiling made my head hurt. What time was it? Late, I was sure—too late to be still in my pajamas and sporting a bed head.

“Would you like to come in?” I asked, sincerely hoping the answer was no.

“Just for a minute. I don't want to keep you from anything.”

He stepped through the door and scanned my kitchen, which was spotless. Aside from the books heaped on the table. And two empty bottles of scotch sitting on the counter.

“I have a cold,” I said, sniffling to back up my claim.

“Uh-huh,” he said, raising his eyebrows in a way that made it clear he wasn't buying my story. “You shouldn't go out in the rain like that. You could catch pneumonia.”

He'd seen me? Digging holes in the dark and rain in my pajamas? Great.

The Realtor, Wendy Whatever-Her-Name-Is, had sworn that the trees on our property were so thick the neighbors couldn't see us. I guess she was wrong.

Dan Kelleher shoved his hands in his pockets. “Listen, Mrs. Oliver . . .”

“Call me Gayla.”

“Gayla.” He nodded, cleared his throat, looked down at his shoes. “Right, Gayla. The thing is, I don't want to pry into your private business or anything, but with the leaves not out on the trees yet and our place so close to yours . . .” He lifted his eyes to mine. “It's just that the noise really carries, you know? And I have to get up pretty early these days.”

I felt my cheeks flush. I knew where this was going.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't realize. I've been having trouble sleeping lately and . . .” I shrugged and threw my hands out. “For some reason it just helps if I throw dishes at rocks. And curse.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, drawing out the first syllable and clipping the second, turning the affirmation into an expression of doubt. “And dig holes in the middle of the night?”

“Yes. Well. I wanted to get a start on my gardening.” I reached up to smooth down my damp hair. “Probably not a great idea in this weather.”

“Probably not. That's another reason why I came by. Thought you might want to borrow my rototiller.”

“Your rototiller?”

“It'll turn the soil about fifty times quicker than you can with a shovel, and it'll dig the beds deeper. You ever use one before?” I shook my head. “I'll show you how. The starter is a little temperamental, but you'll get the hang of it. How big a garden are you putting in?”

I coughed, buying time to come up with an answer that wouldn't make me sound any crazier than I already did.

“I hadn't quite decided. I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing,” I said, tilting my head toward the pile of books. “I've never gardened before.”

His eyebrows moved toward each other, becoming a singular, curious line. “Are you moving up here full-time?”

“No, no,” I assured him. “I'm just here for a few weeks. Or months. Not sure yet.”

“Vacation?”

Boy, this guy had a lot of questions. I thought New Englanders were supposed to be standoffish.

“More like . . . a sabbatical. I decided it was time to take a break, try a change of scenery. You know how it is.”

“Uh-huh,” he said again, picking up one of the books from the table. “What do you want to grow—flowers or vegetables?”

“Both?”

“Well, if you want flowers, start with day lilies. They're practically foolproof. Coneflowers are good too. Stay away from roses,” he advised, tossing aside
Rose Cultivation for Beginners
. “And peonies. And begonias. Definitely not orchids,” he said, discarding three more titles. “Vegetables are easy as long as you keep them weeded and watered. But steer clear of the exotic stuff—asparagus, artichokes, that kind of thing. Other than that, you should be fine.”

He extracted two books from the pile.

“Read these,” he commanded. “The others will just confuse you.”

I was about to ask him why he knew so much but then remembered that he owned a landscaping company. Plants were his business.

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. It was a relief to have my horticultural catalog winnowed down to two useful books. Maybe I would read them. In fact, I knew I would. Because whether I'd planned on it or not, I was going to have to put in a garden; the man was lending me his rototiller.

“Well, I should get going,” he said. “Come outside for a second, and I'll show you how to use the tiller. Or should I show your husband?”

“He's not here. Works in the city. Travels a lot. You know how it is.” I shrugged.

Once again, two eyebrows became one. This time, however, I got the feeling that he did know exactly how it was.

“Uh-huh. Well, if you need anything, just yell. Would you like me to bring in some more firewood? It's kind of cold in here. You ought to turn up the heat.”

“Oh,” I said, dismissing his offer with a wave of my hand. “The furnace is out. I need to call a repairman.”

“Really?” he asked, his expression making it clear that he found this much more interesting than anything I'd said previously.

“Let me take a look; might be something simple. Those furnace guys charge ninety bucks just to show up. Does this lead to the basement?”

He disappeared through the door before I had a chance to respond. I followed him. What choice did I have? Dan Kelleher was a take-charge kind of guy.

 

Rototilling, as it turns out, is extremely satisfying. I had no idea.

It took three tries before I got the engine to turn over, but once I did, the red monster bucked and roared, chewing up the ground and leaving a trail of espresso-colored earth in its wake. Keeping the machine on a semistraight path required physical strength, but I was focused and determined, gratified by the sensation of actually accomplishing something besides smoking, drinking, cursing, and smashing dishes.

I might not have planned to take up gardening. I'd have gone through with it only to keep Dan Kelleher from thinking I was a complete nut job, which he probably did anyway. But now that I was out here, I was really getting into it.

Watching the swaths of green disappear under the powerful churning of the blades made me feel powerful too. When that dark brown earth was cleared of stones and weeds and roots, freed from inertia and the presumptuous grass that grew there just because it always had, the patch of land could become anything I chose to make it. It was a clean slate, an empty canvas.

I could enclose it in white pickets and put in pathways of gray-white gravel or stepping stones and nested masses of moss that divided the space into identical and evenly placed beds, a tidy garden where flowers grew in orderly, color-coordinated rows, a sensible garden where no weed would dare to sprout. Or I could cut green branches from the saplings in the woods, then bend them and tie them and turn them into rustic trellises and archways covered with twisting green vines and flowers shaped like bells and trumpets. Or I could create a garden with no beds at all, no paths, no structure or reason, just one blue folding chair placed in the center so a person could rest and think, or rest and not think, as the sun shone down on a sea of brilliant wildflowers in blue, purple, orange, and pink, carelessly sown as I walked barefoot over the warm, soft earth, scattering seeds across the welcoming soil with wide and generous sweeps of my arm, leaving them to grow as they willed, leaving it to nature, knowing there are no ugly flowers.

Or, if I wanted to, I could grow vegetables: green beans and zucchini and peppers, and cherry tomatoes so small they could be popped whole into the mouth and so delicious they would never make it into the house because I would eat them while I stood in the garden, picking them from the vines and crushing them against the roof of my mouth, releasing sun-warmed juice that tasted like summer on my tongue.

I could grow lilies and pansies and carnations and irises. I could grow herbs or lavender. Or sweet-scented roses. Who cared what Dan Kelleher said about it being beyond me? He didn't know me. If I wanted to grow roses, then I would grow roses. Or peonies. Or anything else that struck my fancy. Because I could.

Because
I
could.

I stopped in my tracks. The tiller, blades still churning, bucked and urged me forward, but I stood where I was, struck by the enormity of that thought.

For the first time in my life, I was not responsible to or for anyone but myself. My parents were dead. My children were grown. My husband didn't love me anymore.

For different reasons and at different times of my life, the truth of those statements had brought me to tears and despair, made me feel empty and alone. But there was another way to look at it.

Empty. Alone. I've always associated those words with anguish, confusion, and, in some sense, failure. But if emptiness is a void, isn't it also the state that precedes fullness? Is it not a moment of supreme anticipation, the season of preparation when there are no rocks or roots or weeds or impediments before you, only bare earth and possibilities? And if being alone forces you to stand apart, doesn't it also separate you from the responsibility of bowing to the opinions and expectations of others?

For the first time in my life, I didn't have to please or answer to anyone but myself. I was empty. I was alone. I didn't belong to anyone.

What a relief.

A relief? Had I actually said that? Even in my own mind, had I actually allowed myself to think that the potential ending of my marriage was cause for relief?

But at that moment, it was true. Why try to pretend otherwise?

I pushed the tiller forward again, erasing another strip of green under the blades, trying to sort things out, to sieve out the guilt and see my feelings as they were instead of how I thought they were supposed to be.

For as long as I could remember, I'd had to worry about pleasing my parents, trying to live up to the expectations and role they had assigned me from birth. Then about being my children's mother, making sure they ate properly, brushed their teeth, learned to say “please” and “thank you,” knew that I loved them, believed in them, was always ready to go to bat for them. And then being Brian's wife, loving him, supporting him, trying to read his mood, to cheer him on, to fight fair, making allowances for him, excuses for him, making myself attractive for him, making a home for all of us, making more money so the whole burden of bills wouldn't fall on his shoulders, working at home, working at work, working at everything, trying to be the woman who “has it all” and, in the end, having nothing.

For the previous seven days, that knowledge had driven me to despair. But now I realized that having nothing meant that I, too, was a blank slate. I was free to be or do anything I chose.

So what did I choose? If I had only myself to please, what would please me? How did I want to spend my time, effort, thoughts, and heart? Where should I—

A tremendous clank-bang, a sound like a hammer striking a broken brass bell, jarred me from my thoughts. The red monster bucked and jerked. I lost my grip on the handlebars and jumped back, frightened. It bucked again and tipped onto its side with the motor still running and the blades churning, throwing clods of dirt into the air.

I switched off the engine as quickly as I could and knelt down to inspect the damage. I'd hit a rock, a big one. But there were no dents that I could see. Thank heaven! I really wasn't in the mood to explain a broken rototiller to Dan Kelleher.

He already thought I was crazy. He clearly hadn't bought my story about Brian not coming with me because he was traveling or about me being on sabbatical. Well, big deal. I wasn't trying to impress Dan Kelleher. I wasn't trying to impress anybody.

Besides that, I decided, I wasn't lying. I
was
on sabbatical. From here on out, if anybody asked me what I was doing in New Bern, I would say I was taking a sabbatical until the end of the summer. My seniors had all gotten their acceptance letters, so I could afford to take some time off. I needed a break—from everything.

Come fall, I could write that fifty-thousand-dollar check to Libby Burrell and start the ball rolling on the divorce. But right now and for the rest of the summer, I would take a step back, focus on myself, on living and enjoying my life. It occurred to me that Brian might file divorce papers before the end of summer. Well, if he did, then he did. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. In the meantime, I was on sabbatical.

Of course, most sabbaticals involve some sort of project, lists of goals and plans of action. Normally that sort of thing would be right up my alley, but not now. Now I wanted something new, and maybe the new thing I needed was
not
to have a plan.