Page 22 of This Life and All the Rest
“Sure,” I say, moving toward the fridge. Andrea takes Evelyn into the other room while I pull out the vegetables and something that looks like a TV dinner for babies.
“If you make me a list, I can get the groceries for you,” I call out to her as I follow the directions on the package, popping the little baby meal into the microwave, punching in thirty seconds, and hitting start. “It’s no problem.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice is softer now that the crying has stopped, and I round the corner into the living room to find her sitting on the couch breastfeeding Evelyn. “I don’t want to trouble you.”
The way she’s tiptoeing around me churns the guilt in my stomach. Would she be this way with Macon or Claire, or would she send them to the store with a grocery list without a second thought?
“I don’t mind. I need to get some stuff anyway,” I say honestly. “Shampoo and bodywash and stuff. I couldn’t bring everything I needed in my carry-on.” I sit lightly on the arm of the couch. “I’ll have to take your car, if that’s okay? But I really don’t mind.”
“Yes, of course that’s okay.” The genuine relief in her voice makes my eyes sting. “Bring me the pen and pad of paper from the kitchen counter. I’ve got a list already started. I’ll just finish it off for you.”
I wait while Andrea scrawls a few more things on the list and hands it to me. Evelyn looks like she’s falling asleep, which means she probably won’t even eat the food I heated up for her.
“Keys are hanging by the door, and my credit card is in my purse.”
I nod, wave awkwardly, then head toward the door, grabbing the keys but leaving Andrea’s card untouched. Dad’s keys are hanging on the hook next to Andrea’s and seeing them makes me want to cry. His car is sitting in the garage, untouched, waiting for him to come home. I bet it still smells like him. It’s only been a few days.
The urge to ask if I can drive Dad’s car is strong, but I hold back. It’s just a car. It’s not him, and it’s not like he’s dead.
Not yet, a small voice whispers.
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut in an effort to ignore that voice. We don’t know anything, yet. Dad could be fine. He could have minimal-to-no-long-term damage.
We just have to wait and see.
I climb into Andrea’s car, bring the seat back because she’s 5’4” and I’m 5’9”, and then I turn the car on and back out of the drive. The trip to the store seems to take longer than it used to. I find myself spending most of the drive scanning the houses, buildings, and trees to see how everything has changed. When I pass by the Franklin Youth Recreational Center, a deep pit forms in my stomach and my hands itch with the urge to turn the car around.
I don’t.
I pass the rec center and drive right to the grocery store. It’s not until after I’ve parked that I decide to walk the few blocks down the street back toward the center.
It’s a hot, sticky June day, so by the time I reach the familiar brick building, my face and body are dotted with sweat. The air conditioning offers a welcomed chill when I push through the doors.
I poke my head inside the office to see if I can find James, but he’s not there. The place looks tidier than I remember it being in high school. The lonely fern is gone, too. I walk out of the office and wander, taking note of all the improvements and additions that have been made since I was last here.
Everything looks brighter, like the paint on the walls has been freshened up, and there are pictures framed everywhere. One in particular catches my eye, and I find myself staring at a photograph of Macon wearing the Marine Corps dress blues, standing between James and Hank.
He looks so different.
He’s bigger in this photo, almost larger than life. A result of the uniform, perhaps. His hair is buzzed short under his white hat, his shoes shined and his clothing wrinkle-free. He’s even standing straight, with his shoulders wide and his strong chest puffed out with pride. I’ve never seen him stand so straight—Macon was always a sloucher—but the crooked smile is all him. The mischievous glint in his eyes is there, too. I want to reach out and touch the photograph. I want to see if his clean-shaven face is as smooth as it looks. If his lips are still as soft as I remember.
The photo is older, from probably two or three years ago, before Macon was discharged. I wonder what the Macon in the photograph was like. I wonder if I would have felt the same about him. I wonder, had I come back sooner, if this Macon and I could have had a chance.
I scoff at myself.
It wouldn’t matter.
This Macon is still the same Macon who abandoned me. Cleaning him up and putting him in a starched uniform doesn’t erase the damage done.
I turn from the photograph and continue to wander the halls.
There’s a boxing ring in the gym that I don’t remember, and new retractable divider walls to separate the two halves of the basketball court, too. When I turn down another hallway, my heart starts to thud faster. Excitement, fear. I can’t help but feel like I’m doing something I shouldn’t.
I’m just looking for James. That’s all.
I repeat that lie as I turn a doorknob and step into a room I haven’t seen in years. It smells of clay, and the sight of pottery wheels fills me with adrenaline. There used to only be a handful of wheels for the pottery classes, but the number has more than doubled now. I can’t know for sure, but the wheel at the front looks the same. It could be the one Macon used when he taught here.
I head toward the wheel, noting the old boom box sitting on a table next to it, but stop in my tracks when I see several pieces of pottery on shelves in the back of the room by a kiln. I walk toward them quickly. I might even run. I’m in such a daze, I can’t tell.
