He even blotted the oil before he moved onto the next tortilla. It was truly a joy to watch him cook with such care and efficiency, the way he seemed to do pretty much everything.
When he was finished, I helped him set up our taco building station in the center of the table. Spread out before us were crispy taco shells, shredded chicken and lettuce, shredded pepper jack cheese, avocados, diced tomatoes, sour cream, and salsa. There was even a couple bottles of ice-cold beer and a small bowl with a mixture of diced onion and cilantro.
I laughed as I sat down and gaped at the spread. “Are you secretly a chef?”
He smiled as he took the seat across from me. “Just call me Bobby Filet.”
I laughed harder. “It’s Bobby Flay.”
“What’s the difference?” he replied, sounding genuinely confused. “Hey, I called a couple of glass contractors today and I think I can get your window all fixed up by next Thursday.”
“How much is it going to cost?” I asked, trying not to sound too worried, but I was unsuccessful.
He waved off my obvious concern. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got it covered. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to town on these tacos. I’m dining on my guts here.”
I laughed as I took his cue to begin building my taco. “Dining on your guts?” I asked. “Is that some kind of military saying?”
“Not really. It’s just something my dad used to say all the time. I guess it’s a Minnesota thing.”
“Minnesota? So you’re not from Oregon?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
I never really believed he was a native Oregonian. Actually, now that I thought about it, that accent I couldn’t quite place did sound sort of Midwestern.
He stuffed his taco shell with all the fixings. “No, ma’am. I know my Oregon accent is very convincing, but I did not grow up here. I’m a Midwestern boy through and through. Though, if I’m being honest, I don’t really miss shoveling snow all that much.”
“Thanks for lunch, by the way. I was ready to stuff my face with burgers after I dropped off your lasagna. I’m starving.”
“Starving, huh?” he said, then he took a loud, crunchy bite from his monstrous taco.
I stabbed a slice of avocado with my fork and laid it gently on top of the shredded chicken in my shell. “Yeah, I know. You probably think I’m this skinny because I don’t eat, but it’s not by choice. I just… can’t really eat when I’m anxious, and lately, that’s pretty much all the time.”
He smiled as he reached for his bottle of beer. “Well, I’m glad you’re not anxious now. I must be doing something right.”
I took a bite of my taco and cherished the silence as I tried to think of a less awkward topic than my anxiety. “I’d say you did a lot of things right yesterday. But I do have a few questions, if you don’t mind,” I said before I could stop myself. My curiosity was getting the better of me.
“Ask away,” he said, then he shoved the rest of the taco into his mouth.
Even watching him eat was satisfying. But I told myself it was just my motherly instincts kicking in. I enjoyed watching him eat the way a mother would enjoy watching a growing boy eat. My stomach ached a bit at that thought.
Somehow, I was able to take a breath and push past it to carry on eating. “Actually,” I began, grabbing a bit more cheese for my taco, “I hope I’m not overstepping, but I was wondering if you might tell me what’s up with all the text messages and voicemails on your phone.”
He paused to finish the enormous bite of food he was still chewing. “Did you listen to those?”
My eyes widened with shock. “Of course not.”
He laughed. “I’m kidding,” he said, grabbing another taco shell. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not out here trying to break hearts. That’s why I make it clear I only do no-strings-attached flings. But some girls just have a little trouble letting go.”
I took a long sip of beer then set down the bottle. His blasé attitude about having no-strings-attached sex seemed to contradict the helpful, salt of the earth Midwestern boy I thought he was. Maybe the country boy thing was just a shtick.
“So all those missed calls and messages are from spurned ex-lovers?”
He smiled again. “Nope, now I get to ask you something.”
I scrambled for another question to ask before the tables were turned. “Wait. One more question.”
He shook his head. “One more, then it’s my turn.”
“Deal. What’s the first thing people usually ask when they find out you served three tours?”
“If I’ve killed anyone,” he replied flatly, then he was silent for a moment. “Wanna pass me the avocado?”
He didn’t have to answer the question. His avoidance made me think it was a subject he didn’t want to expand on, and I didn’t blame him one bit.
“This is really selfish of me, but I have one more question.”
He nodded as I passed him the avocado, but he didn’t look up at me. “Shoot.”
I waited a moment, trying to talk myself out of asking the question, then I realized I couldn’t. I was just too damn curious.
“Why was your phone in my pocket yesterday?” I held my breath as his body froze. “Sorry, but you have to understand it’s a little… disconcerting.”
He drew in a long breath, releasing it as he sat up straight. “Laurel, you seem like a smart lady,” he began, and my stomach clenched as I prepared myself for something bad, though I had no idea what it could be. “You’ve probably deduced by now that Boomer is my service dog, and I’m not missing any limbs.” He looked me in the eye, but I waited for him to continue. “I am, however, missing a few screws, as they say. I… I suffer from fairly severe PTSD, and sometimes, when I get very stressed, I disassociate.”
“Disassociate? Does that mean, like, you have another personality? Or do you mean that you lose time, like blacking out or something?”
“The second one. I lose time. Sometimes, when I have trouble dealing with… stuff, my brain will just go into autopilot. And I’ll find stuff I’ve done that I have no recollection of, like putting that phone in your pocket.” He shook his head as he looked at his hands. “I must have picked up the phone when it dropped and slid it into your pocket while I was carrying you or when I put you in the truck. I honest to God can’t remember. And that’s… really fucking scary. I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer for you.”
I smiled. “That’s a more detailed answer than I anticipated. Thank you.”
He looked confused. “For what?”
“For being honest. But… you still didn’t fully answer my question about the missed calls and voicemails.”
He set down his taco shell. “I don’t think you want to know.”
“Well,” I said, grabbing my beer again, “I actually do want to know. I mean, if you’re getting calls from bill collectors or something, I’d like to know so I don’t let you pay for my stupid window.”
He chuckled. “I paid cash for this house we’re sitting in. I have zero debt. Does that ease your mind?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I guess I can deal with that… for now.”
He nodded. “Hmm… I do enjoy a persistent woman.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, his eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
I waved off his apology. “I know. It’s fine.” I took a few more bites in silence. “So, do you think you have time to teach me a little about gardening? Tomorrow’s my day off and I’m…” My voice cracked and I coughed as my throat suddenly went dry, as if my body was trying to prevent me from saying these words. “Excuse me. What I was going to say is that I’m trying to get the garden mostly cleaned up and replanted in the next two to three weeks. I could use the help.”
He nodded as he leaned back in his chair. “I think I can do that. What is it you want to learn?”
“Well, honestly, everything my mom taught you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Have you noticed that s
ometimes you talk about your mom in present tense and sometimes you refer to her in past tense.”
I paused as a wave of emotion crashed over me. “You’re not the first person to notice that,” I said, as I began wringing my hands. “Before I moved into her house, it was easier for me to pretend that she was still there, in that house with that beautiful garden, than to accept that I’ll never see her again.”
I grabbed the untouched napkin and dabbed the corners of my eyes.
He watched me unguardedly as I wiped a steady stream of tears. “I’m thinking about getting another property with more land to cultivate. Most of the time, I feel like I’m outgrowing this house,” he began, as if I hadn’t just admitted to pretending my dead mother is still alive.
I covered my face with the napkin as I felt irrationally used. I knew Isaac wasn’t using me for anything. I was the one who’d been on the receiving end of his kindness and generosity. But I had just shared with him something I had yet to admit to anyone, not even myself, and he wanted to talk about cultivating? It was almost as if he was pretending the conversation hadn’t taken a turn the same way I pretended my mother was still alive.
He cleared his throat. “When I came home after my last tour, I found out my twin brother, Dane, had gotten my fiancée pregnant.”
I slowly removed the napkin from my face to look at him.
He had a far-off look in his eyes as he stared at the surface of the table. “I survived three tours in enemy territory, only to come home and be stabbed in the back by my own blood.”
I sniffed loudly. “The ones we love are the ones with the power to hurt us most.”
He looked up at me with fierce anger. “Family should mean something,” he began. “But what did I do when my brother tried to ask for my forgiveness? I ignored him like a piece of trash on the side of the fucking road.”
I thought of Jack and his motto that he repeated so many times: Fuck forgiveness. All I want is revenge.
I wiped the last bit of moisture from my eyelashes. “Forgiveness isn’t that easy. You can’t be so hard on yourself. If those missed calls are from your brother, that means he still cares. You’ll call him when you’re ready.” Even as I said the words, I knew I was reassuring myself that I would go home to Jack when I was ready, too.
He flinched at my words. “You don’t understand. I left everyone back home behind and moved here four months after my tour ended. I hoped I’d never see them again.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Two weeks later, my brother hung himself.”
His hands were balled up in fists, the muscles in his forearms corded with anguish. I worried he would split the stitches on his hand, but he didn’t seem to mind the pain. He probably welcomed it.
“I don’t know if the nightmares and flashbacks will ever go away,” he continued, “but I do know that I learned an important lesson in the Marines: family isn’t always the people you share blood with. I lost brothers overseas — not just to violence, mostly to madness. It’s hard not to let that shit consume you when you feel so isolated. That’s why I try to avoid meeting new people, unless I’m drunk out of my gourd. I feel like everyone’s staring at me. Like they can see all the horrible things I’ve done just by looking at me.”
The tears returned, but now they were for Isaac. This man who had obviously decided he’d caused enough death, and now he was busily trying to fill the world with as much life as possible.
I sniffed a few more times before I responded. “Trust me when I say that you can’t blame yourself for something someone else did. I’ve been doing it for two years and it destroyed me and my marriage.”
He glanced up at me, then turned away again. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’ll always wish I had forgiven him. Or that I’ll never be able to face my family again.”
We finished our lunch in relative silence, then he refused to allow me to do the dishes, claiming he’d toss them in the dishwasher later. When we entered the living room, Boomer stood at attention.
Isaac scratched the tan fur on the top of his head. “You can pet him. That whole ‘don’t pet him because he’s a service dog’ thing is only applicable when we’re not home.”
I squatted beside Boomer to scratch behind his ears and I laughed as he began licking my face.
Isaac watched us with a huge grin. “You know, dogs are great for anxiety. It’s proven that petting a dog will lower your blood pressure and your heart rate.”
I stood up and smiled as Boomer looked up at Isaac with a serious expression, as if he was waiting for a command. “That is one good pupper,” I said.
“The best,” he replied, turning back to me. “So seven a.m. gardening lesson tomorrow?”
I shook my head. “Nine a.m. It’s my day off.”
He laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”
19
Laurel
A few weeks later
At our second counseling session, Jack surprised me by showing up at Bonnie’s office in a suit. I loved it when he wore any kind of clothing that was snug-in-all-the-right-places. But in a suit, he looked so fucking dapper, and that tie was basically a huge arrow pointed at the bulge in his crotch. I shook my head to clear the haze of lust.
Bonnie asked if the exercises she had assigned had worked to help us open up new lines of communication. We sheepishly admitted that we hadn’t had much time to practice them since we had been living mostly on opposite sides of the world for the past three weeks. At least, Jack was able to close the deal with the Japanese app developer and arrived back in Portland two days ago.
“How does it make you feel that you didn’t get to try out the exercises?” Bonnie asked us, though she was clearly looking at me.
I shrugged. “Honestly, it was sort of expected.”
Jack laughed. “Here we go again.”
I stuck my tongue out at him and he shook his head in dismay at my childish teasing. I couldn’t help it. I was in a good mood and happy to finally get to see Jack again.
He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You just wait. I’ll get you back when we leave.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.
Bonnie giggled. “It’s very encouraging to see you two in good spirits, even if you weren’t able to practice the exercises. How about this? Let’s do some communication exercises right here in the office. Does that sound good to you?”
I glanced at Jack and I was afraid his head would explode from all the cynical comments he was surely holding back. “Sounds good to me,” I said with a shit-eating grin.
Jack smiled. “Bring on the communication.”
Bonnie asked us to turn toward one another and say some things we appreciated about the other person. Jack surprised me by telling me he appreciated that I was fiercely trying to hold him to his word. I told him how much I appreciated him being true to his word. Then, Bonnie asked us to say something we loved about the other person.
I loved that Jack remembered all our important dates, like anniversaries and birthdays. And how much I loved that he’d made it back from Japan in time to attend the counseling session and go to the cemetery with me on my mother’s birthday.
Then, Jack looked me in the eye and said, “I love you for giving me the best eight years of my life, even the last two.”
I fell apart. I cried so long he had to take me in his arms and stroke my hair to make the tears stop.
Once I had composed myself, Bonnie suggested we each find separate support groups for grieving parents, then she asked us to try getting together to do the communication and gratitude exercises in person. I didn’t mind driving to Hood River on my days off.
I’d made good progress on the garden these past few weeks. Isaac had taught me a lot about composting and seeding and plant hardiness zones. He even trimmed the overgrown shrubs and trees for me. I was very proud of all we’d accomplished.
But I had to leave before things with my tattooed neighbor got too complicated. When I told Jack about Isaac a couple of weeks ago, he wa
s as surprised as I was to find out that the handsome neighbor my mother had talked about so much was a real person. When I told him I asked Isaac to teach me everything my mom taught him, he wasn’t quite as amused.
I assured Jack that Isaac was very respectful of the fact I’m married. But I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t admit that, at times, it seemed Isaac wanted to be more than just my teacher.
Nevertheless, I still had two things to do before I could set the garden on autopilot and head home to Hood River. I had to put up the galvanized mesh to keep out critters, and I had to transplant my mom’s bay laurel tree into a different corner of the backyard, where it would have more room to grow and thrive in full sunlight. The trunk of my SUV was full of soil, burlap, and other things Isaac insisted I needed to ensure the tree wouldn’t die in surgery.
But first, I had to visit my mom for her birthday. I was both happy and relieved beyond words when Jack followed me to the cemetery. I would need all the support I could get.
* * *
The grave marker read:
BETH ANNE KELLER
09/13/1964 - 08/14/2015
Loving grandmother and mother,
faithful sibling and friend.
She gave her family and this world
all she had, till the very end.
I set down the bouquet of chrysanthemums Vera had assembled for me this morning. It was my mother’s favorite flower, the one she’d held when she married my father.
I wiped tears from my face as Jack arrived at the grave. “I brought some gardening stuff with me from the store. I’m going to transplant my mom’s laurel tree.” I looked up at him and he flashed me a soft smile. “This is probably going to sound weird, but I was hoping to take some dirt from both of their graves to sprinkle into the soil. Just a handful. But I totally forgot to bring a spade.”
His smile widened. “That’s what these big grabbers are for, baby. Well, among other things,” he replied with a wink.