* * *
The first week of December, I am in the bathtub and hear the front door open. “In here,” I call out to Harrison. It’s only seven, but he’s been coming home earlier recently and I’m trying not to get spoiled, while relishing the luxury of extra time spent with him.
“Hi,” he says when his body fills the doorframe of our bathroom. He’s flushed, grinning, and I stare up at him curiously. “I had a good day,” he says.
“You had a good day,” I repeat.
He nods and I can’t help but return his smile, get infected by his happiness.
“Come here,” I say, and when he gets close enough, I reach up for the buttons of his shirt, clutch the material in my hands and pull him toward me, his lips toward mine, and I kiss him fully, roundly. I kiss him until we’re both lost, and then whether I pull him over the edge or he rolls over it is unclear, but suddenly he’s in the bath with me, his shirt and pants drenched by the water. We keep kissing, both pretending it’s comfortable—the slipping and knocking of knees and elbows on the hard porcelain—until we can’t pretend any longer. And then he stands up, taking half the tub of water with him, and he picks me up like I’m light as air and takes me to the bed and I let him and I’m laughing and crying because I know in that moment that though my husband came home months ago, he is finally home.
Chapter 28
It’s one of those perfect almost-winter days. The sky is a radiant blue, the sun merely a decorative ornament of yellow—it does nothing to change the cold, crisp air of the afternoon. The first snow fell two days ago, just a few inches, and pockets of it remain, hugging the bottoms of lampposts, slippery stubborn patches on the sidewalk that refuse to melt. We’re standing in front of the True Value, watching our breath come out in big puffs. Harrison holds my gloved hand in his and I catch him staring at me for the third time in as many minutes. “What? Do I have something on my face?”
“No, can’t a man gaze at his wife?”
“I guess. It just feels like you’re laughing at me or something.”
“Never. Just thinking how beautiful you are.” He studies me. “Your cheeks are extra rosy.”
“It’s this freaking wind!” I stamp my feet trying to warm up. “I don’t know why I ever thought Hope Springs wasn’t as cold as Philadelphia.”
He wraps his arms around me. “I would go get us hot chocolate, but Gabriel would never forgive me if I missed him.”
We are at the Hope Springs Christmas parade, though it’s more of a festival—a holiday extravaganza—with thousands of tiny white lights and a lineup of activities after the parade: a choir performance and a Santa appearance, even fireworks. When we got the flyer in the mail, I left it on the counter. I wasn’t sure if Harrison would feel up to coming, but he said he promised Gabriel at Whitney’s last checkup and here we are.
We wait on the sidewalk, watching the baton twirlers and a man on stilts throwing candy to the children lined up along the route, followed by train of convertible cars, one carrying the waving mayor, one a local real estate celebrity and one a woman in a crown and lipstick, her fur shrug covering the banner across her chest, rendering it unclear what pageant she has bested.
We hear it before we see it, the marching band, enthusiastically out of tune. Four dozen ruddy cheeks peeking out from beneath the brims of their stiff hats. Harrison spots Gabriel in the back, his tongue pressed firmly between his lips as he concentrates on the rhythm of his sticks on the drum.
Harrison is smiling at the boy and he catches a glimpse of Harrison and smiles back, stumbling a bit and missing a beat. I watch them, my husband and this boy, and I am no longer cold. The hope of what could still be warms me.
After the parade, we walk around, buying a bag of spiced nuts and hot chocolate, and then when we get closer to the town square, Gabriel comes flying at us, his eyes bright with excitement. Whitney trails him, trying to keep up.
“You came!”
“I said I would.”
“I messed up when I saw you.”
“I thought you did great.”
“Hi, there.” Whitney offers a kind smile and a small wave when she reaches us.
“Hi,” I reply, but Gabriel is still chattering on about the night’s festivities ahead of us, Santa and the fireworks.
“And did you see?” he says. “In the town square? It’s a carousel!”
Chapter 29
Oliver
It doesn’t matter where he’s been—a mountain eco-lodge in Peru or a high-rise condo in Khartoum—Philadelphia always looks dirtier when he returns, as if an extra layer of dust has settled over the city, clinging to the buildings, the sidewalks, even the windshield of the Impala he’s in—an ancient model driven by a kid that doesn’t look old enough to drive, much less work for Uber.
Oliver stares out the window, at a businesswoman in a skirt suit and sneakers rushing past, a kid on a skateboard weaving in and out of pedestrians, a homeless man with matted white hair muttering to himself, and wonders, Why do I continue living here? What’s holding me to this city? The answer is nothing, save habit, and maybe his own apathy.
When the Uber comes to a stop in front of his apartment building, he grabs his oversize duffel bag out of the trunk and heaves it onto his back. Flanked by a sushi place to the left and a palm reader to the right, the familiar glass front door to his building looks exactly as he left it months ago—a spiderweb crack in the center that maintenance has yet to fix. Rita, the palm reader, stands guard at her usual position, eyeing him and holding a Virginia Slim, as he digs his keys out of his jeans pocket and unlocks the front door. “When you coming to see your future, boy,” she drawls in her indeterminate island accent, which he’s fairly certain is a put-on, and then blows out a never-ending exhale of smoke.
“You should know,” Oliver replies, completing their once-every-few-weeks exchange, and just like that, it feels like he hasn’t been gone at all. She cuts her eyes away and he slips in the door, greeted by the familiar warm stench of dead fish that wafts over from the sushi place next door. He goes through the foyer where the mailboxes are and to the stairs, which he takes two at a time, despite the extra weight of belongings on his back—and he thinks of Mia.
He hoped the distance between here and Finland would lessen the connection he felt, but unfortunately, it traveled well. Perhaps it would have helped if he had thrown out her letter after he got it, instead of taking it with him, rereading it ad nauseam, as if the words would change on the eighth, ninth or tenth evaluation.
He unlocks the dead bolt to his apartment and drops his bag as soon as he walks in the door. He meanders over to the kitchen counter, where his neighbor has left stacks of mail—mostly bills and advertising circulars. The red dot on the base of his cordless phone is blinking wildly, alerting him to messages. He needs to listen to them. Sort the mail. Shave. Unpack.