Sunny, Rainy Days

The day I moved to America it was raining.

Maybe if it were a cloudy, gloomy day it would have actually made me feel better in my quiet anger. A dreary setting to match my dreary mood. But no, despite the pouring rain, the sun was shining brilliantly.

“Welcome to America, Lorraine,” the sun was saying, while the rain added “It’s highly unlikely to suit you.”

This was confirmed the moment we left the crowded airport in Orlando, when the heat and humidity hit me like a train, adding to my bleakness.

I feel my mood grow worse with each unremarkable house that we pass on our new street, every one of them looking just like the last.

As we come to a stop in our concrete driveway, I take in the pale yellow paint on the stucco walls, the slightly slopped brown roof, unremarkable front lawn, and landscaping, and I feel the bars sliding to close me into my new life.

Michel turns to the back and addresses the children. “Nous sommes chez nous.” We are home.

“It’s not very big,” observes Sophie, tilting her head to the side, causing her blonde waves to fall over one shoulder.

“It doesn’t have to be dummy, there’s only four of us,” taunts Léon.

I am at my wit’s end after traveling for 15 hours with seven year old twins, complete with a groggy three hour layover in New York City that tested the limits of our patience and sanity.

“Arrêt,” I snap. “Let’s go.”

We unload our luggage and shuffle into the entry. Standing in the foyer, the silence ringing with disappointment, it occurs to me that I’m to furnish and decorate our new home. Our belongings are being shipped on a freight boat, and are not due for another week, at best. I glance at the hangdog faces and know that it’s up to me to turn this around.

I may not want to be in America, but the fact is that we live here now. I can make sure my children aren’t as miserable as I am.

“Alors,” I say brightly, clapping my hands. “Let’s pick our rooms, yes? We can go this week and pick out paint colors.”

That does the trick, and the kids run off to fight over rooms with smiles on their faces. “See,” Michel smiles at me. “It’s going to be great.” I suppress the eye roll and nudge him in the side. “We shall see. Come, let’s unpack the car.”

I decide later that week that I’ll be happier in my home if the outside is something more to my style and liking. I miss my old home fiercely, and I know that if I can bring some of that charm to America, that this one will make me happier. After all, where else do I have to be all day? I know nothing of America, and no one in it.

Yes, this will be a good thing.

The next day, I get to work.

***

“Excuse me, miss. What do you think you’re doing?”

I pause in the act of painting the walls of my house and look over at the source of the sharply delivered question. In the yard next to mine stands an old man of about sixty or seventy years old, based on his stooped stature and white hair. He glares at me through thick eyeglasses, and I’m puzzled at his harsh demeanor.

“Bonjour!” I call out, deciding to smile and wave. I’m sure he’s just gruff on the outside.

“I asked you a question, lady. You don’t have HOA approval to be painting your house!”

Alors. The gruffness appears to be inside, too.

“HOA?” I ask, confused.

“Homeowners association?” He says, his tone implying that I’m an idiot for not knowing.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I do not understand.”

He just eyeballs me derisively before shaking his head. “You will soon,” he says. Throwing one last sneer over his shoulder, he goes into his house and slams the door.

I shrug, going back to my painting. I’m pleased with the light cream color. It looks much better than the ugly light yellow and will make the light blue shutters that I plan to install pop in a lovely way. I finish painting the exterior the next day, and I’m already feeling much better about making this home mine. I want to add in a sort of front courtyard that will complement the garden that I’ve sketched out, similar to my one from France.

When I’m done for the day, I decide to check the mail, and as I open the only letter inside, my good mood comes crashing down around me. I read and reread the notice quickly, which is signed by a Mr. Malcolm Dolan, threatening a large fine for breaking the bylaws of our HOA contract.

I look up to see my neighbor leaning against his open garage door, smirking at me. Who, according to the address below his name, is one Mr. Dolan.

The President of the HOA.

I march over to him, letter clenched in my hand.

“You let me paint that entire house without telling me that I would be fined!” I accuse him, shaking the letter in his face.

He has the audacity to narrow his eyes and point his finger at me.

“You should have read the bylaws when you signed your mortgage! You have to come to the board with a plan and request permission!” He grits out. “I’m sick of people coming into this neighborhood and thinking they can do whatever they want to their houses. They don’t maintain their landscaping; they leave kiddie toys all over the lawn and cheapen our property value. And I’m especially sick of tourists coming to my state and taking over!” He ends on a shout, causing me to back up with wide eyes.

“You’re a monster,” I manage. “We just moved from overseas, and my husband and I had to take care of everything over the internet. You have no idea how much of a struggle it’s been to come to this country, and this is how you greet your new neighbors? I’d rather live on a deserted island than be next to you!”

He leans closer. “Then go back to your country and leave us in peace.” he hisses before turning on his heel and going inside. The door slams, and the garage door starts to come down, effectively ending our communication and leaving me seething.

***

What follows is two months of spiteful back and forth between me and Mr. Dolan, though with my husband’s advice, I brought the entire HOA board into our communication thread. We speak via email now. I’ve no intention of having any further interactions with that man. I get the board to approve my paint, with much grumbling by Mr. Dolan, and for the entirety of the two months, he makes it almost impossible to get the most minute changes approved.

We finally settle on the scope of work, and I’m hateful as can be about it because I know that he made it much more difficult than it needed to be. Still, having finished the negotiations, I’m now free from this horrible man.

Or so I thought.

A few days after the final approval, I’m in the front garden sowing seeds that I hope will bloom into lavender and roses and other beautiful plants. It’s sunny and hot, but now that it’s November, it’s only around 80 degrees. I scoff at myself. Before Florida, I never would have considered 80 degrees to be pleasant.

Michel is on the ladder cleaning our gutters, and suddenly I hear a shout of surprise. I look up and can only stare in horror as my husband falls over 10 feet onto his back, landing on the driveway.

I scream and run over to him.

“Michel! Are you alright? Oh, Michel, open your eyes, please!”

I shake his still body, causing his head to wobble to the side, and he’s not waking up. There is no blood that I can see, but he’s not waking up! I’m putting my finger under his nose to feel if he’s breathing when Sophie and Léon come running out of the front door, no doubt alerted by my scream.

Sophie starts screaming, and I shout over her. “Léon, call 911!” He just stares in shock at his father. “Léon! Maintenant, go quickly!”

“Oh dear, is he alive? I heard your screams,” says a voice behind me. I turn frantically and see a tiny older woman who appears to be bald with a head scarf around her scalp. She’s in a dressing gown and holding a cordless phone. “I’ll phone the ambulance for you, okay?” I nod frantically, and turn back to my husband, who is looking up at me with a dazed look in his eyes.

“Oh, thank God, Michel! Are you hurting? Do you know where you are?”

“Lorraine? I…I-how did,” he stutters, looking confused.

“You fell off the ladder,” I offer. The woman comes up to us both. “Oh good, he’s awake.” I go to sit him up and she stops me. “No dear, better let the paramedics put in on the stretcher with a neck brace. They’ll want to take him to the hospital and check him over.”

I look back to my kids who are now huddled on the front stoop, holding each other, and crying silently. She follows my gaze. “If you like, I can stay with them,” she says kindly. “I’ve raised five children of my own and we have several grandchildren. I’m Ellie Dolan, your neighbor.”

I startle, completely at odds with the fact that this kind woman is married to such an ogre. She must sense my hesitation. “Here, let me give you my number. I assure you; I want nothing more than to help. I know how it feels to need it, and I’m happy to offer some for once.”

The sirens in the background make the decision for me. I can’t leave him right now. I show her inside and leave her in the hands of the children, after threatening to punish them severely if they misbehave for this kind woman and cause me more stress, before following the ambulance to the emergency room. Michel is thoroughly checked over and given a prescription to help manage the pain of his concussion and bruised body.

Over the next months, Ellie and I get to know each other much better. She comes over for tea when we’re both feeling lonely, and we learn about each other’s lives and families.

She tells stories of raising children and growing old with her childhood sweetheart, and I can’t help but soften at the thought of a gentler and more loving Malcolm. I learn that she is in the final stages of cancer, and I’m devastated to learn that she wasn’t given much longer to live.

***

The morning of her funeral was one of the harder things I’ve had to face. Ellie became a dear friend to me at a time when we both needed one. I sit in the pew of the church and listen to the many stories told about Ellie, from various periods in her life. Her children want us to remember her kindness, and her ability to make every occasion special. Her church friends want us to remember her generosity. When it’s Mr. Dolan’s turn to speak, he’s overcome with emotion. Instead, he folds his notes back up, and coughs out a sob, before going back to his seat, with his shoulders slumped.

After the service, I go and surprise him with a strong hug. He looks taken aback.

“Your wife became a truly wonderful friend to me in her final months,” I say. “She would not want me to continue my ill will towards you, and I find that I don’t want that either.” He can only nod, and I take my leave.

In the end, I give him two full weeks of mourning behind closed doors, and shuttered windows before I have enough. He’s not been outside once that I’ve seen, which is very unlike him. Knowing that he’s lost not only the love of his life, but also quite possibly the only person to help take care of him, I make my move.

Armed with a bag of groceries and supplies, I gather my children and go knock on his door. He takes forever to shuffle to the door and looks at me blearily when it opens.

“Lorraine?” he questions, looking confused. “Do you need something?”

“Oui,” I say. “We’re coming to share a meal with you. Care to let us in?”

He looks bewildered but stands to the side to allow us inside. I show myself to the messy kitchen and put everything down on the table.

“Sophie, get started on the dishes. Léon, go and open all of the curtains, and then come back to sit with Mr. Dolan while I make tea. Allez!”

Malcolm stares at us with a blank look on his face and sinks down into a chair. “What on earth is going on?”

“I made a promise to my friend to look after you, and I intend to keep it. Now, where is your kettle? I’ll put on tea while I make dinner.” My tone offers no room for argument, and after that we enjoy a home cooked meal together, while the kids entertain him with stories from school.

I come over the next morning with coffee and homemade croissants, none of those American imposter pastries, and we relax on his back patio. “Thank you for coming over last night,” he says, sipping his coffee. “I’d lost the desire to cook for myself. And your kids are something else.” He chuckles. “It’s been so long since my kids and grandkids have been that young.”

“Do they live near?”

“No, they all live in Ohio, where we’re originally from. We were snowbirds, me and my Ellie. It look us a long time to leave them, and I foolishly thought I’d get a second chapter in my life. For twenty five years there was always a little voice at my elbow, asking for attention, or for help. I always thought that when they were grown up, I’d have time to travel and finally finish projects that I spent years starting. And now that I get to this point in my life, I realize that there really isn’t much that I want to accomplish on my own. There isn’t anywhere I’d like to visit without her. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

I sit quietly for a bit and take that in.

“Nonsense,” I say. “There may not be anything more to accomplish, but there is plenty to experience. And as someone new to American, and to Florida, I think I’m going to make a list for us.”

***

Over the years, Malcolm has many experiences with my family. He and I visit cafes and restaurants in Winter Park, tasting Turkish food, Asian food, and a new one for us both, sushi. The hilarity of that watching his reaction was worth my squeamishness of trying raw fish for the first time. I teach him to cook many French dishes in my kitchen, and Michel coaches him on what wines go with each dish.

We see films and plays and take the children to see The Nutcracker one Christmas. We join a book club together and meet with our new friends each month to discuss our latest reads, spending long evenings on his back patio drinking wine and talking about the characters like they’re real.

Michel and I invite him along to stroll through Leu Gardens and browse the art museum. Malcolm has more fun than the kids at the Science Center, and we spend each Christmas together, sharing traditions and merging them together. Malcolm becomes like a grandfather to my children, and when he passes as the age of 90, it’s to our absolute devastation.

I find myself overcome with emotion at his funeral, and it’s almost more than I can bear. But I steel my backbone once I get a look out past the church windows. It’s raining and the sun is shining.

I walk to the front when it’s my turn to speak. Taking a deep breath, I choke back the tears. He couldn’t speak at Ellie’s funeral, and he told me once how it gutted him. I will do this for them both.

“When I met Malcolm, it wasn’t the best introduction. He accused me of trying to ugly up his neighborhood, and I accused him of being insufferable. It was an opinion that I greedily hung onto for quite some time. And then I met his Ellie, who was a friend to me when I had none. And I realized that his angry demeanor was nothing but a reflection of his feelings of being helpless in watching his beloved wife fade from this life.

“After that, my only friend for a while was Malcolm. He showed me what it means to love so intensely that the thought of his spouse in pain was enough to make him furious enough for a thousand men. And after she passed, he taught me that it’s possible for a person to change, and to embrace all that life has to offer. He laughed with me, and he read with me, and he enjoyed all of the experiences that he could get out of life. And most importantly he taught me that fierce and undying love is worth holding onto. And I’ll always remember him as my dearest friend. For even now, as heaven cries in mourning for him, the sun is shining brightly. Because he is with his true love. At peace.”

I smile through my tears.

The End

“Excuse me, miss. What do you think you’re doing?”