Caramel Eyes

Looking up from my computer I see that the sky has turned that undefinable shade of grey, the one that promises snow. I take my cup of tea to the window and watch for the first flake to float down. Taking a mental tour of the pantry and the woodpile, I decided that yeah, we should be good and smile as the first one flutters by.

I smile because I remember that first sled ride. I'm bundled up in a snow suit, hood up, scarf around my neck, mittens on my hands. I'm sitting on the sled, beaming, squealing. Mickie is behind me, his short arms holding me, making sure I don't fall off. Okay, fine. I've seen the picture of dad pulling us along the sidewalk a thousand times. But I can remember it, almost.

Mickie was my best friend. We walked home from kindergarten together. He'd hold my hand when we'd cross the street. We made castles in the sandbox in the back yard. Watched cartoons, tickled and giggled, stuffed out faces with cookies and lemonade. We had sleepovers and talked in the dark, told fairy tales and ghost stories.

Then he went to first grade and left me in kindergarten. And I missed him.

Mick taught me the important stuff. How to shoot marbles, roller skate, ride a bike. He played "house" with me and then promptly "went to work". He knew the names of my dolls and would correct me when I'd forget. He showed me how to do math and rehearsed our French vocabulary. We had sleepovers and whispered in the dark, told each other our dreams and fears.

And then it wasn't cool anymore to have a friend that was a girl. And I missed him.

So, I wore jeans and sneakers. Never a skirt or cute sandals. Cut my hair short, figuring if I was more like a boy, more like his friends, he'd like me again. But Mick sneered, told me to act right and go away. Told his friends that I was afraid of spiders.

And I missed him.

By the time I was fourteen he had taught me that, sooner or later friends will leave you, turn their backs on you, tell you to go away. He had taught me to not count on others. And most of all to not show that you are hurting or lonely, because weakness would be ridiculed.

So, I disappeared but I still missed him.

When I was twenty-seven I was still single, rarely dated and worked freelance from home. My father had been sick, my mother was barely coping with having to take care of him, the house and the store. I didn't want to, but I packed up what little I owned and drove back to the small town where I had grown up. Through Main Street, past the grade school and the small kindergarten next to it, past the public pool and the small rec center. I turned at the bank and passed dad's hardware store. Two more blocks one more turn and I pulled into the drive. Mom was already on the porch before I got out of the car, wiping her hands on her apron, smiling. She had lost weight, looked tired. Why had I ignored her subtle hints about coming home?

"Come in, the tea is ready, cookies are just out of the oven. Your dad should be awake soon." I started to walk to the trunk. "Leave it. We'll get it later. Come. Sit."

We sat in silence at the kitchen table. After my first cup and third still-warm cookie, I finally asked. "How is he?" She swallowed, shook her head. "Weak, sleeps a lot. It's the pain meds." She shrugged. I nodded as if I knew. I was young, healthy, other than measles and chicken pox and the odd runny nose, I had never been sick. But then, neither had dad. She shrugged. "It's killing him that he can't go to work."

"Is he too weak?"

"Hm," She nodded. "And his immune system is shot, you know."

"How can I help? You want me in the store? Do the books? Nurse him?

She scoffed. "Oh, lord he wouldn't let you. No, go talk with Jason tomorrow. And go to the bank. They'll know what you need. But relax today."

"Marge?" A weak voice. Weak compared to the booming voice from my childhood. Mom nodded toward the dining room, now their bedroom. "Go on. It'll make his day."

On Monday, I walked to the store. Jason and Bert are happy to see me. "We're good, but yeah, look at the books if you want." They agreed the I needed to talk with the bank manager. So, I walked to the bank and asked Jolene, one of the tellers and an old classmate, if I could speak with the manager. She told me to "please have a seat; he'll be right out." While I waited, I watched people come and go, tried to match names with faces, but failed. I had been gone too long. For the past ten years, I'd just walk in the house for an odd weekend here, a holiday there, let mom feed me, listen to dad talk about the store and then I'd leave.

"Abs?" I looked up. "Mick." Smiling, he held out his hand to me. "How are you? How's your father?" I was looking at the grown-up version of my best friend. That little kid with the thick mop of chocolate hair and those big caramel eyes had grown into a tall, lean man with thick, short chocolate hair and caramels where other people had eyes. He was still smiling and holding my hand.

I coughed, swallowed. "Good. I'm good. You?" He nodded. "Come, let's talk."

He sat behind his desk; I took the client chair and told him what I thought I needed. He took notes and nodded. "Yes, we did that for your mother. I'll get the papers together. And we'll need is your father's signature."

"Well, yeah. Good luck with that." I mumbled. He laughed. "I'll go talk with him when I have the paperwork ready." He put his pen down. Looked at me. "How are you, Abby?"

I looked away. Don't let others look too closely, I remined myself. Don't trust anyone with your feelings. "I'm good. How about you? Wife, two point five kids, dog, picket fence? I joked, but I wanted to know.

He grinned, shook his head. "No wife, no kids. Yes, on the dog and the house. I inherited mom and dad's house when they passed. I'm slowly renovating it."

"You live next door?" I'm stunned. Why didn't mom tell me? "How long have you been there?"

"Three years, I think. Moved in after the accident." He shrugged

"I'm sorry." I stared at him. "I didn't know. What accident?"

He told me about the car accident that took his parents. "I'm so sorry, Mick." I let the news digest. "I liked your parents." Shaking my head.

He nodded. "They liked you too." We sat and stared at each other for a few long minutes then I looked away, forced a smile and stood up. I shook his hand. He promised to let me know when he's ready for my signatures. His smile looked as forced as mine felt.

"Why did you never tell me that Mick lives next door?" I asked mom over lunch.

"You guys had stopped talking. You wouldn't even say his name. I didn't want to upset you." She shrugged as if it was no big deal. For some stupid reason I felt tears burning behind my eyes. Come on girl! It's been ten years, Get over him already! "I never wanted to ask, but what did you two fight about?" She asked.

I shrugged, tried to swallow the lump in my throat. "I really don't know." I looked out the window over the sink and blinked away any threatening tears. "One day we were friends. The next I couldn't do anything right." I took a breath. "Like I was an embarrassment. So, I did what he told me to do. I went away."

Mom nodded. "That's why you wanted to go to that boarding school all of a sudden."

"Hm mm." I got up, put my dishes in the sink, grabbed my jacket and walked out the house. The pain that I had thought I had buried and let scar over, felt raw, suddenly. As if it happened yesterday. Mick had become more involved in sports. Team sports, one every season. Had less and less time to spend with me. So, I tried to learn about the sports he played, just to have things to talk about. When I'd see him, I'd join him, even when he was talking with his friends, his teammates. Then one day he told me to not do that anymore. To leave him alone. "Stop trying to be a boy. Stop hanging out with my friends. I don't know, go find some girls to play with."

Didn't he know that I had no girlfriends? Didn't he know that he was my only friend. The one who knew all my secrets. The one who could make me laugh, just by smiling at me. The only one who knew that I wanted to paint. I was lost that year. Too embarrassed to eat lunch alone, I'd hide in the school library. That's where I learned about the boarding school and begged my parents to let me go there. Of course, things were no better there. I was the new kid. The only one, it seemed, who had not been there since first grade. I still didn't fit in, but at least I didn't have to try and avoid Mick.

By the time I walked back into the kitchen, I had, almost, convinced myself that I could live with Mick being next door. After all, I had done it the first fourteen years of my life. I could do it again. For dad, for mom. I could do it. But I hadn't counted on seeing Mick sitting at the kitchen table laughing and joking with dad, munching cookies, as if he belonged there. I swallowed those pesky tears, again, plastered a smile on my face and signed whatever papers he put in front of me. "There, all set." He smiled. "Maybe we can go out to dinner, some day. What do you think, Ab?"

Confused, I looked at him. Why? What does he want from me? He told me to go away, I did. What does he want me to do now? But I shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

"Good. How about tomorrow? I'll pick you up at seven, okay?"

I was staring at the door, willing him to leave. Put me out of my misery. "Tomorrow?" I saw mom smiling and nodding. Did she say something to him? "Um, yeah, sure."

As soon as Mick had left and dad returned to bed, I turned to her. "Did you talk to him? Is that why he wants dinner? Did you make him feel guilty? I don't need a pity date."

Mom had always been easy-going, would rarely get angry or raise her voice. Well, okay, she didn't raise her voice then either, not with dad sleeping in the next room, but she did frown, and her voice was firm. "You listen to me Abby. That boy has been waiting for you to come home for the past ten years. He was thrilled last week, when I told him you were moving back. He has been as confused as I have about why you wouldn't talk to him. Jeez girl! You two were teenagers! Of course, he didn't know what to do with a friend that was a girl. Yes, I told him, Now, you go out with him and listen to him. And grow up."

She turned and started peeling potatoes.

Stunned I went to my room. Grow up? What did she mean, grow up? I hadn't been wrong, had I? What else should I have done? He told me to stay away from him. He didn't want to be my friend anymore, right? And if he didn't think I was good enough to be a friend, then nobody would, right? I had made the wiser choice, hadn't I? I hadn't hung around pining for him. I had done what he told me to do.

As I had done my whole life.

Well, yeah, looking at it that way... Geez! Yes, I had left because I was hurt and gone to lick my wounds. Was still licking them, to be honest. Was working from home, still hiding in my room, convinced that nobody would like me. I had never confronted him. Had never asked him what I had done wrong. I had just assumed that he was right, so there had to be something wrong with me. So, I deserved to be on my own for a lifetime, right?

So yeah, it took me a while, but I had to reluctantly, admit that mom was probably right. I needed to listen to Mick, but he needed to hear me, too. But whether I could do that in a restaurant and not embarrass myself, I didn't know.

The next morning, I rented a wheelchair from the local drugstore and bought some face masks. Mom and I took turns wheeling dad and cajoled him into wearing one of the masks before we entered the hardware store. He was thrilled to be the center of attention, to see the store again, to greet and be greeted. But he tired after an hour or so, and we wheel him back home. He slept the rest of the day. It was the last time he left the house.

Mick picked me up at seven. We acted awkwardly, as if it was our first date. Come to think of it, it was. We walked into to town. "So." I took a deep breath, "Mom told you, right?" He nodded. "I ..." I swallowed. "Yesterday she told me to grow up. So, I'm trying out my new big-girl britches." I took another breath, still stalling for time. "I should have asked you what I had done wrong." I held up my hand to stop him from interrupting. "No, I should have yelled at you for being rude and stupid. I should have slapped you around, instead of doing what I had done my whole life and do what you told me to do. My best friend, and let's face it, my first love had told me to go away, so I did." I sighed and swallowed, trying to get rid of that stupid lump in my throat.

We'd come to the center of town. In the middle of a small patch of green was the obligatory bandstand. Mick led the way up the steps. We had played here. Many years ago, we had pretended to be a marching band, even acted out our own version of Romeo and Julliet. With much giggling and eyerolling.

He took both my hands, I let him. "You are right. You should have yelled at me. I was an ass. You had changed. Suddenly you were talking about stats and plays. I was an idiot and couldn't, wouldn't see that I had changed too. I just knew that you weren't my Abby anymore. I meant to say to stop trying to be one of the boys. I wanted to keep you the way you were. I was a moron. I hurt you but I didn't know how to say sorry."

We sit side by side on the railing, staring at our feet. He nudged me. "Abs?"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry."

I nodded. "So am I."

"Soo." He dragged the word out. "I was your first love, hm?" I nodded and blushed, still memorizing my shoes. "Who was your second love?" He probed.

I swallowed, took a breath, opened my mouth, swallowed again, wiped my eyes. Shook my head. "There is no number two," I whispered.

Mick handed me his handkerchief. I looked at it as if I had never seen one before. "Good. Though I was kind-a looking forward to a good fight." He chuckled softly.

That was thirty-five years ago.

The snow is coming down a little faster, a little thicker, seems to stick and pile up. The world looks softer, clean and prettier from this side of the window.

He's late.

Just as I start to worry, I see his SUV turn the corner. Ham, our thirteen-year-old mutt slaps his tail against the floor as he recognizes the sound of the car. I walk to the door and let him in. My best friend, the one with the white and dark chocolate hair and caramel eyes, is home.

"Dinner'll be ready in a few." I whisper before his lips find mine.

"Later." He mumbles.

"Hm mm." I still do what he tells me to do, most of the time.