Aloe and Lace

The faintest shade of green gleamed on the walls. Healing Aloe, they called it. The baseboards and molding shone a Chantilly Lace. My eyes scanned the seams where the plaster met wood. Smooth and clean. The painters had done excellent work.

I shut the front door behind me and moved quickly to the cracked windows. Even with them ajar the inside air smelled strongly of chemical. I shoved them up and open, inhaling deeply as a light breeze whistled inside. They really needed curtains. Lace curtains with flower detailing.

I shook my head, furniture. I should really start with furniture. The living room stood empty before me. The gleaming wood floor both inviting and accusing. Aged pathways, some nicks here and there – it was all just signs of life. Yet, the renters had been hard on the place. I noticed a few deeper chips that would require sanding out and repair. Was it time for a refinishing? How long ago had that been?

I shook my head, one step at a time, Clara. It doesn’t all have to be at once. I inhaled deeply, sharply, then forced myself to release the breath with excruciating slowness. We have settled the walls. The colors are fantastic. With the breeze and the open windows, the entire room felt like spring, reborn and new. I shook myself and headed to open the remaining windows in the house.

Jonathon had not done a thorough background search on the last tenants. The couple left us with tack holes and dings smattered on the walls. A fist-sized hole had been punched in the hall. How they managed that I could only imagine. This was the danger, the cost of letting others live in your home. I had heard the advice to not rent the house, but we hadn’t been able to bring ourselves to sell it.

After the accident, I had mourned. We had grieved together - at first together. Then, separately.

We had sold the furniture on craigslist. The rug and other more valuable items were listed on marketplace. The remaining household items and clutter went in a haphazard yard sale. Liam’s things were sorted and boxed and donated. Jonathan had taken what he wanted, of course. I had packed 2 suitcases and left. Time, I said. I needed the time. The job fell at the correct opportunity. The travel and project were a welcome distraction. Jonathon’s touch had begun to itch my skin. It had felt good to minimalize, to slough it all away.

Jonathan had asked if I would return. Of course, I had told him. There had been no of course about it. He moved into an apartment and let the house. More economical, we had agreed.

I passed into the kitchen and swung open the double hung windows above the counters. In here, we had chosen a Faint Posy offset with navy blue cabinetry. I loved the contrast and complement of the colors. This was my favorite room. How many meals had I concocted? I remembered a grilled beet and feta salad with an arugula grilled cheese. The grilled cheese made it acceptable for Liam, and he hadn’t learned yet to dislike vegetables especially when paired with a sweet vinaigrette. My eyes lingered on the island. I felt the urge to prepare a dish. Any dish. Anything to bring the warmth back to this room, to fill the house with the smell of spices, and to call forth the hungry bellies of others.

I had constructed so many unfair truths about Jonathon. How could he return to work so quickly? How had normalcy grown up around him? He had told the therapist that I had turned cold. I had withheld my touch, my comfort from him. In bed, I rolled my back to him hugging a pillow. I was so wrapped in grief that I couldn’t see his. He was so wrapped in the supporting roll that he could not show weakness. He had stood so tall that I didn’t know how to disturb his peace. We said cruel barbs to each other.

The kitchen door opened onto a patio. I opened the wood door and checked that the screen was locked. As always, my hand brushed across the jamb at 39.5 inches. I froze. The jamb was white. Lace. Chantilly Lace. Free of marks. There was no 26, or 31.5 or 43. No penciled ticks. No grayed eraser corrections. Clean. New.

I lowered to the floor, my knees nearly buckling beneath me. My hands slid down the smooth, painted wood. Clean. New. Lace. No irregularity marred the surface. My eyes ran across the surface. Up and down. Up and down.

There was nothing to find. It was gone. The little ladder of ticks. It hadn’t occurred to me to tell the painters. Breathe in, breathe out. Count, I ordered myself. Settle and count. Johnathon hadn’t thought either, I remind myself. You both forgot. It’s okay.

We stood on such tenuous ground with each other. Touches were still hesitant. Uncertainty echoed beneath our words. I quelled my anger at the world and struggled to open my arms to Jonathan. He watched me hesitantly as if his words may spook me away. After the second session, we had hugged nearly collapsing into each other.

In my mind, the beet salad lay shattered on the floor, sticky vinaigrette oozy on the richness of the cabinet. Grilled cheeses smoldered on the stove, blackened. Smoke choked the air. It stung my eyes. They were red and full. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

In the end, we couldn’t sell the house. We want to fill it with life again. We want to remember. We want to face the echoes. Together.

I remember his laugh. His face has faded, only brought back to startling clarity by photos. But his laugh. His sticky baby chuckle. The light, nervous toddler. The snickering confidant. The guffawing champion. It echoes around me.

But it is me laughing. Wildly. Hysterically. Healing Aloe! The sobs burst from my chest.