Not Home

Emma wakes up, stretches in bed. Cautiously, she opens her eyes, looks around. Ah, yes. She remembers. This is the other house, the one that is not home.

She rolls out of the soft, over-stuffed, quilt-laden bed. She walks to the only dresser, sits, looks in the metal-framed mirror leaning against the wall. Her reflection reveals a thirty-something woman with golden-copper hair, long and wavy. Stuck in the edge of the metal frame, a photo smiles at Emma. Her husband. A year before his untimely death. She puts one finger to her lips, kisses it, and presses the kiss to the photo.

As she freshens up for the day, she tries to remember her last time here, in Castlemaine, County Kerry. What had she done then?

What will she do now? What day is it? She glances at the calendar hanging from a nail on the wall, counts forward from the last date circled. Sighs.

It’s Saturday. That’s good.

She quickly moves to the window and looks toward the River Maine. She hears birds greeting the sunrise, the gentle river nearby. Sees the old four-hump road bridge, all that remains of the castle once marking the boundary between the Desmonds and MacCarthys.

A clear blue sky, not much wind, mild temperature. She wonders if this really is the greenest place on earth. She breathes the clean air. Refreshing.

Yes. She smiles as she decides to take the children to Inch Beach.

She looks at them with wonder. “Wake up, sleepy heads. As soon as we have had breakfast and finished our chores we will head to the beach.”

Twin girls, Reba and Bria, and younger boy, Declan, pop out of their beds with instant excitement. “Can we take Milly?”

“Of course.” She laughs. “Milly will have fun chasing after you. She will try to herd you like sheep!”

They love the black and white dog. A neighbor man raised Milly from a pup to shepherd his flock, when he had a flock. He recently retired to live closer to his oldest son. Sold his sheep, gave the dog to Emma’s children.

Their hearty Irish breakfast includes fresh farm milk, bacon, baked beans, eggs, hash brown potatoes, grilled tomatoes, brown soda bread with butter and marmalade. Breakfast, the most important meal of each day.

Inside of three hours, morning chores are finished. Emma has filled a lunch basket with sandwiches, fruit, water. They load the small truck, head to the beach.

She always has to remind herself to drive on the left. It takes concentration and iron nerves not to flinch when she meets other vehicles going over the River Maine bridge or on the narrow roads with no shoulders. Dry stone fences, shrubs, and trees are flush with the pavement.

In thirty minutes, they are at the beach.

Inch Beach is a wind-swept sandy dune spit jutting five kilometers into the sea, between the Dingle and Castlemaine Harbours. The small beach is perfect for relaxing and enjoying the day.

After she sees the life guards are on duty, she lets the children and the dog loose to run and play with a stick, a Frisbee, a kite. Three small shovels and one bucket to dig for oysters, build a sand castle, bury each other in the sand. They want to do it all in one day.

She sees several fishermen shore-angling for bass. A handful of surfers. The ebb and flow of water on the sand. Hypnotizing. The beauty of the Slieve Mish Mountains behind the windswept beach and ocean. Mesmerizing. The children, playing in the sand. Captivating.

She spots the perfect location for her folding chair and easel, draws what she sees.

No arguments among the children. Milly stays with them. Emma joins them now and then. Once, they go to Sammy’s Restaurant for ice cream treats. They have fun. At low tide, they leave the beach, return to the house.

Time for their evening meal and evening chores, baths, lay out clothes for church in the morning.

Emma reads a book to them, tickles them, hugs them. “Goodnight. Remember that I love you!”

Back in the bedroom, Emma takes a pencil and circles today’s date on the calendar. This has been an absolutely wonderful day.

She turns out the lights, snuggles deeply into the bed.

Emmalene wakes up, catches her breath, listens. From five blocks away, she hears traffic, especially the eighteen wheelers, on the interstate. Six to eight lanes, where people drive on the right.

This is home.

Where is Jonathan? She listens again. In the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Is it the cook’s day off?

She grabs her cell phone from the nightstand. Yes. Sunday, seven thirty.

She rolls out of the premium hybrid bed and slips her pedicured feet, pink toenails, into white slippers. Wraps her lacy white robe around herself with well-manicured hands, pink fingernails. Looks in her floor-length mirror framed by gold leaf accents. She sees herself, a slender thirty-something woman with golden-copper hair, trendy layered bob.

She looks out her window. Dreary, grey, heavy smog. The ebb and flow of leaves in the Windy City. No set pattern. Hypnotizing. Puzzled by the thought, she shakes her head, closes her eyes for a few seconds.

She starts to pass her art room. Stops, goes in. Such a lovely drawing. Mountains in the background, beach in the foreground. Mesmerizing. A husband and wife holding hands, twin toddlers playing near them. Captivating. She gently touches the man, the twin girls. Years pass behind her eyelids. She turns away.

She gracefully glides down the stairs. Sees the framed photos on the ebony baby grand piano. Jonathan and Emmalene, Emmalene and Jonathan, smiling, loving each other.

She gently moves on and into the dining room.

“Hello, darling.” They kiss. She takes the mug of coffee he offers. “Thank you, Jonathan. The coffee cake smells divine! You are so sweet to me.”

He smiles, says he loves her, wants to make her happy.

“I am happy.” She means it. Jonathan is always good to her, indulgent.

After their breakfast of cinnamon coffee cake with a twist of orange on top, mixed berries on the side, more coffee, they silently scroll on their phones for the latest news, weather.

She asks if they are going out today.

“No.” Jonathan points to his phone. “The AQI levels are too high. We are to avoid outdoor physical activity. Specifically, ‘no prolonged or heavy outdoor exertion.’”

“That’s too bad.” What else can she say?

Jonathan is still talking, explaining. “We can watch church on the internet. Use our exercise equipment.”

“Of course.”

He will be on his laptop most of the afternoon. “What about you, Emmalene? Do you have plans?”

She thinks, remembering. “Yes. I need to prepare for my next art class. I’m teaching my students to draw a scene from memory, a special time from their past. It’s harder than it sounds.”

“Ah, but you are a great teacher, a great artist.”

She smiles, blows a kiss to him. He catches it, smiles back at her.

They have an exceptional life, the two of them. They truly love each other.

Silence. A comfortable silence.

She wonders when she will wake up there, again. How much time will pass, time that will not wait for her? How much older will her children be? In the other house. The one that is not home.

She sips her tepid coffee, feels one tear drop on her hand.