Page 29 of The Bright Side of Brooding
“Growing up, my family was what they calldirt poor. We didn’t always eat, and when we did, it was whatever we could get. I could count on two hands the kinds of fresh fruit and vegetables we had before I left home.”
My chest constricted at the image of a small Summer without enough to eat. I shifted in my seat, grasping for something worthwhile to say, but she continued.
“I’m the fourth of five kids. I did a fair amount of scrounging, but there were a few years when I didn’t eat at home at all. I had breakfast and lunch at school, and on weekends the librarian and pastor took turns feeding us.”
Her cagey look sent my hand for hers. I covered it and squeezed. “I’m sorry.”
She raised one shoulder, then let it drop. “No going back. Being hungry taught me a lot, and not just about food. But I hate the feeling now. And I hate the thought of other people feeling it.”
It clicked. “That’s why you feed people? It’s your mission—part of your purpose?”
She chuckled and cast her eyes down like the idea embarrassed her. “I guess it is, in a way. I’m sure most of the people I feed wouldn’t go hungry without me, but that’s the root of it. I recognize that. But I also really do love cooking and doing it for a group—or even one other person is so much better than doing it just for me.”
The sensation in my chest brought to mind a lit fuse burning, sparkling from one end of me to the other. What sweetness and light. What pure, caring goodness. “That’s lovely.”
She laughed, a disbelieving sound. “You’re nice. I never would’ve expected it.”
I frowned at her, then sliced a piece of the omelet with the side of my fork. “Why would you think I’m not nice?”
“You’re just so straight-faced and serious at first. Or maybe all the time. But it’s not…mean.” She smiled at me like this revelation genuinely pleased her.
For my part, I was mildly horrified. Had she thought I’d bemean? Or had I been mean to her? I’d certainly had my fair share of uncharitable thoughts about her generosity. “Have I treated you in a way that was mean? If I have, I didn’t realize it, but I need to know. Please tell me.”
“No—no. I mean, I didn’t love you rejecting my food.” She inserted alook. “But I think it was more a first impression kind of thing. At the fest last fall—that was the first time I’d been introduced to you, and I’m not sure you even met my eye. Then you didn’t speak to anyone and left early. It struck me as rude then, but in retrospect, after knowing you even just a little…”
Her probing gaze unsettled me. I didn’t remember meeting her. I only vaguely remembered the fest—Thatcher Wild had invited me, and since he and Rob and a few others I knew would be there, I’d said yes. I’d needed an escape from the shroud of anxiety that’d plagued me. “My grandmother had been sick for a while, but she took a turn for the worse right before that. I shouldn’t have gone out but hoped maybe it’d distract me. I’m sorry I was rude.”
“I’m so sorry about your grandmother. Is she okay?”
I sucked in a breath, and let it out. “No. She passed just before Christmas.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” It came out low and full of regret.
Maybe because of her earlier admission about how she grew up, or maybe because I desperately needed someone to understand, hope feathered through my mind, wondering, if I said these things aloud, would it remove a bit of the ache? Could sharing this reality and seeing the truth register in someone else’s eyes make the situation less isolating? I hadn’t done that in years now—shared a burden. Sometimes, I’d tried, but talking to someone who didn’t remember you didn’t quite have the same effect as sharing with a loved one. Even though it didn’t make sense, I wanted it to be her I connected with, poured out to. “She was my last relative. My last… person.”
Her mouth dropped open just slightly, and she grabbed my hand. “Your parents?”
“Died in a car crash just before my sixteenth birthday. I went to live with my grandmother then.”
“Siblings?”
“Only child.”
To my parents’ regret, too. They’d tried for more. I didn’t remember much about that except a snippet of conversation when I was about ten. My mom had said something about how they were going to “stop trying,” and even though I didn’t understand anything about infertility or pregnancy, I knew it meant I’d never have a brother.
“Can you stand up, please?” she said and shot out of her chair, still holding my hand.
I set aside my napkin and stood, cautious and curious even as the brutal mix of nostalgia and grief and horrible loneliness sloshed in my gut. She took my other hand in hers so we faced each other.
“I’m going to hug you now, unless you have objections.”
My heart skipped. “No objections.”
And then she released my hands, stepped right to me, and wrapped her arms around me. She squeezed, and the pressure reminded me to return the gesture. She’d shocked me, but only for a moment. My arms surrounded her small frame, but it felt so good. God, how long had it been since I’d been hugged? Months and months. No, actually. Over a year.
I let out a ragged breath, and she rested her head on my chest. The action held purpose, like she’d imbue me with every drop of consolation, every ounce of respite, through this connection.
Eyes shut, I inhaled the moment. I committed to memory every perfect thing about it. I would write this moment and read it ten times a day for the rest of my life.
* * *
Your small hands at my back push away the grief, urging it to move. Your breath at my neck whispers away the sorrow, magic in the air. Your body pressed to mine steals the hollow and fills it with ease. I will never set you away.
You pull back and look at me with your sapphires, your soul. Your fingers on my jaw and your lips just touch mine, but you have given everything in this moment. You have given me a memory worth keeping.
