Page 2 of When We Were Us
“Throw the bikes into the back of the truck, Son,” he says to me and then turns his attention to Wrenley.
My pop is a huge, hulk of a man and hardworking, with calloused hands and arms like cannons. He is one of the strongest men I know. But I’m also not surprised that after I untangle Wrenley’s tanned, little arms from around my shoulders, he tenderly scoops her up and carries her, baby-style, to the truck, where he slides her in next to him. I lift her bike and thenmine into the truck bed, shut the tailgate, and climb into the passenger side.
“Let’s get you home,” Pop says quietly as he pats her knee and pulls away.
Another sob escapes her throat, and she nods, her gaze fixed on her lap.
Pop knows, then.
I swallow over the lump in my throat, glance down at her, and reach over to take her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “It’s ok, Wrennie Girl. You’ll be ok.”
I can’t know that, and she doesn’t say anything, but her tiny hand flexes lightly in mine, returning the squeeze.
It isn’t until I come in from chores and sit down to breakfast the next morning that I learn Tom Hardcastle went out drinking two nights before, drove his car into a canal, and drowned.
CHAPTER ONE
wrenley
I pushopen the door to my childhood home and step inside. Letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, I look around. The house has been closed up for the last three weeks, and motes catch the light streaming in through the open door at my back. With the exception of a two-day trip when my grams passed twelve years ago, it’s been seventeen years since I’ve spent any real-time here. Even so, it’s almost exactly as I remember it.
Standing here now, I’m surprised to find that this is the first time in nearly three weeks that I feel like I can finally draw in a full breath. My shoulders relax in the biggest exhale of my life, and some of the anxiety and worry over everything that has recently happened melts away as I stand in the large foyer. And despite the years away, I’m surprised it feels like…home.
From here, I can see into the spacious dining room on my left. The draperies are closed, but I can still make out the dining table built by my great granddad. I know from years of Thanksgiving dinners at that table that the wood under the blue and white tablecloth matches perfectly with the six craftsman-style chairs—all a beautiful walnut oak.
Just beyond the dining room is a set of stairs that leads to thesecond floor’s three bedrooms, including the one I used when growing up. There’s also a Jack-and-Jill bath lining the hallway that tees off and runs to the back of the house. A window at the top of the stairs overlooks the side of the yard and part of the circular drive out front.
From where I stand, I can just see into the brightly lit kitchen and down the hallway. It leads to a bathroom, a laundry/mudroom, my granddad’s den, and the master suite—the door to which is firmly closed.
I drop my purse and suitcase in the entryway. Shoving my sunglasses onto the top of my head, emotion threatens to choke me as I take in the room to my right. Faded, butter-yellow curtains, Granddad's worn recliner, and the overstuffed floral sofa, complete with a crocheted multicolored afghan that my grams made. Two throw pillows sit on opposite ends of the couch: one embroidered with “What Happens at Grandma’s Stays at Grandma’s,” and the other with, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.”
It’s so quiet, I could hear a pin drop.
I clear my throat and blink a couple of times to clear my eyes. “It’s like a freaking time capsule in here,” I mutter, with a soft, wistful laugh.
A collection of porcelain plates still hangs on the wall next to the window, and a stack of years-old TV Guide magazines sits crookedly on the top shelf of the bookcase in the corner. Along with a few random knickknacks on the second shelf is the small collection of brown and tan glass birds that my dad loved to collect so much. Wrens. My namesake.
Framed photos pepper the space. A few of me alone, and some with me and my dad. There’s one with us swimming in the pond out back when I was six; one on the front porch, with both of us dressed as pirates the Halloween right after I turned nine; and another of me with my childhood best friend, Finnley, the day we graduated from high school. Seeing her goofysmile and long brown hair makes me wonder if she’s still around.
Those photos don’t evoke anywhere near the emotional reaction that a photo of my grandparents in Niagara Falls on the mantel above the fireplace does.
My granddad’s slippers sit on the floor next to the low coffee table. His reading glasses are folded and lay atop a book, which is open and lying face down on his side table. My eyes land on the cover.Lonesome Dove.
I half expect him to step out into the hall from his den or the bathroom, his voice booming out to welcome his Wrennie Jo home with one of his signature bear hugs. But he doesn’t. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes again, and this time, I let them fall as a wave of sadness hits me.
I wipe my eyes and turn, making my way toward the kitchen. My eyes briefly land on the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway. I can’t quite bring myself to go in, knowing it’s where my granddad spent the last moments of his life. I’ll save that for another day. It just isn’t something I am ready to face yet.
Stepping into the kitchen, I can almost smell the blueberry pancakes and maple syrup Grams made specifically for me the morning I left for California all those years ago.
I can almost hear her softly humming the tune of “How Great Thou Art” as she bustles around the kitchen, and Granddad’s hearty laughter as he comes in from the garage for breakfast. He’d wrap his big arms around her middle from behind and plop a loud kiss on her warm cheek, and she’d cuss him out for letting breakfast grow cold again—lovingly, of course.
In all the years I’d spent with them, I never once heard either of them raise their voices at one another. We spent so many mornings after Dad died just like that, with the three of us eating breakfast together in the sunny kitchen.
I smile at the same small, white Formica top table with threechairs and three place mats. It’s almost as if it's just waiting for Grams, Granddad, and me to come in and sit down for a meal together or for a game of gin rummy on a rainy summer afternoon. The table is too small for this room, but Grams had called it her breakfast nook. Granddad had joked that it was more of a breakfast spot, since it didn’t really sit in a nook at all.
The same salt and pepper shakers and napkin holder sit in the center of the table. The clock above the sink ticks into the silence. Ceramic, mushroom-shaped canisters line the countertop, as well as a wooden bread box, an electric can opener, and a small coffee pot.
It looks exactly as I remember. The honey-colored hardwood floor creaks underfoot as I turn and leave the kitchen, making my way back through to the foyer. I shut the front door, grab my bags, and climb the stairs, with my suitcase clunking along behind me. I reach the top step when my cell phone rings.
