Page 73 of The Bodyguard Affair
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We drive up an old street in a neighborhood on the south side of the city near Carleton University. It’s a mature, quiet area lined with little brick bungalows backing onto woods. As we approach the end of the street, I spot a charming little house that stands out among the rest. It’s set back from the road, its siding butter yellow, with little white shutters and trim, and a gray porch that looks like it used to be white. It’s the perfect size for a little swing, or a pair of Adirondack chairs. Someone is home, because the lights are on inside, casting a warm orange glow over the lawn. I imagine the inside of the house smells like caramelized sugar, vanilla, and a touch of nutmeg.
“This is the yellow house,” I say, in awe of it. No wonder he was so drawn to it as a kid. It looks straight out of a storybook, surrounded by lush greenery, including a large willow tree in the front yard.
He nods. “It is. It’s a little more run-down than I remember.”
“It’s twenty years older,” I remind him, opening the car door.
“Where are you going?”
“You said there was a magical forest back there,” I say, hopping out of the car.
I’ve never seen him unbuckle his seat belt so quickly. In a heartbeat, he’s out of the car, and taking my hand to lead me down the worn trail only wide enough for one person at a time. I don’t miss the childlike giddiness, the hop in his step.
Despite the pink-and-orange sky, it’s already dark back here, with the tall ancient trees canopying the trail, blocking out the remaining August daylight almost entirely. Back here, the world fades away and disappears.
It’s quiet. No more sounds of city traffic or barking dogs in the neighborhood. Just us and the satisfying sounds of our shoes crunching the leaves, pine needles, and fallen acorns. The hum of crickets and the burble of a stream ahead. The air is also cooler, filled with the earthy scent of damp leaves and moss. I can picture young Nolan with messy brown curls, getting lost in his own little realm.
As we continue down the trail, the tree line starts to thin as the sound of water gets louder. The trail slopes down to water, trickling over smooth rocks and fallen branches. There’s a little grassy bank along the edge speckled with wildflowers, where I imagine Nolan and his sister used to fish. Across the ravine, fireflies flicker in the brush like little beacons of light.
The opposite way stands the yellow house, with all of this magic in the backyard.
Nolan still hasn’t let go of my hand as he guides me to a flat patch of grass near the edge of the ravine. Something flutters in my chest as we lower ourselves onto the cool grass, the length of our hips and thighs touching ever so slightly. Neither of us moves to adjust.
“I used to love it back here,” he says, his gaze following the mist rising from the water, swirling lazily into the night.
“I can see why. It’s like a whole different world back here.”
“Honestly, it’s probably one of the only places I was ever really happy. By the way, I’m sorry about tonight. About my mood,” he says regretfully.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll admit, just talking to her tonight, I wouldn’t have known she basically abandoned you guys.”
A bitter laugh escapes his throat. “She puts on a show on her good days. It sounds bad, but sometimes her good days are harder for me than her bad days. At least when she’s mad at me, I know how to deal with it.”
I bow my head.
“A lot of the stuff she says about me isn’t accurate. For example, that story she told you about me jumping off the counter as a kid? That never happened.”
“Is it because of her memory?” I ask.
Frustration flickers over his expression. “I don’t know. Maybe a little, which is why I never say anything. But she did this even when we were kids. She’d make up random things, trying to act like she has some authority or knowledge about Em and me.”
“Maybe she did it out of guilt. Because she knew she wasn’t there for you like she should have been,” I suggest.
He looks at me. “I never thought about it that way. You might be right.”
“I understand how it can be frustrating, though,” I continue. “It’s hard, her living in this alternate reality that she was there more than she was.”
“Exactly. It’s like she’s falsely assuming credit. She never knew or cared what my favorite cereal was, or when I lost my first tooth. And sometimes I get so fucking mad. All I want todo is call her out on it, tell her how I feel about how we were raised. But I can’t.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because by the time I thought I’d found the courage, she was diagnosed. And I just…can’t do that to her now,” he says, his voice cracking a little.
At the pain in his eyes, my heart aches for him. I’m desperate to hug him. To go back in time and hug his child self and protect him. “It sucks for you, though, to never be able to tell her how you feel.”
He nods. “Yeah. It really does. I feel really resentful about it. All the time. Even though she’s been so great. Ever since I moved back, she always wants to talk, always wants to go for walks—when she’s not mad at me. It’s so weird.”
