He’s gone.
Mom’s long road to recovery has only begun.
And my military career is over.
But then, another thought flickers behind my eyelids like a prayer. Not a thought, an image.
Hannah.
A burst of sunlight incarnate in an otherwise torrential storm. Much like her, draped in a wedding dress that should have been a crime to put on her she looked so damn beautiful, running toward me on a sidewalk. Then, now, and the twelve hours worth of moments we shared in between, she was beautiful in all of them.
What are the chances?
I have half a mind to scatter all my proverbial plates to the wind and march into her office. Like a good soldier, I took note of the building she walked into. I could find her if I asked around a bit. But flirty salute or not, she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Like the first time she left, I should respect whatever her reasons are. The shock of seeing her again was so jarring, I didn’t think to check if she was wearing a ring. It’s possible—likely, even—our one serendipitous night together is nothing more than a blip in her life’s story.
If I was able to see how special Hannah is in a matter of hours, there’s no way another man in this town with the ability to pursue her the way she deserves hasn’t found her yet. The way I would’ve back then if I had been in a position to stay.
But, as it always has, duty called. Duty to family and country. Although not always in that order.
Right now there’s only one: family. Lord knows I don’t have much of it left these days.
I need to clear my head. Inside the glove compartment, I find Pops’ old tobacco container and give it a quick shake. The rattle of metal confirms exactly what I’m looking for.
When I pull onto the main road a few minutes later, I don’t turn in the direction of the city house demanding my attention. Instead, I roll down the windows, crank up Pops’ favorite Garth Brooks’No Fencescassette that hasn’t been ejected since 1990, and drive an hour in the opposite direction toward the last place I saw him. The house that holds all our fondest memories together—Nana and Pops. The house I’ve avoided since coming back here.
Walking through the front door will bring back a host of memories with Hannah too. Some of them might even hurt. Yet, I can’t make myself turn around.
The lake house has always felt like home. And I could use a big dose of home right about now.
The deadbolt clicksand the sound sends a rush of childhood nostalgia sweeping through me like a tidal wave.
I step inside the modest A-frame, and my steps falter when I reach Nana’s spot. The wood plank in the floor that marks the center of the home. Equidistant to all four exterior walls, Nana insisted—or threatened—she could see everything from this very spot.
An L-shaped kitchen sits to my right. The beam of afternoon sun coming through the window above the sink shines like a spotlight, specks of dust adrift over the four-seater dining table. The table where Pops taught me how to properly clean a gun at sixteen.
On my left is the only bedroom. Barely big enough to fit my grandparents’ queen-size bed, Nana always said it was more than enough space for them.
Ahead is the living room, a single loveseat and small leather arm chair angled toward the thirty-two-inch television I convinced them to get the summer before eighth grade because their old antenna TV belonged in a museum. Up against the far wall is an end table with two chairs flanking either side where Pops and I played board games in front of the fireplace while Nana made dinner.ParcheeziandMonopolysome, but mostly chess. On the mantle above, still hangs the framed American flag. Thirteen folds to form a tri-cornered display in memory of my dad—Nana and Pops’ only child. Decades later and I still look at it and wish I had more time with him. Eight short years fraught with more deployments than time spent at home didn’t leave much space for making father-son memories.
The bathroom sits next to the bedroom. Nana’s favorite mauve floral shower curtain circa 1985 smiles back at me. Pops and Ihated it, but she loved it. Five years without her and he never got rid of it. I don’t blame him.
Tucked behind the living room wall on my left is a small staircase leading to a half-floor—the loft where I slept when I visited all those summers. With the pitched roof and minuscule footprint, it fits my old twin bed, small side table, and a bookshelf, but not much else.
And straight ahead, a wall of windows from the sliding glass door to the tiny triangle window at the top of the roof’s peak showcases the pristine lake beyond.
That’s where my feet carry me.Thisis why I came.
I pause on the back deck to take in the property. Twenty acres on either side, five acres between the front door and the main road, the cabin, the camper, and the detached metal building Pops used for storage—all of it mine now.
I cross the yard, carving a path amidst the towering trees until I reach the top of the small staircase that leads down to the dock. The warmth of July, parsed by the shade of the pine canopy and the crisp air off the water feels like my favorite version of summer.
Two Adirondack rocking chairs sit angled to overlook the water, the mountain summits piercing the horizon. The last time I sat in one of those chairs, it was Hannah seated beside me underneath a blanket of stars. Her laugh, the curl of steam rising off her mug of cocoa, the tears that marred her cheeks—I remember everything.
There, between the chairs, on the vertically set log functioning as a table, is Pops’ favorite highball glass. One last sip of whiskey remains—his signature. The thought of him sitting out here, alone, catches like an image frozen in time. A tight fist clenches around my heart.
One deep breath. I march down the steps, swipe the glass, and head back inside.
Head down, needing a distraction, I clean the micro-abode from top to bottom. When I circle to the kitchen to begin clearing out the fridge and pantry, it’s all the explanation needed as to why the Boulder house had no food in it. His life has beenherefor the past five years.