34 Seconds (36 page)

I wasn’t feeling much more comfort with that line of dialogue. I didn’t want to hear about how much Will loved me, cared for me, or missed me. My reality was he’d hurt me a lot over the past several months of his life, and then I went there only to learn not only was he dying, but he knew years ago he wouldn’t live a long life and didn’t want me in the position his wife was in now, a widow.

“Look, hon,” Rebecca started. “I like you. I knew I liked you before I ever met you because Will talked so darn much aboutcha. But I know it’ll take some time before you really know me. Maybe we can talk on the phone. Maybe we can email. And maybe when you come out here to visit your family, we can have dinner together. I’d like to stay in touch with you.” She paused to look down. “But I understand if you don’t want that. You just remember if you ever have any questions about Will, well, questions I can answer, you just ask ‘em. Okay. Promise?”

“I promise. Thank you, Rebecca. Really. Thank you. I’m sorry I’m not ready to really open up just yet. I may not at all. This is my past that has been locked up for so long.” I wiped my mouth with the napkin hidden under my plate. The fried chicken was good. I needed to make sure I made a plate for Dad before I left. My appetite hadn’t returned just yet. My stomach had been feeling weak for days, like anything I was planning on eating was working its way out before I even put it in my stomach. I hadn’t been sleeping well and had been through what I thought to be the most difficult thing I’d ever done. I was sure some distance would heal my tummy issues, but at that moment a few bites of chicken and macaroni surrounded by rich cheese was plenty for me.

“Come on, hon, let’s go put you in the boathouse with those boxes. I can help you load your car. And we can’t forget the guitar too. But I want to make sure you at least see what these boxes are. You can stay as long as you’d like if you want to look through them, but if you just want to look and then go through them in Colorado, well that’s fine too.” She got up, took my hand, and started walking me toward the kitchen where we left our plates with Gina to clean. Then she led me out the kitchen door to the backyard and down to the boathouse. The lights were on, but no one had decided to gather here.

“I have them behind the bar, over there. Three boxes. And a note with a list of things Will wanted to make sure I gave to you. I’m gonna head on back up to the house. If you need anything, you holler. K?” Rebecca hugged me and walked back out to the yard and up to the house. I watched her until she closed the kitchen door behind her.

I sat in the same chair I’d sat in just days earlier to read a letter Will had written me. The box of tissues was still there. I looked around, sighed and got back up and headed behind the bar. Behind the bar there were three small office supply boxes with lids. The first one had MA written on it and the other two were blank. I dropped to my knees and opened the MA box. Inside were three notebooks, papers, guitar picks, the hotel receipt, a T-shirt from the North Star Bar, and a Neila Lees CD. I just closed the box, picked it up, and carried it to the chair. I glanced at the other two boxes, lifted their lids at the same time and saw things I didn’t want to look at; CDs that looked blank, but I was certain they contained Will’s music, cassette tapes and thumb drives, guitar tablature books for song writing and more. There was a small ukulele in one box, too many notebooks to count, envelopes, a wooden box I recognized as the keepsake box Will used to put shells and movie ticket stubs in, and at the bottom of the box, songbooks for singer songwriters. Paul Simon’s collection was on top of the stack.

“I can’t go through this stuff here,” I said to myself. “God, Will, what did you want from me? What am I supposed to do with this stuff?” I carried both boxes and stacked them on the chair, then I sat on the floor and grabbed the box of tissues. My eyes weren’t exactly dry, but they weren’t leaking tears uncontrollably either. Leaning against the chair, I put my head back and sighed. My time with Will had come down to thirty-four seconds and three boxes filled with memories I had let go of over the years. I had my own boxes, in my basement, in my head, and in my heart. But I hadn’t opened a box of memories in any of those places in years.

“Oh, Will. I miss you so much,” I said to no one.

I stayed with Will’s boxed memories for about twenty minutes, wiped my eyes, and walked outside. Sitting on a stand near the door was the Takamine guitar. I strummed my thumb across the strings along the neck, and headed to the house.

Rebecca and Liza were in the kitchen cleaning up. The house was fairly quiet.

“Oh, honey, I was about to leave, but I wanted to say goodbye,” Liza said, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She hugged me and said, “I’m sorry, sweetie. I know it’s hard. I’m gonna miss him too. Don’t be a stranger, hear? Don’t you go back to Colorado, to those beautiful babies of yours and forget all us locals. We think of you, you know. We miss you. You keep coming back here to visit us, ya hear me?”

She didn’t even let me reply. She silently hugged Rebecca, left her towel on the counter, and walked out.

“Did everyone leave?” I asked.

“Yeah, with a three o’clock funeral, I guess it gave everyone time enough to come over here for some dinner and then head home to bed,” Rebecca laughed. “Even my mom had some charity thing in the morning and started her drive up north. I bet having Starbucks with a girlfriend and tipping the barista is considered charity for her. She probably writes it all off,” she laughed again. “Oh, my goodness. My family.” She finished wrapping the plate she had in her hand with plastic wrap, held it up for me to see and said, “For your Dad. Believe it or not, I’ve gotten to know him a bit this past year. I bet he’d like some dinner, huh?”

“Hmph, yeah, he would. Thank you. Can I help you clean up?” I asked.

“No, doll. But let me help you with those boxes, and there’s a case out there for the guitar. Let’s get it all packed up for you,” she put her arm around my shoulder and led me back out to the boathouse.

She carried two boxes and I carried one box with Dad’s dinner sitting on top and the guitar to my car. After loading, we stood next to the pool where I’d parked, just staring out at the bay. It was quiet enough to hear the rhythm of the waves hitting the beach. By that time it was high tide, bringing the waves closer to the rock wall that helped to stop the land from eroding around the area.

“Honey, I don’t even know what to say to you. How can I thank you? How can I say good-bye to you?” She shivered, hugged her arms, and I watched a tear fall from her chin.

“I feel the same way. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t have the words to form to tell you how special this experience was, how much I love and respect you for what you did for Will, and how much it meant to me, keeping me alive in his life. I just…” I couldn’t find any more words.

“Will you try to stay in touch with me? Call me and ask me anything. I might not have the answer, but I might.”

“I will. I promise.” I turned to get in the car. “And, Rebecca? If you ever find yourself west of the Mississippi…well, if you ever find yourself in Colorado at least, you have a home there. You are welcome. And we’d love to have you.”

“I just might have to take a trip out west.” She turned and walked toward the house. I started the car, then sat and watched her until darkness swallowed her image. I could see the lights on at the house I’d probably never visit again. The lights were on along the dock as well, and though I couldn’t see them all, I could see the ones at the end and the boathouse that held ghosts of two young people falling in love, writing songs about it, and singing their hearts out. I wondered what others ghosts lived there. Will’s cancer lived there. He knew, even back then, he wouldn’t live to see middle age. After holding his life’s last breath for thirty-four seconds, he let everything go. Maybe those ghosts went with him.

Making a three point turn in the grass near the pool, I turned around and didn’t look back. I took every speed bump at a good enough speed to keep moving forward. I feared if I stopped and slowly rolled over a bump, I’d roll all the way back to Will’s…Rebecca’s house and would want to walk through each room, touch his bed, feel the carpet, sit on the white couch, look at the pictures along the mantel. I couldn’t go back anymore. I knew I had to move forward.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Saying goodbye to Dad, Natalie, and Nana, though I didn’t see much of any of them on my trip, was difficult, but quick. Dad helped me pack my rental car before we’d gone to bed the night before. I got up at six o’clock in the morning and ate a bagel with black coffee. As I was getting into the rental car, Dad asked what was in the boxes, and all I could say was “Will.” Will was not in the boxes of course, but everything I could ever have of Will was in those boxes. We all stood in Dad’s driveway and hugged, said all the right things, and I promised to call from the road and once I got home. Home. To Colorado. To Chris. To my babies, Emily and Bella, who I desperately hoped would remember me once I got there.

I drove out of Deltaville on the same road I had driven in. I passed all the familiar sights and noted the few new ones, wondering if they were here the week before, the year before even, and if they’d last long enough to be there when I came back. I’d never come back for just Will, except to see him and Rebecca exchange lifelong vows to be together until death did they part. The next time I went there it wouldn’t be for Will, but I knew I’d never come that way again without thinking of him. Deltaville will never be the same for me again.

Within a few minutes I was out of the area, traveling up the county towards the interstate that would have taken me to the airport I was originally to fly out of. As it stood now, it would be the same interstate that would take me all the way to St. Louis, where I would then pick up I-70 west to Colorado. I’d done the cross country drive many times before, and many times alone. It usually took about thirty hours. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, but I’d promised Chris I’d stop for the night somewhere.

The first few hours went by without me singing a single song. The rental car had satellite radio, and I listened to mindless talk radio until I had to stop and pee just outside of Charlottesville, Virginia. Charlottesville was home to a lot of well-known musicians and celebrities. It was also home to an indie record store that had consigned Will’s first demo CD once Will decided to try to get out into the music world. It was the only piece of music he put out into the world. Not too long after he got three stores to stock his CD, we broke up. Sitting in the Burger King parking lot, I suddenly remembered he’d been feeling down just before the store took his music. I wondered if he’d been sick and had started giving up on life then. Just after he’d spent a few days in bed, pushing me away and telling me he didn’t feel well, he broke up with me for the final time.

I thought about going into the little record store while I was in Charlottesville to pick up a few CDs to listen to on the drive, but I couldn’t bear to do it. Satellite radio would have to hold me through the whole trip. At least it wasn’t AM/FM. I couldn’t imagine there were many radio stations accessible in the mountains of West Virginia. After using the restroom and buying a soda at Burger King, I left Charlottesville and the memories of the beautiful town. I continued along I-64 for several more hours, but had to stop again just over the West Virginia border. Driving through the western mountains of Virginia made my eyes water. The hills rolled along, bright green, dotted with red barns and green tractors. I wanted to pull over along the interstate and stare out into the immense scenery, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop. For the first time in the drive west, I started to feel again. My heart opened. Out of it poured a wealth of emotion. I started crying, I banged the steering wheel, and I pounded my left foot into the floor board. Finally I stopped at the Welcome Center and got out of the car as if a bee were buzzing around my head inside the car. I was breathing so heavy I thought I might hyperventilate.

“Breathe, Nikki,” I said to no one as I paced in front of the car. “Just breathe.” I slowed my pacing down as my breaths slowed. “In and out,” sigh. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.” I repeated my mantra until I felt calm enough to walk to the rest rooms. Once inside, I rinsed my face in the sink and went back outside and sat on a bench near the car. I always hated rest areas. I usually tried to stop at exits with fast food restaurants when I traveled. I was at a Welcome Center, not just a rest area. It was nicer than a rest area. It had statues, a large grassy area, and several maps showing West Virginia. I took it all in from the bench. Then I sighed and walked to the car.

I sat in the driver’s seat for a few moments, then got back out and opened the back door. The boxes were staring at me. I opened the box with the MA written on it, grabbed the only CD inside, then opened another box and grabbed a handful of unmarked CDs, closed the lid, tossed them on the front seat, and got back in the car.

“I have to get home,” I said to no one again. No one was there. I was on a journey, across country, through my mind, and into my heart, and I would have to travel alone.

I started the car and got back onto the interstate. Voices over the radio bickered about military spending, a war too long running, and other points in politics. None of it struck me as anything I was interested in feeling anything about at the moment. After switching to a comedy channel, I allowed myself to laugh. Every few miles or so I glanced at the CDs sitting on and sliding across the passenger seat. I couldn’t put them on. Not yet. But I would need to. Sometime in that car, on my journey, I would need to put them on.

I went through several comedy channels on the drive through West Virginia. I laughed out loud, let my heart relax, and felt nothing. West Virginia required focus while driving through the mountains, and the hours seemed to pass with much more ease than I had going into the state. Kentucky hit me in a decent mood. As I drove, I watched the scenery, the stones sticking out of the small hills along the road reminded me of home.