Lost Along the Way (12 page)

“You need to eat,” he kept saying, exactly as my mom would have done.

I didn’t want to eat, but in the end, following him to the table was easier than resisting.

The soup was amazing. Granny B said it was for broken hearts, and it was loaded with carrots and celery, teeming with barley rather than noodles, the broth peppery enough to make me sweat. I ate slowly, savoring the rich concoction as its comfortable warmth slid down my throat. I imagined it untangling part of that horrible knot in my chest.

Landon and my mother were both right. Everything would be fine. Maybe not today. Maybe not even this year. But eventually. In my head I heard my father’s quiet voice. “This too shall pass, son.”

I spent the day drowsing on the couch, watching bad horror movies, oscillating between self-pity and the knowledge that life would go on.

Landon brought me a cup of hot chocolate sometime late in the afternoon. “I would have pegged you as Ravenclaw,” he said as he handed me the Slytherin mug.

“I like green better than blue.” And yet suddenly, I felt like a fool for not having chosen the mug with the bird on it.

“I can pick something up for dinner.”

“Is there more soup?”

“Only another gallon or two.”

“Good. I’d rather have that.”

It wasn’t until he slid the bowl in front of me that it occurred to me.

“When did you make all this?”

“I started the broth last night and finished most of the rest this morning.”

“You made the broth from scratch?”

“Granny B says it’s more potent that way.”

But it’d been eleven o’clock when I’d arrived. “Did you stay up all night?”

“No. But I usually only sleep a few hours anyway, and you did me the favor of sleeping late.”

I couldn’t help but be touched by the lengths he’d gone to for me. “Thank you. It’s delicious.”

He stared down into his own bowl. “I hope it helps.” Four small words, but I sensed an unusual weight behind them. I noticed how he seemed unable to meet my eyes.

The soup was even better the second time. The more of it I ate, the better I felt. It wasn’t that my grief or my heartache disappeared, but it seemed to grow less acute. Only a week ago, I’d scoffed at the idea of magical food, but after the meatloaf incident and the chicken soup, I was able to admit that Granny B knew what she was doing.

Thursday was much the same. More time on the couch, staring sightlessly at the TV. More banana bread. More chicken soup. It was midday on Thursday when I realized Jubilee Days was well underway. It was hard to imagine all that festivity going on only a few blocks from my quiet house.

“What about your booth?” I asked Landon.

“I only rented space for the weekend.” He glanced up from the box he was digging through, which contained books full of knitting patterns. He kept putting them aside, then picking them up again. I could tell he was having a hard time parting with them. “Will you be okay tomorrow? I can blow the whole thing off if—”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve done more than enough already.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “And don’t get rid of the books. You’re probably better at knitting than you think.”

He smiled shyly, ducking his head. “I was considering trying crochet instead.”

“That’s the spirit.”

By Friday morning the anger and the pain were mostly gone. I still didn’t feel particularly good. I was far from normal. It was as if someone had pulled a plug on my misery, allowing it to drain away, but I was left with only an empty well in its place. I felt utterly unsubstantial, as if I’d been hollowed out and abandoned, but I was at least able to drag myself out of bed and face the day. I was able to admit that whatever I’d had with Chase was drawing to a close. I longed to find whatever it was that would make me whole.

The one thing I wasn’t able to do was eat another damn bite of banana bread or chicken soup.

I made do with toast and coffee for breakfast, but at eleven I climbed into my car and headed for a Mexican restaurant my parents had often taken me to. It’d been a local favorite for years, so I was surprised to find it gone, a sandwich shop now occupying the space. The place had been gutted, the tables replaced with plastic booths, the mariachi music gone. Teenybop assaulted my ears. I ordered a sandwich and had to grudgingly admit that it was decent, but it wasn’t what I’d hoped for.

I left the restaurant still feeling empty and listless. I didn’t want to go back to my unoccupied house. I thought briefly of Landon working his booth downtown. I could go see him, but I knew it’d be a madhouse. With the weekend now upon us, the Jubilee Days festivity would be in full swing. Parking would be a nightmare, and the thought of strolling through all those happy people was enough to make me groan.

No. Definitely not.

I drove aimlessly, through the campus, which was now deserted, past the cone-shaped Heritage Center, which I’d always rather liked but my father had called a “monstrosity of architecture.” I crossed Third Street and the train tracks in order to take the long route around downtown. Drove past the house where my best friend had lived when we were growing up, only to find it empty, a “For Sale” sign jammed into the dandelion-strewn front lawn. I veered east again upon reaching the southern edge of the town and turned south onto the highway. If I kept going, I’d hit the fairgrounds, where the rodeo—another Jubilee Days staple—would be getting ready to start. I turned east instead onto a narrow two-lane road, and there on my left sat a long, low building I’d never seen before. A huge plasterboard sign over the front door read “Tiny’s Antique Mall—Open 7 Days a Week!” One of Landon’s sculptures sat next to the front door. This one was a bit rusty, but it spun merrily in the wind, unaware of its imperfections. A smaller sign read “More wind sculptures inside!” I’d seen very little of Landon’s work—only the birds in my parents’ yard and the work in progress in his studio—and I was suddenly curious to see more.

The front part of the store was separated from the rest by a dented, dingy wall covered in framed posters, a hodgepodge of out-of-style artwork and out-of-date advertisements. A round-gutted man stood guard over a long glass cabinet devoted to trading cards. Two young boys stood with their backs to me, apparently browsing.

“Welcome to Tiny’s,” the man said. “Gorgeous summer we’re having, isn’t it?”

I resisted the urge to scowl at him, strangely annoyed at the idea of having to converse. I was saved by the boys.

“These are lame,” one of them interrupted loudly, pointing at the cards. “I’ve never heard of any of these guys.”

“Maybe not,” the man said, “but each one of them had his day or two of glory, believe me.” Then to me, “Help you find something?”

I pointed toward the front of the building. “I’m looking for more of those spinning things.”

“They’re all the way in the back.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s taken some of his better ones down to Jubilee Days, but there’s still plenty out there.”

I ducked through the narrow door into the larger part of the store and stopped. The back portion of the store was enormous, the space divided by pegboard into cubicles, grouped in rows and grids that might have made sense, but seemed like a maze. The ceiling was too low, and the flickering yellow lights made everything dingy. There was so much stuff, stretching in every direction, I hardly knew where to begin. Canned country music played from what had to be one of the oldest, crappiest speakers in existence, static cutting through more often than not, and I didn’t think it was only the singer’s lament that made the store feel like an experiment in sadness and regret. The entire place had the air of having been forgotten by time.

I’d come to see Landon’s work, but I couldn’t move past any booth without looking and bearing witness to its contents. And each booth was different. Some were neat and tidy, arranged like sitting rooms with items tactfully displayed. Others were as messy as my parents’ garage, strewn with goods. One held only books. One, only clocks, ticktocking the seconds away. Another booth held bin after bin of vinyl records. Another was devoted to old tools, only about half of which I could even have named. But most of them were full of odds and ends, lost toys, and forgotten treasures, the wreckage of hundreds of simple lives. Wedding gowns hung next to mourning gowns and mangy fur coats. Skew-eyed dolls slept in bassinets meant for real babies. Wild-haired troll dolls basked in the light of Tiffany lamps. Black-and-white wedding portraits and heartbreaking photos of dead babies dressed in their finest gowns, their parents’ only solace before burial. People’s greatest joys and their most horrific heartaches, every one of them now nothing more than castoffs, waiting to be claimed, as if the tides of time had washed ashore here and dumped their flotsam in this godforsaken building where they’d never again see the light of day.

It touched me in some inexplicable way, resonating in the empty cavity of my chest. Was this all there was? Each person’s trials and triumphs reduced to dusty talismans and torn pages? Was this what was to become of Chase and I, our love made moot by the unceasing passage of time?

And the answer came to me, in Landon’s quiet voice. “Choosing to be happy is rarely wrong.”

Yes, each item here was now forgotten, but each one survived, testament to one shining moment in some person’s past. When I reframed it that way, I felt better. It was still sad, but instead of a scream of tragedy, I felt instead the slow echo of it in my heart.

And then finally, I rounded a corner and everything changed.

I’d reached Landon’s booth, tucked into one of the outer corners of the building. A fresh breeze blew through a propped-open door. A soft glow of ambient sunlight made the space feel less gloomy.

Two of the three walls were made up of shelves, each lined with bric-a-brac that had once been my mother’s. It was arranged much as it had been at my mom’s, similar items grouped together as if she herself had done it. The third wall held no shelves. Instead it was covered in framed photographs. I remembered him telling me of trips to Yellowstone or Rocky Mountain National Park to take photos, and these were clearly the result. Some were merely landscapes, but others depicted animals. A fox peering through tall grass. A baby elk lying at his mother’s feet. A herd of buffalo grazing beneath a bright blue sky. Many were in frames I suspected he’d made.

There were no wind sculptures here, but there was still evidence of his work. Metal birds on perches, waiting to be stuck into potted plants. Wind chimes and mobiles hanging from the ceiling. A sign taped to the doorframe proclaimed “More art outside!”

And I took a deep breath and stepped out, into the sunlight.

In the open space behind the building, a rectangle of asphalt had been fenced off as Landon’s showroom, and although no trees or flowers or even weeds grew there, the space seemed full of life. There was no denying it was full of motion, as Landon’s sculptures spun and danced in the sunlight. No two were the same, but I could see trends as he’d worked new ideas until he was tired of them and moved on. Birds. Flowers. Leaves. Random, unidentifiable shapes. Rusty metal, dull metal, shining metal, some of them clunky, some graceful. The sculptures ranged in size from knee-high to four meters tall. Some had chimes tinkling happily or bells that rang as they spun. Some held birdbaths or reflecting balls in their center. Some were fountains, propelled by water wheels, and I was astounded, struck dumb by his brilliance and his vision, humbled by these strange, mechanical devices, each of them designed to catch wind, or rain, or sunlight. Each of them built to revel and play in the open. Each carefully constructed to maximize every bit of joy. To celebrate each small wonder before time swept it away. He loved life and air and movement, and every single sculpture he built demonstrated that. I marveled at his ability to take something so intangible and turn it into true art. His sculptures spun and danced and sang, and I laughed out loud, struck silly by the sheer wonder of it.

How could one man hold so much happiness in his heart? And why hadn’t I seen it earlier?

Maybe I had. Between the shy blushes and his easy laughter, I’d had glimpses of something deeper. Something as strong as the metal he worked and as enduring as the wind that powered his creations. Something sweet and pure and noble. Something that hinted at a future full of promise and a world of possibility.

I drove home in a daze, my head spinning, my hands trembling on the wheel. It seemed strange to walk in the door and not find him there, waiting for me with a smile and bowl of soup, or maybe holding a knickknack in his hand. I was like a boat cut free of my moorings, drifting with the currents. I found myself in the kitchen, then at the front window, marveling at the flight of metal birds. Back to the kitchen, which was too quiet. To my bedroom, which spoke too much of the past. And finally, I ran ashore in the spare bedroom. We’d cleared much of it, but a few containers remained, stacked in the closet. I opened one and sat on the bed, staring blankly into a box full of yarn, lotion, and handkerchiefs.

Was it too soon? Was I simply rebounding? Would I hate myself later?

No
, some voice in my head whispered.
This is how it was meant to be.

And right or wrong, I wanted to heed that voice. I wanted to find him. To take him into my shower for real this time. To see if the sounds he made when I touched him were the sounds I’d heard that one crazy, surreal morning.

I jumped as the front door opened. Went still and tense as it closed again and footsteps crossed the entryway. Was he here already? How long had I been sitting in the empty bedroom, staring blankly at yarn and thinking of him?

“Danny?” Landon called.

I had to clear my throat to make myself heard. “In here.”

I stood, my palms suddenly moist and my mouth dry. My knees shook. My stomach felt like it was full of bees. My heart missed a beat as he stepped into the room, smelling like fresh-cut grass, an easy smile gracing his face.

“Hey. There you are. How’re you feeling today?”