Other Side of the Wall
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Authors: Jennifer Peel
Other
Side of the Wall
By
Jennifer Peel
© 2014 by Jennifer Peel.
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work of this author.
To my husband, who is
great at deconstructing walls and even better at never building them in the
first place.
Table of Contents
Mending Wall
Something
there is that doesn't love a wall,
That
sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And
spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And
makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The
work of hunters is another thing:
I
have come after them and made repair
Where
they have left not one stone on a stone,
But
they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To
please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No
one has seen them made or heard them made,
But
at spring mending-time we find them there.
I
let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And
on a day we meet to walk the line
And
set the wall between us once again.
We
keep the wall between us as we go.
To
each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And
some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We
have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay
where you are until our backs are turned!"
We
wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh,
just another kind of out-door game,
One
on a side. It comes to little more:
There
where it is we do not need the wall:
He
is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My
apple trees will never get across
And
eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He
only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring
is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If
I could put a notion in his head:
"Why
do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where
there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before
I built a wall I'd ask to know
What
I was walling in or walling out,
And
to whom I was like to give offence.
Something
there is that doesn't love a wall,
That
wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But
it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He
said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing
a stone grasped firmly by the top
In
each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He
moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not
of woods only and the shade of trees.
He
will not go behind his father's saying,
And
he likes having thought of it so well
He
says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Robert
Frost
There
once were two couples, neighbors in fact, but like most neighbors today, hardly
a word was spoken in passing. What they knew of each other mostly consisted of
what was inadvertently heard through the wall that divided their townhomes.
The
Langstons and the Russos had more in common than they both knew. Both couples
were newly married and terribly unhappy, each for different reasons of course.
Scott and Jenna Langston were facing an incurable disease and Ava and Peter
Russo were plagued with heartache and betrayal.
Too
often, Scott could hear Ava crying through the wall. He wondered what would
make such a beautiful woman so sad, but he had enough of his own problems, he
couldn’t worry about what was happening on the other side of the wall. On
occasion, Ava could hear Scott’s pleas for his wife to be well. She wanted to
offer help and comfort, but she was too physically and emotionally exhausted to
reach out across the wall.
Eventually,
Ava’s crying ceased and her name changed. Scott’s pleas went quiet as they went
unanswered. Now, instead of two couples, there were two very lonely heartbroken
individuals divided by a wall, each trying to deal with the hand they had been
dealt.
Just
do it
, I thought to myself. I didn’t know why this was so
difficult for me, it didn’t used to be. It was the neighborly thing to do,
after all, and a month had already passed. It wasn’t like I could pretend I
didn’t know what had happened. I could still see the look of anguish on his face
as they rushed his wife into the ER, just as I was about to leave my shift.
Probably just a few minutes earlier and I would have been her nurse. It sounds
so terrible, but I’m so glad I wasn’t. Losing a patient was something I would
never get used to, but for it to have been my neighbor would have only made it
worse.
It’s
not like I knew her. I had only seen her a handful of times, but even then I
could tell she was ill. I felt guilty for not being a better neighbor, but in
my defense, it’s hard to be neighborly when your own life is crumbling around
you. And, admittedly, I was embarrassed to associate with them. I’m sure they
had heard the arguments and the crying. And, of course, when I threw Peter out,
he didn’t take it well. Scott, my neighbor, came out and had words with him because
he was disturbing the whole neighborhood, especially Scott’s sick wife, with
his begging for forgiveness and another chance, and with his declarations of
undying love for me (yeah right).
It
still felt like yesterday, even though it was almost a year ago when I packed
up all his things and placed them on the front porch and changed the locks. I
still remember Scott coming home and seeing the pile of boxes and suitcases.
“Getting
rid of some junk, huh?” he inquired.
“You
could say that.”
I
still remember the odd, but kind, look he gave me. Scott had always looked at
me kindly whenever we came across each other, which wasn’t often. Again, I’m
sure he pieced together the drama that happened on our side of the wall. He
probably felt sorry for me.
Unfortunately,
I felt sorry for myself too often. But never as sorry as I felt for marrying
Peter almost two years ago and letting him convince me to move away from my
home, and all I knew, to this land of cold and snow, unending traffic jams, and
noise. I hated living just outside of Chicago, but I was too stubborn and too
embarrassed to go home.
Home,
to the sun and beach and to where people loved and cared about me. Home, where
all I could hear were the waves crashing against the shoreline in the morning
or the squawk of the seagulls or my parents happy and loving voices. Home,
where I left a job I loved and adored. Working at the Urgent Care in Orange
Beach, Alabama was a nurse’s dream, at least this nurse’s dream. But I gave up
my dream for Peter’s dream of being the next Frank Lloyd Wright. At the time I
just thought I was trading up dreams, but being Peter’s supportive wife was
more like borderline nightmarish.
Oh
well, I needed to quit dwelling on Peter. What was done was done. I couldn’t
erase the past no matter how much I wanted to. What I needed to do now was
deliver this pan of roasted chicken and herb roasted vegetables. My mom called
it comfort food. I wasn’t sure how comforting it would be in the wake of his
wife passing away, but I felt like I needed to make the gesture. I needed to be
the old Ava, except the old Ava wouldn’t have waited so long. But I was trying.
It’s
amazing how quickly a girl can lose herself.
No, Ava, no more thinking about
him. Just do it. Just take the few short steps to your neighbor’s house and
offer your condolences and bring him dinner. Forget about yourself, even if
it’s just for a moment.
I took a deep breath and opened the front door and
stepped out. I stood for a moment and looked to my right. His door was
literally just a few feet away, but for some reason it seemed like at least a
mile. I made it to the first step on my small porch, and I took another deep
breath and silently laughed to myself. I was being an idiot. This wasn’t a life
changing momentous occasion; it was dinner to a grieving neighbor. Or so I
thought.
Before
I changed my mind, I walked over to his sidewalk and up his front porch—which looked
exactly like mine, except mine had empty planter boxes on it. It was still too
cold here in April to plant anything.
Enough complaining, just ring the
doorbell for crying out loud.
I rang the doorbell and waited. Maybe he
wasn’t home. After a minute, I decided all my fretting was for naught and I
turned around to go home. I made it to the second step when I heard his door
open.
Somewhat
embarrassedly, I turned around. “Oh, hi,” I said.
He
looked so somber standing there. He was wearing a white polo shirt that had the
Shedd Aquarium symbol on it with a pair of jeans. I think I remember him being
a marine biologist there. He was actually quite an attractive man. He had light
brown hair, similar to mine, and he had light blue eyes surrounded by thick,
long, dark eyelashes. It was almost as if his eyes reflected the clear blue sky.
But his eyes looked troubled. Of course they would, he just lost his wife, and
I knew he loved her. Sometimes I could still hear him cry for her. I wondered
what it would be like to be loved like that. Anyway…
He
didn’t say anything right away. He looked at me weirdly. Maybe he was upset it
took me so long to come over and offer my condolences. Either way, I did the
only thing I could think of. I held up the warm pan of food. “I’m so sorry
about your wife, I brought you dinner.”
It
sounded so stupid and insincere.
I’m sorry your wife is dead, here’s chicken,
because that makes it all better.
He
must have thought so too, because he still didn’t say anything.
“Ok,
well I’ll just leave this with you.” I handed the pan over with the hot pads so
he wouldn’t burn himself. This caused him to come out of his stupor, but he
kept staring at me.
“Ava,
thank you,” he said as he took the food out of my hands.
“You’re
welcome. I really am sorry.”
He
kindly smiled, and I turned and walked away. I made it to the last step when I
heard his nervous voice call out. “Have you eaten yet?”
I
turned and smiled. “No, not yet.” I had been planning to when I got home. I had
probably made enough to feed the block. That’s how we cooked in the south.
“This
is a lot for one person.” He paused, seeming unsure of himself. “Would you like
to join me?”
Hmmm.
Would I?
I didn’t know. I guess I could. I mean, we had been
neighbors for almost two years. I barely even knew the guy, but maybe he needed
someone to talk to. I’m sure he was lonely, and I felt rude saying no. “Ok,
sure.”
He
smiled. I had never noticed before, but he had a really nice smile and perfect
white teeth. He showed me into his house, which was just like mine, except his
layout mirrored mine, and mine was quite a bit more decorated. It was still
weird for me to say mine and not ours. Not that Peter made it much of a home,
and technically he never owned it, my parents had until recently. Now it was just
mine. I really needed to stop thinking about him. Believe it or not, I’m better
than I used to be; the pain was down to a dull ache and I no longer wanted to
cause him bodily harm. Baby steps.
We
walked back through the great room that was sparsely populated with furniture.
It had one camel colored couch and a coffee table that sat in front of the
fireplace. The formal dining room to the left of the great room was bare except
for some boxes. He led me to the kitchen which was open to the great room;
there he had two stools at the breakfast bar. He set the food on the counter
and motioned for me to take a seat at one of the stools. While he grabbed
plates and silverware, he asked me what I would like to drink; I said water
would be great. To say we were both nervous and unsure would be an
understatement. I don’t think either one of us knew what to say. I kept racking
my brain, but I couldn’t think of anything. I looked around his house, hoping
something would spark an idea, but what I mainly noticed were the pictures of
him and his wife. She was pretty, but she looked ill in all of them, even in the
large wedding photo that was above the fireplace. She was tall like her
husband, but wafer thin and pale. I happened to notice a butterfly shaped rash
on her face in the photo set on the counter near me.
“Did
your wife have lupus?” I immediately regretted saying it. It was such a dumb
thing to say, I’m sure he didn’t want to talk about it.
He
turned to look at me from the refrigerator.
“I’m
sorry. It’s really none of my business,” I said quickly.
He
looked at me thoughtfully. “It’s ok. As a matter of fact, she did. How did you
know?”
I
picked up the picture on his counter. “I noticed the rash.”
“I
saw you at the hospital that day, are you a doctor?”
I
could see the pain in his eyes as he remembered that day. I felt horrible for
him and I felt terrible I didn’t say anything to him that day. I shook my head.
“No, I’m an APN.”
He
looked at me questioningly.
“That
means Advanced Practice Nurse. Basically it’s short for doing a doctor’s job,
but not getting paid for it.”
He
laughed. I smiled. I liked his laugh. It was a nice, masculine laugh.
“Do
you mind me asking what happened, most people her age don’t die from lupus.”
He
set a glass of water in front of me. “Kidney failure,” he said quietly.
Oh,
that was a terribly painful way to go, but it was sometimes a side effect of
the disease.
I
put my hand on his hand that still lay on the counter near my drink. “I really
am sorry.”
He
looked at our hands and quickly moved his after giving me a disconcerted look.
Then I really felt dumb. Why did I touch him? It was an innocent plutonic
touch, but it seemed to freak him out a bit. I needed to keep my southern
habits under control.
Once
the plates and silverware were set, he joined me at the counter. I took the lid
off the roasting pan and dished the meal. I was still feeling uncomfortable and
a little moronic, but oh well. The quicker we ate, the quicker I could leave.
As I dished the food, he smiled kindly and said it smelled wonderful. I told
him it was one of my mom’s favorite recipes.
He
asked where I was from.
“Orange
Beach.” I’m sure I had a dreamy look in my eye when I named my hometown.
Surprisingly,
he knew where Orange Beach was. Most people looked at me like I was crazy when
I told them where I was from. For some reason, most people didn’t know Alabama had
some of the best beaches in the country, ranking up there with Hawaiian beaches.
He had actually been to Orange Beach and Dauphin Island, which is just few
short miles off the coast, when he was going to school in Florida to become a
marine biologist. I don’t know why, but it made me so happy to talk to someone who
had been to my hometown, someone who actually loved it there.
We
talked happily for several minutes about the many wonders and attributes of my
hometown. He had even been to some of my favorite restaurants. I found myself
gushing about my home and my family. My parents, Susannah and Grant Elliot,
were the best people ever, and they owned a huge real estate firm that covered
Orange Beach and Mobile. And then there was my older brother, Tucker, who was
my best friend. He followed in my parent’s footsteps, and someday he would take
over as the real estate mogul of the southeast. My parents had wanted me to
follow in their footsteps too, but I loved medicine, and I had always wanted to
be a nurse. Although they were a little disappointed, they were very supportive
of my career choice.
I
think I must have talked too much because Scott gave me a concerted look again.
I
put my hand over my mouth. “Sorry, I guess I just miss home.” And, boy, did I.
I also missed having someone to talk to. Maybe not so much talk to, but having someone
that actually listened.
He
grinned. “Please, by all means, continue.”
I
smiled back. “That’s ok. Tell me where you’re from?”
“I’m
from here.”
“Oh.”
He
cocked his head. “Is that a problem?”
I
really needed to watch myself. It wasn’t a problem. It was just, Peter was from
here and that was one of our problems; because, not only was he from here, but
his obnoxious sisters and overbearing mother were here, too, and let’s just say
they weren’t happy that Peter married a girl that
wasn’t
from around
here. I was never good enough: I was the wrong religion, I was too thin, I
didn’t cook right, I worked, and I talked funny… The list went on and on. And unfortunately,
it didn’t take much for Peter to start to believe those things too.
Scott
kept looking for me to answer. I needed to quit getting wrapped up in my
thoughts, especially when they involved my ex-husband.
I
tried to laugh it off. “Of course not.”
But
Scott seemed to be a pretty intuitive guy. “You don’t like it here?”
