The Moments Between Read online

  I drove the boys to school in a daze as they chit-chatted in the backseat. There was a distinct chill to the air, and I had dressed them in layers. This was the bi-polar time of year. The mornings ice cold, and the afternoons warm. The boys talked about Pat the Dog and Hoodie the Cat, laughing about an episode they had watched this weekend.

  I couldn’t quite focus on what they were saying.

  I was thinking about the dream again.

  June 3rd and the knock on the door….

  With my thoughts not on the road, I nearly ran a stop sign. Screeching to a halt with the nose of my Yukon SUV poking out into the center of the intersection.

  The red stop sign quivered in the wind.

  Luckily, the street was empty. We were alone, with only the trees and squirrels to bear witness.

  I sat there for a few moments to get my bearings before driving on.

  I was thankful when I pulled up safely in front of Birchwood Elementary School. The tall brick building stood proud, as students filed in up the big steps and through tall double doors.

  “Okay, guys, have a great day!” I said as I handed them their lunch boxes. “And Grayson, please be careful on the slide. I don’t want you to fall again.”

  “What are you talking about, Mom?” Grayson replied.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt more than you did, so please just promise me that you’ll be more careful,” I pleaded.

  “Mom! I didn’t fall off of the slide!” he said as he rolled his eyes.

  I turned all the way around to face him in the back seat.

  “What do you mean, you didn’t fall? The school nurse called me…” My voice drifted off as I tried to place the memory.

  I looked over at Oliver’s wide eyes, blinking. I had scared him with my talk of falling.

  I patted his knee. “It’s okay, baby. Momma just worries sometimes…”

  What else could I tell him?

  Tears of confusion stung my eyes as I looked at Grayson who was impatiently waiting to get out. The trickle of students had slowed.

  “Mom, we are going to be late!” he whined.may

  I watched them rush up the walk toward the building as my brain reeled trying to place the memory of his fall. I was sure that it happened. But clearly, it hadn’t.

  Standing in my kitchen later that morning, every cell in my body wanted to just let go of the dream and forget about it. But for some reason, I just couldn’t shake the eeriness from my bones.

  To distract myself, I began my normal Monday morning cleaning ritual. There was always a lot to do after the weekend. The familiarity of the cleaning routine helped soothe me. I moved in predictable patterns across the floor.

  After all the dirty clothes were gathered, I carried the basket into the laundry room. The bright sun shone in through the small window over the washing machine. I balanced the basket on the washer lid and let the sun warm my face. I let out a sigh. I was starting to feel a little more like my normal self.

  After I got the laundry going, I walked around and looked at our freshly cleaned home.

  This was my dream come true house.

  We had purchased this home when Grayson was eighteen months old, and I was pregnant with Oliver. Our apartment had been getting smaller and smaller by the day, but I never complained.

  Ben came home early from work one day and surprised me with a pre-approval letter for a mortgage.

  He smiled and said, “Want to go house shopping?”

  I jumped into his arms, nearly bowling him over with my seven-month pregnant belly.

  We only saw two homes before we made an offer.

  As soon as I saw this house, I knew it was the one.

  The relator had said that we were the easiest clients he’d ever had.

  It was a historic two-story home on one of the most popular streets in the neighborhood of The Arts District. It was quite a stretch for our budget at the time, but once Ben saw the look in my eyes, he was helpless to say no.

  It was a gray, traditional, two-story craftsman with black shutters, cobblestone columns, and a deep porch that was perfect for placing a couple of rockers and two large potted ferns.

  In my mind’s eye, I could see Ben and I in our old age sitting right here and rocking on this very front porch.

  When I entered the open foyer, my heart instantly caught in my chest as I gazed upon the wide staircase and ornate trim work. As my eyes drifted up to the high ceiling, I felt as though I had stepped into a picture of the past. Every detail called to me, from the oil rubbed bronze hardware and crystal doorknobs, to the gleaming oak hardwood floors that ran through the main rooms of the home. But the home had an airy, open feel, despite its deeply traditional design.

  The kitchen had been updated with stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and brand-new tile. There was a large eat-in area with a huge picture window. The morning sunlight poured in, making it a perfect place for Sunday morning breakfast.

  We climbed the stairs to see the three bedrooms of the house. The master on one side and two smaller bedrooms with a shared bath on the other.

  Ben looked over and saw me smiling. In my mind, I was already setting up the furniture.

  He took Grayson from me and we went outside to look around.

  The backyard was a literal oasis with grass so green and lush that it felt like carpet underneath our feet, and the entire backyard was surrounded by a white picket fence that was lined with blooming flowers. It couldn’t have been any more perfect.

  We were determined to have it before we even put in our first offer.

  We gave notice at the apartment and closed on the house forty-five days later. Just in time for Oliver to be born.

  It was easy to turn this house into a home.

  It was more than wood and sheetrock.

  It was as if the house itself was a living breathing member of our family and had welcomed us under its wings.

  But today, I felt out of place. Like somehow, I didn’t belong.

  I walked slowly into the kitchen, my footsteps echoing with each step.

  I sat down at the table, staring off into space. The old house creaked and groaned in the silence around me. Outside, birds flitted and flew past the windows, preparing their nests as spring grasses rose up through the cold ground, bending with breeze.

  Suddenly, I realized that I was sitting in the very seat where Detective Anderson had sat in my dream, on June 3rd.

  I jumped up and involuntarily shook off the feeling of sitting there. I looked back at the empty chair and felt ill. My hair stood on end.

  Dream or not, I didn’t want anything to do with that day.

  With that man.

  I pushed the image of his face out of my mind.

  Who knew if Detective Anderson was even a real person?

  Most likely he was a complete figment of my imagination.

  I was sure of that… yet the thought of sitting there… in that chair, where he sat in my dream…still felt wrong. Very wrong.

  I made myself a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen counter. Four barstools lined up in a row. One for each of us Ben had said the day he brought them home. The boys had spent many hours sitting here, coloring, snacking, living childhood to the fullest.

  The thought of that brought me back to my own childhood.

  To my own mother.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table. Her expression washed with emotion. Pain and loss were deeply etched on her face as I struggled to try to understand. At ten years old, I didn’t grasp the complexities of adulthood. I wanted to help her. Make everything okay again.

  Her bitterness had become the central focus of our home. We had expertly learned how to tread cautiously around it. As to not to disturb it. She taught us well how to hide our emotions. To keep them in check. Our world was as
fragile as blown glass, and we treated it as such.

  “Mom,” I said quietly. She didn’t answer.

  “Mom,” I said again, a little louder.

  The kitchen faucet dripped, making a loud splash in the sink below. I stood facing her, hands folded together in front of me. The innocence of childhood still coursing through my veins.

  Her eyes met mine. Red rimmed and swollen. And I was filled with an instant knowing.

  I should’ve left her alone.

  “What do you want?” she screeched. Her voice, loud and stretched, made me shudder with fear.

  “I thought you might be hungry…” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “You don’t think I know how to take care of myself? I’m not some helpless victim here!” Her green eyes burned with anger as she looked back at me.

  “It’s just, you’ve been sitting here for hours and I thought…”my voice small and still childlike.

  Before I could compete my sentence, the slap came. My cheek red and burning. My heart sinking. Tears stung my eyes, but I held them back.

  “Don’t you dare judge me! Why don’t you mind your own business?” Her voice shook the room.

  I turned and walked out, listening to her talking to herself. Complaining about being judged.

  I went into my room and closed the door. Bitter tears broke through and ran down my cheeks as I touched the place where her hand had struck my face. The pain reaching deep into my spirit.

  As I got older, I wanted to break away, to not be tied down to her.

  To a broken family.

  A broken mother.

  But there was no escape for me. Not until much later.

  It was funny how those memories didn’t seem that far away, yet it had been many years. My mom eventually softened around the edges but never to the point where she was anything more than mother in name only.

  Later in the day, I found myself at Greenbriar Lake Park, a place our family frequented often.

  I walked down a shaded path and chose a seat on a park bench overlooking a small lake. It was situated in a strip of warm sunlight. Spring weather had set in early, but the wind was still cool. Cooler than I expected, and I shivered when the breeze blew, wishing I had brought a jacket. But before long the sunshine came in closer and warmed my whole body.

  I sat back on the bench as people began to fill the park. I heard a dog bark in the distance. Playful and fun. Probably coming from the dog park across the lake. An older couple walked slowly, arm in arm, on the path in front of me. The man gave me a simple nod and I smiled in return. Not long after, a group of runners sprinted past like a flock of birds taking flight.

  I looked out over the small lake as sunshine made diamond-like sparkles across the surface of the water. I watched tall grasses as they swayed along the edge of the lake, and butterflies flitted past me, searching for a flower to land on.

  I looked up at a seemingly endless blue sky and I took in a long, deep, reminiscing breath.

  Ben and I had been married in a place, tranquil and serene, like this one.

  Our wedding day, so clear in my mind. We stood together in June, two starry-eyed lovers, saying their vows in a garden surrounded by Bradford Pear Trees shedding their blossoms. The blooms swirled around in the breeze, blanketing the ground with their snow-white petals. Our future wide open in front of us.

  Truly, one of the best days of my life. A gust of wind kicked up and tousled my hair, almost if it was agreeing with me.

  I reached for my bag and pulled out a worn blue leather-bound sketch pad. The edges of the pages were tattered and yellowed with age. I had owned this sketch pad for many years and had filled it with many different drawings. I tucked my hair behind my ears, and I began to draw on a fresh blank page. Empty and full of possibility. Waiting to be filled with anything I chose. I loved this about drawing and wished I did it more often. But running a household of boys didn’t leave much time for artistic expression.

  I sat there with pencil in hand and was lost in a world of my own.

  And I found myself smiling.

  Smiling for the first time in what felt like a very long time.

  The sound of my phone ringing startled me. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered it anyway.

  An older woman’s voice was on the line. “Mrs. DuPont?”

  “Yes?” I answered hesitantly, sensing an urgency in her call.

  “My name is Carol Stewart, and I am the head nurse at Birchwood Elementary School. I was calling to let you know that Grayson had an accident today. He fell off the top of the slide and hit the ground pretty hard. Knocked the breath out of him. Don’t worry, he’s okay. But he’s here with me now and asking to go home…”

  I felt the blood drain from my face as she continued to speak.

  Hadn’t I just warned him about falling this morning?

  After we hung up, I raced to the car. I didn’t remember the drive at all. I just kept trying to comfort myself by repeating the nurse’s words out loud: He’s okay, he’s okay…

  As soon as I pulled up in front of the school, I threw it in park and practically ran up the front steps. I attempted to slow my pace and my breathing as I walked down the hallway toward the nurse’s office.

  I stopped in front of a slate grey door with a sign that read: Nurse’s Office. The rippled glass window on the door casted sparkles of light onto the floor, reflections from the fluorescent lights above, as I slowly opened it and stepped inside.

  Grayson was sitting on a chair in the small waiting area, holding an ice pack to his cheek. He looked up and smiled when he saw me.

  I sat down and put my arm around him. He leaned against my chest and I took comfort in the feel of his small frame, safe and sound, next to me. Trying to ignore the sensation of dread as it worked its way through me.

  How did I know this was going to happen? I had seen it so clearly in my mind this morning, as if it were a past event.

  Maybe it happened in my dream? That certainly could explain it.

  But I wasn’t sure.

  All I did know for sure was that something wasn’t right.

  Not right at all.

  But I pushed the eeriness away. As far away from me as I could.

  Chapter 5

  I awoke to the sound of rain against the window. I snuggled deeper into billowy blankets, as slate grey skies stretched for miles; there would be no sunshine today.

  Two weeks had come and gone with no more strange happenings. And with each passing day, the dream and the memory of June 3rd seemed to fade more and more. Becoming more of a passing thought, here and there, and life settled back into comfortable normalcy. The mystery of the slide incident had faded into the past, along with the dream, and I had begun to feel secure again.

  And I found myself appreciating small things. Things I might have overlooked in the past.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stretched. From where I was, I could see Ben in the bathroom shaving. Oliver was standing next to him. Eye level with the sink. Fingertips pressed against the countertop. Face filled with adoration.

  I got up and tiptoed closer.

  The smell of soap and sandalwood met my nose. I leaned against the doorframe and watched, neither of them aware of my presence.

  The blade slid against Ben’s cheek in a repeating pattern, revealing fresh skin in its wake.

  “I wanna try, Daddy,” Oliver begged.

  “You’re too young, son. Give it a few years and then you can.”

  Oliver’s face was pursed in disappointment. Ben paused in his movement.

  He picked up the shaving cream and smiled at Oliver, whose face had suddenly brightened up.

  “Hold out your hands,” Ben ordered.

  Oliver cupped his hands together. Fingers still chubby with remnants of toddlerhood.

>   Ben pressed down on the trigger as a billowy white cloud of shaving cream piled up on Oliver’s open hands. His giggles echoed on the bathroom tile.

  I sighed and stepped away quietly. Not wanting to invade their intimacy.

  The rain had stopped by the time I was dressed. I came downstairs in white shorts with a flowy navy three-quarter sleeve top, my hair pulled back into a low ponytail. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of still steaming hot coffee.

  Ben was in the living room doing a puzzle with the boys. Their voices trickled into the kitchen, light and melodious. Coffee cup in hand, I looked out the window as the sunlight glistened on wet blades of grass. Robins hopped from place to place, searching for worms displaced from the rain.

  I took my cup of coffee out onto the front porch. The air was steamy as sun and moisture intertwined together in a slow-moving waltz.

  I took a seat in a faded rocking chair, paint beginning to chip. The daily afternoon sun had left its mark.

  With toes tapping the ground, I rocked back and forth, sipping on coffee, lost in my thoughts.

  With the dream had come a sort of an awakening. A clearer vision of my life.

  Casting my relationship with Ben into reflective contemplation.

  We’d fallen in love in a rushed frenzy. Driven by an unspoken loneliness inside each of us. A yearning for completion. That completion we found in each other’s eyes. When we were young and free, sharing our secrets, fears, and dreams.

  I could still see us. Newly married. Walking together on busy sidewalks, hand in hand, to the Saturday Market to buy flowers and vegetables. Fresh baked bread, canned jams, handmade jewelry lined the aisles. Love and laughter surrounded us.

  Memories rushed in. The image of Ben holding Grayson, only three weeks old, in the trickling light of dawn. Rocking, humming, soothing him back to sleep.

  Our loft apartment, the center of the universe. Where we had spent many nights sitting on the patio, drinking wine, staring at the stars. Lost in conversation, as deep and vast as the ocean.