Lark (First & Forever 5)

The photos at the end of the mantel were the most recent. My niece was thirteen now, and my nephew was eleven. Time moved so quickly. That was never more evident than when there were children in your life, growing up before your eyes.

I moved back toward the center of the mantel and picked up a photo of my husband with both kids asleep in his arms. They’d been two and four, and they adored their uncle Travis. He had the most beautiful look of wonder in his eyes. He’d wrongly believed he wasn’t good with kids before those two came along. The unconditional love they’d shown him and the bond they’d shared never ceased to amaze him.

A million memories came flooding back to me as I stared at that picture, and it became tough to breathe. This was why I didn’t display any photos in my apartment—because sometimes the memories dragged me under, and it was hard to find my way back out again.

Just then, I heard a key in the lock and rushed to put the picture back exactly where I’d found it. My parents had been worried about me ever since Travis died. If they found me like this, melancholy and wrapped up in the past, they’d just worry more, and I didn’t want to do that to them.

I went over to the window at the back of the room, and when my parents came in, I said, “Hi, you two. Your garden looks great, especially for the end of December.”

“It’s all overgrown,” my dad said. He was an avid gardener and the yards were his pride and joy, but he could never take a compliment. “I really need to get out there and do some work, but I keep finding other things to distract me.”

My mother came up to me and pulled me into an embrace. She smelled faintly of perfume, just like every day of her life, and the silk scarf she’d tied around her short hair tickled my cheek.

“Hi there, sweetheart,” she said. “Let me look at you.”

She thrust me out at arm’s length and kept a hold of my upper arms as she scrutinized me. Mom was tall at five-eleven, but I had about four inches on her. It didn’t matter though, because I was convinced she saw a ten-year-old boy whenever she looked at me.

Finally, she told me, “You look good. I can tell you’ve been working out harder than ever. You’re all swole.”

I chuckled and asked her, “Where did you learn that word?”

“From some of the undergrads in my intro to sociology course. They’re a colorful bunch.”

“I can imagine.” She let go of me, and as I followed her and my dad out of the living room, I asked, “Is your neighbor and their crisis okay?”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Mom said, with a wave of her hand. “Our new neighbor across the street is recently divorced and likes to think she’s completely helpless. The pilot light went out on her water heater, and she called us in a panic. I’m trying to be sympathetic, because I know she’s struggling. But the sooner she learns she’s capable of standing on her own two feet, the better off she’ll be.”

That was completely my mom. She was loving and nurturing, and I knew she’d drop everything to help a neighbor in need. But she was also practical and occasionally blunt.

When we reached the kitchen, she and my dad started pulling things from the refrigerator, and I asked, “How can I help with brunch?”

“Everything’s ready to go, so you can just relax,” my dad said, as he placed a pitcher of Bloody Marys on the counter. “We just had to put the meal on ice for a bit while we calmed our neighbor.”

I took a seat on a barstool at the kitchen island while Dad filled three glasses with his spicy signature cocktail, garnished them with celery sticks, and put one in front of me. Then I watched the familiar routine of my parents preparing a meal together, in perfect sync with each other as always.

They were both tall and slender with a bohemian edge to their style, like my mom’s flowy, 1970s-era skirts and my dad’s penchant for button-down shirts with funky patterns. They were in their sixties with no intention of retiring any time soon, and aside from my dad’s receding hairline and the fact that they wore glasses now, they hadn’t changed much from the photos I’d seen of them when they first met.

That had happened back in grad school at UC Berkeley. They’d dated for three years and got married after they completed their PhDs. This spring, they’d be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary.

Even though they were strong and successful as individuals, to me they always seemed like two halves of a whole, and they had the kind of marriage most people could only dream about. It was built on a foundation of love, mutual respect, and the understanding that they were partners for life, ready to face anything that came their way as a team.

They’d always been my blueprint for how to be in a relationship, and Travis and I had worked hard to build what my parents had. In the end though, we’d only had seven years together.

I hadn’t meant to slip into the fog that came with getting lost in my memories. Seeing those photos was probably what had set me on that path. I didn’t know how long I’d zoned out, but I snapped back to the present when my mom’s hand covered my own.

When I looked up at her, Mom asked, “You’re thinking about Travis, aren’t you?” I nodded, then slid my hand out from beneath hers and took a sip of my drink. “Are you still seeing your therapist, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, but we meet once a month now, instead of weekly. After over six years, I guess I ran out of stuff to say.”

“How’s your anxiety?”

Damn, she was cutting right to it. “It’s manageable, and you don’t really need to ask. You’d know if it wasn’t under control because I’d be back on medical leave. People with uncontrolled anxiety aren’t allowed to be firefighters, because we obviously wouldn’t be able to do our job.”

I tried hard to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. She was asking these questions out of love, I knew that. It was just frustrating, because we’d been down this road a million times, and I didn’t want to keep talking about all the ways Travis’s death had left me broken.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was tough to be the only damaged member of such a perfect family. My parents and sister were strong and resilient. When they dealt with adversity, it only made them stronger. I’d learned I wasn’t like that.

Nobody was saying anything, so I continued with, “Anyway, I’ve been fine. I saw the photos on the mantel, and I guess they stirred up some things. It’s not like I spend every day just…lost.”