A Different Blue (32 page)

But time and tears proved to be better tonics than I would have thought. I had spent my whole life denying grief, holding it back like it was something to avoid at all cost. Jimmy had been so contained, and I had adopted his stoicism. Maybe it was the hormones, or a purely biological response, maybe it was the fact that I had pled with a God I knew very little about to take away the pain, but in the days that followed Melody's birth I discovered I had been given the ability to weep. And in weeping there was power. The power to heal, the power to release pain and let go, the power to endure love and to shoulder loss. And as the weeks became months, I cried less and smiled more. And peace became a more frequent companion.

But as peace and acceptance became my friend, Wilson began pulling away. At first I was almost grateful, simply because I was terrible company. But as I started to heal, I started to miss my friend, and he was mostly absent. I wondered if he felt his job was done. Maybe Melody had been delivered, and so had he.

Just before Christmas, I wrote a couple of days off work and went on a major wood hunting expedition. I headed into Arizona, hit the corner of Southern Utah, and circled back to Vegas with a truck full of juniper, mountain mahogany and more mesquite than I could carve in a month of Sundays. The heavy rains and floods from months before had moved downed timber from higher ground, filling the washes and valleys and making it fairly easy to find what I was looking for. Unfortunately, I had to leave some of the heaviest pieces behind because, though I had perfected using levers, pulleys, and ramps, some of the pieces demanded more than one woman and her tools could accomplish. When I planned the trip, I had hoped I might be able to convince Wilson to come with me. With the Christmas holiday he would have some time off. Buy he was so obviously trying to steer clear of me that I didn't bother.

When I rolled in on Monday night, filthy and tired, sporting slivers, bruises, torn clothing and a throbbing toe, courtesy of a log that got away, I was not in the mood for any interactions with Pamela and Wilson. Unfortunately, they pulled up at the house while I was attempting to unload my truck by the basement entrance. Pamela was wearing a little white skirt with tennis shoes and a fitted sports tank, her hair pulled back into a perky ponytail. She shivered as Wilson jumped up into the back of my truck and began to help me unload. She danced in place for about two minutes, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Darcy, I'm freezing. Let's go inside, shall we?” she complained, and then smiled at Wilson when he paused to look at her.

“Go on ahead, Pam. It is too cold out here. I'll just help Blue get this in the basement.”

Pamela scowled slightly, her eyes lingering on me doubtfully. She didn't want to leave Wilson, I could tell. Women have a sense about these things. There was something going on between Wilson and me. And she knew it. I just shrugged. Not my problem.

“Really, Pammy. Head on up to my flat. I'll just be a minute. There's no reason for you to stand in the cold,” Wilson insisted.

It wasn't really very cold, although December in the desert can be surprisingly nippy. But I guess if I was wearing a tiny tennis outfit instead of jeans, work gloves, and a flannel shirt I might be cold, too. I didn't know what Pamela was worried about. My hair was a ratty nest. In fact, I was pretty sure I was sporting a few twigs. My nose was red, my cheek scratched, and I wouldn't be turning any heads, including Wilson's. Pamela must have arrived at the same conclusion, because she gave me a long look and flounced away, calling that she would just turn on the “telly” for a bit.

“Pammy?” I mocked, rolling a four foot section of a tree I'd razed down my makeshift ramp.

“When we were little, everyone called her Pammy. It slips out every now and again.”

I snorted, not having anything to say but feeling disdainful anyway.

“Why did you leave without telling anyone where you were going, Blue?” Wilson called over his shoulder as he descended the ramp, juggling an armful of juniper. He proceeded down the stairs to the basement, and I decided that meant he didn't need an answer or he didn't think he was going to get one. He loped back up seconds later and resumed talking as if he hadn't left.

“I didn't even know you were gone until yesterday morning. Then I started to worry.”

“I didn't leave without telling anyone. I just didn't tell you,” I replied shortly. “This is the last piece, but it's heavier than hell. Get on the other end, will ya?” I directed him, changing the subject. I didn't want to justify my absence. He had been the one ignoring me, not the other way around.

Wilson grabbed the end of two heavy, tangled branches I was struggling to hoist. Two separate branches had grown out of two different trees that had been growing side by side, and the branches had overlapped, wrapping around the other, the smaller branches tangling and intertwining. The branch from one tree had been damaged and was split at its base. Had it not been wrapped around the branch from the other tree it would have come down on its own. I had to climb both trees to cut each branch loose, sawing off the branch that wasn't split, and severing the few jagged connections of the one that was. It had cost me a hole in my jeans and a long scratch on my right cheek, but it would be worth it in the end.

The imagery of the fused branches was compelling and suggestive of something innate to every human heart – the need to touch, the need to connect – and I knew exactly what it would look like when I finished. When I'd first seen it, I had ached for something I had denied myself since I walked out of Mason's garage apartment a year ago. But it wasn't the physical release I yearned for. Not entirely. It was the closeness, the connection. But the thought of going back to a time when I'd slaked a physical need at the expense of an emotional one didn't appeal any longer. And so I was left with the ache and no idea how to soothe it.

Wilson and I teetered down the stairs, facing each other through scrubby branches and prickly bark. I led the way, placing my end gently on the floor by the workbench, and he followed suit, standing back and wiping his hands on his white tennis shorts. He had sap on his light blue shirt and grubby marks on his shorts where he had wiped his hands. I wondered if Pammy would want him to change. The thought made me inexplicably mournful, and I snatched up a chisel and mallet. I wanted to start removing bark and twigs and leaves immediately. Maybe I could work the ache away, focus the need and desire clawing at me into something productive, something beautiful, something that wouldn't leave me empty in the end.

“Can I leave my truck where it's at?” I asked Wilson, attacking the bark, my eyes on the branches.

“Are the keys in it?”

I patted my pockets and groaned. “Yeah. They are. Never mind. I'll go move it and lock it up.”

“I'll do it. I've seen that look before. Blue is in the zone,” Wilson commented wryly, and he turned and left without another word.

I worked frantically for several hours, stripping and snipping, sanding and shaving, until my embracing branches lay bare and naked on the concrete. My hands were raw and my back screamed when I stepped back to take a breather. I had pulled off my flannel shirt sometime in the course of the night, growing too warm from my labor and the small space heater that Wilson insisted I use, blasting in the corner. I'd twisted my hair into a sloppy braid to keep it out of my face and safe from the sander. It had grown so long that the braid kept falling over my left shoulder like a heavy vine. I was considering lopping it off when I heard a key scrape in the lock and the basement door swing open with a rush of cold air. Wilson shut the door behind him, shivering a little from the wintery blast. He wore a T-shirt and those low-slung jeans, the ones I had tried not to notice the first time he'd worn them. My keys were in his hand, and an irritated expression made a crease between his grey eyes.

“It's midnight, Blue. You've been down here working non-stop for five hours.”

“So?”

“So . . . it's midnight!”

“All right, Grandma.”

The scowl between Wilson's brows deepened. He closed the distance between us, his eyes taking in my unkempt appearance.

“You were gone for three days, and I'm guessing you hardly slept the whole time you were gone, yet here you are, working like you're under a deadline or something. Your jeans are torn, you were limping earlier, and your cheek is scratched,” Wilson argued. He ran a finger down the angry welt on my cheekbone. I reached up to push his hand away, but he captured my hand and turned it over, running his fingers over my palm, straightening my fingers, noting the callouses and the scrapes I had acquired in the last few days. Goose bumps rose on my arms and tickled my neck. I shivered and pulled my hand away. I crouched beside my project and resumed sanding.

“So why didn't you tell me?”

“Hmm?” I didn't stop working.

“You said you didn't leave without telling anyone where you were going. You just didn't tell me. Why?”

“You've been avoiding me for a while, Wilson, which gave me the impression that you wouldn't be bothered by my absence.” My words were blunt, and I boldly held his gaze.

Wilson nodded, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on my accusation. But he didn't deny that he had purposely stayed away.

“I thought maybe you and I needed some distance. It's been only two months since Melody was born. Our . . . relationship . . . has been forged on some pretty intense experiences.” Wilson formed his words carefully, pausing between thoughts. I didn't like that he was so deliberate. It felt patronizing. But he continued in the same tone, speaking precisely and slowly.

“I thought maybe you needed some time and some . . . space. Without drama, without . . . me . . . or anybody else. Just space.” Wilson looked at me intently, his grey gaze sober and steady.

I laid down my tools and stood, putting space – the thing Wilson was so convinced I needed – between us. I shivered, freezing now that I had slowed my pace. The cold of the concrete floor had seeped up through the soles of my feet, and my torn jeans and thin tank top were suddenly insufficient to ward off the chill. I turned my back to Wilson and reached my hands toward the heater, trying to pull the warmth into my stiff fingers and arms.

“Do you remember that story Jimmy told me? The one about Tabuts the wise wolf and his brother Shinangwav, the coyote?” I tossed him a questioning look over my shoulder.

“The one about the people carved from sticks? The one you told me to school me on the unfair socio-economic structure throughout the world?” Wilson's mouth twisted wryly, and he walked toward me, grabbing my flannel shirt off the floor where I'd discarded it. He placed it around my shoulders, and then folded his arms around me, resting his chin on my head. His heat felt so good, so right, that I closed my eyes against it, against him and the ease which he held me, as if I were his sister or a favorite cousin. I didn't feel at all sisterly toward Wilson. And as good as his arms felt wrapped around me, there was pain in the pleasure.

“When I was a child, that story never made any sense to me. Why would people want to be alone?” The wistful tone of my voice was revealing, and Wilson's arms tightened around me. I kept my eyes closed, a sudden weariness crawling into my muscles and limbs with the heat that surrounded me.

“I thought Shinangwav was the smarter brother. He knew people would want to be in bunches. I pestered Jimmy constantly for a mother or a sister or a handful of friends. A wise wolf should know that people would rather be together.”

Wilson turned me in his arms and smoothed the tendrils of hair from my cheeks. I wanted to keep my eyes closed, fearing that if I opened them when we stood this close they would give me away. But the proximity made keeping them closed seem expectant, as if I were waiting for him to kiss my lips, so I opened them and raised them wearily to his.

“Sometimes I feel like I was one of those who was left in the sack while everyone else was falling out in groups,” I whispered.

Wilson's eyes were so grey in the paltry light of the dim corner that they looked like slate in a deluge. His face was a study in concentration and empathy, as if every word I said was of supreme importance. It was that expression, that intensity, that had worn me down, and won me over, history lesson after history lesson, day after day, and he didn't even know I was his.

“I would say that's a pretty understandable reaction after carrying a child for nine months . . . and having to part with her.” Wilson's voice was gentle, and he kissed my forehead chastely, obnoxiously. But I didn't want his sympathy. And I definitely didn't want space. I wanted him. I didn't want him to kiss my forehead. I wanted to kiss his mouth. I wanted to kiss him with my hands fisted in his hair and my body wrapped around him. I wanted to confess my feelings and demonstrate my devotion. And if I didn't leave right that second, I might do something that would push him away forever. I pulled away almost frantically, afraid of myself, afraid for myself. Wilson let me go immediately.

“Some people are destined to be alone. Jimmy seemed to be one of those people. Maybe I am too, whether I like it or not.”

Wilson did not respond as I turned and walked to my work bench. I snagged my keys and headed for the stairs leading to my apartment. Neither of us offered words of farewell, and the distance between us was reestablished as if I had never stood in his arms.

Chapter Twenty-Three