“You’re a very gracious host.”
“Sit,” he says and points to a chair. “You can have the paper first.”
I oblige, and he joins me at the table, putting too much food on my plate and pouring me a cup of coffee. I open the paper but can’t seem to focus on any of the words.
“Sports?” I ask him, sorting through the paper. “Funnies? Current events?”
“Whatever you don’t want,” he says. “Keep whatever makes you stay. I think I know what I want now.”
I don’t think we’re talking about the newspaper. I wonder if Jack and I had tried harder to make the good times good if we could have made the bad ones hurt less. I take a sip of coffee and a bite of crepe. Oliver nods at me and begins to eat his breakfast as well.
“So, would this make a good picture in one of your books?” he asks.
“A breakfast book,” I say. “You know, I never got to do one of those.”
“You should make it your next project,” he says. “I can make the breakfast; you can take pictures of it.”
“I don’t think my house is taking on any new projects,” I say. “Makes me anxious actually.”
“No need to wait for them,” he says. “Do it on your own.”
He picks up the paper and starts flipping through it. I feel safe here. I wonder how long I could hide away. How long life would go on without me and leave me here in limbo, this blissful purgatory between world and sky. I look at the rings on my finger. This is not a limbo I can live with.
While Oliver eats and looks at the paper, I hide my hands under the table and toy with the gold on my hand. I slip the rings off, and there is an internal whoosh of letting go. But it’s not just Jack and it’s not entirely a good whoosh. I feel the rushing away of everything I thought would be. Everything I hoped for. Pulling the rings off is like tossing my map out the window. Facing some unmarked road to who knows where.
What if I had to introduce myself to someone? I would have no qualifiers to attach to my name. Hi, I’m Nina, I’m Jack’s wife, mother of three. We just bought a place out in the country. The kids can’t wait to get a dog. We never let them have one in that little city condo, but our family just got so big that we needed more space. You should come out and visit. I’ll give you a tour of the garden. You should see it. The previous owners really set us up as far as beautiful landscaping goes.
None of that was going to happen without those rings on. Maybe none of it was going to happen anyway. But without them, I wasn’t sure what to say. Hi, I’m Nina. I take photos of food for a living. That’s pretty much it. Sorry. You always feel the need to apologize to strangers when your life doesn’t work out the way you planned.
“You ok over there?” Oliver asks, the paper on the table, his eyes on me.
“Yeah,” I say.
Under the table I put the wedding set on my right-hand pointer finger. It doesn’t fit that finger, of course. So when I look down, it looks like a couple of rings that don’t belong on my hand. The rings must belong to somebody, just not me. How did I end up with these rings stuck at the knuckle of my right hand? I feel like a person who took a wrong turn a hundred miles back and is just now realizing the mistake, but is so far into the journey that she doesn’t want to tell the other passengers they’re going the wrong way.
I put the rings on the kitchen table.
“Are you sure about that?” Oliver asks, looking at the rings.
“I’m sure. Although it seems strange for them just to sit there while we eat.”
He nods and picks them up. He walks a few steps into the living room and drops the rings into a blue pottery vase sitting on the piano.
“There,” he says. “If you change your mind, you know where they are.”
He says it like it’s an option I’m allowed to take up. I wonder how long it will take those rings to burn a hole in the bottom of that vase.
11
Meeting Oliver for lunch at the café where I first got the news of Dad’s was passing is surreal. It’s been two months, but it doesn’t feel like it’s getting any easier yet. The suggestion to meet here was a mix of habit and forgetfulness. My hand on the door brings it all back to me, like meeting myself rushing out, passing at the precipice of hope and knowledge.
Missing Dad is like waking from a good dream only to remember that something sad has happened, but not being able to place right away what that sad thing is. Then remembering.
Oliver greets me with a kiss and slides into the seat across from me. He’s casual in his day-off clothes, no scrubs. I wonder if he looks like he could be my little brother, or worse.
“Bad day?” He doesn’t open the menu but reaches across the table and touches my hand.
“I was just caught off guard by something,” I say and put my other hand over his, like that little childhood game. His hand is strong and warm between mine—solid against the vapor of memory.
“Need to talk?” he asks. “I’m happy to listen.”
I shake my head. Although I appreciate his being sensitive to my mood, this isn’t the conversation I want to have today, so in true fashion, I change the subject as soon as I get a chance.
“So, tell me, how did you end up working as a nurse’s aide?” I ask, having danced around the subject of his past before.
“I dropped out
