As if I asked Cindy to involve herself, Deborah thinks bitterly.
CHAPTER 2
Deborah
When Deborah goes home from the hospital, she’s still wearing a bandage wrapped around her head and some adhesive strips on the less severe abrasions.
Though she’s starting to recuperate from the superficial wounds, Deborah freezes in nervous anticipation when she hears a knock at the front door, expecting the worst.
By far, the psychological damage from the trauma is going to surpass the visible imprints.
Tempted to ignore the unwanted visitor, Deborah halfheartedly drags her feet to peek out the picture windows facing the highway.
Spotting the neighbor’s old truck, she lets out a sigh of relief.
When she opens the door slowly, she’s face to face with him. Even in her fragile state of mind, he’s a sight for sore eyes, even tired ones.
Robert lives on a neighboring farm and is a widower. They lost their respective spouses around the same time, and their families used to be close until tragedy struck.
Holding up a grocery bag as a peace offering, Robert tells Deborah he came to check on her. He mentions the prayer circle at church and says the congregation has added Deborah to their prayer chain.
Flustered at this thought, she assumes Robert feels pity for her. Even though Deborah sits in the same pew at church every Sunday, their interactions have been cordial but distant for years.
Suddenly self-conscious of her appearance and used to having a spotless house, Deborah becomes embarrassed because she has a few dishes in the sink and hasn’t dusted since before the “incident.”
She didn’t plan to invite him in, but after they stand awkwardly at the door for a few minutes, she feels like she has no choice.
After she motions Robert to sit at the table, they stare at the empty chair between them in an unbearably long silence fraught with tension. Unpleasant memories belong to this chair and the owner. It was once Jonathan’s, and his cigarette burns are stubbed into the fabric, the pockmarks a permanent reminder of his bad habits. It’s apparent they both feel the ghost of him sitting in their midst. The blame game is as prevalent now as it was back then. Neither of them needs to say out loud that they think the other bears a majority of the responsibility for Jonathan’s death, because neither would be wrong. No one can deny mistakes were made—some well intended, a few reckless, others vengeful.
But guilt, that’s a dangerous thing. That’ll eat your insides alive, as Deborah is well aware due to the acidity in her stomach lining.
“If people in town had minded their own business”—she runs her hand through her hair, unsettling a few sparse grays—“we wouldn’t be sitting here like complete strangers.”
“I know,” Robert admits in a clipped tone. “But there was truth to some of it. We had to be careful.”
After she offers a cup of coffee, black with no cream or sugar, the way he used to take it, they finally start to talk like old times. Slowly she loosens up, and laughter creeps upon Deborah; smile lines finally appear on her wrinkled face. She’s forgotten how good it feels to have a conversation where there’s actual dialogue. The farm cats aren’t so adept at answering back.
When Robert leaves, he promises to come back and install an outdoor security camera and some floodlights. The seventy-acre farm has far too much land to have eyes on all of it, but she’s grateful the house will be protected. Deborah tries not to read into this renewed friendship, telling herself it was born out of neighborly obligation and nothing more.
But she is pleasantly surprised when he calls the next day to invite her over for a friendly card game. Deborah cautiously accepts. Like a true gentleman, he picks her up, and they sit in front of his fireplace to play gin rummy and hearts.
Deborah returns the favor a few days later by inviting him over to watch television.
Then he cooks dinner for her, and they sit at his dining room table and trade stories.
After a few weeks she suggests they have their own book club, which might seem silly with only two people, but they agree on an author to read.
Sometimes Robert will sit in the recliner and nod off when it gets late, and Deborah then feels relieved not everything has changed with time. He’ll fall asleep with his head at a painful-looking angle, his snores loud enough to rouse an army. Deborah giggles at the memory of him doing this during church sermons. His wife would give him an elbow in the ribs or loudly whisper for him to wake up. Deborah would snicker at her outbursts, since they drew more attention than his inconvenient naps because of the echo in the high-ceilinged chapel.
When his eyelids finally flip open, he wears a sheepish expression on his face. Slapping his knees, he slowly pulls himself out of the chair. He doesn’t ask to stay the night, and she never offers, their companionable silence enjoyable for the two of them up until a point.
One warm afternoon when the snow has melted, hopefully for the last time, they go down to the pond on the edge of Deborah’s property to fish, a perfect, cloudless April day upon them.
They don’t need much in the way of conversation, both able to enjoy each other’s company, but Deborah is abnormally quiet, a lot weighing on her mind as of late.
She had struck the letters from her memory, but now, after a long dry spell, another one has arrived. She’s dying to tell someone, and Robert’s the closest she has to a confidant. Pacing the grass, she makes the decision to tell him.
With a glance over his shoulder, he shoots her a questioning glance before he throws out his fishing line.
The last thing she wants to do is alienate him, and suddenly shy, Deborah second-guesses if she should share the secret. Maybe she should wait. It might
