The house was waiting when I arrived, one side shining in the gold light of a waning sun, the other in shadow. I stood before it as I had last fall, only this time not even Rufus waited inside.
It’s a monstrous thing, really, this empty Victorian. It resides heavily on the land, alive with the terrors and joys of its passing inhabitants, not only humans and their animals but all the wild creatures that burrow under floors and creep between walls, that nestle into dark basement corners. The house breathes with the earth, sits without judgment of those who travel through.
I enter, slip off my jacket. My eyes fall on baby bottles in the sink, a spit-up rag on the arm of Rufus’s old chair. It’s an effort to breathe. I try to relax into this place, let it breathe for me. The walls expand and contract, expand and contract, and a low beat thrums in a steady rhythm as if I’m residing in an enormous heart.
Words echo from years ago. Some hearts are stronger than others. I have a choice to make, and it is much larger than the one Evangeline has set for me. I must decide how strong my heart is. How strong I want it to be. I can choose. And knowing this, I have no excuse. My life depends on it. Other lives too. Likely more than I know.
I rise. I make it up those slatted stairs to Daniel’s room. The space is musty. Dead. I go to the window and lift off the rod with its heavy dark curtain, lay it on the floor. Though it is early evening, light floods the room.
I picture the walls mudded and painted, a door installed. I go to the landing, and in the dim expanse of the second floor I see a study, another bedroom, a family space of some type. More windows form in dark walls, and from the rafters skylights appear, dispensing brightness like a blessing. The voices of a woman and a girl sing from a dark corner, and a baby coos nearby.
The house is lifting, drifting on the promise of an approaching summer. And I remember the months each year when windows and doors are thrown open, when the house billows with the slightest breeze, transformed into a vessel with sails, its occupants in glorious flight.
I return to the bedroom and open the window to cleanse the stagnant air. The back field radiates a stunning teal, and beyond that, Lorrie’s kitchen shines like a star. Even as my eyes rest on all this, the fence between our lots begins to shimmer, then disappears. A dog barks, and a small girl laughs, their shadows darting between the border trees.
I AM DOWNSTAIRS NOW. I hesitate by the phone, my hand unwilling. But I manage it, those last few steps. I pick up and dial. It rings three times without answer. I worry she’s seen my name and is refusing the call. The fourth ring breaks halfway through.
“Isaac?” Her voice is breathless, as if she’s dashed to catch the call. “Isaac? Are you there?”
I hear the Divine seeking a response to all that has been offered. Am I here? Am I willing to be truly alive to what is before me?
My heart answers yes, pummeling my ribs with a percussive rhythm so fierce I am certain Lorrie can feel it in her own chest. I try to shape words, but my lips are trembling, vibrating with the ferocity of the Divine. At long last, I feel God beating my heart, and I understand. God has been in me all these years, never once leaving me. God has been waiting patiently all this time, waiting for me to say yes.
“Lorrie,” I say, and my heart finds a sudden calm, an unexpected peace. I take a breath, and it’s easier now. I hear Emma mewl, a soft whimper, so close. She must be in Lorrie’s arms.
“Lorrie,” I say again, her name spoken as benediction, as proof of what is possible. I pause and feel inside me the pulse and weight of this woman and child. When I speak, the words form a prayer.
“I know it’s getting late, but I’m wondering if I might stop by.”