How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [84]
“We deserve to see you happy, don’t we?”
Ah, happiness. What is it? Does it exist? Words from Grandpa Ernest’s letter come back to me. “The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances.”
“I mean, we all want you to like us here. You know, feel comfortable in these mountains.”
“I like y’all,” I say into the fire. I keep my eyes on the coals because I am too scared to look Zack in the face. I am afraid that I would get lost somewhere in his hazel-green eyes and not be able to find my breath.
He’s not for me. He is these kids’ hero. Yet… I glance over at him. He seems kind and trustworthy and—
No! He’s a man. He’s capable of breaking my heart. Bending it, pulling it apart like silly putty…
There are some things in life the heart is not willing to risk.
Abruptly, I stand and put on my jacket. “Good night, Zack,” I say. Then I leave him alone. I would like to think he has a surprised expression on his face, similar to the one Chef B had when I said I was leaving Atlanta. One that would clearly convey disappointment at my sudden decision to get up and leave.
I would like to think that.
I don’t wait to see.
————
As I lie awake in my sleeping bag in the girls’ tent with Rainy and Joy softly breathing beside me, my heart won’t let me sleep. It reminds me of a pot on the stove, boiling water raging down the sides, splashing against the flames. If I could just turn off the flame, the boiling would subside and I could close my eyes.
I recall the nights I slept in my sleeping bag in my apartment in Atlanta—the nights before I made my trip to Grandpa’s cabin. That final night before my move up north was lonely, one where I hoped that Vivaldi’s music would summon sleep. I kept looking at the clock and watching the numbers bring in a new day, frustrated that I couldn’t close my eyes, shut off my mind, and drift off. Now I sniff the sleeping bag to see if it has any aroma that reminds me of my apartment life. Perhaps a faint odor of fried calamari, cinnamon from a candle I often burned, or simply nostalgia.
I can’t get comfortable, and the ground is hard. Turning, I see the outline of Joy’s sleeping frame to the left of me and Rainy next to her. Rainy opens her mouth and lets out a snore. I think she’d be mortified if she found out she snores in her sleep.
Massaging my arms, I’m still able to feel Charlotte’s fingers as they played against my scars. I think of her view of the stars— how she imagines that God takes each of her uttered prayers and displays them in the sky. Each prayer, a shining light, worthy to be strung in the heavens. I would like to peer into her journal and read what some of those hopes are in her young life. Miriam told me that while the children hope to be connected to their despondent parents, they wish for other things, too. Kids are kids. Charlotte probably wants to grow up to be a ballerina like I wanted to when I was small. Or maybe she dreams of something more lofty—being a physician or an astronaut. I should have asked her, I think. I need to ask more and assume less.
I turn over again, draw my knees to my chest, which I find is hard to do in the constraints of a sleeping bag. I unzip the bag and try again. Now when I breathe, there is no scent of calamari but only of the smoky night. My hair and skin are fragrant from the campfire. Listening, I hear no voices, only the sounds from nature.
I suppose even Zack has gone to his tent. I go over each detail of the brief but comfortable time spent talking with him as the fire blazed. I smile at how we connected. Even though we said little, there was this feeling between us. Jeannie would call it chemistry, but I’m not ready to name it.
He’s not what I wished for.
The most remarkable part of the evening was one of the briefest moments. Darren talked to me. He did not yell or curse but actually acknowledged my scars and told me of his own. Sullen and angry Darren opened a little crack in his armor and let me see a hidden part, a section of himself. Tomorrow I’ll probably wonder