The day after the big town hall meeting organized by Terry at the Phoenix, I met Uma for coffee as she'd agreed. I hadn't told her much; it really
wasn't necessary. First of all, with everyone gathered for the big meeting, there wasn't time to pass a private word. And second of all, I was watchful
lest some measure of injustice be heaped on Drover. And third of all, I couldn't linger after the meeting ended -- not with Drover waiting for me in my
apartment.
Uma tapped on the front door of the Library bright and early. She look clean, bright, full of life. Like the Uma I'd first met all those years ago. I guess looking at her this morning made me take a 'real' look because I don't think it really dawned on me until this morning: Uma is happy. Genuinely happy. And Max Skinner is the font of this happiness. He's the reason we've got Uma back.
I opened the door holding a thermos of coffee in one hand and a bright green bag in the other. "I said to meet me at the Library for coffee," I said to her as I locked the shop closed behind me. "I never said we'd actually drink it here, did I? Or perhaps I should have mentioned that ... Well, at least you're dressed casual."
"You insisted," she said, looking down at her jeans, which I'm sure were actually pricier than any dress I owned.
"Nice shoes," I said, leading her toward my car.
"You mentioned something about boots ..." she said.
"Oh, I did, I know. Just had a different kind of boot in mind -- but never mind, I have a pair you can use."
Before she could delay me further, I had her door open and I was storing the coffee and breakfast in the backseat. She was about to say something but I just slid behind the wheel and started the car. What could she do but get in?
See, the thing is, we're working on repairing the bumps and bruises of our relationship. And when you're doing that sort of thing, you tend to bend a lot more -- you go along with odd ideas and strange requests because somewhere in your heart you believe it all leads to the place you want to be: back as best friends who can tell each other absolutely anything without planning it all out or rehearsing the words or creating the right moment.
Today is all about creating the right moment.
She talks about her parents as I drive us down the coast. It's not a long trip, maybe fifteen minutes. I'm still hearing about her finding out about them falling back into the sack together when I turn off the road to head up over the worn dirt road that takes me atop the hill that overlooks my favorite beach. We sit in the car and drink coffee and munch on muffiins and fruit. She talks about her parents a bit more -- and I picture them as I last saw them. It's good to have a touchstone right now.
Breakfast over, I fidget behind the wheel, looking off into the hazy blues of the ocean waking up to a new day. Uma says nothing. And it makes me laugh when I suddenly realize we're sitting here, saying not a thing. And I doubt either of us are mesmerized by the sight before us, as beautiful as it is.
"Uma, I need something from you," I say to her.
"I'm a little worried by your voice," she says to me. "Is something wrong?"
I turn to look at her, take a breath. "I've got to tell you something that may upset you. It may even be a roadblock between us. And I don't want that. More than anything, I don't want that."
"Then just tell me." She is so steady, her hands in her lap, a tiny smile on her lips. Encouraging me.
"There are things you don't know about Ben Wade ... and me ..."
"Ben fucking Wade? What are ..."
"Uma, just give me a minute. I know he did really bad things to you. I won't excuse them -- but I can explain them. I don't expect that to make a difference because it wouldn't if I were you. But you should still know."
She turns to look out at the ocean. Her voice is a bit cold. "Why do we even have to discuss him? He's gone. Good riddance."
"Not for me -- it's not good riddance for me. That's why we have to talk."
Because she's silent, probably angry that I've even ruined this morning by bringing him up, I just jump into the space between us. I tell her many of the things I told Drover -- and as I tell her, it dawns on me that back before Ben disrupted our world, she would have been the first person I would have told about how much I loved him, how it turned out he'd proven how much he loved me. And as I talk, she relaxes and really listens to me. I would never tell Uma about my journal -- about that part of my past. It still shames me so. But I can tell her about what Ben has written to me, about what he's done in his own misguided way to give me a better future -- and I can tell her how there isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss him and that I worry about him.
That I worry especially about whether or not he was alone when he died. If he was warm. If he thought of me and knew I'd be thinking of him. If his life in the book had been good. If he'd gotten what he wanted.
And I tell her what he wrote about her -- about his belief she held a power that kept each of the men here. That if he could shake her power, he could escape. That he knew there was something about the connection between her and those who loved her that made her stronger -- and that's why he went after her the way he did, to break our faith in her, to leave her alone.
"I said yes," I tell her as I finish. She looks at me, tears in her eyes. "I wanted to stay with him and when he offered, it's all I wanted. To have a life with him in the one place he wanted to live. But he wouldn't let me stay. I was so angry for so long about that -- until I found what he'd written to me. And now I see -- but I still hate it! I see that he thought he was doing right by me. But I miss him, Uma."
She puts a hand on my arm. We sit there together, closer than we've been in too long. Finally, she says, "You've seemed happy lately."
"I have been -- but not easy about it. You know I've been seeing Drover, of course. And he's just ... amazing. He's really the reason I'm facing how I feel -- about Ben, about him. And I know something important, Uma -- if I can't put Ben in my past, if I can't find a way to say goodbye, I'm never going to take any more steps with Drover. It's just not in me."
Now is when I tell her about Drover's idea -- for a memorial service for Ben. A chance to formally say goodbye. Not to slam the door in Ben's face and not to say I'll ever stop loving him -- but a way to put an end to that segment of my life and turn the page to whatever new path I feel I want to take.
As she absorbs this idea, I open my car door. "You want to help me with something?"
I'm at the open trunk when she gets out of the car. I hand her a spare pair of work boots and slip into my own pair. I hand her a large basket and scissors. She asks what I'm up to. I take her hand and walk around the car to look out over the hill.
"I want to pick a bunch of wildflowers. I have this idea ... for the ceremony. I want everyone to carry wildflowers and we can toss them in the ocean and ..." I stop, suddenly too aware of the big step I'm about to take. I look at her and shake my head.
"Wildflowers are a perfect symbol," she says. "We'll need lots, you figure?"
Uma takes off now, striding down to where we can find whatever's blooming on these hills.
And I know this: with this one simple gesture, she's shown me she understands -- and she even can appreciate my sense of loss.
That's what friends do. I need to be a better one to her ...
Uma tapped on the front door of the Library bright and early. She look clean, bright, full of life. Like the Uma I'd first met all those years ago. I guess looking at her this morning made me take a 'real' look because I don't think it really dawned on me until this morning: Uma is happy. Genuinely happy. And Max Skinner is the font of this happiness. He's the reason we've got Uma back.
I opened the door holding a thermos of coffee in one hand and a bright green bag in the other. "I said to meet me at the Library for coffee," I said to her as I locked the shop closed behind me. "I never said we'd actually drink it here, did I? Or perhaps I should have mentioned that ... Well, at least you're dressed casual."
"You insisted," she said, looking down at her jeans, which I'm sure were actually pricier than any dress I owned.
"Nice shoes," I said, leading her toward my car.
"You mentioned something about boots ..." she said.
"Oh, I did, I know. Just had a different kind of boot in mind -- but never mind, I have a pair you can use."
Before she could delay me further, I had her door open and I was storing the coffee and breakfast in the backseat. She was about to say something but I just slid behind the wheel and started the car. What could she do but get in?
See, the thing is, we're working on repairing the bumps and bruises of our relationship. And when you're doing that sort of thing, you tend to bend a lot more -- you go along with odd ideas and strange requests because somewhere in your heart you believe it all leads to the place you want to be: back as best friends who can tell each other absolutely anything without planning it all out or rehearsing the words or creating the right moment.
Today is all about creating the right moment.
She talks about her parents as I drive us down the coast. It's not a long trip, maybe fifteen minutes. I'm still hearing about her finding out about them falling back into the sack together when I turn off the road to head up over the worn dirt road that takes me atop the hill that overlooks my favorite beach. We sit in the car and drink coffee and munch on muffiins and fruit. She talks about her parents a bit more -- and I picture them as I last saw them. It's good to have a touchstone right now.
Breakfast over, I fidget behind the wheel, looking off into the hazy blues of the ocean waking up to a new day. Uma says nothing. And it makes me laugh when I suddenly realize we're sitting here, saying not a thing. And I doubt either of us are mesmerized by the sight before us, as beautiful as it is.
"Uma, I need something from you," I say to her.
"I'm a little worried by your voice," she says to me. "Is something wrong?"
I turn to look at her, take a breath. "I've got to tell you something that may upset you. It may even be a roadblock between us. And I don't want that. More than anything, I don't want that."
"Then just tell me." She is so steady, her hands in her lap, a tiny smile on her lips. Encouraging me.
"There are things you don't know about Ben Wade ... and me ..."
"Ben fucking Wade? What are ..."
"Uma, just give me a minute. I know he did really bad things to you. I won't excuse them -- but I can explain them. I don't expect that to make a difference because it wouldn't if I were you. But you should still know."
She turns to look out at the ocean. Her voice is a bit cold. "Why do we even have to discuss him? He's gone. Good riddance."
"Not for me -- it's not good riddance for me. That's why we have to talk."
Because she's silent, probably angry that I've even ruined this morning by bringing him up, I just jump into the space between us. I tell her many of the things I told Drover -- and as I tell her, it dawns on me that back before Ben disrupted our world, she would have been the first person I would have told about how much I loved him, how it turned out he'd proven how much he loved me. And as I talk, she relaxes and really listens to me. I would never tell Uma about my journal -- about that part of my past. It still shames me so. But I can tell her about what Ben has written to me, about what he's done in his own misguided way to give me a better future -- and I can tell her how there isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss him and that I worry about him.
That I worry especially about whether or not he was alone when he died. If he was warm. If he thought of me and knew I'd be thinking of him. If his life in the book had been good. If he'd gotten what he wanted.
And I tell her what he wrote about her -- about his belief she held a power that kept each of the men here. That if he could shake her power, he could escape. That he knew there was something about the connection between her and those who loved her that made her stronger -- and that's why he went after her the way he did, to break our faith in her, to leave her alone.
"I said yes," I tell her as I finish. She looks at me, tears in her eyes. "I wanted to stay with him and when he offered, it's all I wanted. To have a life with him in the one place he wanted to live. But he wouldn't let me stay. I was so angry for so long about that -- until I found what he'd written to me. And now I see -- but I still hate it! I see that he thought he was doing right by me. But I miss him, Uma."
She puts a hand on my arm. We sit there together, closer than we've been in too long. Finally, she says, "You've seemed happy lately."
"I have been -- but not easy about it. You know I've been seeing Drover, of course. And he's just ... amazing. He's really the reason I'm facing how I feel -- about Ben, about him. And I know something important, Uma -- if I can't put Ben in my past, if I can't find a way to say goodbye, I'm never going to take any more steps with Drover. It's just not in me."
Now is when I tell her about Drover's idea -- for a memorial service for Ben. A chance to formally say goodbye. Not to slam the door in Ben's face and not to say I'll ever stop loving him -- but a way to put an end to that segment of my life and turn the page to whatever new path I feel I want to take.
As she absorbs this idea, I open my car door. "You want to help me with something?"
I'm at the open trunk when she gets out of the car. I hand her a spare pair of work boots and slip into my own pair. I hand her a large basket and scissors. She asks what I'm up to. I take her hand and walk around the car to look out over the hill.
"I want to pick a bunch of wildflowers. I have this idea ... for the ceremony. I want everyone to carry wildflowers and we can toss them in the ocean and ..." I stop, suddenly too aware of the big step I'm about to take. I look at her and shake my head.
"Wildflowers are a perfect symbol," she says. "We'll need lots, you figure?"
Uma takes off now, striding down to where we can find whatever's blooming on these hills.
And I know this: with this one simple gesture, she's shown me she understands -- and she even can appreciate my sense of loss.
That's what friends do. I need to be a better one to her ...
