“Nils Lee?”
Surprised, I look up and lock eyes with Eileen Shroud. Beside me, with two tomatoes in his hands, Oliver glances up as well. Eileen smiles, an empty shopping basket in her hands.
“I don’t suppose you remember me,” she says kindly, voice low and smooth and melodic, just how I recall it being. I do remember her. Vividly, in fact. And although her hair is whiter and her face is more lined, I could never forget that voice or the way she smelled like baby powder, could never forget all the time she and I spent together in an empty classroom, long after the other kids had been sent home.
“Of course I do,” I reply, proud that I was able to say that so smoothly in front of the woman whom I credit with my ability to speak coherently at all. Taking a deep breath, I wait until my heart rate slows and put a hand on Oliver’s upper back. Slowly, I introduce him. “Oliver, this is Eileen.”
“Oliver Martin, yes, you bought that old fixer-upper on Mariner,” she says, reaching for the hand Oliver holds out to shake. “I don’t believe you and I have ever formally met. I usedto work over at the elementary school as a speech therapist. Sometimes I still volunteer, but mostly, I just enjoy retirement.”
After a swift glance at me, Oliver directs his smile back at Eileen. She’s smaller than I remember, but I suppose that’s simply because I’m a lot bigger than I was at seven years old.
I’d hated the necessity of having to do the lessons. Of having to stay behind after school while everyone else went home—forced to do extra lessons that made me feel singled out, shaky, and, on several occasions, tearful. I wasn’t a big crier as a kid, but Eileen got more than her fair share of the tears during a few of our more difficult sessions.
Those four years of lessons had felt like decades to my younger self, but now I just look back at them with fondness. I remember Eileen giving me a hug at the end of every session, her shirt ironed to a crisp and smelling like baby powder. I remember my sister occasionally hanging around to walk home with me once I was finished, and I remember Dad picking me up on his way to or from a job other times, how my stomach would grumble and he’d stop to get us a treat for the ride.
I remember walking home after a therapy lesson on a day neither my sister nor my dad was there to get me, and rain started to fall. Ewan Fate’s mom had pulled her beat-up Volvo to a stop next to the sidewalk and offered me a ride. I’d wanted to say no but was worried about being rude, cognizant of the manners my own mom had drilled into me. I’d gotten in, and the drumming of the rain on the roof of the car was broken up only by Molly softly singing along to the radio.
She’d seemed so pretty to me, with her black hair piled upon her head and held in place with a pair of chopsticks. She wore silver bracelets on her wrists that jingled faintly when she moved and rings on almost all her fingers. Her nose was pierced. She’d seemed young and cool, the way so many parents never did. Eight-year-old me didn’t know much about Molly Fate other than her being a parent to a boy at my school. Eight-year-old me didn’t know that she looked young because shewasyoung. He didn’t know that she’d gotten pregnant at seventeen or that there was no father named on Ewan’s birth certificate. And eight-year-old me didn’t know that in ten years, both she and her son would be gone.
Most of my memories of those younger years are like that. Vivid snapshots of time between mundane, seemingly identical school days—Eileen bringing me a gift on my birthday and teaching me to slow down; the way I felt indescribably happy the first time I spoke a sentence riddled with you-sound words without a stutter, and she’d looked so proud. Sometimes, the recall of my childhood and teenage years is nothing but a long string of bad days. Bullying and loneliness and one uphill battle after another. But it wasn’t all bad, I realize now, leaning down to give Eileen a hug as she says her goodbyes. It wasn’t all bad.
Chapter Sixteen
OLIVER
Iwatch Nils give Eileen a gentle hug, feeling oddly emotional like the little old woman is my own grandma, back from the dead. It makes me want to give her a hug, too. And Nils, because although his expression hasn’t changed all that much, there’s something in his eyes that looks a little sad.
When she moves along to do her shopping, I put the tomatoes into my cart and brush my fingers down the back of Nils’ arm. He smiles at me, less of a joyful one than acan you believe that?one. Honestly, I can’t. I haven’t met many people from Nils’ life other than his family, and those introductions were quick and painless. It had been clear Nils didn’t want to linger, so we hadn’t. There had been no rush today, though. No tight rigidity to Nils’ body or shutters over his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to make excuses and leave. He’d wanted to speak to Eileen.
“She was nice,” I comment, keeping my voice low andpleasant. Nils nods. “You haven’t seen her in a bit?”
“No. Not since high school.” He’s talking extremely carefully, slowly enough that it’s almost robotic. “She was my speech therapist for almost fou-ou-our years.”
I think through a few responses to that, trying to figure out the right thing. Knowing him as I do, I don’t imagine he enjoyed the therapy sessions very much. I can easily picture a little Nils embarrassed at being singled out for something that was probably starting to be a source of pain for him. Kids can be heartless without meaning to, and as I can attest, shame is one of the earliest lessons learned by people who seem or feel a little different.
“I bet you were close,” I say eventually, and Nils gives me such a warm look, I immediately relax enough to say more. “She sort of reminded me of my grandma. Same hair and makeup.”
Nils exhales a soft laugh and nods. “Never seen her without.”
I imagine not. My grandma wouldn’t have been caught dead leaving the house in anything less than her nicest clothes, with her hair styled and lipstick on her mouth. Even then, she’d usually make a joke about how she looked like she was dragged off the trash heap.
Hands wrapped around the handle of his cart, he nods toward the bin of tomatoes in front of me, a silent question of whether I have what I need or not. Grabbing a couple more—you can never have too many tomatoes—we move forward slowly along the produce section. I try to go fast, knowing Nils doesn’t enjoy visits to the town like this, but every time I look over, there is a placid expression on his face, and he smiles when his eyes meet mine. He reaches for me a few times, resting a hand on my lower back as I ponder the asparagus and patientlywaiting while I verbally think through whether I need both red and yellow onions. I get both because, again, one can never have too many onions. I grab a few pears for Nils, making sure none are bruised before depositing them in his cart. He loves pears.
Snow is falling when we leave the market, my cart so overflowing with bags that some of them had to be put into Nils’. I know he finds this funny by the pinch of his mouth and the tilt of his eyebrows. Overbuying groceries is another habit I can’t seem to break, albeit one that I try a little less hard on than I do the overtalking. Besides, I’ll use all of this up—probably by next weekend—and I’ve already got a dozen plans of recipes to make Nils this week. Soup, yes, but also stew and homemade dumplings and croissants. Maybe muffins, too, to give him something to snack on that’s a little bit sweeter.
“We’re probably going to have to shovel a bit this afternoon,” I comment, watching the snow swirl on the other side of the windshield as we leave the parking lot. Nils fiddles with the controls, blasting the heat. I wiggle my fingers around the steering wheel, grateful the trip to town is over with before the roads get too bad. The ice around here is awful.
“Yes,” Nils agrees, turning my heated seat on high.
“Thank you. I got stuff to make hot chocolate—maybe we could have that today. And s’mores! You’ve got a wood fireplace, we could totally cook from it. I definitely have graham crackers and marshmallows at home. Lucky, or we’d have to go back to Salty’s.”
Nils chuckles, reaching across the center console and putting a hand on my leg.
“Powder?” he asks slyly, making me snort.
“No, not powder. Real hot chocolate that you make on thestove. It’s going to change your life. I have some candy canes from the holidays left over. I’ll crush those and put them on top to make it extra fancy. Oh, you know what? I should make gingerbread.Thatwould go great with hot chocolate.”
Nils lets me ramble on as we drive, occasionally speaking a few words but mostly maintaining his silence. I don’t try to tempt him into conversation, knowing he likes to take a break after what he perceives as a lot of talking. I know he doesn’t mind listening to me, and as he’s told me on several occasions, he actually enjoys it. If I didn’t like the man so much, I’d wonder if he was crazy.
