Nostalgia

She waited an appropriate amount of time before she slipped out the side door. Not that she would be missed. She was barely known to anyone at the wake and those that remembered her decades-old connection to the old man thought it was just sweet that she had come and shook her hand before moving on to other well wishers. She had eaten a devilled egg, sipped a glass of wine and circled among the crowd once. Now she crossed her arms tightly across her chest bending against the brittle late autumn wind wishing she had stopped to grab her coat.

She had known beforehand exactly what she would do and had thus worn low heeled black boots with her black slacks and grey cable knit sweater. They were much more suitable than flats or heels to make the walk around the house, back garden and across the field up to the old white barn. To be sure, the barn hadn’t been a working barn in many years. The old man had long since given up raising cattle and sold most of the property to developers that raised condos and a movie theater in the growing college town. She knew that the house and barn would likely be torn down for much of the same now that the old man had passed. And she wanted one last look.

She did not want to be seen by anyone at the gathering, so rather than open the large barn door, she made her way to the back and entered through an old stall opening, climbing rather clumsily over the metal rails. It made her smile to think how nimbly she used to do the same maneuver when she was barely a teenager. She dusted off her slacks and took a deep breath, almost afraid of the nostalgia she knew was about to overcome every one of her senses.

She inhaled deeply as she made her way into the main part of the barn. The smell was very different yet also so familiar. The building had long since been gutted of the cows and manure, the feed and water troughs empty and cleaned, and no hay was left lingering on the concrete pad. But somehow, beneath the dust and the smell of old wood, their scent lingered like a gentle perfume. Granted, not a perfume any sane woman would willingly spray on, but there was still comfort in the memory of the smell, no matter how foul.

She stood still a long while, listening to the silence. Letting the memories play in front of her like an old movie screen. The cows weren’t what she had come here to remember. It was him. Walking backwards down the barn in his hockey jersey, jeans, and cowboy boots, laughing at her. His cheeky smile and man-made dimple.

She hadn’t believed him at first that the dimple was man-made. Who had ever heard of such a thing? But his grandpa, the man everyone had gathered together for today, had backed him up over dinner. “Yep, little devil that he was, could never sit still. Went wiggling out of his grandma’s arms after a bath one night when he was not quite two and slipped rounding that corner right there,” he had pointed toward the wall where the hallway met the sitting room, “The baseboard gave him quite the gash. Has had that dimple ever since.” If possible, the story made him even more adorable.

She started to feel her eyes sting just a little and slowly walked forward as if she were walking after his ghost, still walking backwards and smiling at her. As she approached the front of the large barn, the bumper of the car came into view. It had been parked in that very spot since she was 17. A 1986 Chrysler Lebaron convertible; white with red interior. Not a single person in the house up front probably knew it was here. Most wouldn’t understand why he had kept it.

But she did.

The old man had obviously tried to keep it clean as long as he could because, while there was a significant layer of dust and grime, there certainly wasn’t twenty years worth.

“Twenty years” she murmured as she trailed her fingertips across the vinyl top that was most definitely in a state of deterioration. Her eyes stung a little harder now and she had to crinkle her nose in an effort to stave off whatever it was that was flooding through her. Was it sadness? Was it love? Was it happiness? It was all of them. Nostalgia threw a wicked and complex punch right to the solar plexus.

When his grandparents had given him this car, he had been so ecstatic. Hiding it behind a bravado of machismo in front of his preppy friends. But away from school, with her, he was different. His laugh was unrestrained and his fear too.

When he had to pull over on the way home one night coughing and spewing up phlegm, the look in his eyes had been fear. The fear one has when they recognize their own mortality. A fear no sixteen year old should ever know, but one he had known his whole life.

She had run around the car and knelt down beside his open door rubbing his back and brushing his long hair back from his face while his body was wrecked with violent coughs. He had tried to apologize, “I’m so sorry” he had mumbled into the back of his hand, not looking at her.

She had lifted his chin and looked him squarely in the eyes, “Don’t you dare be sorry”. That was when she saw the look. But it didn’t scare her. Instead, she resolved to shoulder it.

A few firsts had happened in the front seat of this car that night. Some firsts were more important than others though. When she remembered it, her first thought wasn’t about how she had lost her virginity to him a mere fifteen minutes before that. Instead, her first thought was of the first time he let her see him fragile and sick.

She had known before that night that he had Cystic Fibrosis. She had even looked it up in her mother’s PDR and in an encyclopedia at school. But he had never seemed sick, other than missing more school than most, until that night. He always seemed so strong, charismatic, and light-hearted. From his apology and the look in his eye, she knew in an instant that it was all a delicately crafted facade. She knew she had seen a glimpse into a part of his world that not many were granted access. She also knew that he really hadn’t had a choice, having apparently overly exerted himself in their frenetic and bumbling love-making moments before. But she was determined to stay in his inner circle of trust.

And she had. For almost two years. Two years of travelling to Indianapolis to visit him while he stayed at Riley’s Children’s Hospital, taking him for a drive in his convertible when she received her own license, and even hiding from nurses when she snuck in outside of visiting hours. When he stopped being able to attend school, she visited him everyday instead of going to tennis practice. She learned how to give him his breathing treatments and pound on his back (not rub gently) when he started to cough.

And she had been holding his hand when he died.

Twenty years later, the grief was still visceral. So much so that she didn’t come back to this town often after leaving for college. Now, she had a thriving medical practice in the next state and had found love again. This time, not the joyous naivety of a first love, but a solid and sweet love nonetheless. When she had heard that the old man had died, she felt compelled to come back for one more goodbye.

She tried the handle of the old car and found it unlocked. She slid in, rubbing her hands over the cracked red steering wheel and the worn pleather bench seat. She sat that way for some time, looking out but not seeing past the front glass. After a while she leaned over and twisted the metal latch of the glovebox. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find but let out a short laugh when she found an old empty bottle of Drakkar Noir inside. She didn’t know why, but that old dark bottle lifted something heavy off of her heart and made her smile. She closed the glovebox, took a deep breath and whispered, “Love you”.

She carefully closed the barn door behind her, retrieved her coat from the house, said a few final condolences and drove away. Sparing one last glance at the old barn in her rearview before she turned onto the highway and headed home to reality. Leaving nostalgia behind.