Our Bench

The sun had only shone its face for a quarter hour, and the shadows loomed low and long. Still, she walked with me. We walked slower because my right leg was dragging just a bit more than normal but remained intent on reaching our bench. The walking stick carried most of my weight as I stepped beside her to our bench. It was the bench we had walked to and sat at every morning for the better part of thirty years, so it was ours. Today was different, the walk was longer and harder than it had been before, but I was determined. Our bench never moved but the more we walked there, the farther away it seemed to be. Finally, we reached our spot and sat down looking out over the water and the reflection of the sun that shone before us.

Back when we were first married we used to walk around the neighborhoods looking for the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets. One morning we were walking through a neighborhood that had modest houses with white picket fences. At the end of the street, hidden behind two large oak trees was a little blue house with a porch that went from one side of the house to the other. It had white shutters and a beautiful big white door with a flowered wreath hanging on it. “That’s where we will live one day,” Kathy always told me. At the time, we had lived in an apartment that was so small I could stand in the middle of our bedroom and if I stretched just a little, I could touch both walls at the same time. That was no place for my girl to live, but I wasn’t making much money working as a math teacher and couldn’t give her what she deserved. Then I was drafted for the war and was away from her for longer than I could stand. I saved every penny that I could. I didn’t go out and get beers with my platoon after our shifts and I ate the little they gave us in the dining hall. But finally, I returned with only a slight limp in my step and enough money to buy my girl a proper home.

I waited for weeks for the little blue house to have a for sale sign up front, but one never came. Finally, I got the nerve to walk up those porch steps and knocked on the door. I waited. I began to tap my finger against my leg and it took all the focus I had to stand straight and all. Never show weakness or nerves, they had drilled that into us during the war. It didn’t sound like there was any movement in the house, but just before I gave up hope the door creaked open. “Hello,” a woman, almost half my height smiled up at me as though greeting an old friend. I stood straight like they had taught us in basic training, giving her the respect I would have given the commander.

“Hello, my name is Charlie Davis and I would like to buy your house.” My voice shook I was so nervous. It had sounded a lot better when I recited it in my head, but the words were out and there was no going back. I smiled and waited for her to respond, but she only smiled back at me. There was a long awkward pause between us.

“Oh, young man you are going to half to speak louder, I don’t hear very well anymore,” she stepped a little closer, so she could hear me.

I repeated myself and her smile widened, “You know young man, I have been waiting for you to come up these steps for a long time.” She quickly registered my puzzled expression, “You think I don’t see you and your darling lady walking past my house pointing and looking at the trees?” I became embarrassed and unsure how to proceed. “When you stopped coming around I was praying you would come back soon.”

I didn’t know what to say, “Umm, thank you for your prayers,” I stammered, “I apologize if you thought us rude—”

“Rude? Oh, young man, I was counting the days until you come up here, so I can give you my house!”

Abigail and I spoke on her porch for the better part of an hour and I learned that the woman had no living relatives in the area and wanted to move closer to her grandchildren. She explained to me that she didn’t need any money from the house because of her husband’s foresight before he died, and had decided to gift it to Kathy and me. We only had to promise to send her pictures when we had children, so she could see the house was filled with love.

She didn’t get a chance to see that promise fulfilled, she passed away a month after we moved in.

Our bench wasn’t hard to find after we moved in. We stumbled on the path one weekend when we were clearing out the brush from the back of the property. It led to a small lake and there was a bench, all alone and perfect to be called ours.

That was where we cried over the passing of my brother when he was struck by a drunk driver, and where we sat and rejoiced when Kathy told me that she was pregnant. Because of the war, we were both older than most to begin a family, but it had always been our dream to build a life of love in that little house. That was my favorite memory from our bench, my favorite memory in my life was the day my little girl was born. The hospital was cold, and I waited in the delivery room for hours, but to me, it felt like days. I was praying for a little boy. Oh, how excited I was to be able to throw around a baseball in our backyard, or teach him to climb a tree, or to ride his bike. I remember standing and looking out the window of the waiting room as the sun climbed above the trees when the door opened and the doctor came out with a smile, “You can come in now Charlie.”

There was Kathy. She lay on the bed sweat dripping down her forehead and looking exhausted and like the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life all at the same time. She was smiling at the bundle of cloth she held in her arms. When she saw me standing across the room she sat up a little and her eyes motioned me closer. Tentatively, I walked over to her side and looked at the child she held, so quiet and peaceful. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Kathy looked at me.

“She?” I asked.

Kathy nodded.

I looked down at the small child and all thoughts of a son faded.

“May I hold her?” I looked at the nurse as if there was a certification I needed to pass before being given the ability to hold such a small precious piece of life. But Kathy ignored my look for permission and shifted the bundle into my arms. At first, she stretched her arms and opened her mouth wide as if to let out a loud scream for her mother, but then she looked into my eyes and I looked back into hers. At that moment I knew that she could ask for anything, and I would give her the world. “She’s perfect,” I looked at Kathy now and she smiled too. “What shall we call her?”

“I was thinking Abagail.”

I could think of nothing more perfect for the beautiful little bundle of joy in my arms. So, after three days in the hospital, my Kathy and my little Gail came home. The days of watching her grow up were some of my most wonderful memories. I would come home from teaching and Gail would show me how she had learned how to write her name or run really fast across the yard. One day she showed me a nest full of baby robin eggs. Together we watched the mama robin guard her nest. We watched as one by one the eggs hatched and the mama robin would fly away to get them food. Then one day I came home to find little Gail sitting on the front porch crying.

“Hey there,” I said as I shut the door to our old station wagon, “What’s the matter, Sun Shine?”

She ran up to me and threw her arms around my leg and I was barred from moving forward to the door and a dinner which I could smell from the driveway. “The babies are gone!” she cried into my leg.

I put my briefcase full of the tests that needed grading down and pulled her up into my arms. “Now Gail, you must understand that there comes a time in every little bird’s life where their parents will push them out of the nest. One day they will need to learn to fly.”

Gail was seventeen when I realized that that statement was as much for me that day as it was for her. She told her mother first. Oh Kathy, sweet Kathy. She tried to make me understand four weeks later when I learned about the baby, but I was not going to hear about my little girl, my Gail, having been stupid enough as to let herself get pregnant at seventeen. I stormed out of the house and headed to our bench. The bench that Kathy and I called our own, a place where we were supposed to be fully connected and in unison. I was betrayed. My Kathy wanted to make me understand what had happened, well I understood what happened. My daughter, my good, sweet daughter had gone out and allowed herself to be stupid, and now she would pay for that stupid choice. We were not the kind of family to allow such an act to go without consequence.

I gave her three days to leave. Kathy cried through all of them.

I wasn’t there when Abigail left the house for the final time, but when I returned from work it felt empty and dark; as though even the walls of the house were mourning her absence. There was no dinner ready on the table, and Kathy sat in the velvet chair that overlooked the street, her face somber. Never once did she oppose me or fight me for my actions, but I could tell that her heart was empty, just like the house was. Kathy and I still loved each other, but I had taken away her daughter, our daughter, and she would always have a place in her heart that was resented me. We lived that way for a long time. Sometimes I would see Abagail walking down Main Street her belly growing larger every time.

Kathy would send her letters, and sometimes some extra money that she would make cleaning the neighbors' houses. She never told me about it, but I knew, and it broke my heart. But how could I go back on my words, what would the neighbors say? What would the church say if I allowed my daughter who had fallen into sin to stay in my house?

One night when we were sitting at the dinner table, there was a knock on the door. I pushed my chair back and the scaping was deafening compared to the silence that had occupied the space. The owner of the knock was impatient and knocked again as I reached the door. I opened it unsure which neighbor needed to borrow some eggs this time.

It wasn’t a neighbor, it was Abagail. Behind her a young man, and in her arms, she held a blanket that squirmed.

“Who is it darling?” I heard Kathy call behind me, but I stood still.

“I only want for you to meet your grandson,” she said timidly. I saw the young man place his hand on her shoulder for support, encouragement that it would be okay.

I backed away from the door, but didn’t shut it, “It’s for you, Kathy.” I couldn’t look at her. The girl who had tarnished my reputation at the school, the girl who had fallen. I couldn’t see my little girl in her any longer and I think that is what scared me the most.

Abagail didn’t come to the house after that night. Kathy asked if she could go and visit her and the baby, I said yes. Every time she left the house to visit Abagail she would ask me if I wanted to come with, and every time I would say, “no.”

I watched her gather her coat and walk to the car in the drive. From the front porch, I would see her pause at the door to the station wagon and look back at the house. Silently she would plead for me to come with her, and silently I would respond again with 'no.'

The next time I saw Abagail I was sitting in the front row of the little white church. It was quiet, even the church mice were somber that day as people filed in and took their seats. The minister gave my shoulder one more squeeze before he moved to the pulpit. He cleared his throat and the quiet church came ever quieter than before, “Today we gather in remembrance of our dear friend, beloved wife, loving mother, and caring sister, Kathy Davis.”

I don’t remember what he said next or how long the service lasted. All I could do was sit there and think about the beautiful woman I had watched the sunsets with, danced in the living room late at night, and the woman who had loved me even when I had taken away one of her most precious gifts. I remembered how I had never gotten the chance to say I was sorry.

Cancer took her too quickly.

After the service, there was a line of people offering their condolences, and I stood there, eyes fixed on nothing as I nodded my head and said “thank you” as they walked by. Then I saw Kathy, but she wasn’t my Kathy.

It was Abagail.

“Hi daddy,” she said, and she approached me timidly. I didn’t know what to think at first. Dressed in black she looked warn, and I saw the years of growing up around her eyes. On either side, holding onto her hands were two little brown-haired girls. Behind them stood their father, the young man who had come with Abagail that one night, and he held in his arms a little boy in a black suit. Beside the man was another boy, he was tall and had his mother’s blonde hair. The family was last in line and I stood there unable to move. “Daddy, I want you to meet grandchildren. This is Charlie,” Abagail motioned to the taller, blonde-haired boy behind her and he stepped forward nervously. He raised his hand to shake mine.

“Hello, sir,” his voice was strong. I took his hand and felt my heart break.

“Gail,” my voice shook, but I reached forward and embraced my little girl. “I am so sorry,” was all I could say. I felt her relax in my arms. Without words, I knew my little girl had forgiven me for the hard heart I had shone her for all those years. The forgiveness I thought she needed from me.

The tears that had not fallen during the hospital visits with Kathy, or the moment I held her hand until it went limp in mine. The tears that I had held onto for all those years finally fell as I held my baby girl in my arms.

I didn’t realize how many years had passed since I had told my daughter to leave until that moment. For Kathy’s sake, I wouldn’t let another day pass without her in my life.

I sat on our bench together looking out over the water. “I did it,” I told the space next to me on our bench, “I’m only sorry I didn’t do it sooner, but I did it.” No one responded to my words, no one had too, I knew that my Kathy was smiling down on me. She had prayed that I would learn to love my Gail again.

On our bench, I held onto my walking stick with both hands and looked out at the vision of beauty I had admired with my Kathy for so many years. My heart had hardened, and for years she had always worked to soften it. I only wish I would have released the pain I had held on to for so many years before it was too late.

“Forgiveness is a funny thing,” I told the still water, “I thought I was the one who needed to give it when really, I was the one who needed it most.”