13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

L ucy called them in a pizza before they left the hospital. It arrived a few minutes after they walked into Mr. Graham's home. While Forrest tipped the delivery person, Lucy walked around looking at pictures, bookshelves, and the small architectural details of the old home. The house was a mess, clearly having lacked an owner who could keep up with the demands of home-ownership. But beneath the disrepair, there was character that spoke to Lucy's old soul.

"I can't believe your dad had plaster crown molding. It's beautiful."

"Yes. He hasn't changed anything in this house since I was in college. When I came home for the summers, he and I would do a few projects here and there. But these last few years, he sort of let it go. I should’ve come down here more to help him out."

"Forrest." Lucy's voice held warning in it. "Don't go down the guilt-trip road. Everyone wants to when they see their parent sick, truly sick. But it isn't worth it. You love your father. That's enough."

"That sounds right, but I fear it’s easier said than done."

"True. Let's get some food in us, though, and see if that helps."

They walked back to his father's kitchen, and Lucy began looking through the cabinets for plates. Forrest rummaged through the fridge assessing beverage options.

"Found it!"

"What did you find?" Lucy asked.

"Dad has never been a wino, preferring harder stuff. But he usually kept a bottle in the back of the fridge for when he ordered from Joe's Italian. And here it is."

"I thought you didn't drink wine? Just Dr. Hubert's bourbon?" Even that was rare. Lucy could count on her hands the number of times he'd accepted a glass as the crew gathered in Dr. Hubert's office to wind down after a particularly long day.

"Every once and a while, I like a glass with dinner. Today demands it."

"Well, I for one will not complain."

Lucy walked over to an antique hutch, hoping to find wine glasses. She opened the bottom cabinet. Instead of stemware, there was a foot-tall stack of academic journals.

"Oh, I found your dad's stash of your publications."

"What?" Forrest walked over, confusion marking his brow.

"It's everything you've gotten published since you started working at PSU. Your dad has me pick up an extra copy and mail it to him anytime you get something in a journal. You didn't know that?"

"No." Forrest squatted by the opened door and ran a thumb down the stack. Lucy saw raw emotion pass over his face. She turned around, granting privacy while resuming her hunt for wine glasses.

There were no wine glasses to be found, so Solo cups would have to do. Lucy and Forrest sat across from each other, each eating a slice of pizza with a roll of paper towels between them. Forrest removed his blazer and tie, draping them over the back of his chair. The first two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, giving him room to breathe and relax. Lucy tried to not notice the lines of his neck or the few chest hairs visible where his collar was open. She did not succeed, but she did try.

Suddenly, Forrest jumped up, "We forgot about Clark. We've got to get you home."

Lucy waved a dismissive hand. "I called Miriam while you were with your dad. Clark is having a sleep-over at her house. Both are thrilled at the arrangement."

Forrest sat back down, but Lucy could still feel energy pulsing off of him.

"This table looks well-used. Did you grow up eating on it? Are we having a typical Graham dinner here?"

"I have a lot of memories around this table, but they aren't Norman Rockwell family meals."

Lucy stayed silent, watching him take a deeper gulp of the wine.

Forrest said, "I came home late one night from a basketball game. My friend, Kevin, had been starting that night, and I stayed through two overtimes. We actually won. It was a great game. So, anyways, I came home, and my dad was sitting at this table." Forrest's hands firmly clutched the edge of the table. "Usually, he was passed out by that time of night, so it was strange seeing him sitting there. I noticed that he was holding one of my papers, an essay I'd written over the role of the Mississippi River in Huckleberry Finn ."

"Dr. Forrest Graham's first paper on Mark Twain?"

A smile brushed his lips. "Yes. I was so damn proud of that paper. It was my first essay I'd ever written over 10 pages. It felt like I'd written a tome." The smile deepened, and a dimple flashed for just a moment at the memory.

"I sat down across the table and asked dad what he was doing with the paper. He said, 'Oh, I was just reading it, son.'" A vague Southern lilt snuck into Forrest's voice as he repeated his father's words.

"I asked him what he thought. He said, 'You're different son. You're not like me. You're so much better than me. I have no idea how you happened.'" Another laugh sputtered from Forrest, but the dimples didn’t show. It was a laugh without mirth. "He said he didn't know if I was some weird glitch in the gene pool or if one of those," Forrest slipped back into an imitation of his father's drink-scratched, accented voice, "'damned pretentious teachers had worked some miracle."

Melancholy was gathering in Forrest's brown eyes as he relived the memory. Lucy said, "I suppose that is a compliment to you. Or the damned teachers?"

"I suppose so. He didn't stop there, though. It's funny, with all of the books I've read through the years and all of the great literature I've studied, no story is as cemented in my mind like the words he spoke that night. He told me, 'You are an absolute wonder.' A wonder. And he made me promise that I would never pickle my brain 'with this shit you see me drink every day.' I promised him. Which is why, despite really wanting to be numbed tonight, I will stop drinking after this one glass of wine."

"There’s a lot that’s beautiful in that story, Forrest."

"I guess. You know what I think, though, when I think back on that night?"

"What?"

"I wonder why, in all the countless nights I came home late from a game or studying at the library or studying at some friend's house, why was that the only night he wasn't passed out or so drunk he couldn't talk."

"Maybe, if you'd been given countless nights like that, nights where your father had been fully present to you, maybe you wouldn't have this one beautiful memory."

"Maybe. But I think that is a trade I would've been willing to make."

Lucy thought of Forrest's loyalty and dependability and sobriety. Not just sobriety from drink, but sobriety in how he lived. Always thoughtful of others, never beholden to vices that might hurt those he loved. She said, "Yes, but then you might not have become who you are, and that would’ve been a tragedy."

Forrest looked into her eyes for a long moment. Honestly, Lucy , she thought to herself, You have to break the long-moments-of-eye-contact habit you have formed with Forrest .

For the rest of the meal, Lucy talked about various campus gossip. Forrest seemed to welcome the banality of it all. As she was enumerating which English Department students had recently hooked up and the drama in the Psychology Department over who would be the next chair, it occurred to Lucy that she could easily tell Forrest about the job offer. He might even have insights that would help her make the decision. But each time she looked up into his eyes, she stopped herself. They looked so heavy with worry, the line on his forehead between his eyes creased deeper than usual. She reached for something that might distract him.

"So today in the office, I somehow ended up getting a makeover from Edith."

He barely kept from spitting wine across the table. "How did you end up in that situation?"

"I told her I was wanting to add more color to my wardrobe."

"What were you thinking?"

"She walked in on me browsing clothing websites. I didn't have a choice."

"So you basically volunteered."

Lucy groaned.

"The green does look wonderful on you. It’s perfect with your eyes."

Lucy felt heat rise into her cheeks. "So I've heard. The way Dr. Hubert, Porter, and Edith were talking, it was like the invention of Technicolor."

"In their defense, it isn't often we see you in color. I've never thought about it before today, but you do mostly wear black."

"And gray and sometimes navy blue."

Forrest held up his hands. "Excuse me. I forgot those. Oh, and I believe I've seen you in beige."

"On several occasions, I'm sure."

He leaned back in his chair, his shoulders slumping forward. It was better than the tense statue he had been when they'd started the meal.

"So, I've shared one of my more personal memories..."

Lucy squinted her eyes. Where was he going with this?

"Tell me, Luce, why don't you wear color?"

***

Lucy gulped the last bit of wine and placed the red plastic cup down with intentionality. Forrest could see that the question made her uncomfortable, and if she chose to not answer it, he would not push her. After all, they weren't sixteen and this was not a sordid game of Truth or Dare.

However, he wanted to know more about her and what had shaped her into the person she was. He knew she preferred mustard to mayo, and that she and her best friend could do decent carpentry with a few tools and YouTube videos. He knew that she read romance novels with shirtless men on the cover, and that she blushed the deep rose color at the top of a peach when he saw those books. He knew she pushed her glasses up her nose about once every five minutes and that those glasses actually framed and drew attention to her green eyes instead of taking away from them.

But he did not know why a woman so remarkable dressed in a way so unremarkable. It didn't bother him. If she simply was not one to care about clothing and preferred to keep things neutral, he was fine with that. Her striking hair and eye color and porcelain complexion and height all made her beautiful in ways clothes couldn't. But he sensed there was more behind her choice than merely personal preference.

After looking at her cup for a smidgen too long, Lucy finally said, "You know I grew up in rural Tennessee?"

"Yes."

"And you met my mother a few times,..."

"Mhh-hum."

"...but you didn't really get to know her."

"I can't say I had the pleasure."

"Well, I don't know if pleasure is the word I would use. I know that sounds terrible, and I did love my mother. I really did. It's just that she could be blunt at times."

"Blunt about what?"

"About her disappointments with me."

"Disappointments?" Forrest couldn't imagine a single aspect of Lucy being deemed disappointing.

"My mother was very feminine. Being a Southern belle was in her bones. She believed in the ideology behind the whole concept." Lucy started talking with her hands, warming up to her subject. "She wanted to be seen as frail, in need of masculine rescue."

"And having an intelligent, self-efficient daughter didn't fit her ideal?"

"It wasn't even that. She was intelligent, and I think she was mostly fine with those parts of me. It wasn't who I was inside as much as it was my inability to project the image she wanted me to project. I was, unlike her, far, very far, from delicate. With my height, my build, my crazy, untamable hair, I made the frilly clothes she wanted me to wear look ridiculous. Thankfully, she had enough awareness to see that all the feminine clothes looked like a parody on me."

"So you started wearing the plainest clothes you could find?"

"Basically. When I would try something a little louder, she would always have something to say. ‘Oh Lucy, that color brings attention to your hair. Can't you do something with it?’ Or, ‘Lucy, that pattern shouldn't be worn by anyone above a size 6.’ And then she would pull out a magazine article on dieting she'd cut out for me."

Forrest was speechless, his jaw refusing to shut. Finally, he said, "But, wait, back-up here a second. Your height? Your, what did you call it? Your build? Your hair? She didn't approve of these things about you?"

"Not exactly."

"And you believed her?"

"She typically phrased it as if it were motherly, constructive criticism. They were all little things she encouraged me to work on. Well, not the height, of course. There was no strategy for that shortcoming." Lucy tucked a wave behind her ear, then added, "No pun intended."

"Lucy," Forrest didn't know what to say after breathing out her name. Lucy, I love that I can recognize you walking across campus from far away just by the strawberry-blond bun bouncing atop your head. Lucy, when you were pressed against me, each part lined up so perfectly, I wanted to thank Clark for knocking you over. Lucy, how can you not see how stunning you are? "Lucy, that wasn't constructive criticism. It was ignorance. Her ideal of femininity might appeal to Southern gentlemen with very small penises..."

Lucy's eyes swelled to twice their size and she placed a hand over her mouth, hiding her laughter. "I can't believe you said that."

"I mean, really, really small penises. But men who don't need to see women as weak to see beauty in them, men like that look at you and..."

Suddenly, the room got very quiet. Forrest heard the ticking of the kitchen clock seeming to mock how long his pause was.

"They look at you, and damn it, Lucy, you're just perfect."

The peachy blush returned, and Forrest wished desperately he could skim his lips across her cheek and feel the warmth she must be radiating to create such a color. Lucy bit one side of her bottom lip, the other side puckering out. Then, she said, "I'm hardly perfect. And I certainly don't have many men noticing if I am."

"You just don't look up enough, Luce. They notice. Trust me."

If his father weren't in the hospital and if he weren't a dozen insignificant relationships into adulthood and if he weren't a Graham, he would reach across the table and push up her glasses for her and feel the soft waves that had fallen out of her bun. He would tell her all he saw. The perfect coral shade of her lips. The smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose that made her look like a model for one of those organic facial cleanser ads. The bright and attentive eyes that always charmed him within their perfectly-Lucy frames. He would point out each perfect detail until his voice replaced that of her mother’s when she got dressed in the mornings. Afterward, she would wear red dresses and high heels. If she wanted to, that is.

But he would not be saying any of those things tonight. He had already butted up against the boundaries of prudence.

In almost a whisper, Lucy said, "It's getting late. I'd better go. I'll just drive home and come back tomorrow morning. If you want, that is. I don't want to intrude."

"It’s too late. It's dark outside, and you've had wine, and I won't sleep if you're on the road. You can stay here in Gracie's room. Our rooms are perfect little archives from when we were home. You'll feel sixteen again. We'll see how things are tomorrow, and then we can figure out what to do."

"Are you sure?"

"Please, Lucy. I'd just worry, and I have enough to worry about."

Lucy yawned, conceding any argument she might have had that she was in a state to drive. "Okay. I'll stay."

"Good." Forrest was relieved she had chosen to not drive. Just as he was about to stand up, a question intruded his thoughts. “But before we tuck in for the night, I have one more question after this very informative evening.”

“Shoot.”

“Why, in all of these years of friendship with me sharing every nitty gritty detail of my relationship with my dad - why did you never tell me about your mother?”

“You knew I had a mom.”

Forrest smirked. “You know what I mean. You never told me about how critical she was.”

“Oh.” Lucy feigned sudden understanding. “You mean I never shared the immense baggage my mother sent with me into adulthood.”

“Yeah. That.”

Lucy shifted seamlessly from teasing to earnest. “It felt wrong to complain about my mom when you grew up motherless. World’s smallest violin and all.”

Forrest shook his head. “No, Lucy. What your mother did wasn’t the stuff of small violins. While they went about it in different ways, our mothers inflicted similar wounds on us. My mother wounded me with her absence and all the lies it told me about my self-worth. Your mother also stripped away at your sense of worth with a bunch of lies. She was just present to tell them.”

Lucy’s eyes were locked on him,the second-hand of the kitchen clock continuing its incessant ticking. Lucy said, “That makes us quite a pair, doesn’t it? Thirty-somethings with mommy issues.”

“At least we’re in good company.”

Lucy yawned again as she said, “That we are.”

“And on that note,” Forrest said while pushing back his chair, “let’s get some sleep.”

Now, he just had to keep the boundary they had built between each other stable through one night under the same roof.