He sat in silence, the gray fields with the dead, dried grass, weeds, and remaining corn stalks flashing by the windows as the sun began to peek up over the rolling, midwestern hills. The headrests of the seats in front of him blocked the majority of his view of the highway. It didn't matter; he saw nothing. Nothing that mattered to him. Nothing that he cared about. He could hear the murmuring of voices from the front seat. Steve and Stacy had driven him, had sat in the waiting room, had offered words of comfort. He heard none of it. He'd tried to remember what they'd said. He didn't know. He didn't care. It was a blur. It was all just a haze in the distance. Nothing was real. Nothing made sense.
This must be a dream. No, a nightmare. He'd wake up soon. The cat would be kneading on his feet, claws digging through the blanket draped over the lower half of his body. Danni would be hollering to him, "Jennings, get up or you're going to be late!" That's it. It was just a bad dream. That had to be it. Nothing else made sense. The hollow feeling in his chest, the knife twisting in his gut, it was probably just the burrito he'd eaten before bed. He should've taken a couple of antacid tablets before he'd lain down for the night. That explained it all. He'd wake up soon. It would be over soon. Just hang in there, he told himself, none of it was real.
He looked out the side window and saw they were approaching his house. Everything looked the same. Nothing had changed. In dreams, weren't there usually weird details, like the house should be painted bright purple, or some random vehicle from his childhood he'd forgotten ever existed should be parked in the yard? Everything looked really normal for this being such a vivid nightmare. The weird details must be inside the house. That was it. That was the only explanation.
He was standing at the front door. He didn't actually recall saying goodbye to Steve and Stacy. He didn't recall even getting out of their vehicle. That made sense though. His dream had jumped forward. It happened like that in dreams, the jumping around from one thing to the next. OK, he thought, here's where things are going to turn bizarre, when I walk in this door, all the cooky things that always happen in dreams will show up. His younger brother will run by, 40 years younger than he actually was, tattling on him for throwing a broken bike pedal at him, cutting his arm, and his mom will be on the phone with his Aunt Mini, checking to see how Uncle Orrill is doing after having that nasty cold he came down with last week, and the house might be arranged the way some random house he'd gone trick or treating at when he was seven had been set up. You know how dreams are, all these weird, random things from the past will show up and somehow you don't even question it in the dream. Yes, that is what was going to happen. He'd open the door to some bizarre, surreal world. But soon he'd wake up from this crazy nightmare. But wait, why was it a nightmare? Had something bad actually even happened? Everything was blurry, he couldn't remember what had caused the daggers-in-the-gut feeling anymore.
He placed his hand on the door knob, turned it, let the door swing open. The house was quiet. Everything was very still, almost eery in its silence. Then he remembered. And it wasn't a dream. Not even a bad dream. Not even his worst nightmare. It was worse than that. Much, much worse...
He stepped up on the concrete bench, took a seat on the back rest, looking out across the bluffs. It was beautiful there, probably one of the most beautiful views in the entire state. Maybe he was biased, but he didn't think many could disagree. Especially in the morning, these warm spring mornings with tulips popping up, birds chirping, baby rabbits scurrying along the taller grass along the edges of the tree line. He took another deep breath and thought about how very glad he was to be alive, to be where he was, to have made it through the absolute darkest time, darker than he could have ever imagined, could ever describe.
But that was behind him. He could think about it now, could finally remember that dark time without shame, without guilt, without tears. He was a broken man back then, and rightly so. He wasn't living; he was surviving. But, as is life, each event, whether good or bad, is a stepping stone to the next place, the next stage, the next chapter.
And here it was. The new chapter. The first chapter to the rest of his life. It didn't mean he didn't still cherish the life he'd had, the life he'd lost. That was one stage, one phase, one book in a series of books. But this was a new book, the next in a series of "The Life of Jennings Orrill Severs," he thought. It was true, what they say, life really is stranger than fiction. At times at least.
It really was crazy, the way everything seems to work out eventually, and when you least expect it. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe, from somewhere above those fluffy white clouds floating in the bright blue sky, Danni was looking down, guiding him along, steering him back on course. Maybe she had a hand in that soft voice asking him if he could possibly help her lift a bag of top soil into the back of her SUV.
He had looked over and couldn't help but smile. City Girl, he'd thought to himself. Her shiny white SUV with a blue tarp spread neatly across the cargo area, a couple flats of assorted annuals, flowers in a dozen different types and colors, neatly slid to one side. She had two bags of the top soil already loaded, but was struggling to lift the last bag off the platform cart and up onto the stack already loaded up.
"Of course," he'd said to her, walking up to her. Dang, she sure did smell good, he couldn't help but notice. It wasn't the floral scent of the flowers in her car, he was sure. She smelled like vanilla and honey and something else. What was it? Cinnamon? Nutmeg? Cloves? One of those warm spices Danni had put in her oatmeal cookie recipe. He just wasn't sure which one, but, holy cow, a woman that smelled as sweet as a warm oatmeal cookie? Nah, couldn't be. He must've been imagining things. Or he was just hungry.
She thanked him, he'd told her it wasn't a problem, and he'd headed towards his truck. But he just couldn't quite shake the feeling there was something about her, something that was different than any other woman he'd come across in all these long, lonely, dark months. He turned around, almost as if some force was pushing him to do it, walked back over to her, and met her in the parking space across from her vehicle as she'd been making her way back from the cart corral. And, as they say, the rest was history.
He looked up, and there she was, walking up the gravel road towards him. He'd driven there, parked his truck at the top of the hill, off to the side of the road. But she'd wanted to meet him there, wanted to take a morning walk, enjoy the warm sun and fresh air. When her eyes met his, they lit up. He knew his lit up right back at her. He hadn't known if he'd ever feel that again, but here they were. There was just something he needed to do before he took that next step, something he knew needed to be done before he could feel at peace with this new stage. Chapter. Book.
He hopped down from the back of the bench and took her hand as she walked up to him. Together they walked the rest of the way up the hill and around the winding concrete road of the cemetery. As they neared the stone he'd visited so many times, shed so many tears at, and cherished as a symbol of the woman whose name was engraved on it, he could see the letters making out her name. Danni Kay (Arthur) Severs.
He places his free hand on top of the granite and said, "Danni, this is the girl I've been telling you about. I thought it was about time you two met."
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