“Terrible.”
“Family tradition.”
Evelyn smiled.
Daniel looked toward the mantel.
“What about you?”
“What?”
“What did you do besides nursing?”
“Worked.”
“Raised a child.”
“Worked.”
“Argued with James.”
“Worked.”
Daniel waited.
Evelyn frowned.
“What?”
“You're describing obligations.”
“Not yourself.”
She did not like the observation.
“So tell me.”
“What did Evelyn do?”
She looked toward the window.
“Garden.”
“Good.”
“Before James died.”
“Why stop?”
“No point.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
The next morning, Evelyn found him outside.
On crutches.
Digging badly near the empty garden bed.
She stood on the porch.
“What are you doing?”
“Gardening.”
“You cannot walk.”
“I have one functional leg.”
“You’re holding a shovel.”
“Yes.”
“Incorrectly.”
Daniel looked down.
“There is a correct way?”
“For someone with a broken leg, yes.”
She walked toward him.
“What are you planting?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Then why dig?”
“Preparation.”
Evelyn stared.
Daniel smiled.
“Future reference.”
She understood.
“No lilies.”
“No lilies.”
They planted tomatoes.
Too late in the season.
They both knew.
That was not the point.
One evening, rain came.
Rare desert rain.
Evelyn stood beneath the porch roof.
Daniel joined her.
No crutches now.
Just a walking boot.
The smell of wet dust rose from the ground.
Evelyn closed her eyes.
“I forgot that smell.”
Daniel leaned against the railing.
“I used to ride in rain intentionally.”
“That is stupid.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Everything sounds different inside a helmet.”
Evelyn looked at him.
“Lonely?”
Daniel considered.
“Peaceful.”
She nodded.
There was a difference.
“Tell me about your son.”
Daniel went still.
She almost apologized.
Then he spoke.
“Michael.”
“He was twenty-two.”
“Car accident.”
“Drunk driver.”
Evelyn’s expression softened.
“When?”
“Fourteen years.”
“I’m sorry.”
Daniel looked at her.
This time the phrase did not feel empty.
“Thank you.”
He continued.
“My marriage ended afterward.”
“Not because we blamed each other.”
“People assume that.”
“We just became two people grieving differently in the same rooms.”
Evelyn understood too well.
“She remarried.”
“Yes.”
“Happy?”
“I think so.”
“And you?”
Daniel smiled faintly.
“I bought a motorcycle.”
“That answers nothing.”
“It answered something at the time.”
Evelyn leaned against the rail.
“Did it help?”
“No.”
“Did you keep riding?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Daniel looked at the rain.
“Because grief and freedom sometimes use the same road.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“That sounds rehearsed.”
“I’ve had fourteen years.”
She smiled.