Past Imperfect (complete)

Plot: A middle-aged woman learns to forge ahead in life
Setting: A farm in Iowa
Word Count: 4508

His fingers. They used to be long, strong, and gentle. His touch was so gentle. The little hairs on his fingers were blond. His eyes, a glistening amber that could turn almost green if he wore the right color shirt, would squint when he looked at her, squint when he leaned in to touch her with those long, strong fingers. She arched her back, willing herself to stop thinking about it. To stop thinking about HIM.

The prickly grass was finally getting to her, so she sat up quickly and started to dizzily brush grass pieces off her pants and shirt. She stood awkwardly as she picked grass out her short, dark hair, still as thick as it had been the day he’d run those fingers through it. More gray, of course, but still thick.

“Grandma,” she heard the shrill call and turned in annoyance. This was supposed to be her time. “Grandma,” the call rose again into the dazzling spring sky, and she heaved a breath before she turned to follow the voice.

“Yes, Martha,” she responded, “I’m coming.” But still the walk was leisurely, and Miranda Adams sneaked a peek, longingly, at the pristine, cloudless blue sky before she ducked into the barn. “What do you need, hon?”

Martha’s tear-stained face raised to her grandmother’s and Miranda felt a thrill of concern until she remembered just who she was dealing with. Martha was a sweet girl but a melodramatic one.

“Grandma, I think I killed her.” She snuffled, running her chubby nine-yr-old hand across a runny nose, and pointed down into the hay. A small gray kitten lay rigidly still. Miranda said a quick prayer under her breath. Not that she wasn’t concerned about the kitten, but if it had truly perished there would be no consoling her most sensitive grandchild.

“Oh, I’ll bet she’s fine.” She bent down into the hay and lifted the little kitten carefully. Sure enough, the little thing stirred and even emitted a tiny “mew.” Miranda’s relief was palpable. “See, she was just scared. Animals freeze when they’re scared. Now Martha, why are you messing with this baby? You know better.”

Martha’s pale eyes shifted under her grandmother’s stern gaze. “Well, it was just so cute and all. I’m sorry.” She sounded contrite and Miranda gave in. She smiled slightly.

“All right, but don’t do it again. You know babies need their Mamas.”

Martha looked down at the hay. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’ll put her back.”

“No,” the grandmother responded as she rose. “I’ll put her back. You go play. Find Robby and Steven. No telling what they’re doing if you’re not there to stop them.” Miranda knew how to distract her granddaughter, who smiled in delight and bounced up, dark braids knocking against her puffy cheeks.

“You’re right, Grandma! Those boys are trouble without me!” Off she ran to get into the business of her brother and cousin. Miranda chuckled and walked over to the dark left corner of the barn where she deposited the kitten in its nest. She’d have to check in a bit to make sure the mama was still feeding her after the adventure; there was a chance she’d smell strangeness on this offspring and refuse it. But Miranda knew the mother cat was a gentle one, so she doubted there would be a problem.

Unexpectedly, from nowhere it seemed, Miranda felt a pang. She stiffened and absorbed its origins, realizing it was an emotional pang left over from her too-short quiet time to herself. She didn’t have time now. It was almost supper and she had her two children and their families to feed this evening. But she stood silently, still in the late afternoon darkening, stale air of the barn, and she simply felt. It was good to feel again, no matter where this experience was leading her.
__________________________________

Loud. The Adams dinner table was described as such by those who were lucky enough to be a part of the cacophony. Lindsay and Gerald’s two boys, Steven and Andrew, were laughing with mashed potatoes oozing from their mouths. Their grandmother grimaced and admonished them, or tried to over the din. Sarah’s girls were not any quieter but at least there were no mashed potatoes involved. Martha relayed the story of finding kittens in Grandma’s barn, leaving out, of course, her grievous mistake with one of the little bundles. Miranda smiled wryly as she passed the green beans. She understood Martha’s thoughts; why paint yourself in a bad light if you don’t have to? Martha’s little sister was wailing. “But I don’t wanna!”

“Robby, stop trying to force feed those green beans to your sister.” Miranda’s daughter, Sarah, looked as if she would burst into tears any moment. Seven months pregnant, she was flushed and looked exhausted. Miranda started to shake her head but forced herself to stop. Years ago she and her husband exacted a promise from each other, and she intended to keep it. What happens in Gerald and Sarah’s lives belongs to them, not their parents. If Sarah wanted to have twenty children-Miranda shuddered at the thought-it was her business. Personally, her mother hoped the limit was four. “I mean it, Robby!”

“Robby, why don’t you go in and get that pie I have on the counter? Steven can clear the table of plates and Martha can bring in the dessert plates on that hutch.” Miranda gestured to a solid cherry cabinet behind her. The children rose with groans of protest.

“Can I help, Grandma?” Little Stephanie, the object of Robby’s green bean terror, looked at her grandmother with wide aqua eyes.

“Why yes,” Miranda smiled at her youngest grandchild, not counting the one growing in Sarah’s belly. “Why don’t you get the forks?”

“Okay!” And the little girl was off, scooting down from her chair and running to her task with five-yr-old enthusiasm.

Sarah sighed and seemed to slump into herself. “Thanks, mom. I don’t remember ever being this tired with the other ones.”

“Well, it’s been five years since your last one. You probably don’t remember. Did you hear from Bryan?”

Sarah brightened. “Yes, he’ll be home next month. Thank God.”

Lindsay bent over Gerald who was leaned back with a contented, full look on his ruddy face. “I remember with Andrew, Sar. I was more tired, I think because I had to chase Steven around. He may be almost eleven, but you know how he is.” She rolled her violet eyes and smiled at her sister-in-law, who grimaced in response. Miranda understood how she felt. Secretly, she never quite understood how Gerald, her beloved boy with his father’s workaholic attitude and no-nonsense demeanor, had managed to capture and marry such a willowy creature as his wife. Lindsay was a sweet girl, but her flowing chestnut hair, naturally thin physique, and exotic facial features were enough to intimidate any “normal” woman. Sarah tried to be friendly but it was hard, sometimes, especially during the last trimester of a pregnancy that, in her words, made her feel like “a beached whale.”

“I remember, too.” Miranda smiled at Lindsay and then at little Andrew, almost three and gurgling happily in a high chair that had once been the seat of each grandchild in the Adams home. Soon it would accommodate another one. One Greg would never see. She shook off the thought willfully and stood. “I’d better get started on those dishes. You all enjoy the pie.” She turned into the kitchen while those at the table frowned at her retreating back, but she knew what they were thinking.

Ever since Greg’s heart attack last October everyone was “concerned about her.” She didn’t know how to tell everyone-her friends, family, acquaintances-to back off. Losing Greg wasn’t easy, but it was to the point that it almost paled in comparison to the cloying “concern” she was suffering through. Today marked six months since the day Greg Adams clutched his chest in the middle of WalMart and fell over. Gerald and Sarah missed their father, but they worried about their mother with an intensity that made Miranda feel annoyed–and guilty. She plunged her lined, fifty-three-year-old hands into hot, sudsy water and welcomed the sting of burning flesh.

How could she explain to her children that as much as she once loved their father, she hadn’t been IN love with him for years. Maybe never. How do you explain that to your children? Answer: you don’t. She scrubbed a plate with gusto and jumped when she heard Gerald’s voice behind her.

“Mom, you need some help?”

“No, Son,” she launched a cheerful smile up at him that was forced through gritted teeth. She found it ironic that since she’d been left alone, she’d never really BEEN alone.

“You sure?” He took a step towards her with his strong arms outstretched. “That’s what we’re here for, you know. We’ll do anything you need doing.” His blond eyebrows frowned under crinkled blue eyes as he critically surveyed his mother. “I think you need to accept our help, Mom.”

She leaned against the sink wearily and counted silently before taking a deep breath and plastering the smile back onto her face. “Gerald honey, I’m fine. If I need your help you will be the first one to know, but I’m perfectly capable of washing my own dishes.”

He stood for a minute longer before lifting his shoulders and speaking in the slow, patient tone that set his mother’s shoulders into a tense position. “Well you know best, I guess.” His facial expression belied the words. “We’ll be waiting for you in the front room with some coffee. I’m sending Lindsay and Sarah in to make it, so don’t even think about doing it, yourself.”

Miranda shook her head. “Sure, Son. Whatever you say.”

______________________________

Finally. Silence. Miranda sat back on her brown velvet couch and closed her eyes. Once the dishes were done the families tried to stay, tried to talk and laugh and cajole her out of what they thought would be a deep depression on the six-month anniversary of their father’s and grandfather’s death. What they did was intensify her guilt. Guilt that she didn’t feel more sadness with the passing of her life mate, guilt that she was sometimes giddy with elation at her aloneness, her ability to walk into the kitchen at two a.m. and make herself a peanut butter sandwich. Guilt about so many things.

She straightened and gazed at her surroundings. She loved this old farmhouse and had cared for it since the day she and Greg moved in when his parents moved out. That’s how it works on Iowa farms, she reflected with a thinning of her lips. She wondered if Gerald and his family would be ready to move, soon. She had yet to broach the subject with them, but since he was the one who ran things on the farm now, he had to know it was only a matter of time before his family would make their move to “the big house,” as it was called. She was a good mother, she knew that. But she was tired. Tired of cleaning the big house, tired of preparing huge dinners, tired of being a housewife. Tired for years, actually, but she never voiced it. Never gave into the feelings of discontent, of boredom and the drudgery of it all.

She stood quietly and walked over to the computer. Gerald bought that computer a few years ago to the consternation of his parents. He wanted to computerize the farm paperwork, he said, and Greg was dead-set against it. Miranda knew he had really been afraid of looking less-than-smart in front of his son. But Gerald persisted and finally won. Three years later no one could remember what running the farm was like without the thing.

When Miranda first approached it she had only wanted to simplify the process of notifying friends and relatives about Greg’s passing, but she found more. She hesitantly started to find websites she enjoyed, like a game network where she could play with other people who sat at their own computers. She still found technology amazing six months after entering this “brave new world.” Now she sat gingerly and pushed the “on” switch. She heard the answering whir, saw the blinking lights that signaled her entrance into a cyber world that was all her own. She began to type.

Are you there? She waited and held her breath while she did so. She learned about this Instant Message feature one day quite by accident. She inadvertently clicked on the icon and another world opened up to her. And then a few months ago, she logged herself onto an “old classmates” website and received the surprise of her life. Richard.

I’m here. Miranda’s brain whirled those two words.

Tell me about your day.

They talked. About old times, old days, their lives, their world. Richard Reddick. Who would have believed it, Miranda thought with a smirk as she typed and her heart danced in a way it hadn’t danced since...her heart was shattered thirty-five years ago. By Richard Reddick.

She’d always thought graduation day was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Miranda fingered the fabric-covered cardboard hat in her hands and breathed in deeply. The breath infused a new wave of pain and she clutched her chest. Why did it hurt so much? She blinked furiously to allay the tears she would be too embarrassed to shed.

“Isn’t this exciting,” whispered Cathy with suppressed glee. “I’m so pumped to be getting out of here!” She giggled and grabbed Miranda’s ice-cold hand, oblivious to the pain.

She walked across the stage in her long black gown, accepted her diploma, and later she stood silently and alone, looking up at the brick structure she had called home for the last three years. The melancholy threatened to overtake her, buckle her with its intensity.

“Hey.”

She whirled and gasped. He was standing in front of her, hands jammed in his pockets, a look on his face that was unreadable. “Hey.” Her response was quiet as she gazed at him. His eyes, a warm brown, squinted in the setting sun. His blonde hair glinted and she wanted to touch it. She always wanted to touch it, touch HIM. She couldn’t remember when she didn’t want to every minute of every day.

“So you ready?”

“For what?” She couldn’t think about anything else when he was close enough to smell.

“For life. For everything you’re going to find out there.” He gestured towards the distance behind him and she winced.

The idea of a future without him-she couldn’t. She couldn’t figure out what she would do when he wasn’t always there, always in her thoughts, filling up her senses.

“I have to go.”

He hesitantly pulled out his hands and reached them toward her. She didn’t think she could take it. But she couldn’t resist him, not ever. She walked to him with her own arms opening. When they touched, his skin brushing hers, she almost jumped from the electricity. She lay her head cautiously on his shoulder. It seemed so perfect, like it belonged there in the crook. She sighed, eyes and nose stinging, and nestled herself, for just a moment, against the love of her young life.

When they slowly broke the embrace she almost groaned. She felt bereft. He looked at her one more time and then he was gone, a shadow where he’d been standing. A shadow in her soul.

A shadow that never departed, not for thirty-five years. She had lived on, of course. First college, then marriage and children. Constantly in the back of her soul, lurking, lived her memories; more than that, pieces of him-of herself-floated within those misty pictures that grew more faint with every passing year, with every stage of her life. And now those pictures were clarifying and she felt suddenly vibrant and alive.

She sat at the computer her son provided, fingers trembling as she tentatively asked, and how is Debra?

Debra is gone, he wrote. She left a long time ago. What about you? I heard you got married years ago.

Debra left? Miranda was frozen, trying to process his words in her head. She explained her own situation while her heart began to pound. Richard was no longer married, no longer tied to Debra or anyone else. He was long retired from teaching, he told her. Retired. She realized with a jolt that she was still picturing him the way he was the day she watched him walk away. She closed her eyes and remembered.

She was a nervous sophomore who drummed her fingers on the desk. When the bell rang she jumped and then looked around with an embarrassed pink tint to her round, young face. First day of high school and she was acting like a stupid kid. She brushed back her long, dark hair, smoothed her stiff, new skirt under the desk, and breathed deeply as the teacher rose from behind his desk.

He stood with hands in his pockets and a small grin on his long face. He danced a little on the balls of his sneakered feet before he spoke. “I’m Mr. Reddick.” He practically sang the words and young Miranda’s eyes widened as she gazed at him. He hummed with vitality, it seemed to her, and the golden hair on his head reached all the way to his collar. He didn’t look like any teacher she’d ever seen. His eyes snapped as he drank in the face of each student, including Miranda. Her answering smile caught him and he spent a long moment, it seemed to her, acknowledging the smile with his own.

From that first day she was hooked and English suddenly became her favorite subject. She worked tirelessly to become “teacher’s pet” and succeeded for the most part, spending after-school hours mimeographing test sheets or finding ways to seem helpful. Mostly, though, they talked, she and Mr. Reddick, about everything. She never really put a name on her feelings until one day, while waiting for another class to begin, she stood outside the classroom conversing with him. For some reason, at that moment, it hit her like a lightening bolt. She was in love with him. She was unbelievably, solidly, irrevocably in love with Richard Reddick. He was married and her teacher, but that didn’t matter. What mattered to her youthful heart was that she loved him. She couldn’t help it.

For the next three years she worked her class schedule to ensure that he would be her teacher. She took electives she didn’t need and spurned some she did. She joined the debate team simply because he was a sponsor, and she did well because it was pleasing to him. She loved to see him smile, would have walked to the ends of the earth for one of his grins directed at her.

She thought she hid it so well.

Miranda smiled at her young self, thinking she was so slick. The older version knew better and shook her head at what other faculty members must have interpreted from her behavior. She could remember several friends who quickly understood Miranda’s infatuation and tried to snap her out of it. They invited her to parties, often hustling her into their VW vans over her protests and cajoling her to engage in “normal” teenaged fun, but when she heard the song from Love Story on her small transistor radio or at those parties, she could smell his Brute cologne if she closed her eyes and sniffed. She could see his face when she looked into the sky or behind her eyelids while she slept.

Eventually she was forced to face the truth. Richard Redick was married, her teacher, and off limits despite her feelings or fantasies. But it took years for the fantasies to subside and the love to fade. It never disappeared, Miranda acknowledged to herself as she typed. It was as much a part of her as her arms or legs, just a piece of who she’d become during those turbulent teen years.

She kept typing to him until he begged exhaustion, and later when she was lying in her bed staring up into the dark ceiling, she thought about the rich irony of it all. The last time Richard entered her life she was at a crossroads, stumbling into adolescence with an awkwardness that was painful to remember. Now here she was at yet another crossroads, and once again Richard Redick was a part of it.

_________________________

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Gerald sat across from his mother, eyes crinkled in concern with his hands clenched prayerfully on his knees.

Miranda looked at those hands, calloused and rough from long hours spent working the land his father and grandfather had worked not so long ago. She covered those hands with one of her own as she leaned forward in her own kitchen chair. “I’m sure.” She smiled into her son’s eyes to let him know how sincere she was.

Gerald took a deep breath. “Well,” he sat back. “It’ll be easier to get to work if I live here.” He smiled. “You want the truth, Mom? Lindsay would love to live here. She’s talked about it before, but we sure didn’t want to rush you or anything.”

“You’re not. I’m offering it to you if you want it. How soon would you like to move?”

Gerald shifted in his chair as he lifted a coffee cup to his lips. “We’ll have to put our house on the market. Unless you want-“

“No.” Miranda took her own breath. “Gerald, there’s so much I want to do now that I have the chance. I loved your father and I’ve loved my life with you and your sister, but I’d like to start doing for myself, for a change. Can you understand that? In the year since your father’s been gone I’ve learned a lot about who I am, and I want the opportunity to explore life in ways I’ve never thought possible before.” She smiled to take any semblance of sting out of her words. She was different than she’d been just a year ago, and she knew the changes were unnerving to her son. She’d recently cut her hair into a short bob, bought new clothes that gave her added confidence; she was becoming someone she liked but didn’t know too well. It’s time, Miranda reflected to herself as she waited for Gerald to respond, for me to learn about her.

There was a momentary silence while her son sipped and lowered the cup back to the table. “I think I can. I know this is all a huge burden....”

“It’s not about the burden,” his mother interrupted as she picked up her own cup. “I’ve never run from burden and I’m not doing that, now. I’ll always be your mother, your sister’s mother, and the grandmother of your children. I embrace it. At the same time I’m ready to branch out, be more than JUST your mother and their grandmother. I want to discover myself.” She patted Gerald’s leg. “I think your sister understood a bit better because she’s a mother. She gets it. Ask Lindsay, she’ll understand.” With a wink and a smile she rose to pour herself another cup of coffee.

Gerald left with a promise to return soon so they could hash out the details of transferring the rambling family farmhouse to him, and Miranda was excited. She was thrilled by the notion that Lindsay wanted to put her own touch into a place that had seen so many women do the same, and she was excited for herself. She felt the buzz of life sing through her as she absentmindedly straightened what little mess she’d made during breakfast and the coffee break with her son.

She sat at the computer once more and began to type. Richard. It’s been so nice to get back in touch with you during these six months. It’s meant quite a lot to me.”

“What’s this? It sounds like some sort of goodbye!”

“Not yet. I told my son today about my plans.”

“What are those?”

“To give him this lovely, huge farmhouse. I want to travel, see something of the world without worrying about responsibilities or neglected duties. There’s so much I want to see and do.”

“Really? How about a side visit to Ohio? It’s not too far from Iowa and I’d love to see you.”

“Maybe soon. I already have a plan in motion to see a little something of Europe. After that I might take some college courses to refresh myself. Who knows? I’ll keep you in my thoughts, though, and contact you when I can.”

“I must tell you that I’m disappointed. I thought we might pick up some sort of relationship. Surely you didn’t miss all my hints during these months. I thought we had a real connection all those years ago. I thought of you often.”

“And so we did. You will always be such a large part of who I am, Richard. But the past can’t be reclaimed, nor should it be. As much as we are the same, we are also very different from who we were thirty-five years ago. It’s time for me to find out who I really am without men or children to define me. I’m not sure you’ll understand.”

“I guess I do. I’m still disappointed, but perhaps when you return...”

“Perhaps. Take care of yourself, dear Richard.”

Miranda signed off of the computer and stood with a cat-like stretch. So much she hadn’t voiced to Richard Reddick-the nights she spent dreaming about him, wondering what a real relationship with him would be like. She suspected, the more she conversed with him, that her “dream Richard” didn’t have much basis in fact. At first she was depressed by the notion, and then she felt released, somehow, free from all those youthful notions of what love was supposed to be and what it was supposed to accomplish for a person. “Love is as imperfect as people,” she told her daughter after a dispute with the latter’s husband. “Embrace it, enjoy it, but don’t expect it to be perfect. It never is.”

Miranda yawned and grinned to herself before she pivoted and began to climb the stairs. Halfway up she paused and twisted back to gaze at the living room and peer into the dining room. So much work, so much love, so much of her life was built into every room-the velvet brown couch and matching chairs with the ottoman she’d been thrilled to find, the blue chintz curtains in her kitchen and the wonderful antique kitchen table and chairs, the cherry wood dining table with off-white wallpaper underneath too many family portraits. There was a veined hand to her heart as she turned and continued the climb. Time to start packing.