And last, there were empty spaces that didn’t fit the careful arrangement. Empty spaces that laid testimony to this being the Donovan family home considering they were at some point more than likely filled with pictures of Mickey’s wife, perhaps their wedding, them together, the family together, but now they were gone.
I knew what those empty spaces felt like in real life so by the time I made it to the back of the house, my heart was heavy.
Once I moved through the mouth of the hall, I gave myself the quick opportunity to take in the long great room that was open plan.
There was a large kitchen with gleaming, attractive wood cabinets and granite countertops to the right, delineated by a bar from the family room to the left that had a big sectional that faced a wide, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above another, smaller and less formal, stone fireplace.
This space, too, was not imposing. It was all family, with thick rugs over the wood floors, the sectional an attractive, very dark purple twill with high backs, deep set cushions, throw pillows and afghans tossed around for maximum lounging potential.
Around the couch there were a variety of standing lamps that could offer bright lighting, say, should you wish to lounge and read, or subtle lighting, say, should you want to watch a horror movie and get in the mood.
A long, wide, carefully distressed dark wood, rectangular coffee table with drawers on the sides ran the middle of the sectional. It held a lovely globe filled with burgundy-colored sand in which a fat candle was positioned that had tiers of blue, purple and forest green.
Staring at that candle, I knew, in leaving, the ex-wife forgot it. I knew it because a man would not buy that glass globe, pour sand in it and find the perfect candle to stick in.
Her one stamp. The last of her.
In my limited perusal of the house, except empty spaces where her image and history with her family occupied the wall, that candle was the only physical evidence that I’d seen of her.
Seeing it, I wondered if, when she went, she left it just to remind them she’d been there and now she was gone.
I didn’t know what to make of this, except to think that if she left it on purpose, it was a cruelty, plain and simple. Conrad had left us in our home and when he’d gone, he’d taken every vestige of himself with him. Yes, including the pictures off the walls and out of frames on shelves and tables.
And when he went, this caused me profound grief that only dug the pit of his departure deeper.
Now I saw it as something else entirely.
As a kindness.
Staring at the candle, I also wondered why Mickey kept it.
Perhaps, as a man, he didn’t even see it. It had been lit, but it was far from burned low and he didn’t strike me as a man who lit candles to provide a relaxing atmosphere.
Perhaps he wanted a reminder of his wife, the family they shared, the hopes he’d had, these being things he wasn’t ready to let go.
I would get no answers to these questions and not only because I’d never ask them.
No, it was because Mickey called, “Hey, babe.”
I stopped staring at the candle and turned his way.
Cillian was up on a barstool opposite Mickey, who was wearing another unfairly attractive shirt, this in lightweight cotton the color of mocha, sleeves again rolled up over muscular forearms, doing something beyond the elevated portion of counter where the tall barstools sat.
Both pairs of blue eyes were on me.
“I’m completely unable to come to a home for a meal without bringing something,” I blurted, lifting up my empty hands. “I feel weird. Like I’m going to get a Good Guest Demerit or something.”
Mickey grinned and Cillian asked, “What’s a demerit?”
“A bad mark, son,” Mickey explained to his boy then looked to me. “Come in. Take a seat. Want a beer?”
I didn’t often drink beer; it wasn’t a beverage of preference. I drank wine and if I had a cocktail it could vary, but it usually had vodka in it.
However, I keenly remembered Mickey saying his children’s mother had a wineglass soldered to her hand so I nodded.
“Beer sounds good,” I replied, moving further into the room in the direction of the bar.
I arrived, took my own barstool and noted that Mickey had a plethora of stuff all over the counter and appeared to be creating a smorgasbord of salads ranging from spinach to Asian noodle to macaroni. There were bowls, small packets of slivered almonds, used packs of ramen noodles, bottles of mayonnaise and mustard, cutting boards covered in residue and the waste parts of pickles, carrots, tomatoes, onions.
It struck me how long it’d been since my countertop looked like that and when it struck me, that feeling fell down the hollow well left after my family disintegrated, and it kept falling, that pit a bottomless pit of agony.
“Get Miz Hathaway a beer, boy,” Mickey ordered, thankfully taking me out of my thoughts, and Cillian jumped off his stool and raced to the fridge.
I failed to note the first time I met Cillian that he seemed to have an overabundance of energy.