My heartbeat sped up and all the feelings I’d thought were in the past came slamming back in the time between one breath and the next. Oh dear Lord. How had I forgotten what it felt like to be in the same room as Preston? Had spending time with Cole on those two occasions over the years, emailing him from my school account now and again, led me to fool myself into believing that my feelings for Preston were the same easy, lukewarm emotions I had for Cole? Without having them together, without the contrast right in front of me, I’d somehow begun to believe my feelings for them were similar. More to the point, I’d wanted to convince myself of that falsehood because it was less painful than the truth that the twin I loved didn’t love me and had found it easy to leave without once looking back.
I sagged down on the pew as they passed by, both of them staring straight ahead, grief etched into their expressions. Camille Sawyer walked slowly, a singular tear sliding down her creamy cheek as she leaned in to Preston.
I sat numbly through the service, only able to see the backs of their heads. Their mother’s soft cries echoed through the church, and she turned to Preston again and he put his arm around her, pulling her close. She was between both of her boys and I wondered briefly why she appeared to rely more heavily on Preston to hold her up than on Cole.
“How sad,” the woman next to me murmured. “He was far too young.”
“Was it a heart attack, did they say?” her husband whispered.
“Yes. He died out in the fields. Fell right over. One of those Mexicans carried him inside.” One of those Mexicans.
In my peripheral vision, I saw the woman who’d uttered the words glance quickly at me and then away as if she’d just realized one of those Mexicans was sitting next to her. I stared ahead, pretending I hadn’t heard her.
After it was over, I watched as Preston and Cole walked back up the aisle, their crying mother between them. Preston’s jaw was rigid and Cole’s eyes were fixed straight ahead. I had the urge to reach out and touch their arms, to offer some measure of comfort, to let them know I was here, and I hurt for them.
The crush of people moved slowly toward the open doorway and by the time I stepped outside, the family was gone, back to their house as the paper had announced.
I’d decided earlier to drop by their home with a dish, if only to give my condolences, but I hesitated now, feeling nervous and unsure. There would be so many people there. They wouldn’t miss me; they had closer friends. They’d always had closer friends. I assumed half their high school class would be there, and they’d be overwhelmed as it was. But I also didn’t want to let my own fear stop me from doing what I felt was right—it was right to offer my sympathies to two people I cared about. And the paper had offered an open invitation.
I climbed in my car and checked on the pie I’d put in a cooler. The ice inside was almost completely melted, but the pie still felt cool. I’d siphoned twenty dollars from our budget to make the pie and had stayed up late after I’d gotten home from work baking it. Though I’d never made a pie before, I’d asked an older woman at work named Darla for a recipe and she’d given me one for an apple blueberry she said was sure to impress. It smelled amazing, and was pretty enough to present to the Sawyers.
The dirt road in front of the Sawyer family farmhouse was already lined with cars when I arrived and I pulled behind a red Jeep across from the barn and took a deep breath, glancing in the mirror to make sure I didn’t look too wilted. I didn’t have air conditioning in my car and I felt the sticky slide of sweat dripping down the inside of my black blouse and collecting between my breasts, but I hoped the color would hide any wet marks.
Grabbing a tissue from my glove box, I blotted at the sweat droplets on my forehead and upper lip, freshened my lip gloss, and got out.
I walked slowly and carefully toward their house, unaccustomed to the short heels I’d borrowed from the sixteen-year-old next-door neighbor, holding the pie in both hands.
There were a few people mingling on the large front porch, sipping cold drinks and talking in somber tones. Through the open window to the left of the front door, I saw people inside what looked to be the kitchen.
My heart rate increased, that familiar feeling of not belonging causing my skin to prickle. The sweat still sliding down my back felt cold and clammy. I took a deep breath and gave a man standing near the porch railing a smile that felt timid. He nodded back to me and I walked slowly to the door, raising my hand and knocking.
My muscles tensed as I waited and when the door opened ten seconds later, I made an effort to relax so I didn’t look as stiff and uncomfortable as I felt. Camille Sawyer was standing on the other side, blotting her nose with a tissue. She stared at me, waiting.
“Ma’am,” I said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Her brows drew in slightly, and she brought the tissue away from her face. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and her nose was slightly red, but her lipstick was still perfectly applied, her hair beautifully sleek, her eyes vivid aqua in contrast to her pink-rimmed lids, and she looked somehow especially lovely in her sadness. I saw Preston and Cole in her blue, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones.
My hands shook as I held the pie out to her, and she took it but then glanced down in confusion as if she hadn’t meant to do so. “Aren’t you that little thing the boys used to run around with outside?”
The heat in my face increased. I felt like I was standing in front of her as a ball of flame, a melting candle, and for a minute I could only nod. “I . . . yes, my mother used to work for Mr. Sawyer.”
She sniffed and turned her face away for a moment, looking back into the house before turning back to me. “Well, I’ll tell the boys you stopped by. Surely you understand why I don’t invite you in.” The look on her face held such disdain that I felt it like a sudden, sharp blow.
My heart dropped, and I felt sick. I’d known she didn’t like Preston and Cole playing with me when we were children. Even in my childish understanding of the world, I’d received the message that she didn’t believe it appropriate that her boys socialize with the farmworkers or their children. But I hadn’t thought she’d outright snub me if I came to her front door as a woman, to pay my respects to her dead husband.
I’d been wrong. Incredibly wrong.
I remembered Warren Sawyer as a man who spent as much time working the land as the men and women he employed. I remembered him patting me on the head and handing me a ripe strawberry, and I remembered falling half in love with him for the way he smiled at me. I remembered him as very large and not very talkative, but with an air of kindness about him. Very much the strong, silent type but not without the light of depth in his eyes. Like Preston.
I wondered now if he’d disapproved of my friendship with his sons, too, and something about the question—the mere possibility—hurt me, though it felt like an irrational pain. I hadn’t even really known him and now he was gone.
For a moment all I could do was focus on my borrowed shoes, wishing I could just disappear. But I gathered what pride I had left—precious little—and raised my chin, offering a small smile that felt wobbly, but I hoped wasn’t visually so. “Please accept my condolences. Goodbye.” I turned slowly and walked with as much grace as I could over the porch and down the front steps.