Love Me for Me(3)

The idea of it made Libby shiver. She was very protective of Hugh and she didn’t want anyone speaking poorly of him in any way. He had been the most supportive, genuine person she’d known as a child, and the thought of what had happened to him was more than she could bear. She’d heard bits and pieces about him from her mother, but she hadn’t seen him in years. As she walked down the hallway, she dragged her fingers along the wall where his hat rack had been.

She couldn’t imagine Pop not being able to take care of himself. He’d always been the one who had taken care of everyone else. Once, when Libby was sixteen, she’d driven her mother’s car to the movie theater, and something in the engine had rattled all the way there. Her mother didn’t know a thing about cars, and she didn’t want to upset her with news that something may be wrong, so she’d called Pop. Without even a hesitation, he set her mind at ease and told her to swing by after the movie. She could still see his reassuring eyes as he opened the door and went out into the afternoon sun to check her car. She’d stayed inside with Nana until he returned with oily hands and told her that it was all fixed. She wouldn’t have to worry anymore. She never had to worry when Pop was around. He always made everything okay.

As she walked through the house, empty of Pop and Nana’s things, she felt more depressed with every step. Being there, she was forced to face her memories, and they were coming back—all of them at once—like a giant tidal wave. In New York, she’d compartmentalized her memories, neatly tucking away the ones from childhood where they couldn’t interfere with the new ones, but in the cottage that she’d spent so many days and nights, everywhere she looked she saw reminders of people she’d known—people she’d left—and it hurt. Terribly.

She carried on through the house. The hardwoods weren’t in bad shape in most places, Libby noted, when she reached the back of the cottage. The kitchen was outdated, however, the sink dripping. The old linoleum floor was beginning to peel, and dated floral wallpaper stretched from the small dining area all the way to where she was standing.

She tugged on the faucet knob to stop the dripping, but was unsuccessful, so she just leaned on the edge of the sink, watching the drips—one at a time—hit the basin. Tap, tap, tap. The sound was relentless, like the pounding in her temples. A twinge of anxiety pecked at her as she wondered why Pop’s sink was leaking. Surely he could’ve fixed it, unless his health was failing too much now. Pop had been her rock. He’d always been strong. The idea of weakness overtaking him was almost unbelievable. It all made her feel vulnerable, helpless.

The back door of the cottage was in a small breakfast nook area. It had a pane of glass in the center and let in a blast of blinding sun. The door was stuck so Libby had to pull with all her might. When she got it open, suddenly she remembered what an investment the house actually was.

She hopped off the concrete landing onto the lawn. Still dewy from the shade of the pines, the grass crunched beneath her shoes, so she kicked them off to save any further damage and set them on the edge of the sidewalk that extended the length of the property. With the wind picking up, blowing her hair in her face, she walked until the cool of the grass was replaced by the softness of sand. In front of her, as far as she could see, were the blue ripples of Virginia’s Chesapeake Bay. The division between water and sky was so minimal that they almost looked like one entity. She wondered about Nana, where she was, if she could look down on her.

Anne Roberts had been like a grandmother to her. Libby remembered her powdery scent, the way her gray hair fell toward her eyes when she laughed, the soft touch of her hand as she patted Libby on the back when they hugged. Anne had a formality about her—her pressed cotton shirts buttoned down the front, tucked into her trousers perfectly, not a wrinkle in sight, her nails always manicured. But there was something so uncomplicated, so relaxed about her, that made everyone fall in love with her. She told stories that could pin Libby right to her seat as she hung on every word. And when Libby was in her presence, Anne had made her feel like she was the most important person in the world, so interested in her, so ready to listen.

Libby had been in New York when Anne passed. She remembered the day her mother called to tell her. That was the second time she’d cried about someone from back home. Just the way Anne would have planned it, she had gone to sleep and she never woke the next morning. Like everything about her, she’d spent her final moments peacefully.

The funeral had been on a Thursday and Libby could’ve taken time off to attend, but she didn’t. There were reasons why—she wasn’t heartless—and she still held onto the guilt of not seeing Anne that one last time to pay her respects. Being there in Nana’s house, she was ashamed about her absence. The feeling of not being able to fix it consumed her—she couldn’t go back in time and make it right. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, but it did nothing to lighten the guilt.