“Sometimes too late is just in time.” C.J. Carlyon
The numbers shot upward like a bullet from a gun. Or at least that's the way it seemed to Merrie, and she watched with dread until they finally stopped on 232. Her warm brown eyes closed as disappointment ran through her. Three pounds. Three pounds overnight. Logically she knew it had to be water weight but that didn't stop the painful frustration. Why couldn't she get under 230 and stay there?
Disheartened, she stepped off the scale and left the bathroom for the bedroom next door. As she dressed for the day in her favorite rose sweats and sneakers, she worked to keep her thoughts from turning self-malicious, reminding herself of how far she'd come and that there was no reason she couldn't go further. It was a struggle won only by the slimmest of margins.
Merrie was depressed, but that was nothing new. She had been diagnosed long ago as having major depression and though medication kept her emotions on an even keel, she couldn't shake the kind of depression that came with the living of life itself. After nearly fifty-five years of having every fault and foible pointed out to her, and after every cruel comment, direct or offhand, cast at her by friend and enemy alike, she was under no illusions about herself. It was hard to believe the positive affirmations she so diligently repeated to herself. She was fighting a lifetime of conditioning and though there were times, like now, when it was easy to question whether the fight was worth the effort, she nonetheless battled on. Somewhere in the past ten years she had found a pocket of pugnaciousness in her nature that she had never known existed and that was what she drew on as she finished dressing, ran her brush through her dark page boy cut hair, then quit the room to greet the day in earnest.
After her usual high protein, low carb breakfast, she donned a light jacket in deference to the early autumn morning and left the house for her daily walk. The air was crisp with just a hint of wood smoke on the breeze. The trees were well on their way toward the peak of their color and some neighbors had already decorated their yards with bales of straw, gourds, mums, and scarecrows in celebration of the season. It was quiet with only an occasional dog's bark as she passed by.
Further down the street a lone jogger suddenly appeared from around the curve and she smiled as he drew nearer. She and Matthew had known each other since childhood and had never lived very far from one another in all those years, always seeming to find one another within a few blocks no matter how often they relocated. While she had never married, he had enjoyed a thirty plus year marriage with another school mate until she had passed away two years before from breast cancer. His three children were scattered across the country pursuing their own brand of happiness but kept in close contact with their father. Merrie often envied them their solidarity.
As he drew nearer, she noted not for the first time, what a fine looking man he was. Age only seemed to have improved on the attractiveness of his youth. Tall and lean, yet well built, with the blond Nordic features of his ancestry, it was no surprise the ladies still admired him, Merrie being among them. Whatever internal response she had was quickly dismissed as a normal one to seeing an attractive man. Nothing truly personal. He was just an old friend who happened to set her heart aflutter.
Matthew was already grinning as he reached her. Barely winded from exertion, he wiped the film of sweat from his face with the sleeve of his t-shirt as they paused beside one another on the sidewalk.
“Merrie! Good morning!”
“Good morning, Matt. How's the run going?”
They shared this same greeting nearly every morning when they met in what had become something of a ritual. His ice blue eyes sparkled with characteristic good humor that brightened the vaguely sad expression in her own expression. From the time they were children he had always been able to make her feel good just by being himself.
As usual, he reversed direction and easily kept up as she resumed her brisk pace. They chatted as they walked, touching base as if they hadn't seen each other in weeks rather than just twenty-four hours. Things had always been easy between them. Matt was one of the few men in her life with whom she was entirely comfortable.
Approaching the driveway to his home, Merrie prepared to say goodbye but was instead mildly surprised by his invitation to come in for a cup of coffee. It wasn't unusual for him to extend the invite, it just didn't happen very often, and as usual she was prepared to turn down his offer. But for some reason this time she hesitated. She remembered the disappointment from her weigh in that morning and thought of how often she wished she didn't have to spend so much time alone. To both of their surprise she agreed and he led her up the drive and to the front door.
It had been a very long time since she had set foot inside his home. The last time had been for a Christmas dinner a couple of years before his wife had gotten sick. She noted the changes in the décor, the lighter palette of color and varied textures of the upholstery. It was an attractive scheme that still exuded comfort and welcome.
Matt encouraged Merrie to make herself comfortable then excused himself to go wash up. After removing her jacket, she relaxed on the well stuffed couch and looked about her, her eyes eventually coming to rest on the collection of framed photos on the mantle of the fireplace. His children and their families smiled back from both studio settings and from more candid moments. There were a couple that included Matt as well, obviously happy to be spending time with his family. She couldn't help but smile at his exuberance.
Not long after, he reappeared dressed in well worn jeans and a chambray shirt that accentuated the blue of his eyes, and stocking feet. She followed him into the dining room and took a seat at the table while he stepped into the kitchen and began making coffee. While it brewed he brought a plate of apple bran muffins to the table along with a crock of butter, smaller dessert plates, and a couple of case knives and set them between them as he took his seat.
“The fall festival is coming up in a couple of weeks,” he remarked conversationally, “Will you be exhibiting anything this year?”
Merrie thought of the photos waiting to be matted and nodded, “Yeah. I've several pictures that I'll be hanging. They were taken last fall and I thought they would be suitable for this year.”
“You do beautiful work,” he commented with a smile, “Will they be for sale?”
“Thank you.” She returned his smile somewhat shyly, “Yes, they will.”
“I can't wait to see them.”
“Will you be exhibiting?” she asked, thinking of the lovely wood carvings he was becoming known for.
“Thinking about it. Don't know which ones, though.”
“I have one of your early pieces. It's the one of the angry squirrel with its nut.”
Matt chuckled, “I remember that one. There was a squirrel that used to fuss at me every time I would walk out into the yard. I never knew what it was about me that set the little guy off but he was always ready to give me a piece of his mind. One day he did so holding that stupid nut and I was inspired.”
Merrie chuckled as well and watched him as he stood to return to the kitchen.
“Milk or sugar?” he asked.
“Just black, thank you.”
Moments later he reappeared with two large steaming mugs, handed her one, then once again took his seat. They shared a companionable silence as they reached for the muffins and slathered them with butter. Taking a bite, Merrie made a sound of appreciation.
“These are delicious. Did you make them?”
“Kind of. They're from a mix.”
“They're still good.”
“Thanks.”
Time passed and the conversation flowed. Watching her talk of an amusing experience Matt felt his heart lighten as she smiled, chuckled, and laughed outright. He thought it a shame that more people didn't know this side of her. The warm, engaging part that he'd known from when they were kids. He remembered being thirteen and half in love with her when things had changed. She'd grown quiet, her smiles rare. She'd become skittish around boys and where an outgoing, friendly girl had been there now appeared a shy, quiet shadow of the person she had been. Always a little chubby, her weight had begun to increase and the cruelty against her began. He'd always been quick to defend her but there was little he could do against the enormity of the abuse. By the time they had graduated from high school she had withdrawn so far that there was little of her old self showing. Except with him. She had always been herself with him.
Over the years, as he'd married, raised a family, and pursued a successful career as a graphic artist, he'd watched over her, always careful not to let on lest her pride had objected. He'd watched as she struggled with the effects of her depression and wasn't surprised when she was finally forced to take disability to survive. It had been his wife, Rochelle, who suggested an occasional anonymous gift, so from time to time there would be a card or an inexpensive little something left in her mailbox to make her smile. He often wondered why she never mentioned them. Did she even suspect where they came from?
He didn't harbor any pity toward her. Compassion and affection, yes, but never pity. She was too strong willed, too full of fire to be pitied. As he watched her talk, her face animated and her body relaxed, he was suddenly surprised to feel the old attraction for her and dropped his gaze to his now empty coffee mug, uncomfortable now and not understanding why. When had that happened?
Merrie chattered on a bit longer before she realized that he was no longer paying attention.
“Matt?”
After a moment he seemed to shake off his thoughts but when he looked up his ice blue eyes were turbulent. Gone was the good natured twinkle.
“Is everything okay?” she asked uncertainly. His stare was unnerving.
“I-,” he shook his head then abruptly stood up, “I'm sorry, Merrie. I just realized something-.”
She watched in confusion as he gathered up their dishes and carried them into the kitchen. When he didn't immediately return she began to feel as if she were intruding somehow and stood.
“Well,” she began brightly, “I have things I need to be doing and I'm sure you do, too. I'll just be on my way.”
When he still didn't answer she made her way back into the living room and collected her jacket. As she was sliding it on he was suddenly at her side, helping her. It was obvious he was inwardly struggling as he apologized.
“I just remembered an appointment,” he explained and she knew he lied. She tried not to take it personally even as she replayed the last few minutes in her mind, searching for an explanation for his sudden aloofness. It was so unlike Matt. Had she done something wrong?
“That's okay,” she turned toward the door, a nonchalant smile on her face. “Thank you for the coffee and muffins.”
He nodded and walked with her, his hand brushing the small of her back. Outwardly she gave no indication of her response but inside every fiber of her being was focused on his touch. Not since they were kids had he touched her in any way.
As he opened the door, she glanced up, still with a smile that she hoped masked her uncertainty.
“See you later.”
He nodded and watched her walk away, “Sure. Thanks for coming.”
~
Days passed and he didn't show during her walks. She became convinced that she must have done something to upset him but for the life of her she couldn't recall anything. They'd been talking like friends then suddenly he had pulled away. She tried to get angry but old psychological tapes continued to play. She believed she had lost her best friend.
On the fifth day, the roses began. First a salmon colored bud showed up in her mailbox. The next day a yellow one, and for the next ten days a different color rose bud was in her mailbox every morning. Bafflement gradually gave way as her suspicions grew as to who was behind the flowers. On the eleventh day a note was attached to a perfect pink bud that simply said, 'I'm sorry',” and she knew.
On the twelfth day her doorbell rang and when she answered, there stood Matt, dressed in slacks and a dark blue Nordic sweater, bearing a single red rose.
For a long moment they stared at one another until he asked, “Can I come in?”
Feeling a bit flustered, suddenly aware of her scroungy sweats and her hair pulled back in a short, messy pony tail, she opened the door further and motioned him in. The room suddenly seemed to shrink and the air seemed to grow thick. His eyes unerringly found the vase containing the eleven roses on her dining room table.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asked, a small catch to her voice, and he shook his head before pausing, the slow twirling of the rose his only sign of nervousness.
“No.” He took a breath and held out the rose, which she accepted with a trembling hand.
“Rochelle and I were married right out of high school,” he began and Merrie nodded slowly. “We were married for thirty-two years and in all that time I never so much as looked at another woman. She was my world.” Again Merrie nodded. “After she died I had no interest in finding anyone else. I was quite content to remain a bachelor for the rest of my life.” Ice blue eyes looked intently into warm brown. “Until now.”
For a long, pregnant moment she stared at him before rubbing her forehead with her free hand and taking a couple of steps away. Turning to face him again, she licked her lips and bravely met his eyes.
“My uncle gave me my first kiss when I was thirteen,” she whispered and Matt wasn't certain what his response was. Sympathy? Anger? Both? She continued., “The few dates I've had since then were nearly as bad. I have a mental illness and I weigh over 200 pounds.” She nervously licked her lips again then looked back, her expression both frightened and defiant. “I come with a lot of baggage.”
He was silent for a long moment. Nothing she said had really surprised to him. He had heard the rumors about her family's secret and he knew the unwarranted reputation that had sprang up about her thanks to the backlash from thwarted romeos. His answering smile was gentle, “ I think I can handle that.”
For another long moment she stared at him before turning away to put the red rose in the vase with the others. When she didn't turn back he moved to stand behind her and slowly turned her around. Lifting her chin, his voice was just above a whisper.
“We'll take it slow. You'll set the pace.” His fingers softly brushed her cheek. “We've known each other a long time. I think you can trust me.”
She found she could smile a little as she turned that cheek into his hand, “I know.”
“Then will you go out with me? Dinner and a movie?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow? About seven?”
“Yes.”
His answering smile was gentle as he asked, “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
And she sighed as his lips softly caressed hers. With a last smile he turned away and she walked him back to the door.
In the doorway he touched her cheek one last time, “See you tomorrow.”
She nodded, unable to say anything further, and slowly closed the door behind him. Raising her hand to the cheek he had just caressed, her tremulous smile blossomed into something beautiful until, with a laugh of pure joy, she twirled once before dashing through the house toward her bedroom.
A beautiful fairytale, written with skill and compassion. It was easy to delve into the personality of each and the reason why Merrie, an interesting name, had changed so drastically and 13.
Your description of Merrie paralleled somewhat a woman who worked with me. Except she had one son. She started work for the University at 17 thanks to her exceptional secretarial skills and her mother who also worked at the University. Her admirer was a widower and a very manly man who retired to fish and hunt. He drowned while fishing one morning trying to save a companion recovering from heart surgery who fell in the lake and also drowned. She retired with a good pension at 53 because she could no longer make the long walks to the restroom in a hurry like she had to. She was living with her mother who retired only two years before her. Shortly after that, her mother died. She died at 57.
Welcome to Hell on Earth, boys.
Andersonville POW camp...
Russell's battle-worn body looked defeated. He was a Union soldier; she was a Confederate nurse. But when Rosa looked into his eyes, she saw pure determination. He looked fo
The numbers shot upward like a bullet from a gun. Or at least that's the way it seemed to Merrie, and she watched with dread until they finally stopped on 232. Her warm brown eyes closed as disappointment ran through her. Three pounds. Three pounds overnight. Logically she knew it had to be water weight but that didn't stop the painful frustration. Why couldn't she get under 230 and stay there?
