Perfectly Undone. Jamie Raintree
I catch one last glance at the picture, one of my most prized memories tossed carelessly onto the heap that is all that’s left of what could have been. I turn and let myself out.
* * *
I spend Sunday night in the labor and delivery unit coaxing out a little girl who isn’t quite ready to leave her mother’s womb. Afterward, Vanessa sends me home to catch up on some sleep. When I pull into my driveway around ten in the morning, Cooper is gone, but Reese’s truck is in the driveway. I forgot he was starting on the backyard today. After my little scene the last time Reese was here, and after admitting my reluctance to get involved, Cooper took it upon himself to work out the rest of the details. But mostly, he told me, he’d given Reese free rein. I walk from the garage to the front door, watching beads of rain breach through the layer of dirt on his windshield, smudging out spots of clarity that are just as quickly blotted out by the next drop. I see no signs of Reese.
I leave my shoes in the foyer and pad to the kitchen, using the excuse of a glass of water to stand at the window and search for him. Despite my hesitation about the garden and having a stranger at the house, now that the idea has sunk in, I’m intrigued by the development of my little spot in the world. The fantasies I once harbored about a peaceful space of my own have resurfaced. I cling to that show of love more than ever with the distance Cooper has been putting between us.
From here there’s nothing to see, but since I know I won’t sleep, I decide to get closer.
Outside, a light rain continues to drizzle. Reese is turned away from me, so I try to make my presence known with heavier footfalls, but as I watch Reese work so attentively on the trench he’s digging, I’m sure I’ll startle him no matter how I approach. I stick close to the house to avoid some of the errant raindrops while he digs in a slow and steady rhythm, tossing the loose soil into a growing pile on the grass. He’s knee-deep in the hole he’s created, which is a few feet long, moving from the side yard toward the space beneath my bedroom windows. Despite the cool temperature, he seems unaffected by the rain on his exposed arms and the back of his neck, both a deep tan, no doubt from years of working all day in the sun. I stumble over a branch, and he looks up at me.
“Hello, Dr. Michels.” I stop where I am, giving myself distance, but the way he says my name makes my mouth suddenly dry. He draws out each syllable, and somehow it sounds more intimate than calling me by my first name. Without the buffer of Cooper, or maybe because I’ve interrupted Reese’s focus, the current that surrounds him is less contained.
“Dylan,” I correct him. “How is it going?”
“Just fine,” he says. He rests one foot on the lip of the shovel and leans into the handle. “You’re home early.”
“Actually, I’m home late. Just got done with surgery.”
“Ouch. Do you work all night a lot?”
“Here and there. It’s not too bad.” I shrug.
“Man, I couldn’t do it. I need my sleep,” he says. He laughs, but I miss the joke.
After a moment of silence, his eyes narrow, gauging me—the woman who wanted the moat. I can’t tell what he’s looking for, or whether or not I should be threatened by it.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, it’s not for everyone.”
“Sure.” After a moment, he says, “If you’re not busy, I can show you what I’ve got so far.”
“I can’t. I have to get back to work,” I say, which isn’t true, but it comes out before I realize it isn’t. He nods, smiling. The lie must be written all over my face.
I sigh. “Okay. I guess I have a minute.”
He lays the shovel down on the grass and hoists himself up to my level. Like the first time I met him, I’m struck by his lightness, his agility. He seems so carefree, like someone who lives in a different world, apart from the stress and struggles of everyday life. As I look around me, at the kind of places he gets to work, I wonder if maybe he does.
“Come here,” he says and waves me over. I inch forward until we’re standing in front of each other, only the gap in the earth separating us.
“So here’s your moat so far,” he says, barely hiding a grin, teasing me. He’s giving me what I asked for, clearly more for his own entertainment than thinking it’s a good idea. I must have made a hell of a first impression.
“It’s a pretty stupid request, isn’t it?”
“Let’s just say it was a first. I appreciate your bravery, though. And I admit, it is nice to have a challenge. I could use a break from the koi ponds. Want to see the rest of my ideas?” he asks. His green eyes light up against his dark hair.
“Sure,” I say.
“Come with me.”
He jumps across the divide in a single bound, and I let him lead me around the house to the front yard.
“Don’t you have any employees?” I ask him as we traipse through the overgrown grass.
He waves the question away. “I prefer the silence.”
When we reach the driveway, he opens the door of his truck and leans far over to reach for something on the dashboard. I lower my gaze.
“Now, keep in mind, this isn’t finished, it’s just what I’m starting with. Most of the time, the ideas come to me as I work.”
I nod and take the sketch pad he offers me. I’d expected a list or, at most, a computer-generated rendering, but inside the front cover is a hand-sketched portrait of what I recognize as my backyard from the viewpoint of the tree line. I recognize the structure of my backyard anyway. The back door and the windows of the house are clearly visible. Everything else is foreign: the water that runs around it a few feet from the exterior walls, the bridge coming out from the back door to connect to the rest of the yard, a stepping-stone path cutting through the grass into the trees. He’s scribbled out vague flowers along the base of the house and patches on the outside of the moat that bleed into the grass. Vines weave it all together.
Reese’s creativity and steady hand are beautiful. I always wished I had more of an eye for this type of thing, but that’s my mother’s forte. An unexpected yearning to ask her opinion bubbles up inside me, but I suppress it.
I clear my throat. “How did you get so good at this?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Practice, I guess.”
“A teenage boy practicing gardening?”
He laughs. “How old do you think I am?” he asks, and the way he says it, the way his brow furrows, does make him look older. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. Yes, as a matter of fact, this previously teenaged boy practiced gardening. My mom worked—well, works—a lot. My neighbor, Abraam, used to watch me after school. He must have been in his, I don’t know, seventies? But that didn’t stop him from getting down in the dirt with me every day. The man had a gift. He grew the most beautiful roses you could imagine. I always told him he should compete, but he said it wasn’t about that, it was about the process.” He purses his lips together to stop himself, seeming to realize he’s rambling. Then he asks, “What about you? How did you become such a great doctor?”
“How do you know how good a doctor I am?”
“Well, Dr. Caldwell seems to think so. And I trust his opinion.”
A tense laugh escapes my lips, but my heart warms to know Cooper’s been complimenting my work, even if he’s stopped sharing the compliments with me. “I wouldn’t. He’s biased.”
“Maybe.”
Reese waits for me to go on. I notice the way he’s leaning slightly toward me, ready for more clues to blend into whatever picture he’s painting of me. I look away.
“I’m just trying to understand what kind of person you are, the kind of things you like,” he says, sensing