Kristan Higgins - All I Ever Wanted

At any rate, the two men got talking, and I wandered around the drafty old barn, picking up scraps of wood, drawing my initials in a pile of sawdust, trying not to be bothered by the fact that no one remembered that I was eight years old, because even then I understood that grown-ups had a lot of problems. Then I saw the chair.

It was a rocking chair, the type meant for a front porch. Made from honey-colored tiger maple, it was truly a work of art, elegant and slender, almost glowing from within. With a glance at Noah and Mr. Morelock to ascertain that they were too busy to notice, I gave it a little nudge, and it glided back soundlessly. Could I sit in it? There was no sign saying I couldn’t. I sat. The seat and back were perfectly proportioned, curving in all the right places, and when I rocked in it, the movement was as gentle and slow as a quiet river.

Even then, I recognized that the chair was special. It was so … graceful. And so happy, somehow. Just sitting in this chair would make a person feel better. Even if her daddy didn’t live at home anymore. Even if her sister was far away. Even if her mom hadn’t baked a birthday cake. This was a chair that promised a better time ahead. The tightness that had wrapped itself around my throat the day my parents told me they were getting divorced seemed to ease as I rocked, the motion somehow tender and deep.

Closing my eyes, I pictured, perhaps for the first time, what I’d be like as a grown-up. I’d have a rooftop apartment in Manhattan overlooking the entire city. There’d be a garden up there with lemon trees and glorious flowers, and I’d work all day on the Today show, and at night, I’d come home and Bryant Gumbel, my husband, would bring me a drink that contained alcohol, and we’d hold hands and talk about really adult things, and he’d never leave me, a fact I’d know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“You like that chair, little one?” Mr. Morelock asked, and I jumped in guilt and opened my eyes, feeling my face burn.

“It’s … it’s very nice,” I mumbled, unsure if I was in trouble.

“Your grandpa here tells me it’s your birthday,” he said. I looked at Noah, surprised that he was aware of the date. My grandfather winked at me.

“Yes, sir. I’m eight,” I said.

“How’d you like this chair as a present?” Mr. Morelock asked, and suddenly, my eyes were wet, and I looked down at my lap and nodded, unable to speak. Then Noah picked me up and gave me a bristly kiss, told me not to go all sloppy on them, and did I thank Mr. Morelock? I wiped my eyes and did as I was told.

When Noah took me home that evening, he carried the chair up to my room. “You take care of this chair, young lady,” he said.

“It’s my happily-ever-after chair,” I said, quite pleased with the title. The chair gave my room an entirely new look, and suddenly my ruffled pink bedspread and unicorn poster seemed quite passé. Noah chuckled and ruffled my hair, then left me to worship my new treasure.

David Morelock died later that week. For some reason, his death hit me hard … it was like losing Santa or something, and I was raw anyway. Noah told me that my chair was the last one Mr. Morelock made, and more special and valuable than ever. I took Noah at his word. I didn’t want anyone to sit in it, even me … I saved it for those moments when I felt in need of the most comfort.

Like now. And as usual, the chair was working its magic. From outside came the rushing and gurgling of the Trout River. A distant owl called out. I rocked, the long, smooth glide always a shock of sweetness. Dear Mr. Morelock, how I loved him that day! Sending up a silent thank-you to my chair’s maker, I felt the tension in my shoulders surrender bit by bit.

Somewhere out there was the guy for me. Bryant Gumbel, alas, was spoken for, but somewhere in the Green Mountain state was a man who’d see me and love me and think I was the most wonderful person on earth. We’d get married, and there’d be days when I’d come home and we’d sit on the front porch, and all I ever wanted would have come true.

And so, shoving aside the feelings of sloppy misery and humiliation and summoning the relentless optimism I’d wielded all my life, I took a deep breath, causing Bowie to snap to attention as if I were about to announce something momentous and hugely brilliant. “Bowie,” I said, loath to disappoint, “let’s find you a daddy.”

THURSDAY MORNINGS MEANT Senior Citizen Yoga. Granted, I was forty or fifty years younger than most of the other attendees, but since I was extremely unlimber and therefore made them feel good about themselves, I was welcomed. The fact that I brought my famous chocolate chip cookies was just gravy.

I never really got yoga. Indeed, I often dozed off during deep meditation at the end and had to be nudged back into consciousness by a classmate. Leslie, the instructor, often shot me disapproving looks as I blinked sleepily. Then again, I’d been getting those looks ever since I beat her out for prom queen. But I loved yoga class, because I loved the ladies and figured the exercise and chakra alignment (whatever that was) couldn’t hurt. Still, it was a little embarrassing to be the only one grunting as we moved into Upward Laughing Monkey.

One of the far-too-many reasons I loved Mark was that he was a wonderful boss. He gave us a flexible schedule, figuring happy employees worked harder, and so I could always squeeze in a yoga class or chaperone a field trip for one of my nieces. Besides, Mark encouraged his employees to be active in the community; like me, he was a Georgebury native, and we often did pro bono work for various nonprofit groups, including the Senior Center. We’d helped with the fundraising drive a couple of years ago, and I’d made some nice friends during that time.

I confess, I also enjoyed being fussed and cooed over. It was a commonly held belief that I was a jewel and destined for a wonderful romance with a wonderful man. I often heard things like, “You’re smart to wait for the right man, Callie, sweetheart. You don’t want to end up like my daughter/granddaughter/niece/sister/neighbor/self.” Then the horror stories would begin, and though I probably shouldn’t admit it, I loved hearing them. Jody Bingham (who could do a full split at the age of seventy-six and had better legs than I did) knew a woman who married a man who already had a wife, possibly two. Letty Baker’s daughter married a “crackhead pot-smoker” who was arrested during the wedding reception. Elmira Butkes’s daughter Lily was twice divorced—the latest ex was a poet, and the shocking news was that he didn’t make enough to feed an ant. He was suing Lily for alimony … insult to injury.

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Elmira said as we smoothly transitioned into Downward Looking Giraffe (well, some transitioned smoothly. Others looked like Downward Dying Giraffe, but I was trying). “Why can’t she find a normal man with health insurance and a decent haircut?”

We all murmured in sympathy, getting a dirty look from Leslie, who frowned on chatting during class. “Well, anyway,” Elmira said, “I took Mr. Fluffers to the vet this week, and he’s single—the vet, that is, not Mr. Fluffers—so I called up Lily right away and said, ‘Lily, the new vet is single. Why can’t you go after someone like that?’ Well, of course she didn’t listen to me …”

“You should give him a try, Callie,” Jody said, sliding into her trademark split, the show-off. “A vet’s almost as good as a doctor.” She smiled up at me and gave me a wink as I struggled into a distant approximation of her position. How Jody could smile while doing that was a mystery of physics and superior genes.