The wall didn’t have a heartbeat. I stood there with my whole body pressed against it, barely breathing. I listened for what seemed hours, but only a few seconds passed my. I wanted so badly to hear the bum-ba bum-ba bum-ba of a heart. It never came. Finally, I took a step back leaving my palm flat against the wall and looked at the pastel surface. I remembered the old phrase, “Like the back of my hand.” Right now, I didn’t believe it. Staring at the back of my hand with its traces of blue veins and red cracked skin, it looked alien. Just a single part of my body, it wasn’t familiar to me anymore. Now it had traces of charcoal and soot. Not allowing the comforting tear to soothe the burning in my eyes I left the room. The house was empty, dead, no longer containing a heartbeat.
As I went outside, I saw Grandpa’s truck still running. It was old and rusty. If it ever was cleaned it would probably fall into a million pieces. I opened the passenger side and stepped up into the truck. Grandpa looked at me with his warm blue eyes that were filled with concern, “Get everything?” he asked. I jerked my head in reply. He didn’t voice and answer to my nod but gently let out a wisp of air through his lips and put the truck into gear. Not able to look at him anymore I stared out the window. Seeing my own translucent reflection framed by the burnt out husk behind it. Every year I asked to come and Grandpa not saying a word would look at me, purse his lips, a nod his head. I guess he figured that this would be the best way for me to “get over it.” After five years, no hope was in sight.
The crunch of gravel was the only noise in the truck as we pulled away. I could still see the house in the review mirror. I wanted to run back –run back five years ago—but I couldn’t. We were already running late for the farmers market.
I could remember looking forward to this as a child. One year I got lost and I could remember sitting amongst a barrel of squash crying for my daddy. Then the joy and elation of a child being pick up with strong firm hands around my ribs. Seeing my hero, wipe the snot, and whatever-else on his shirt while I basked in the smell of evergreen and dirt. I was two.
Grandpa quietly hummed along to a song on the radio, probably some old jazz that I would never know the words to. I could feel the sweat snake down my back in the heat. I cranked down my window in vain, hoping that the wind could keep me dry. The breeze instead felt like devils breathe burning my face, not the salvation I was looking for.
The stalls of the market were in sight. Old bins containing the seasonal fruit and vegetables were the only decoration on the lot. Signs with various colors of chipping paint identified the items. Old friends coming together for these months and buying each other’s produce. Stiff haggling over rotten tomatoes never ruined a friendship. Every year my Grandpa would come and sell his watermelons. He wasn’t a farmer by any means, but missing the thrill of the courtroom threw himself into his garden. Grandma thought he was a bit off in the head, but no one complained when the perfected watermelon glided on to their plate.
The old diesel came to a puttering halt at the end of the line. My motions were automatic as I slide out from the truck, lowered the tailgate, and placed the last of the watermelons into the crates.
Every year it should have gotten easier to come back, but instead I memories of my father tan and laughing haunted me and cast a shadow in my mind. I used to unload with father. He would stand up in the truck and I would hold up my arms saluting the sun as he tossed the water-heavy melons towards me.
One year after nearly missing one Grandpa rushed over and told him for heaven sakes be careful, no one will buy busted watermelons. Then my father’s eyes meet mine and he said, “Now Em, these are living creatures here. We have to be careful!” He tilted his head and placed his ear on the melon, “Gosh, Dad, Em listen to this! I think I hear a heartbeat!” Grandpa snorted and went back to the crates leaving the hooligans to finish unloading. My father would wink and me, and I would have to bite back my laughter. With my complete teenage heart, I wanted to be like him.
