Chapter 4 COMING HOME

The drive from Burlington to Millbrook took forty-five minutes, winding through the hills and valleys of Vermont in early autumn. The leaves were just beginning to turn, touches of gold and red appearing among the green, and James sat quietly in the passenger seat, taking in the landscape of his childhood with eyes that seemed to be memorizing every detail. "It looks smaller than I remembered," he said as they crested the hill that offered the first view of Millbrook's Main Street. "Places do that," Margaret replied.

"We see them through different eyes when we come back." She'd booked him a room at the Millbrook Inn, the town's only hotel, a converted Victorian house that catered mostly to leaf-peepers and the occasional wedding party. As they pulled into the inn's small parking lot, James turned to her. "I don't know how I'm going to repay you for this." "You don't need to repay me for anything. But there is something I'd like to show you, if you're up for it." Margaret drove him to Maple Street, parking in front of the house where he'd grown up. The FOR SALE sign was still there, weathered and slightly tilted, and the yard was even more overgrown than it had been a few weeks ago. James stared at the house for a long time, his hands gripping his cane so tightly his knuckles were white. "She really kept my room the same?" he asked. Margaret hesitated. She'd said that impulsively during their first phone call, a comforting lie meant to ease his pain. But now, looking at his face, she realized he needed the truth. "I don't know," she admitted. "I said that to comfort you, but I don't actually know what she kept or changed. I'm sorry for lying." James turned to look at her, and to her surprise, he was almost smiling. "That's okay. It sounds like something she would have done, though. She was sentimental that way." They sat in the car for a few more minutes, and then James asked, "Could we... could we go inside? I know it's empty, but..." Margaret had thought of this possibility. "I know someone who might be able to help us with that." Mrs. Patterson was delighted to meet James, though she didn't hesitate to express her feelings about his long absence. "Forty-three years old when you left, and not a word to your poor mother for all these years," she scolded, wagging her finger at him as he sat heavily on her living room sofa. "What were you thinking, young man?" "I was thinking I was angry and hurt and too proud to admit I was wrong," James said quietly. "I was thinking a lot of things that turned out to be stupid." Mrs. Patterson's expression softened. "Well, at least you came back. She never stopped believing you would, you know." "Margaret told me. I wish I'd known." "You should have known. A mother's love doesn't just disappear because you have a fight." Mrs. Patterson had a spare key to Eleanor's house-she'd been keeping an eye on the place for the estate lawyer-and she led them across the yard and up the front steps. The key stuck in the lock, and James had to help her work it free, his hands shaking slightly as he turned the handle and pushed open the door he hadn't walked through in fifteen years. The house smelled of dust and neglect, but underneath that, Margaret could detect something else-the lingering scent of the woman who had lived there, a combination of lavender sachets and the lemon oil she'd used on the furniture. The rooms were mostly empty; the estate sale had taken care of most of Eleanor's belongings. But there were still traces of her life everywhere: family photos on the mantelpiece, a few books left on the built-in shelves, her reading glasses on the kitchen windowsill. James moved through the house slowly, touching surfaces with the tips of his fingers as if he were trying to absorb the memory of the place through his skin. In the living room, he stopped in front of a photo Margaret hadn't noticed before-a family portrait that must have been taken when James was in his twenties. Eleanor and Robert sat on a couch, with James standing behind them, his hands on his father's shoulders. They were all smiling, and James in the photo looked happy and unguarded in a way that made Margaret's heart ache for the years that had been lost. "She kept this out," he said wonderingly. "After everything that happened, she kept this photo where she could see it every day." They climbed the stairs to the second floor, James's breathing becoming more labored with the effort. There were three bedrooms-the master bedroom where Eleanor had slept, a small room that had served as her office, and at the end of the hall, a room with the door closed. James paused outside that door, his hand on the knob. "This was mine," he said. He opened the door, and they all gasped. The room was exactly as he had left it fifteen years ago. The bed was made with the same blue plaid comforter he'd had as a teenager. His high school trophies were still on the shelves, along with books and model airplanes and all the detritus of a young man's life. On the desk by the window sat a framed photo of James in his Army uniform, taken just after basic training. "She did keep it the same," Margaret whispered. James walked to the bed and sat down heavily, running his hands over the comforter. "She used to come in here when I was sick, sit right here and read to me. Even when I was too old for it, she'd still check on me before bed." He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a small wooden box. Inside were letters-dozens of them, all in his own handwriting, all addressed to his mother. "How did she get these?" he asked, his voice full of wonder. Mrs. Patterson spoke up from the doorway. "After you left, she went to your apartment to clean it out before the lease expired. She found them in a shoebox under your bed. She brought them home and kept them all these years." James picked up one of the letters, dated just six months after he'd left Millbrook. His hands were shaking as he unfolded it and began to read aloud: "Dear Mom, I know I said terrible things to you, and I know I don't have the right to ask for forgiveness. But I miss you every day. I miss the way you made coffee in the morning, and the way you hummed while you cooked dinner. I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere..." He couldn't finish reading. The letter fell from his hands as he broke down completely, fifteen years of grief and regret pouring out of him in great, wrenching sobs. Margaret and Mrs. Patterson sat on either side of him, offering what comfort they could, but mostly just bearing witness to his pain. When he finally composed himself, James looked up at them with red-rimmed eyes. "She knew," he said. "All these years, she knew I was sorry." "She knew," Margaret confirmed. "And she forgave you long before you forgave yourself."