All the Good Parts (9 page)

“With the kids?” It was a stupid question. Of course with the kids, and my sister, and my life. Poof! Gone! The anger I’d penned into the back of my brain broke free. “What the hell? You’re going to pack up my family and move to another country? Because you forgot to fill out a freaking form correctly?”

“You’re welcome to come with.”

“I can’t . . .” My head was swimming. I had school, a life—no matter how pathetic, it was mine.

“I understand,” he said. “The offer is sincere, though I hope we don’t need to use it.”

“You have to tell her.”

Donal hunched himself over the steaming coffee. He looked like he wanted to jump into the cup and drown. “Do you think she’ll leave me? I’d consider it, if I was her.”

My heart softened. My brother-in-law was a good man. Flaky, but good. “She loves you,” I said, placing my hand on his arm. “And she knows how much you love her. I think Carly also realizes how rare that is. Don’t you trust her enough to tell her what’s going on? If anything, she would be such an asset in a courtroom. You wouldn’t need any ruddy-cheeked Kara Svenson pleading your case. Carly would have the judge eating out of her palm.”

He was quiet for a while, finishing his drink. When he spoke, his voice sounded so defeated I wanted to cry. “I don’t ever want to disappoint her,” he said softly. “Yet, I have, again and again, since the day we met. Can we simply pretend this isn’t happening for two weeks? Kara said I might win the appeal, and then our lives can go on as usual.”

“Can you do that? I don’t know if I’m capable. When Carly’s around, it’s like I have a Jumbotron strapped to my forehead announcing my thoughts.”

“We have to try,” Donal insisted. “I know I’m asking for more than a lot when it comes to keeping something from Carly, but will you do me the favor?”

I took a moment before admitting, “It’s not my place to tell her, it’s yours. I won’t say anything because it wouldn’t be right.”

Donal released a heavy breath. “Thank you.”

“So for the next two weeks, we’ll think positive thoughts.”

“I haven’t prayed since fifth class at St. Vincent’s,” Donal said, “but I haven’t stopped since the letter arrived with the post.”

Donal dropped me off a couple of blocks from home. A Brophy-free day meant I wouldn’t be grilled by Carly as to why my run lasted three hours, for which I was grateful. I slipped into my basement apartment, jumped in the shower, and sat at the edge of my bed for a long time, towel hiked high around my chest, hair dripping over my shoulders. The kids came home from school, their footsteps pounding at my heart. What would my life be like without them? Without Carly and Donal?

The door opened, and my sister called to me. “Sorry! I know you want no part of anyone named Brophy today, but stand at the bottom of the stairs for a second.”

I moved slowly, one hand grasping the top of the towel.

Carly gazed down at me, puzzled. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just got out of the shower.”

“That was quite a run. Apparently you’re training for a marathon.” She went quiet for a moment, but then shook off her suspicions. “Catch,” she said, and tossed a crumpled bag at me. Whatever it held was cylindrical and rattled. I tugged open the bag and drew out an extralarge bottle of prenatal vitamins.

“Thought of you while I was out Costco-ing this morning,” she said, grinning and proud of herself. “I still think it’s irresponsible, but if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it less irresponsibly.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “And now back to your day without us. Keep doing whatever it is you were doing. We’ll pretend you don’t exist.”

Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health

Private Message—Leona A to Darryl K

Leona A:
Is there always honor in keeping a secret?

Darryl K:
Secrets aren’t about honor, young Skywalker, they’re about sharing a burden. I’m sensing your burden is becoming a bit too much. If that’s the case, then feel free to unload it with a clear conscience.

Leona A:
You always make life sound so easy.

Darryl K:
Translation: you’re not going to take my advice.

Leona A:
No.

Darryl K:
Because you get off on being a martyr?

Leona A:
Because I’d really like to think my shoulders are broad enough to share a burden.

Darryl K:
Right now I’m picturing you as the starting linebacker for the Chicago Bears.

Leona A:
Go to sleep, Darryl.

CHAPTER 11

“So . . . did you ask anyone for a donation yet?” Maura kicked her sneakered feet onto the dash. I didn’t have the energy to nag her about it.

We were on our way to meet Garrett at the library. Carly said she’d take Maura, but I insisted I’d do it, desperate to be out of the house. I wondered if I could get away with avoiding Carly for two weeks, but I figured I’d tackle that problem day by day, like quitting an oxy addiction or attempting a vegan lifestyle.

“Well, Auntie Lee?”

“No, not yet.” I glanced at her eager face. “Don’t get your hopes up. I might never ask anyone. It’s just something I’m thinking about.”

Maura didn’t hide her disappointment. “Why not just ask? My mom always says I need to speak up if I want to be heard.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, sweetness. What I’m asking for is kind of a big deal.”

“Well, of course it’s a big deal,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t ask.”

“You sound like your mom,” I said. She made a huffing sound and turned toward the window, but not before I caught the barest hint of a smile.

Garrett sat in the same study carrel as last time, papers spilled out in front of him. He didn’t realize we’d arrived until we stood at his back.

“Hi, Garrett!” Maura nearly shouted, earning a shush from a patrolling librarian.

Garrett smiled broadly at her. “How are you, Miss Maura?”

“I’m fine,” she said, blushing. Maura kept her head down as she settled into her seat, embarrassment catching up with her. Garrett turned his beaming gaze to me, and I squirmed like a worm in a patch of sunlight. I couldn’t take those crystalline blue eyes straight on, so I looked down, my eye catching the paperwork on his desk. His resume, handwritten on lined paper, was at the top.

“You’re writing your resume?” I asked idiotically.

“Working on it,” he said. “Not really my forte, though. I’m more of a numbers person.”

“I can help you with that,” I said, finding myself eager to volunteer. Garrett was someone you wanted to help. “I need to stick around here for the hour, so why don’t I make myself useful?”

His expression turned politely skeptical. “You sure I wouldn’t be taking you away from your own work?”

“Not at all.” Even if I hadn’t finished my homework, I would have offered, because I was nosy. Getting my hands on the professional life of Garrett, the homeless tutor, was much more interesting than trolling Facebook or checking out baby-and-me books I’d probably never use.

“Auntie Lee is a good writer,” Maura said, her cheeks pink. “She’s smart and always gets good grades in school.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out a strange bark. “I don’t know about that, but I can proofread pretty well.”

Garrett slid a bunch of papers from his pile and handed them to me. “I tried to write down everything I could, but I don’t know how to put it together. I’d appreciate anything you can do with it, but please stop if you start to get a headache.”

He nervously glanced at the clock, and I left them to it, taking a carrel clear on the other side of the room. Tossing my purse down, I spread his papers out before me. The slant of his handwriting screamed lefty, and the cramped, uneven style told me his fingers were used to typing on a computer keyboard instead of holding a pen.

His full name was Garrett B. Winston. What did the
B
stand for? Brian? Bartholomew? In art school there was a Southern guy named Billiam. Not William,
Billiam
. Maybe Garrett was of that variety? Garrett Billiam Winston. Not bad.

I recognized his address as across town, on Hilliard Street. I assumed he’d listed the halfway house. Did prospective employers check for that? I guessed there was no way around it. Gmail e-mail address, which also couldn’t be avoided. He earned his degree, as Carly said, at the University of Illinois. BS, double major—computer science and engineering. 3.98 GPA. Magna cum laude.

Up until eighteen months ago, Garrett B. Winston had made good use of his stellar education at the financially successful, überhip Rocket Industries, where he worked as an engineer. His responsibilities were many, his accomplishments frequently celebrated, and his salary—an impressive six figures scribbled messily in the margin—was more than I could ever hope to make, even with a BSN.

What the hell happened to him? What happened to all that money?

Not your business.

But I could easily convince myself that it was. If I dared ask any of the men on my list, it should be Garrett. He was exactly the type to disappear into the ether, never to be seen again. I could sufficiently romanticize his situation—
tortured genius! Society didn’t understand him!
—to our future child. It wasn’t likely he’d ever come to stake his claim, demanding visitation or co-custody. Maybe Maura was right, and I should simply ask for what I wanted.

I wasn’t used to that. Who was, these days? I belonged to a passive/eventually aggressive generation—we hinted and alluded, rationalized and justified, offered convoluted excuses and made wishy-washy complaints, covered up inaction with claims of victimhood, and finally, when it was pretty clear no one was going to do the right thing and
give us a fucking hand
, we got off our asses and did things for ourselves.

Was that what I was doing by playing detective, finally taking charge of my life? Or was I rationalizing my snooping under the guise of being helpful?

I thought about those questions as I Googled Garrett B. Winston. There was a Garrett A. Winston in Mobile, Alabama. Was that his father? Garrett A. Winston owned a Mobile insurance agency, enjoyed deer hunting, and stepped up to lead the rotary club when the acting president suffered a heart attack. I tried to find Garrett somewhere in this guy’s ruddy cheeks and good ol’ boy beer paunch. Maybe there was something similar about their eyes?

But . . . even if this man wasn’t Garrett’s father or uncle or cousin, there existed in the world at least some relatives out there who loved him. Why would they let their boy languish a thousand miles away, homeless and reduced to picking up garbage in parking lots?

Had Garrett done something unforgivable? Was he running from someone? Was he suffering from mental illness?

Better question, was I?

That was inappropriate,
I chided myself.
And cruel. What I should be doing now is helping this poor lost soul find a job.
My hidden agenda shamed me, not quite to the core, but close enough. First order of business, helping Garrett. Then maybe Garrett could help me.

I spent the rest of the hour poring over his resume, adding action verbs and fixing his spelling, plumping up his skills and accomplishments, making the man appear stronger and more valuable than he thought he was.

When I finished, Maura and Garrett were still locked in conversation, though the hour had passed. He noticed me and finished up, shrugging his shoulders as Maura packed up her books. “Time got away from me,” he said.

“That’ll happen.”

Maura stood, a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile stretched across her narrow face. “Garrett, Aunt Leona has a question for you.”

With a tight smile, I tugged on her wispy purple scarf, implying that I’d use it to strangle her later. Maura’s eyes went wide. “I was just kidding,” she croaked.

“You can ask me whatever you like,” Garrett said, though I could see something shift in him, a wariness that tied up all the parts that came loose when he was around Maura.

Desperate, I glanced at the resume in my hand. “Would you like help with your job hunt? I’m pretty good at that kind of thing.” Sort of. In the perfect world inside my head.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you any,” he replied, Southern accent leaping out and taking a bow. “But I would like that. I’ve been on some employment sites, but I could use a hand writing a cover letter, and I haven’t interviewed in a while.” He paused. “On second thought, forget it. It’s an imposition. It was kind of you to help with the resume. Any more than that would be taking advantage.”

“I don’t mind,” I said, hoping if I turned up the wattage on my smile it would burn away all the awkward. “I really don’t. We could meet tomorrow. I’m free in the evening.”

“I don’t know . . .” Garrett frowned as if I’d just asked him to explain what Higgs boson really meant.

Maura stepped in again. “You’re usually hanging out here, aren’t you?”

Garrett blinked.

“Then what’s the big deal if Auntie Lee stops by to help you out?”

There were all types of reasons I’d slid down the rungs of life’s ladder, but witnessing my thirteen-year-old niece convince a man to spend time with me had to be the most embarrassing.

“Seven o’clock?” I said brightly. “I’ll bring my laptop.”

Maura chattered about Garrett the entire way home. “He’s the one you’re going to ask,” she said as if I were thinking about asking him to a turnabout dance. “I don’t think he’d mind, and I think he’d be a good dad.”

“Sweetie, there are lots of variables to consider. Remember, I’m not looking for a dad, I’m looking for a baby.”

“But what if you got both? Wouldn’t that be great?” Her expression was so hopeful, the face of a girl who spent her time reading romance novels and daydreaming about prom dresses and toe-curling kisses. That stage was so fragile and short-lived, and I didn’t want to shatter it with the hammer of my neuroses.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’d be great.”