Embrace Me (17 page)

As well-versed as he is in political maneuverings, I hear all the earmarks of keeping something under wraps: accuse the accuser, and employ the “everybody knows that” defense.

“Then dead people make phone calls.”

“You're going to have to be more specific.”

I tell him about the series of calls.

“Oh, Drew. It's just some crazy. You're on the air now. It could have been anybody.”

So he hasn't noticed they've only been showing reruns since I disappeared.

“It was her voice.”

“You were twelve when she died. How can you be so sure? Look, I'll meet you in Chapel Hill. I'll take you to her grave.”

“I know where her grave is, Dad!” Anger elevates my voice. “I went there every day for three years.”

“Don't raise your voice. I brought you up to be more self-controlled.”

“Okay. Right.”

I hang up the phone remembering how it went down. I pick up the phone again.

Father Brian answers on the first ring.

“Can I come over? There's been a bit of a monkey wrench in my life.”

“I'll meet you at the church in an hour.”

True to his promise, he is waiting in his office, his dark hair an unruly mess. “I just made some coffee. I was up all night. Couldn't sleep.”

“Thanks.”

“Sometimes it all feels a little overwhelming.”

“I know what you mean.”

He points to a small sofa across from his desk. “Have a seat. And feel free to just jump right in with whatever's bothering you.”

Okay. “It's about my mother. She died after she created one of the biggest scandals to ever hit presidential electoral politics.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. What was she like, Drew?”

“Nobody looked more polished and classy, more beautiful than Monica Parrish.”

“Much prettier than Daisy, I assume.”

So he read the notebook already. “Much. My mother was classically beautiful and very sophisticated. Daisy was more
Star Search,
if you know what I mean.”

“Got it.”

“That night she embarrassed my father for the last time. Mom looked like a Greek goddess in a white dress, and she moved with the grace of a ballerina.”

“I pretty much remember my mother stirring soup or running us around but I can't remember what she wore. But I shouldn't be inserting myself into this conversation. I'm sorry.”

“No, Brian. This is friend-to-friend anyway, right?”

“True. Do you have a picture of her?”

I pull out my wallet. “I've been carrying this around since I was ten and I got my first wallet.”

I slip the picture from the clear plastic sleeve and hand it over.

Brian takes it, examines it, and nods. “Very beautiful. Not too many women could compare to her.”

“But she was kind too. I didn't mention that.”

“No. You didn't.”

So I tell him the tale about the party, a schmoozing who's-who in DC. The primaries were over and Richard Marten, the party's candidate, was throwing the party to say thank you in a most posh manner. I watched my mother apply the final touches of makeup and finally the fur wrap my father gave her for their tenth anniversary. She kissed my cheek, walked to the car where my dad was already waiting, neither of us knowing the course of our lives would change that night. I'm sure, if she could have looked into the future, she would have stayed home. We would have played Scrabble and watched an old movie, and we would probably have continued to do so for years.

Of course I heard all about what happened because of the argument that ensued that night after they returned. My father parked the car and hurried up the steps to our small townhouse in Alexandria. He never stomped, but his anger still somehow made it into his footfalls.

Mom was about to head upstairs.

“Why did you say that to Richard, Monica?”

“It was true.” She walked up the steps.

“How could you know that?” He followed at her heels, into the bedroom.

“I just did.”

“I'm tired of your prophesying or whatever it is you call it.”

“He's cheating on his wife with two other women, Charles.”

“He's the presidential candidate.”

“So much the more important then.”

“Didn't you see Bill Morris standing there?”

“No.”

Bill who?
I wondered.

I found out later. Bill was a journalist for the
Washington Post
.

Mother went right up to Richard Marten upon hearing the voice of the Spirit (as she called it) and confronted him about his sin within earshot of a reporter.

“It's going to take a fortune to keep this hush-hush,” my father said.

“I'm sorry.”

“No, Monica. You're not.”

“You're right. I'm not. Lying is a sin. Forgive me.”

I heard her clink her jewelry down on her dresser.

I sit back into the couch cushions.

“I can see where she would have aggravated your dad,” Father Brian says. “Prophets are never exactly appreciated in their hometown.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What happened after that?”

“Two weeks later my father told me she was dead.”

“Suicide, you said.”

“That's what I was told.”

“You have reason to doubt that?”

“She called me on the phone where I'm staying.”

“Are you sure?” He leans forward.

“Positive. You don't forget your mother's voice. I don't care how long it's been.”

“No. My goodness. This is strange, Drew.”

“The question is, why would she walk away from me willingly until now? What would make her give me up so easily?”

“Maybe you need to go see your father, Drew.”

“Yeah. It's the last thing I want to do, though.”

“Then maybe it's why you should. I remember when Richard Marten stepped down. My mom followed politics closely. Of course none of us really knew the unseen story.”

“All because of my mother. Prophets can be such a pain, can't they, Brian?”

“It's their job.”

“I'd better go, then. I'll leave for DC tomorrow.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Pray for me.”

“I will. That's
my
job. Of course you know how that goes.”

“Not really.” I was too busy to do much praying.

So I shave my head again and Hermy and I jump in my car and head toward DC, a two-and-a-half hour ride from Ocean City. I tell him about my father as we sit in a truck stop off of Route 50.

“You're gonna confront your old man? That's cold.”

“Why? She's my mother.”

“But shoot, it sounds like there's a lot of cover up and craziness. I mean, you sure you want to get involved with all of that? Politics is nasty business. The true insiders eat preachers for lunch after they've used them up.”

Hermy's right. I'm glad I didn't fall completely into politics like some of those guys. It must have been God's mercy in knowing I didn't need all that on my account as well. Who knows who I would have used to climb that ladder?

I pay for the meal, just a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and iced teas, and we slip back onto the highway.

“The Lord is calling you,” my mother had said.

Those words keep ringing in my head like that nagging church bell at five o'clock in the morning. But if she's right, what kind of a calling could she mean? Then again, Dad may be right. She may be crazy. Or maybe it really wasn't her.

No. I'm right about this. I've come to doubt almost everything else about my life, but this one thing I know for sure.

“So you really think that's her? I mean what if you're wrong?” Hermy asks an hour later at a rest stop on Kent Island—too many iced teas on both our parts back at the truck stop.

“I'm not wrong. And I've got to get the truth from my father.” I turn on the tap to wash my hands.

He slides some coins into the soda machine in the lobby. “Do you trust anything the man says?”

“No. I still have to try. It's my mother we're talking about.”

Hermy's probably thinking how sad that is, but he doesn't say so.

I go for a pack of gum. “It didn't matter what I thought or said when I was growing up. It was either not quite good enough or completely wrong. Why I kept trying I don't know.”

“Kids are crazy like that, Drew.”

But heading up to DC with Hermy feels right, like maybe this time a change is coming and I'll stick with it. See, I've stood on my feet before, challenging my father's ways, his sly barbs, his chilly, wordless dressing downs. Somehow I always backed down, ended up apologizing. This time it's not going to happen.

“What's he going to think of you, Drew? I mean, look at you.”

“I'm not seeking his approval anymore. Just the truth.”

Hermy heads back outside. “Hopefully the truth will set you free.”

I follow him. “That seems like a little too much to ask.”

Just shy of the car, Hermy starts flirting with a couple of college girls.

I get in the vehicle, pull out my Jack Russell notebook and settle into my seat.

After the big announcement from the Hopewells, I started jotting down plans. The guest list would need to be as first-rate as we could make it. Daisy would also be a huge part of the draw once people heard her voice for the first time.

But I needed help and I knew who would give it to me. Who would work her fingers to nubs to see her daughter succeed?

I met Trician for lunch at Josef's, our only gourmet restaurant.

We ordered no wine—I was on the clock. Trician dutifully pushed aside the bleu cheese on her salad. “So. The show.”

“Yes. Informal and talkative, friendly and laid back. But I believe much of what will separate us is Daisy's voice and her natural way with the audience.”

“She's not very photogenic, Drew.”