Lifelines: Kate's Story (13 page)

Jesus,
Kate, cut it out. You don’t know the first thing about his marriage. The truth
is, he’s probably killing time on the job while his wife visits her parents for
two weeks.

When
Mac stood, she said, “I haven’t seen my father in over thirty years,” The
bottom of her cup had grounds in it, and she imitated him, tossing the dregs
over the earth. When she handed him the empty cup, he hooked it on his index
finger.

“My
dad worked on this vet clinic in Anchorage, thirty-three years ago. We were in
Brazil before that, and before that a housing development in Indonesia.”

Mac
seemed to be waiting for the punch line.

“He
could be anywhere now. I’m trying to locate him.”

“Could
be difficult.”

“You’re
not kidding. I just paid a Seattle detective seven hundred and fifty dollars
for that information. I should have asked you first.”

He
stowed the thermos in the truck, shouldered another sheet of OSB and headed for
the house. She knelt down to pat Socrates, then followed. By the time she
caught up with Mac, he’d anchored the plywood with his usual four nails. She
picked up the tool belt, but he took it from her before she could strap it on.

“When’s
the last time you’ve put in two hours with a hammer?”

“A
few years.”

“Go
home and have a hot bath. If you’re not too sore tomorrow, come back. I’ll
bring a lighter hammer—easier on your arm.”

“I’ll
bring coffee tomorrow.”

“What’s
your father’s name?”

“Han
Stewardson.”

He
lifted the nail gun and placed it in position on the OSB. “Write down
everything you know. Jobs he worked on—when and where, what company. The guys
on the jobs, if you remember any names. I’ve still got contacts here and there.
I’ll put out the word, see if anyone knows him.”

Sudden
tears filled her eyes. “Thank you.”

“It’s
a fair trade,” he said abruptly. “Give me a couple of hours labor on the
weekends, and I’ll see what I can turn up. No guarantees.”

S
ocrates
followed as Kate shed her runners at the door and headed straight for the
kitchen to wash the blackness from her hands. Swinging a hammer had left her
arm tingling and her stomach empty, but when she pulled open the fridge she
found only a container of strawberry yogurt and a brick of moldy cheese.

She
ate the yogurt standing at the kitchen sink, but it wasn’t enough. She could
have trimmed the cheese and made grilled sandwiches, if she hadn’t used the
last of the bread for toast this morning.

“I
won’t eat dog food,” she muttered at Socrates as she pulled open cupboard
drawers and found an empty box of crackers and six tins of David’s too-hot
chili.

She
grabbed a plastic bag and loaded the chili tins in, then added taco spice from
the pantry and six cans of apple cider. She hung the bag from the front door,
where she would see it when the recyclers’ truck came. Her heart was pounding
hard as she turned her back on David’s chili, but hunger still crawled in her
belly.

If
she had tortillas, she could trim the cheese and make quesadillas.

She
rummaged through the bread drawer, threw out six plastic bags of crumbs before
she unearthed the tortillas, which had grown an impressive mold culture. She
threw them in the garbage, then added half the contents of the fridge’s freezer
compartment before she found a small freezer-burned pizza.

As
soon as the recycling truck left, she would drive into Madrona Bay and fill a
cartload with groceries. Meanwhile, she set the oven and peeled plastic off the
desiccated pizza, then shoved it in to cook.

She
turned away from the stove to find Socrates staring at her, his head cocked to
one side. What a ridiculous picture she must make, tearing through fridge and
cupboards, throwing food in plastic bags like a maniac.

“I
don’t care if you disapprove. It’s the first time I’ve felt hungry in months.
You should cheer.”

The
pizza had ten minutes to go, time enough to phone Jennifer. Kate smiled as she
dialed. A morning’s hard work had restored her sense of proportion. Just
because Jennifer hadn’t returned her calls, it didn’t mean she disliked her
mother. They would have a good chat, precious minutes of mother-and-daughter
bonding, and Kate would try to talk Jennifer into driving home for the rest of
the weekend.

Jennifer
answered on the second ring, her voice breathless.

“Hi,
honey. It’s mom.”

“Oh
... hello.” Disappointment.

“I’m
sorry I didn’t catch you on your birthday. Did you get the flowers?”

“They
came,” Jennifer said tonelessly. “Thanks.”

“Were
you waiting for a call? When you answered, you sounded—”

“I’ve
got an art history paper due next week.”

“So
soon in the semester?”

“The
prof’s a slave driver.” Kate heard the shrug in Jen’s voice, and thought, she’s
lying again.

“Are
you all right, honey?”

“I
told you. I’m working on a research paper.”

Kate
tried silence. With her clients, peaceful stillness brought words, helped
intimacy. She managed about ten seconds, then blurted, “I’m cleaning out the
garage, getting rid of a bunch of old stuff.”

“What
do you mean? What stuff?”

“Nothing
of yours. I’ve put all your things in one corner; you can go through them next
time you come home. Actually ... why not drive up this afternoon? We can have
dinner, go through the boxes tomorrow?”

Silence
shouted back at her.

“There’s
no hurry,” said Kate. “Those boxes can stay in the garage forever. Your old
report cards, picture albums, some of your toys ... remember the train set Dad
gave you for your tenth birthday? He played with it more than you did.”

“Of
course I remember. You went through my stuff?”

“I
was cleaning out the garage. I wanted space for my pottery wheel and kiln.
Remember, I bought them when—”

“What
about dad’s stuff? You didn’t throw out dad’s things?”

Acid
nausea boiled in Kate’s gut. “Honey, it’s just old dishes and bed linens. I
kept all the old albums, everything that matters, but there are books neither
of us will ever look at.”

“You
threw out dad’s books?”

“I’m
giving them to the museum.”

“You
have no right to throw away his books.”

Kate
wanted to cry, knew she mustn’t. The counselor in her recognized this sign of
Jennifer’s anger as an opportunity to have a real conversation with her daughter;
while the mother feared she should have waited for Jennifer to come home before
she cleaned out the garage. “Your father’s gone, honey. We need to rebuild our
lives. We have his memory, but he’s gone.”

“Stop
talking as if I’m you’re client.” Jennifer hiccuped ... or sobbed. “Every time I
talk to you, it’s like
you’re
gone. Instead of my mother I’ve got the
counselor, doing this perfect imitation of the grieving process.”

“Honey,
I can’t grieve with any more skill than—I understand you’re feeling angry; it’s
natural when you’ve lost your father and ... Jen, if you don’t want to drive
home, I could come to Seattle. We could talk. You need to talk.”

“Listen
to yourself. All you want is to do grieving
right
, the way your books
say. You’re analyzing your own daughter, and you’re not really here. If you
were, you would have remembered my birthday.”

“I
called. I sent flowers.”

As
if Jennifer were Kate’s conscience, she said, “When I came home that morning I
checked my messages.”

“What
do you mean, came home that morning—?”

“You
sent flowers later; you
pretended
to remember.”

The
temptation to lie almost overwhelmed Kate. She wasn’t sure if it was honesty,
or fear that Jennifer would hang up that made her say, “You’re right. I forgot
what day it was, then I remembered and I felt terrible.”

Jennifer
put the receiver down so quietly Kate didn’t hear a sound. She felt nauseated,
and the smell of pizza from the oven made it worse.

I’m
sorry.

You
called her because you wanted reassurance. If she’d wanted to talk to you, she
would have returned your calls. It was all about you, wanting Jennifer to
congratulate you for cleaning out the garage, for grasping at lifelines. Did
you want her to say “Good going, mom”?

You
forgot your own daughter’s birthday. Can you blame her for thinking you don’t
care about her?

Narcissism
on the hoof. Evelyn, reincarnated.

J
ennifer
threw herself on the bed, but she’d emptied all her tears on her birthday, when
she came home and cried for Alain and Daddy and no birthday message on the telephone.
Cried until mucous clogged her throat and nose, and tears formed sticky trails
on her face.

Until
she heard the stairs creak.

Daddy
climbing the stairs to check on her.

The
door would open, and she would lay motionless, feigning sleep, knowing he would
see through her childish ruse.

His
hand would fall on her shoulder.

“What’s
wrong, sweetheart?”

Whatever
was wrong, he would fix it for her.

But
he didn’t come. No one came, no one called, and Jennifer realized that with her
father gone, no one gave a damn. Even her mother, the queen of understanding,
wasn’t really there.

The
year Jennifer turned fifteen, she’d found Mallory’s history of the San Juan
Islands in a second hand store and gave it to her father for Christmas. All
through January, Jennifer and David took turns reading chapters, bringing the
past to life in his study.

Had
her mother given Mallory away with the rest of Dad’s books? Did it never occur
to her Jennifer might want her father’s library? Didn’t she count at all?

What
would her mother do next? Redecorate the house, turn it into a home therapy
clinic for clients? Give Socrates to an animal shelter? Erase Jennifer’s
bedroom, where she’d slept since she was a baby, leave her homeless? Nothing
would be the same again.

If
Kate didn’t care about Dad—well, Jennifer did! She wouldn’t let him slip away
and be nothing.

She
missed her father so much!

And
Alain, she missed Alain with pain that made eating impossible. She couldn’t
bear it. Alain hadn’t called in four days. He insisted she never call him at
his home. He didn’t want to worry his wife, because she was ill. Can’t upset
Wendy or she’ll have a relapse of her MS.

What
about Jennifer? Nobody cared about upsetting Jennifer. Her father was gone and
her own mother called to say she’d turfed out everything in the house, called
her Jen, which she hated. And Alain didn’t call at all. If he knew her mother
had called and dumped this shit on Jennifer. If he knew ...

Surely
Wendy couldn’t be that frail?

Jennifer
knew Alain’s wife used her illness to hold him, although she had to know the
marriage was dead. Alain wanted children, he’d told Jennifer how much he
yearned for fatherhood, and how Wendy’s doctor said she couldn’t because it
could exacerbate the MS.

Wendy
hadn’t wanted sex with her husband in over two years. How could Wendy be happy
with a husband she didn’t love enough to take into her bed; one who didn’t love
her? Why didn’t she let him go?

What
if Wendy really wished Alain would set her free, while he stayed only because
of her illness, when he really loved Jennifer? Everyone would be happier if
Alain left Wendy and married the woman he loved.

Jennifer
rubbed her eyes with the bedspread. It didn’t matter how long she lay here on
her bed, aching. No one would come; even her tears had deserted her.

If
Alain knew how I felt, he would come.

She
dragged fingers through her long hair to comb it out of her face. She had never
dialed Alain’s home number, but she knew it by heart.

Call
Alain ...

Two
rings ... three.

Please,
God, let Alain answer.

“Hello?”
A woman’s voice. She sounded ... happy.

Hang
up.

“Hello?”

“Good
afternoon.” Jennifer gulped. “I’m calling from the Telstar Service Group. May I
speak to Mr. Alain Trudeau.”

“Just
a moment, please.”

Jennifer
thought she heard the sound of the wheelchair. Could you hear a wheelchair
through the phone? Not on carpet, she decided, so the floor must be tile or
hardwood.

Who
cared about the floor? All she wanted was Alain.

“Alain
Trudeau speaking.”

Oh,
God, his voice sounded so wonderful. Her lover.

“Alain
... Alain, I need to see you. I’ve had the most horrible call from my mother.”
The tears welled up finally and spilled onto her cheeks, into her voice.
“Please, Alain, I need you to come. I need you.”

“I’ll
check the bill.”