Nowhere but Here (15 page)

“What are you talking about?”

“I just think you spend a lot of time alone.”

“That’s not by choice, Beth. And anyway, you do, too. You just said you don’t do relationships.”

“But I go out and have fun and cut loose. You used to, remember? We used to do karaoke? You laughed more then.”

“Everyone keeps telling me I’m lost and my spark is gone and I’m crazy, but every time I take a chance, every time I go out on a limb, I fall. I slept with a guy I didn’t even know. I mean I really slept with him, Beth.” I opened my eyes wide for emphasis.

“You mean, fell for him?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. I’m always the one to fall.”

She looked very thoughtful for several moments. “At least you get to enjoy the view, even if it’s brief. I don’t think taking chances is such a bad thing. Maybe you’re stronger now. I just don’t want you to give up.”

“This, coming from the girl who doesn’t do relationships.”

She bit her bottom lip and nodded. “I might change that and check out the view sometime.”

Beth walked me to the door of my apartment. I took one step in and then my body reminded me that I hadn’t eaten red meat in ten years. My stomach rumbled and turned violently. I honestly didn’t know which end it was going to come out of, and then to my absolute horror I realized it was both. Sitting on the toilet, I managed to puke into the sink. And even though there was about three inches between my mouth and the edge of the porcelain, I was able to projectile vomit perfectly into the basin.

Beth stayed with me for part of the night, bringing me clean washcloths and water. My body thoroughly rid itself of Sal’s Hit. I swore off meat for another ten years and then told Beth she was free to go. She left but came back ten minutes later with Popsicles, Seven Up, and saltines.

“You’re a good friend,” I told her.

“I just want you in tip-top shape so I can take you to Lady Fingers on Friday.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s the name of the place?”

“You won’t be disappointed.” She smirked. I hiccupped and burped and wondered what I was getting myself into.

After she left, I slumped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Jamie. I thought about him whispering, “I’ll take care of you,” and then I cried myself to sleep.

Tuesday and Wednesday flew by. Dylan from 5B came over on Thursday. I didn’t smoke any pot, but I let him hotbox my apartment so I was even more completely stoned than I was the time before, except this time my eyebrows remained intact. We watched three episodes of
Whose Line
Is It Anyway?
and laughed our asses off. Dylan was actually pretty cute. He was tall and skinny and pale with buzzed hair, but he had these really blue eyes. That night he helped me carry my laundry to the basement.

“Hey Kate, you wanna go to the skate park with me tomorrow night?”

“I can’t, I have a date with a lesbian.”

His eyes shot open. “Oh, cool.”

“It’s not what you think.”

He smiled and shrugged. “It’s your business. Aren’t you still dating that douche wad in 9A?”

“Stephen? No, he dumped me last week. He’s dating someone else already.”

“His loss.” He said it so quickly and nonchalantly that I almost believed him.

We got to the basement door. Dylan pushed it open and walked in but paused in front of me. I leaned around his body and saw Stephen making out with a different girl than he had been with earlier that week. At first I didn’t recognize her, and then I saw her token pink scrunchie bobbing above her head. It was the bimbo from the sixth floor. Every time I saw her she was with a different guy.

Stephen turned and spotted me. “Kate, I thought you did your laundry on Mondays?” I contemplated sharing my thoughts on women in their thirties who still wear colorful hair pretties, but I chose to take the high road. Anyway, one or both of them would undoubtedly have a venereal disease by the end of the week, and that was my silver lining.

“Don’t talk to me, Stephen.” I coughed and mumbled, “Pencil dick” at the same time. Dylan stayed near the door. Everyone in the room watched me as I emptied my laundry bag into a washer. I added soap, stuck some quarters in, closed the lid, and turned to walk out. Just as I reached the opening, Dylan pushed me against the doorjamb and kissed me like he had just come back from war. I let him put on a full show until he moved his hand up and cupped my breast. I very discreetly said, “Uh-uh” through our mouths, and he pulled his hand away and slowed the kiss. When we pulled apart, I turned toward Stephen and the bimbo and shot them an ear-splitting smile.

“Hey, Steve”—I’d never called him Steve—“Will you text me when the washer is done? I’ll be busy in my apartment for a while.”

He nodded, still looking stunned.

I grabbed Dylan’s hand and pulled him into the elevator. Once the doors were closed, we both burst into laughter.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“I wanted to. That asshole had it coming.”

“Well, thank you. You live with your mom, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Please don’t tell her about this. I can’t imagine what she would think of me.”

“I’m not that much younger than you, Kate.” He jabbed me in the arm playfully and smirked. “You need to lighten up. Anyway, my mom would be cool with it.”

“Well, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea.”

“Nah. We’re buddies, I get it. I’m kind of in love with that Ashley chick from the fourth floor. I just have to wait until next month when she turns eighteen, you know?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

I laughed. “You two would make a cute couple.”
If only it were that simple.

Page 12

Rowback

Throughout that week, I occasionally pulled out a few lottery scratchers to pass the time. By Friday, I had scratched all eighty and there was a healthy amount of the sparkly silver shavings littering my apartment. I didn’t care. I’d won thirteen new tickets and forty-four dollars. It was like I’d hit the jackpot, even though technically I’d lost twenty-three dollars.

As promised, I met Beth at Lady Fingers, although I can’t say I put much effort into my look. I wore black skinny jeans, the same grungy Chucks I’d worn all week, and a gray hoodie over an old Ani DiFranco T-shirt. Beth was waiting for me at the bar.

“You . . . look hot!” she said, scanning my getup. “I really have turned you, haven’t I?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been wearing these jeans for three days.”

“Well, casual works for you. These ladies will be all over it.”

Beth was wrong. I must have been putting off the bitch vibe because I sat at the bar, unapproached, while I nursed a pint of Guinness. I watched Beth dance and mingle. She got the entire dance floor going when she busted out an extremely enthusiastic rendition of the African Anteater Ritual. I smiled and laughed but couldn’t help wondering what I was doing there.

“I’m gonna head back.”

“Already? The night has just begun.”

“I’m sorry, Beth. I’m just really tired.”

“Oh, hey—I read the piece you wrote on Lawson.” A smile touched the side of her mouth.

“Well?”

“It’s good, Kate. Short, but good. Jerry’s printing it. It goes to press Monday.”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

“Why are you so surprised? Jerry loved it.”

“I’m shocked because R.J. himself had to approve it, and I tore him to shreds.”

“I guess Jerry found some loophole.”
Of course he did.

There were a few dozen emotions flowing through me in that moment. I felt a twinge of guilt for so publicly bashing R.J., but I let it slip away when I started to feel the pain seep in. I was angry at what the winery represented in my mind. When I thought about all of the moments with Jamie, his sweet vulnerability after his insulin level had fallen, all the laughs and physical closeness I had felt with him, it was like a flurry of knives stabbing my heart. I couldn’t think of those times without thinking about how he slipped out without leaving me so much as a phone number or his last name.

“Well, it is what it is, I guess. I’ll see you Monday, Beth.”

“See ya, Kate.”

Back at my apartment, I finally switched on my computer and checked my e-mail. Jerry had sent the article back to me with a few minor editorial notes. I approved his changes immediately and sent it back to him.

The rest of the weekend got lost in my foggy memory. I cleaned and tried to create some order in my apartment. I saw Dylan talking to Ashley on the street, which put a huge smile on my face. I went grocery shopping and then took flowers to my mom’s grave. That Sunday was her birthday. Why we acknowledge birthdays after death makes no sense, but I guess it’s a way to stay committed to remembering somebody. Maybe it’s because, after we die, we are so easily forgotten. I wondered who would remember me.

I leaned up against the blank side of my mother’s tombstone. When I did that, it gave me the feeling that we were sitting back-to-back. When I would visit her grave as a teenager, I would pretend to have conversations with her. I made her up in my mind to be the perfect mother. She would always have the best advice, the perfect answer to some dilemma I was facing.

“Hi, Mama.” She died when I was so young that I never started calling her Mom, the way older kids do. She would always be Mama. As I sat there, a sad realization washed over me. “I didn’t really know you. I remember you, but I didn’t know you. I wish I did.” The mother I had made up in my mind was probably nothing like the woman she was. “I’m twenty-six now, but I still feel like I need my mama.”
Maybe I always will.
Tears rushed down my face. “I don’t want to spend my life alone.” That was the last thing I said aloud. I stopped talking but sat there for an hour with my head resting on my propped-up knees.

After collecting myself, I walked to Rose’s grave. She was in the mausoleum at the same cemetery. Her name placard still hadn’t been placed on the marble, a reminder of how recent her death was. I couldn’t even go near the wall. I felt like she was still haunting me through the dream, the nightmare. I wondered if I would hear her pleas if I got too close. A cemetery worker passed me as I stood there, rocking back and forth on my heels.

There was at least a fifteen-foot barrier between the wall and me, so I wasn’t surprised when the worker looked at me curiously.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Do you know when they’ll put the placard up? It’s been almost nine months since her death.” I pointed toward the marble wall.

“That usually means the bill hasn’t been paid. You’ll need to talk to someone in the office.”

I marched up to the office and spoke to a mild-mannered woman who informed me that there was a balance on the account of forty-seven cents, which was why Rose’s placard hadn’t been placed on her tomb. I felt like the worst human being on the planet. How could I have let that happen? I handed the woman twenty dollars and said, “Keep the change and apply it to any other accounts that have small balances like this. Some people don’t have anyone to look after them after their gone, but they still deserve their goddamned placard.”

The woman looked shocked at first, but then nodded fervently. I could tell she agreed.

“When will they put it up?”

“They have another one to do on that wall, so it should be done by the end of the day.” She reached into a file drawer and pulled the placard out. They’d probably had it sitting in there for eight months, all because of forty-seven cents. She showed it to me and I was suddenly taken back to the days after Rose’s death, when I’d had to make the decisions about her funeral. I had chosen to include her name and birth and death dates, like on most gravestones and placards, but I’d also had them add the simple word “Beloved” at the top, because she was.

“Is this the one?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have them put it up.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly and then shuffled out the door. It was getting dark as I headed back to the L station. I felt cleansed, as I always did after visiting my mother and Rose. On the train that night, I decided I would walk into the
Chicago Crier
the next day with my head held high. I had a job, an apartment, and a few devoted friends. I feared the general reaction to my article from R.J. and the public would be that it bordered on libel or defamation, but I had written nothing more than my observations, which would be impossible to refute, and I knew that the crowd at the
Crier
would appreciate the risk I had taken. I told myself there would be no more article pitches for fruit-flavored gum. I was going to be a serious journalist.

The next day I hit the Brown Line and searched for Just Bob. I needed a heavy dose of the inspirational self-help mumbo jumbo, but I couldn’t find him. I searched the entire length of the train twice, but he wasn’t there. I even missed my stop looking for him. I had to walk three extra blocks to the
Crier
, so I didn’t roll into the lobby until well after ten. I knew by that point in the day that everyone would have seen the article, so my nerves were on extra high alert. The security guy held up the paper as I walked past.

“Pretty bold one, Kate.”

“Thanks, I think.”

As I entered the
Crier
bull pen, as we called it, the music went off the overhead speaker. Jerry’s voice came on.

“She’s back, people.” Slowly, each head rose above the cubicle partitions to face my direction, and then the clapping began. I heard someone shout, “Glad to have you back, Kate!” and someone else yelled, “Great article this morning!” Beth grinned at me as I entered my cubicle.

I stood on my chair to thank everyone for the warm welcome back. It tipped and I almost fell, but I quickly regained my composure. Everyone laughed. “Yes, I’m still clumsy!” I shouted. I was known as the office klutz. People would see me coming and move things out of my way. I laughed at myself for a few seconds longer. “Okay, I just want to say thank you, I’m glad to get back to work.”

I stepped down as Jerry came toward my desk, rolling my suitcase behind him. “I guess there was nothing in here you needed too desperately,” he said.

I glanced at the suitcase. “I’m actually terrified to open that thing.”

He leaned against the cubicle wall and peered over me as I sat at my desk. “What happened out there?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Beth’s chair roll a little ways into the aisle. She was eavesdropping.

“Just get in here, Beth. I know you’re listening.” She came in and leaned her backside against my desk. I huffed, “Nosy journalist.”

“Well, I need the details so I can have your back.”

“I fell hard for this guy, Jamie, who worked at the winery. I guess it was just a fling. He acted dodgy when I asked him personal questions, and then he slipped out in the middle of the night.”

“Why do you think?” Beth asked.

“I thought maybe R.J. or Susan, the general manager, put him up to it as a buffer between R.J. and me, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it wouldn’t have helped. I don’t know. We really clicked. I don’t get it. It was only a few days. Maybe it was too much, too soon.”

Jerry had a slightly penitent look on his face. “I’m sorry, I feel responsible.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you to go for it. I guess you have to kiss a few frogs first, but I think you deserve to find your prince.”

“Do I?”

Beth reached down and gave me a sideways hug around the shoulders. “You absolutely do,” she said.

“I think I need to get you working right away. Start coming up with some pitches, Kate. Let’s meet in my office tomorrow morning.”

“You got it, Jer.” They both left my cubicle just as Annabel, the young research assistant, came in.

“I guess you won’t be needing any of this. Congrats on the article,” she said as she plopped a stack of research on my desk.

“Thanks. Sorry you did all of that for nothing.”

“Yeah, this guy’s info was seriously buried. It took me forever just to find a picture of him. Someone must be a little paranoid.”

“He probably invented some super amazing computer gadget to protect his identity. I really am very sorry.”

“No worries, Kate. I like the angle you took on the piece, and if we ever want to run another article on him, we have a couple weeks’ worth of research here.”

“Thanks.”

After she left, I glanced down at the stack. My intention was to slide it entirely into the trash, but something caught my eye. It was an obituary from the Saturday before. The headline read:
R. J. LAWSON SR., FATHER OF FAMED TECHNOLOGY INVENTOR,
PASSES AWAY AT 68
.

I skimmed past the section on Sr.’s contributions to the world of aviation engineering to his relationship with R.J. It said he was survived by his only son, Ryan James Lawson Jr., an extremely private technology inventor and philanthropist. Just over a week after his father’s death, I was libeling him in a worldwide publication. I moved the article aside. The next piece of information was a spreadsheet of the organizations R.J. had donated to. It was in order from the largest donations to the smallest. At the top of the list, under his own foundation, was the American Diabetes Association, and underneath that was the GLIDE homeless shelter.

My stomach began turning, but it completely dropped through the floor when I moved the spreadsheet to reveal a picture glued to a piece of paper. At the top, Annabel had written,
R.J.’s graduation from MIT. Pictured here with his mother, Deborah
.

Underneath the picture there were more notes.

It’s public record that R.J. was adopted as an infant. His adoptive mother, pictured here, was killed in a car accident four years ago. After reuniting with his biological parents, they tried to extort money from him. Both were given jail time. He has a biological sister in Boston, and even though he went to college and spends some free time there, he does not have a relationship with her. She testified in her parents’ favor at the short, unpublicized extortion trial.

I looked at the picture in disbelief. It was the same picture I had seen on Jamie’s nightstand in the barn. Suddenly, I remembered the picture I had seen before going to the winery, the one of R.J. as a young boy at the science fair. That boy at the science fair and the young man at his college graduation were clearly the same person.
Jamie.
Even now, I had a hard time seeing them in the man I had spent several intimate days with. Jamie couldn’t be a computer genius—he didn’t fit the stereotype. And I had seen R.J. with my own eyes in an interview . . .

I stood up on shaky legs and pushed my chair away.
It can’t be.
The room started spinning.

Beth spotted me over the partition. “You okay?” I nodded and then sunk to my knees on the floor. I tore open my suitcase and began rummaging through all of the notes and papers I had shoved in there from my room at the winery. I looked at the sheet where I had taken notes from R.J.’s e-mail to me. When I thought back to what Jamie had told me about his life, it matched or somehow fit into the outline R.J. had given me.

Giant puzzle pieces floating above my head started moving into place.

Jamie: Ryan James.

MIT: College on the East Coast.

Building schools in Africa: Tribal tattoos.
I’ve traveled a lot.

Hands-on approach:
I clean this pool, I can swim in it anytime I want.

Me:
Is this R.J.
’s boat?
Jamie:
It’s my boat
.

Me:
What’s your last name?
Jamie:
No more talking.

Tears began falling onto the papers in my hand. I looked down at the smudge I’d created in Jamie’s handwriting. It was a note—one I hadn’t seen. The morning I had left, the maids had cleaned before I packed. They had gathered all of my paperwork into a pile, and this note, the note that could have changed everything, got lost in the mix somehow.