Pretty Instinct (39 page)

He gives me a moment to process the last words I’ll get from my mother, a brand new harsh reality filled with ache since I thought I’d lived that moment years ago.

“Lizzie?” he whispers.

I hold up a hand, needing a minute, already well versed and in the middle of the
in for him
breath through my mouth. My nose may never unclog, my eyes unpuff, my hands stop trembling, my mind not spin.

“Love, there’s more in here. One small note and another key.”

“And?” I sob, staring at the table.

“The note says, ‘if your true love has found you, bring him with you to use this key on box 112284. Or, if he’s with you now, as a true love should be, send him over to it.’”

“November 22
^nd
, 1984, their wedding day,” I mumble. “Well, true love,” I glance up at him, “what are you waiting for?”

“Lizzie, if you’ve had enough for today, we can come back.” His effort not to frown or let me see the sympathy in his eyes valiant but futile.

I scoff, and since grace waved bon voyage the minute we walked in this place, I go ahead and honk my nose too. “Chicken,” I tease him, my voice sounding close to normal again. “Go!” I point.

With his best loving smirk, he rises, one cautious eye on me, the other searching out the number. He finds it, gets the box, and sits back down, a nervous shyness emanating as his shaky hands open it.

Inside are two things: a ring, which somewhere in the farthest recesses of my mind, I think I remember, and a sealed white envelope, addressed to “The Man Trusted with my Bethy.”

“Want me to read it out loud?” he asks, so chivalrous and thoughtful, thinking always first of my feelings.

“You know what? She went to all the trouble of not writing it in my letter and getting a separate box. I think she meant for that to be between you and her. If she was here, I’m guessing she’d catch you alone, to say it, so how ‘bout we let her have her ‘motherly moment’?”

To the man my sweet Bethy deemed worthy of the letter to her true love,

I already like you. She’s only a teen, but I trust her taste impeccably. She’s wise, strong and all-seeing beyond her years. Even in her crib, the mobile had four little ponies: yellow, blue, pink, and green. She’d kick her little feet at them like she was riding a bike, but never at the green one for some reason. She’d stop, wait for it to go by, then she was off and motoring again.

She’s picky, tasteful, and true to herself. If she says she loves you, then not only does she mean it, she will always mean it.

I can only imagine the young woman she’ll turn out to be. I’m sure you know, but you are one lucky young man.

Bethy is artistic and soulful, a denied romantic; she dreams of dreams and slays dragons wherever they present themselves.

Be good to her. Appreciate her. Embrace what makes her the girl who got your attention in the first place.

When she cries and pushes you away, she’s screaming “hold me closer!” on the inside. When she says she doesn’t need your help, she means she believes in you enough that she shouldn’t have to ask.

Never go to bed angry and never let her go to bed angry, even if that means you have to keep her awake all night.

Point out sunsets and falling stars to her. Slow dance. Write your own poem in the card. Carry her picture in your wallet.

Take her camping; she loves best the stories I tell about when my dad took me.

Tell her everyday she’s loved, beautiful, and that it’s not a sign of weakness to forgive.

I am handing you the one thing I wanted most in my life, for as long as I can remember—a daughter.

This ring, if you haven’t already bought her one, was my mother’s. She handed it to me the day I turned 18. I’ll miss that, so I ask that you do it for me, whatever her age today.

Don’t ever spank my grandchildren; two wrongs don’t make a right.

And remember this always—”A daughter’s your daughter for the rest of your life. A son’s a son ‘til he takes a wife.”
Do not EVER side with your mother over her. Defend your wife above all; right or wrong, her feelings are valid and the only one you need to protect.

Good luck, son!

Love,

Your mother-in-law

What truly saddens me the most? The woman who wrote those two letters was obviously intelligent, humorous, prophetic, and filled with love.
Why
would such an amazing person, with so much to give, take her own life?

Because she couldn’t forgive herself.

If their family would have just
communicated
, Lizzie would have forgiven her. I know my girl, she would have. And Conner, that guy can’t stay mad, a ball of pure, innocent joy. It sounds to me like the minute Conner fell was the minute Richard, too, opened his eyes.

Such a waste.

The only thing I can do now is vow to honor every single one of her requests in that letter, keep her advice close to my heart, my mission, in her honor, every day I walk this Earth.

I tuck the ring in my pocket, even though I know my Siren saw it, for the right time and the perfect plan. Then I fold the letter, put it too in my pocket, and slide the empty box back in its hole; the same with 71276. I press the green button on the wall to tell April we’re done and ask for a bag, then turn back to Lizzie with what I hope is a comforting smile. “Ready, my love?”

“For what?” Her voice is as clueless and hollow as her eyes, lost and overwhelmed. Everything she thought she knew, the founding blocks of the person she’s become over the last seven years were wiped out in a tornado of discovery—no warning bell.

April, who needs to quit disrespecting my girl with her blatant flirting, opens the door and hands me a clear bag, fingers fondling mine as she pulls away. “Look at her,” I motion my head back to Lizzie.

“Yeah?” April sneers, pushing her boobs closer to me.

“Either you’re blind and can’t see what I see, or you like losing. Now knock it off. We need another minute, and this time, send Riza to get us or I’ll report you. Clear?”

“Hmpf.” She spins on her heel and
really
slams the door this time.

I give Lizzie a minute, carefully placing all her items and letter in the bag, then finally squat down in front of her, hands on her thighs. “With me?”

“Always.” She nods without question, her voice soft and childlike.

“You hear me then, so please
listen
. You’ve been rocked at the core, babe, I get that. But your past doesn’t decide your future, and your future was with me when you walked in and it’s with me when we walk out. I will
never
not protect you, love you, or be with you. I will
never
hide things from you or lie to you. When we walk through that door,
our
life starts.
Our
plans, goals, home, careers, kids, IRAs, pets, what the hell ever, belongs to only us. And Conner. And the new fish, which you know he’ll ask about. Agreed?”

It takes a minute of swiping tears, sniffling, pushing hair behind her ears and straightening her posture, but finally, she looks at me…and through it all, she emerges, the light fighting through in her gorgeous brown eyes, my girl is back with me here in the room. “I need a nibble,” she whispers.

And I need to hear her whisper those sweet words to me every day for the rest of my life.
I lean in and let her take a whole damn meal. Riza clears her throat and blushes when she comes to get us, our hour lapsed.

Lizzie jolts and the sound, rushing to stand and walk toward the woman. “I’m Lizzie Carmichael, Anna’s daughter,” she extends her right hand, “and she raised me better than the way I treated you before. I apologize.”

“Of course.” Riza smiles kindly and shows us out.

We walk hand in hand out into the fresh air, not stopping to ask about the other account—it’ll be there when we need it.

Once we’re in the car, engine purring, I turn to her at the same time she looks at me. “Seriously, what now?” she asks.

I’m going for the long ball at the buzzer. It’ll either swoosh in or bounce off the rim and beam a spectator in the crowd. Such is risk, though. “I believe Conner’s waiting, and didn’t your dad say something about dinner?”

In for her, out for me.
Please don’t let her aim for my balls
.

“He is, and he did. Guess there then.” She shrugs, leaning forward to turn on the radio.

***

“Should I,” she nervously stammers, “ring the doorbell, or…”

She’s precious; with everything shifted, she’s not sure how to act. Fangs bared, guns blazing is the only way she knows how to walk in this house. So I press the bell, then take her tiny, sweaty hand in mine.

“Sweet girl, just walk in.” Alma greets us with a smile and disbelieving shake of her head. “Mr. Cannon, how are you?” She goes up on tiptoe to kiss my cheeks.

“Call me Cannon, please.” I take her hand and give a kiss of my own to the back of it.

“Alma, he’s taken. Cannon, quit encouraging her.” She shakes a joking finger at us while jovially narrowing her eyes.

I love her like this, light and happy, cracking jokes. I’m not ungrateful, but a bit shocked how it’s so closely on the heels of everything she just learned. Gift horse though, ehh—I don’t want to look in its mouth.

“Come in like you’ve been here before, for heaven’s sake.” Alma ushers us in and I squeeze tighter on Lizzie’s hand.

“Where’s my dad and Conner?” Lizzie asks, and Alma’s step falters, astonishment plastered on her face.

“Conner’s playing with Bryson and Vaughn somewhere. And your f—
dad
—well, let me check.”

“I’m here,” his voice sneaks around the corner. “Daughter, why don’t you and your caller join us in the kitchen?”

I glance at Siren, who bites down a smirk. “Am I a
caller
?” I whisper.

“Gentleman caller,” she nods and whispers back. “Very
Gone With the Wind
, right? He always talks like that. Ivy League raised and graduated. Come on,” she drags me toward the kitchen, “don’t be scared. Everyone knows those preppy guys can’t bite worth a damn.” She snickers.

“I heard that.” Her father grins, chomping his teeth together demonstratively.

“You must be Laura.” My girl, very friendly-like, not a hint of snark or sarcasm, turns to the attractive blonde woman sitting at the kitchen bar, white as a ghost. Seems rumor’s out that my Lizzie
can
bite.

“I am.” She stands, offering a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Elizabeth.”

“You too, and please, call me Liz, if you’d like.” Her poise fumbles. “I like Elizabeth too…whichever.”

Saving her, I step flush to her back and lay my left hand on her shoulder, waiting until I feel her relax under my touch, then extend my right over her other shoulder. “Hi, Laura, I’m Cannon Blackwell. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Very nice to meet you as well, Cannon.” She smiles sincerely, seeming to relax a bit herself. “Will the two of you, and Conner, be joining us for dinner? We’re having manicotti, garlic bread, and salad, if that’s all right?”

I’m not about to answer for us, and Lizzie is just staring at her father, either ignoring Laura or in a trance. I see where she gets it—more than just her piercing eyes and color, jawline and chin—he’s not budging either, intimidatingly stubborn just like my Siren.

“Where’s Conner?” Lizzie caves first, quizzical brow lifted.

“In his room with the other boys; Minecraft marathon if I’m not mistaken.”

She stews, chewing the corner of her lip, inspecting the ceiling, Laura’s…outfit maybe, then back to him. “Still got a deck?”

He chuckles. “Last time I checked, yes.”

“Got beer?”

He steals a peek at Laura, who nods. “Yes.”

“Figure we’ll need,” she ponders, “‘bout six; three apiece. Meet
you
,” she says to him, clearly uninviting me with a sweet smile but eye message leaving no room for doubt she doesn’t want me to join them, “out there.”

And she’s off.

“Can’t say I ever thought this would happen.” He hands me an ice-cold bottle of beer and takes a seat in the patio chair catty-corner to mine.

“You got any cigars?”

“Have you ever smoked a cigar?” he asks, clearly as amused as he is doubtful.

“No, but this feels like a cigar moment. Never mind,” I slump in my chair, not feeling as DeNiro as I did five seconds ago.

“Here you go!” Laura chirps as she appears, two cigars in hand. “Elizabeth, if you feel green, lean over the railing.” She grins, then walks to the intercom box on the wall and hits something. “
Now
you have privacy, carry on! We’re eating without you, by the way.” She waves over her shoulder and shuts the door.

“I don’t hate her,” I mumble around my stogie, leaning forward for the light he’s holding out.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He leans back, leg crossed at the ankle as he puffs out a perfect smoke ring. I’m just holding mine now, way away from me, the smell and that one taste enough to make me sick. “Elizabeth…” He shakes his head, taking it from me, and snuffs it out,
thank God
.

“I don’t hate you, either.” I speak softly, staring off in the distance.

“I’m
extremely
glad to hear that. What changed your mind, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Mom wrote me a letter, that’s what was in the box at the bank.” I turn at the sound of the door.

“Here, love.” Cannon hands me a full plate, silverware, and a napkin. “You good?”

I nod and he winks, kissing the top of my head and retreating. I feel rude eating when this detour was my idea, but my father waves a hand absently, telling me to enjoy. “Mmm,” I moan around my mouthful. “Did Laura make this?”

“She did. She loves to cook; used to own a restaurant I frequented. That’s how we met.” He gets a faraway look, remembering those early days of courting I suppose.