The Light of Hidden Flowers (23 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

JOE

I was still at the office when the phone rang, an 862 number I recognized as Kate’s school, St. Agnes. “This is Joe Santelli,” I said.

It was Ms. Oliverio, the middle school counselor. “Katherine’s had a rough day.”

My blood heated at once to a rumbling boil. “Why’s that?”

“Some of the girls played a prank on her. I’m sure they never meant—”

“What did they do?” Big or small, I would round up each and every one of them.

“They slandered her on Twitter,” Ms. Oliverio said.

“What did they say?” I would send an armed drone over the Twitter CEO’s house.

“It was simply nonsense.”

“What did it say?” I demanded. I pushed on my knee, which had begun to throb.

Ms. Oliverio hesitated. “These girls intimated that Katherine ‘did things’ with her math teacher and that’s why she got straight As.”

I squeezed the phone until my fist ached. Jealous, insecure, hateful, bratty girls. I swallowed a mouthful of air. The words slipped from my mouth. “Has it been taken down?”

“Yes,” she said. “They took it down immediately.”

“Did you expel these girls?”

“We’re meeting with their parents this afternoon. We have to be careful not to damage the reputations of the girls who were just, say, ‘bystanders.’”

I silently pounded my fist on the table. “What about Kate’s reputation?”

“We understand how you feel—”

“Where’s my daughter now?” I demanded.

“She’s with the head of the middle school.”

“I’m coming to get her.” Three tours in all varieties of war zones, and I had yet to feel this helpless.

“Mr. Santelli, let me assure you. The girls will be dealt with.”

“Have my daughter ready.”

I was still red-hot by the time I pulled into the parking lot of St. Agnes Middle School. I strode into the office, took Kate by the arm, and led her outside. When we turned the corner, I embraced her. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

When Kate pulled away, she looked at me with veteran eyes, like the guys I served with who had been through too much, too quick. “It’s not your fault, Dad.”

“Anytime I can’t protect you, it’s my fault,” I said. “At least that’s how it feels.”

“Good point, Dad.”

“I’d do anything to take away your pain. I’d cut off my arm just so you didn’t have to hurt.”

“Haven’t we seen enough amputations?” she deadpanned.

“Fair enough,” I said. “What should we do? Go beat up the parents of these bratty girls?”

“We don’t need to do anything,” Kate said. “I just want to go home.”

“Can I at least buy you a sundae?”

“Sure, Dad. That’d be great.”

We settled into a vinyl booth at Friendly’s and ordered a quadruple-scoop sundae with caramel, whipped cream, and extra cherries. We ate in silence. When I spoke, I said what she probably already knew. “Those girls are just jealous, you know. Jealous of your good grades.”

“Believe me,” she said. “No one is jealous of me.”

Kate’s eyes turned glossy.

I slid from my side of the booth and scooted in next to her, holding her close as she cried. What could I say to her, that plenty of people would someday like her, that I adored her, that she had everything going for her? None of those stupid words would help her now. What could I say that wasn’t a tired cliché? Of course I knew I wasn’t supposed to
say
anything; I was just supposed to listen. I pried her from my shoulder, which was now soaking wet with tears. I handed her a napkin and she blew her nose. “Ice cream’s melting,” I said in total dad form, not knowing what else to say.

Kate wiped her eyes and nose again, then dipped her spoon back into the sundae.

“It’s actually pretty stupid what they wrote on Twitter,” she said, now smiling just a bit. A good cry was what she needed.

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s really not that hard to get an A in Mr. Simon’s class. Just do the assignments and the chapter review before each test.”

I took another mouthful, staring at my beautiful, brilliant daughter.

“Plus,” she said, “it was kind of funny, because they used the homonym ‘aloud’ instead of ‘allowed.’”

“What? What’s a homonym?”

“Dad. Come on, you know. They posted: ‘Why is sixth grader K.S. aloud to spend her lunch with Mr. Simon?’ Then they said the gross part. But get it, they wrote ‘a-l-o-u-d’ instead of ‘a-l-l-o-w-e-d,’” she said, spelling out the homonyms for me. “Dorks.”

“Total dorks,” I said. “Homonym dorks.”

We ate until the four scoops were gone.

When Kate went to the bathroom, I checked my e-mail. The first one was from Lucy, informing me that our divorce was final. “Just FYI.”

Wow. I knew it was coming, but still,
wow
. I felt numb and sad, like I just wanted to crawl into a corner and hide under a blanket. Take off my damn prosthetic and curl into a ball.

I was divorced. Another day, another reminder of how little I controlled in this world.

Shake it off, man!
For Kate’s sake, I needed to keep it together. I drank some ice water, gritted my teeth, and pushed on my legs. Read the rest of my e-mails. A string of them from my team. A million things to do, never enough time.

Then there was a Facebook message from Missy Fletcher.

Oh Missy, if Frank Fletcher were still around, he’d warn you against what Joe Santelli has become. Remember that idealist you used to know, Miss? The one who wanted to save the world, who believed in so much goodness? Well, now he’s a broken-down war veteran with half a leg, a chronically achy knee, a wife who left him—correction,
divorced
him—a daughter who’s in pain, and more baggage than a Boeing jet.
Oh Missy, I’d love to see you, but what the hell would you want with a guy like me?

Instead of responding to her message, I did nothing. Put my phone back in my pocket and waited for Kate by the front door.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Eighteen hours later, the plane touched down in Newark. Somewhere in the tenth to twelfth hour, when I woke from my haze (the strong stuff, not the Xanax), a thought infiltrated my still-hopeful mind: maybe Joe would show up, surprise me. Maybe Joe was waiting for me right now. Just in case, I brushed my hair and teeth and washed my face and applied lip gloss. When the flight attendant announced our arrival, when she instructed passengers that they could retrieve their items, there was a rush of people as thick as the running of the bulls in Pamplona. After nearly twenty hours aboard a steel cylinder, we were all ready to depart. Still feeling like I was wrapped head to toe in mummy bandages, I made my way down through the exit ramp and began walking in the direction of the main terminal.

The adrenaline accompanying the thought that Joe might be waiting for me helped shake off the jet lag and the medication. If he was out there, he would be somewhere beyond the security gates. I strolled casually through the main airport, furtively glancing around, careful to be casual and not conspicuous, just in case Joe was watching me. Finally, I settled at a Peet’s Coffee and ordered cappuccino and a bagel. Reluctantly, hesitantly, I turned on my phone and allowed it to cycle through its start-up process. When it was finally ready, I opened my mailbox. Nothing. The humiliating reality sunk in: Joe wasn’t coming. With nearly three hours to kill until my connecting flight back to DC, I set an alarm on my smartphone, curled up on an airport chair with my shame and regret, and fell asleep.

After my short flight to DC, Jenny was there to pick me up. In perfect mom fashion, she detected that my emotions were schizophrenic. Sensing that silence would push me over the edge, she kept me talking, asking a million questions about the trip, the flight, the people, the food, the cooking school. Mostly, she wanted to know how I ended up in India.

Thinking back to only twelve days earlier, I told Jenny about the flight to Tuscany detouring to Catania, meeting Reina, seeing the slums of Sicily. I rattled on about the kids, the poverty, Reina’s biggest wish to help the girls in India. Then I flew Jenny to Tuscany and drove her up the olive-groved hillside and the stuccoed villa where I lived, cooked, and tooled around for a week. I regaled her with my descent into New Delhi, the filth, the shortage of resources, and overpopulation. And the orphanage. I introduced her to some of the girls who dreamed of someday going to school. Of growing up and becoming teachers themselves.

“That’s wonderful, Missy,” Jenny said, reaching over to clutch my hand. “Your father would be so proud.”

At the sound of the word “father,” I reached for the St. Brigid charm around my neck, only to find nothing. “That’s weird,” I said. “I could have sworn I was wearing the necklace Dad gave me.”

“It’ll turn up,” Jenny said, patting my leg. “So you’re going to start a school for girls. Wow!”

“We have a long way to go,” I explained, still reaching around my neck. “The bureaucracy is a nightmare.”

“You know who you should contact?” Jenny asked. “Mrs. Longworth. She’s on the board of a charity that helps projects like yours, right?”

“You’re right!” I said. “That’s a great idea.”

“Do you miss the office, the work?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said, and meant it. “But I miss how it used to be, working with Dad. I don’t really miss the office without him.”

“All this wonderful news,” Jenny said. “So why the tears behind your eyes?”

At this, I began to cry. “I’m just upset I can’t find the necklace Dad gave me,” I said.

“What else?”

“I’m so tired”—I sniffled—“and jet-lagged, and groggy from the medication.”

“Anything else?”

“I did something stupid,” I admitted, regaling Jenny with the details of my Facebook message to Joe.

“Did you consider the fact that he might have a lot going on right now? A lot that has nothing to do with you?”

“It was just coffee at the airport. Anyone could have made time for that.”

“Perhaps,” Jenny said. “But don’t presume you know his whole story. Maybe he wanted to. Maybe he just couldn’t right then.”

“Maybe,” I conceded.

“What about Lucas?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I really don’t know.”

Back home in the familiarity of my town house, I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a dozen red roses in a white vase. Next to the flowers was a stack of magazines:
Town & Country Weddings
,
Premier Bride
,
Martha Stewart Weddings
,
Get Married
. A handwritten note from Lucas: “I missed you. Check out the website I tagged in the
Get Married
magazine. It’s an online wedding planner! It has charts and graphs and budget calculators. You’ll love it!”

At the sight of these gifts, a wave of guilt rolled through my stomach. I had been messaging Joe—as an old friend, but if I were to be honest with myself, with Lucas, I’d have to admit that I had wished for more. I needed to consider that my silence about this truth was equal to a lie. Joe didn’t want me, and Lucas did. I needed to say good-bye to my high school boyfriend forever.

I turned on my computer and waited for it to come to life, then I pulled up my Investor360 screen and reviewed my positions. Dad left me a wealthy woman, and with my ability to turn money into more money, I would never have to worry. Over $5 million. I could easily take $500,000, even a million, to fund the school, to renovate the orphanage into something sustainable. Even so, I was the type of investor who didn’t like to touch a dime she had already made. My plan was to spin my current assets into more assets. For my earnings to fund the expansion.

I had a hunch, which for me was never a blind gamble, but an educated guess based on piles of research and pages of analysis. My position in a start-up called Genertech had tripled since I bought it, and now there was talk of a giant defense company buying it for its software capabilities. I went through my twelve-step process. I looked at revenue, the earnings per share, the return on equity. I calculated the PEG ratio and the weighted alpha.

When I was finished, my confidence level was high. Barring any surprises, this stock would continue to rise. I thought of Reina and her contention that we never act in the face of full information; there was always a certain amount unknown. She was right. With the stock market, there would always be unknowns—insider trading, instability in outside countries, political scandal that wasn’t there yesterday.

My doorbell rang just as I was finishing up my analysis. It was Lucas, dressed sharply in starched jeans and a button-down polo, his hair thatched in expert crisscrosses. He looked cute. Adorable, really.

“You’re home,” he said, reaching for me.

“I see you used the key I gave you,” I said, pointing to the flowers and magazines. “Thank you.”

“I’m just glad you’re home, safe and sound,” he said.

I pulled back to look at him. Lucas was my future, and I was grateful to have him at my side. In the hours since I had sent Joe the message and in the time he hadn’t responded, a new clarity had crystallized. The idea of reconnecting with Joe was a silly schoolgirl’s fantasy I’d drummed up because I longed to return to that special part of my life. Joe and I could no more go back in time than I could be eighteen again. Admittedly, Joe represented a singular time in my life that would always be tender and dear, flawless and irreplaceable. I could allow that. I wasn’t asking myself to forget Joe altogether, or to erase the feelings that suffused me at the thought of him. I would cherish those retentions like a family tie. The same way I remembered my mother. I would not demand absolute accuracy of any of those memories. It was okay that they were skewed, enhanced like the cover models on the wedding magazines Lucas had purchased for me. Those memories were mine; I could do with them what I liked.

Lucas represented the here and now. Lucas stood for my future. The interplay between the past and the present and the future suddenly made profound sense to me in a way I—with my linear, chart-minded way of thinking—hadn’t considered. It was okay for me to carry my past into my present. It was okay for my present to represent only a portion of my future.

When I told Lucas about my trip, my detour to India, I watched him agitate and stiffen, as if my narrative about the plight of India was somehow going to land in his lap. His expression—heavy-browed and disturbed—seemed to suggest I was a door-to-door missionary who would soon ask him to convert. Like the PTA neighbor who would ask him for a donation to her kids’ art fair. Like a beggar who would ask him for a few bucks.

“That’s quite an undertaking,” he finally said. “Are you sure you’re up for it? With all that’s going on? With the wedding planning?”

I assured Lucas that I was a multitasker and could handle all that was on my plate. And then the exhaustion hit me again, and all I wanted was to be alone.