The Light of Hidden Flowers (8 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The first weeks of summer fell upon us. In typical fashion, the office slowed to nearly a halt. Many of our clients were vacationing around the globe. Jenny pinned postcards on the bulletin board in our lunchroom. In exuberant script, they gushed their thanks on the blank space of the card.
Thank you for making this possible. Thank you for giving us our retirement. Thank you for caring for us so well.

And Dad was on the golf course every day. And selfishly, I was glad. When he would leave, I’d think,
thank goodness
, because I couldn’t watch my father humiliate himself in front of another client. I didn’t want to see him as anything less than the man I held him up to be. Our schedules nearly crisscrossed. Dad would arrive to the office early, dictate a few pieces of correspondence, instruct Jenny to schedule some lunches and golf dates with some of his buddies. And me? I came in late and stayed late.

And Lucas Anderson became part of my vocabulary.

The phone rang just as I had swept the Great Men category in
Jeopardy!
“Who was Charlemagne? Who was Pope Alexander? Who was Pericles? Who was Hannibal?”

What’s it like to be such a know-it-all?
I heard my old boyfriend Jason ask. But of course it wasn’t Jason, it was Lucas, who called every night at seven o’clock. And Lucas would never say such an awful, angry thing to me.

Lucas and I chatted, made dinner plans for Saturday night.

“But I’ll need your car keys early that day,” he said. “No questions. I have a surprise for you.”

Saturday morning bright and early, Lucas came by for my car, looking very pleased with himself. Then promptly at six that night, he rang my doorbell and kissed me hello. “Would you like to see your car?” he asked.

We walked down the few steps to a positively gleaming version of my Subaru. Lucas opened my door. I slid into the driver’s seat. The interior was almost comically immaculate, as if I had just driven it off the showroom floor.

“Wow.”

“I didn’t just clean it, I
detailed
it,” Lucas said. He reached down past me, showed me how he had scrubbed my carpets and degreased the wheels and waxed the exterior. “
And
I had the oil changed, and filled the tank.”

“It’s so . . . clean,” I said. “And it has—a new car smell?”

“That’s because I cleaned your air ducts,” he said. “It’s a hobby of mine. I spend a good couple of hours washing my car every Saturday.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I shine shoes, too,” he said. “I could do yours.”

I peered over to spy his shoes. They
were
shiny.

“I’d like to do a lot of things for you,” he said, a bit shyly.

I smiled, took in his blue eyes.

“It’s just my thing,” he said, backpedaling a bit. “It’s a little weird, right? But Saturday mornings are for the car and the shoes. I’m a bit of a creature of habit.”

“I’m the same way,” I said. “Not the cleaning part, but my patterns.” I thought of my morning routine at work: the computers, the charting, the testing. The listing, the filtering, the inputting of data. And my after-work routine: the Rosetta Stone CDs, the homemade dinners, flipping through the mail one piece at a time. The pistachio gelato in front of
Jeopardy!
, peeking in on my Facebook friends, planning trips on Expedia that I’d never take.

“Two peas in a pod,” Lucas said, grinning widely.

In the restaurant, we were seated by the window. The sun was just setting over the Potomac, the ball of fire resting at the water’s edge. When the waiter came, I ordered a glass of Chardonnay.

“And for you, sir?”

“I’m fine with water,” he said.

“Sparkling, tap?”

“Tap’s fine.”

“And to start?” the waiter asked, looking at me. “An appetizer, a cup of soup?”

“You have to try the clam chowder,” I said to Lucas.

“You go ahead,” he said, placing his hand over mine. “I’m fine with bread and water for now.”

“I’m good,” I said, the disappointment audible even to me.

“Don’t be silly,” Lucas said. “Order whatever you want.” He looked up at the waiter. “A cup of clam chowder for the lady.”

The waiter nodded, jotted it down. When Lucas turned back to his menu, I looked up at the waiter and mouthed, “A bowl”—a tiny cup would only leave me wanting more.

I let my heart process Lucas’s hand covering mine. It was warm, and he was sweet and considerate, and he adored me. And he had spent hours detailing my car and getting the oil changed and filling it with gas. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to be with a guy as kind as he was. On the other hand, he had just eschewed clam chowder and Chardonnay in favor of bread and water. When the waiter returned with my soup, I pulled my hand from under Lucas’s and dipped my spoon into the bowl. I closed my eyes and savored the potato melting in my mouth, the hint of dill awakening my taste buds. I took a long sip of wine. For a few seconds, time stopped and Lucas hardly seemed relevant. I just wanted to enjoy my food. At last I looked over at him. “Are you sure you don’t want a bite?”

“You enjoy it,” he said, smiling. “I’m not really much of a fish guy.”

In my mind, I began drawing columns and categorizing who Lucas was, and who he was not. He was a tax guy, a car-cleaning expert, and shoe-shining wizard. He wasn’t a foodie, he wasn’t a drinker, and he didn’t care for fish. How would the two of us ever travel together in Tuscany? But then again, what were the chances that I’d ever make it to Tuscany, anyway?

When the waiter came for our order, I asked for the sea bass fillet surrounded by char-scorched tomatoes, broccoli rabe, a bed of orzo. Lucas ordered a steak and baked potato. He ate half of it, all the while chattering on about work, creating foreign entities, inventorying assets, and documenting policies for fraud prevention. When I asked about his family, he told me that he was pretty plain vanilla: great parents, one sister, his childhood home a redbrick Colonial still standing in the west end of Richmond. When I asked about trips he’d taken, he informed me that he wasn’t much of a traveler; that he preferred to stay in the States or, even better, close to home. Instead, he regaled me with the details of a fascinating
National Geographic
documentary he enjoyed on California’s Napa region.

“I adore good wine,” I said, thinking of my favorite variety of red: its bouquet, ruby hue, plummy sweetness.

“I wish I knew more,” he said. “But I’m sure I couldn’t tell the difference between a ten-dollar and hundred-dollar bottle of wine.”

“What did you like about the show on Napa, then?”

“I’m a huge history buff—geography fascinates me,” he said. “Interesting terrain out there.”

Interesting terrain out there.

“You must be interested in touring Europe then, right? If you’re a big history enthusiast?”

“I’m sure it would be fascinating,” Lucas said. “But there’s so much to see here in the States. I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“True,” I said, thinking I was foolish for pushing the point, seeing that I was the girl who had to be escorted off the last plane she boarded. Still, in my mind, I took a step back. In front of my eyes was Lucas Anderson, a guy who valued a good plan, discipline, and routine. If I were to list the qualities I respected in a man, Lucas’s stability, reliability, and sensibility would top my list. So why then was I perseverating over the fact that he didn’t want to eat, drink, or travel?

When the waiter brought the dessert menu, I chose a flourless chocolate torte with salted caramel pecans. Lucas shook his head no, said he was stuffed. When I pointed out that there was pie and ice cream, he brightened. “Vanilla?” he asked.

“I’m sure they have vanilla,” I said.

That was it, then. If Lucas Anderson were a flavor, he would be vanilla. I filed away this bit of information. Not a pro nor con, just a data point for me to chart out later. After all, I had nothing against vanilla.

Lucas drove me home and then walked me to the door. I unlocked it and pushed through. In the entryway, he pressed me against the wall and kissed me. I closed my eyes and thought about the clam chowder, the crusty bread and salted Irish butter, and when I did, Lucas’s mouth became delicious.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Goddamn it!” Dad roared from his office.

On the other side of the wall we shared, it sounded like a gang of wild raccoons was ransacking the place. I stood up and stared at our common wall. “Goddamn it!” he bellowed again, followed by a thunderous crash. When I ran from my office to his, I found him standing in front of his executive leather chair, regarding the bare expanse of his mammoth mahogany desktop, which he had evidently just wiped clear of its entire contents. On the floor were his lamp and day planner and iPad. Papers were scattered everywhere.

“Goddamn it,” he repeated, this time in a small voice, an apologetic one.

I closed the door behind me. “What’s going on?” I whispered. I kneeled onto the rug and began gathering the mess.

“Leave it,” Dad said.

“Dad, what happened?”

Dad slumped into the corner of his leather sofa, wiped his eyes with his giant hand.

“My brain!” he said. “The shrapnel in my brain!”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t remember the ticker symbol for Chevron. I’ve owned that stock for forty years.”

“CVX,” I said. “No big deal. So you forgot.”

“It’s not just that, damn it.”

“Then what?”

“I looked it up; I saw that it was CVX,” he said. “But when I went to write it down—after I had just seen it—I couldn’t remember how to make a
C
, for God’s sake.”

“It’s time to see the doctor, Dad.”

“Donny Kaye had a stroke. He’s told me before that some days he feels like he’s losing his absolute mind.”

“Mr. Kaye had a
mini
stroke,” I said. “And, yes! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. There’s a possibility that you’ve had something like that. We need to get you checked out.”

That night I researched transient ischemic attacks and learned they were named “ministrokes” because the symptoms were like those of a stroke, but didn’t last long. A ministroke occurred when blood flow to part of the brain was blocked, often by a blood clot. The blood eventually broke free and flowed again. Most likely ministrokes were warnings of a real stroke. Sudden numbness, tingling, weakness, or paralysis in the face, arm, or leg were some of the symptoms, along with vision changes, trouble speaking, and confusion. Brain cells could be affected within seconds of the blockage.

Dad could have suffered a ministroke that day at our seminar, when he froze in the headlights, when his jaw jutted back and forth, when his eyes looked as terrified as a man witnessing an execution.

I added a ministroke to my list of worries, alongside the possibility of a brain tumor. I hadn’t a clue whether either was the culprit, but what I did know for sure was this: Dad’s blunders could not be attributed to simple senior forgetfulness.

Three days later, Dad saw Dr. Bell who, because of Dad’s high blood pressure, high cholesterol and triglycerides, ordered blood tests, an echocardiogram to check the heart’s shape and its blood flow, and an electrocardiogram to measure its rhythm.

After the appointment, I grilled Dad on the details. “Did he take a CT scan to look at your brain?”

“He was checking out my ticker today,” Dad said.

“Dad! Did you ask him about the possibility of a brain tumor? Don’t you want to know if you had a stroke?”

“Daughter,” he said, “I’m good. For now, I’m good. Enough tests for one day.”

“This is crazy, Dad,” I cried. “Did you tell him about the forgetfulness?”

“I want to get on with my life,” Dad said. “Golf, work. Enough of this nonsense.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I had never been so angry with my father in all my life. I cursed his stubbornness. The man needed to have his brain checked, not his heart! For all the years he had accused me of living in denial of a larger life, who had his head in the sand now? I pulled the cork out of a half-full bottle of Merlot and emptied it into a water glass.

As I gulped wine, I distracted myself with Facebook. One of my dad’s brother’s grandsons had graduated from high school, another was accepted to a prestigious writing program for the summer, and a few of the little grandchildren were away at camp, canoeing and hiking and sleeping in cabins.

And Joe. His children were growing, too. The little guy, Jake, celebrated a birthday. But Joe’s posts had decreased significantly. In June and July he had posted only once, a photo of the kids at the Jersey shore. In August, there were no photos, just one post he had reshared, a charity event for Wounded Warriors. I imagined Joe had a number of buddies who were wounded. I felt for them, and for Joe. Had my old sweetheart ever seen frontline action? Had any of his buddies been injured or killed?

Our first year of college, Joe and I did an admirable job of keeping in touch. This was the late 1990s, and e-mail was just beginning to sweep the nation. We each had AOL accounts and I, in the computer lab at W&M, and Joe, in his computer lab at VMI, wrote each other messages back and forth on our dial-up connections. As I waited for the screeching and squawking of the modem to connect, I’d flutter my fingertips above the keyboard, anxious to tell him about my day, to hear about his. On a few weekends, we’d meet back home in Alexandria, and for a while, it was like we had never left. Joe camped out in the quiet of Dad’s and my house, and on the days when we went to Joe’s, I drank in the chatter and laughter and mayhem that were the Lincoln Logs of Joe’s family home.

Over Thanksgiving break, Joe and I went away to Virginia Beach, stowing away in a quaint seaside bungalow named the Sand Dollar. The little cottage was wood-paneled with floral curtains framing the windows that welcomed the afternoon sun. We walked on the beach, collected seashells, and lounged in the Adirondack chairs as we stared out at the shore. That night, we barely spoke except through our eyes, which conveyed the imperceptible looks we had grown to decipher in each other.
I want you, I love you, I trust you completely
. In the golden glow of the early evening light, Joe undressed me, and I, him. I kissed the pulse on his neck, the peak of his lips, the ledge of his cheekbone. He pressed his hands on the small of my back, traced the ridges of my ribs, pulled me closer to him than I had ever been.

That night, we made love for the first time.

“I love you,” Joe said. He was on his side, and I ran my fingertips over his gorgeous body, his muscular biceps, his sculpted chest.

“I love you, too,” I said, reaching to touch his hip bone, letting my hand curl around it.

“Never not,” he said, leaning into me, his body filled with heat, covering mine. “I’ll never not love you.”

“I’ll never not love you.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, and at that moment, with the golden light, with the refusal of the shore to stop roaring, with our flesh sharing space, I felt more beautiful than ever.

“You’re gorgeous,” I said, lifting my face, letting his mouth brush mine.

Such was our teenage love, an intensity that bordered on insanity, a myopia that didn’t see beyond our four walls, an urgency that the sky was falling and the only bunker was in each other’s arms. That weekend, did we eat? I barely remember leaving the room. There were chips and soda, Red Vines and Snickers bars. But it was wholly perfect in every way.

Years later, when I was in my late twenties, I drove back to that seaside motel. It took a few passes down the drag to find it, for I had remembered it as quaint, immaculate. I had remembered the glow of the golden sun, the powder of the white sand, the turquoise scales of the ocean waves. Yet when I drove down the strip, I only saw motels and cottages and more motels—all the same. When I found the one named Sand Dollar, it hardly matched my memory. I parked, entered the lobby. In my heart I could still smell the cinnamon candle that was burning atop the registry counter, could still taste the banana of the saltwater taffy from the bowl next to the brochures, could still feel the moisture in the sea air.

“Can I help you?” asked a teenager behind the counter, some Jerry Springer yell-a-thon blasting behind him on the TV.

It was just a cheap beach motel, no better or worse than the one right next door. “Just looking,” I said, inhaling deeply, a desperate, last-ditch effort to find the candle that once burned there. Down the pathway to the room where we once stayed, I closed my eyes and listened for the ocean’s kiss against the shore, but all I could hear was the incessant moan of traffic.

Joe was my first love, but he was also my best friend back then. Would it be so wrong to send him a message, to say hello? It wasn’t as if I were pursuing him. After all, I was serious with Lucas. I curled my fingers above the keyboard, took a giant gulp of air, and typed.

Hi, Joe! I see your postings from time to time. Your family looks amazing. How blessed you are! I hope I’m not bothering you. I’m sure you’re busy. Just wanted to say hi. No need to respond. Thanks!

I took another breath, positioned the cursor on “Send,” closed my eyes, and thought it through. It was just an innocuous “Just saying hi” message, no big deal. I weighed the upside potential: he could write me back. I considered the downside risk: he could ignore the message.

I tapped my finger on the mouse. I was involved with Lucas. It was a risk I could manage. I sent the message.

And then I felt as though I’d vomit. I thought I had considered all of the possibilities. But I now imagined Joe being notified that he had a message, and then him reading it with a confused look scrunching his face, his finger hitting “Delete” before “nothing me” caused problems in his wonderful present life. Or I could imagine him telling his stunning wife over a gourmet weekday dinner she had made—coq au vin, perhaps, with a glass of heavy Cabernet—how his high school sweetheart sent him a message. How it was kind of cute, kind of sad. He was sure she had never married. Her profile just listed her profession, still working with her father. Never left Virginia. His wife would slice and butter a piece of French bread she had made from scratch.
Don’t be cruel,
she’d say.
Not everyone gets to find what we’ve found. Count your blessings,
she would say. Then they would share a look—the kind that beautiful, popular people shared—that said,
But
still, it was kind of sad.
Then they would laugh. At me. That night they would have sex like they hadn’t had since their wedding night—grateful, we-are-so-lucky-not-to-be-alone sex.