The Perfect Homecoming (Pine River) (26 page)

He shrugged and went into the bathroom and got into the shower. As he lathered up, it suddenly came to him.
“No,”
he said, and banged his fist against the glass shower wall. He pushed open the door and stepped out, striding to his dresser. With soap and water dripping from him, he stared down at his pile of things.

His St. Christopher was gone. Cooper didn’t have to think about it. He didn’t have to wonder if he’d dropped it or forgotten it at the Grizzly Lodge. He knew Emma had taken it, had slipped it out of his pocket in her room. He knew she had added it to her bizarre collection of things. He was another number, another one in a long line of men who meant nothing to her.

Cooper’s pulse began to pound with ferocious fury. Hell no, he would not accept this. Emma Tyler would
not
get away with it.

TWENTY

I know it’s taken me a while to get back to you about my most excellent adventure to Denver to see the Broncos play the Patriots. I’ve been dying to tell you everything, but the trip kind of wore me out, and I had another seizure and had to go to the hospital, which of course Dad said was because I had worn myself out, and then he said, “I’m not going to say I told you so, but I told you so.” If Emma were here right now, she’d be all like,
I don’t understand why people say that. He clearly means to say I told you so
, and I would have to agree. But here’s where Dad is wrong—the game didn’t make me have a seizure. I mean, I have seizures when I’m not doing
anything
, so you can’t really blame it on the Broncos stinking it up.

Anyway, while we were at the hospital, the doctors said they were going to have to put me on a feeding tube because I really can’t swallow much anymore, which of course I know, hello! Who do you think has been trying to choke down Dad’s homemade gruel?

But this time when they said it, they looked at Dad instead of me.

Like I wasn’t there.

Or, like because I can’t swallow, that must mean I can’t speak English anymore. I wanted to tell that doctor that I’m a genius, and I know exactly what it means, because I’m sitting in this body every day, feeling it give up and the life leak out of me. If it weren’t so morbid it would be totally awesome that you can actually feel when life is leaving you. It sort of starts in your fingers and toes. It’s hard to describe—kind of like a tide going out.

Okay, well anyway, enough of that. The big news is the game!

So we went to Denver, and even at sub-grandpa speed, which, for those of you who don’t know, is about two miles an hour, we made it to the Mile High Stadium in time to actually see the game. My friend Dante was stoked, but he had to walk a really long way to our most excellent seats, whereas I was in a chair. Dante could have had a chair, too, but he didn’t want to enter the hallowed halls of football that way, and dude, who could blame him? Anyway, I don’t know if it was that walk or all the radiation and chemo he’s been taking, or maybe it was just that the Broncos sucked, but Dante got like,
really
sick, and he didn’t look to me like he loved
the game. Maybe he was just completely depressed that the Broncos lost.

I know,
right
? They lost! All my hard work and then the Broncos went and
blew
it.

Don’t you think my story would be so much better if they’d won? It would be like one of those cool sports movies where the cancer kid and the MND guy crawl across mountains and desert to see their favorite team play, and their dying wish is that the Broncos win, and everyone in the audience is worried for those two kids because the Broncos are playing the Goliaths, and you think there is no way they can pull it out, and then, in the
last three seconds
the Broncos kick the winning field goal!

Well,
that
didn’t happen. The Broncos fumbled just after the two-minute warning and the Patriots scored. But still, Dad and Buck, the nurse we hired to accompany us to Denver, said it was a really good game, and it was, I guess, if you think a really good game includes
losing.
Which I totally don’t.

And you know what else? The skybox wasn’t as great as I thought it would be. I mean, it was nice and all, and Dad said the seats were comfortable, and we could see the field. But we couldn’t see it better than I could on my big flat screen at home, you know? Plus, I thought there’d be chicks to serve the drinks and snacks, and maybe even a cheerleader or two to rub my head for good luck. You can imagine my extreme disappointment when it was Dad who served the drinks—Orange Crush, of course, because I
insisted
—and potato chips, which Dante’s mom had sent with us because they help with his stomach issues, but of course,
I
can’t eat.

The Broncos totally let me down, but still, you gotta hand it to me—
I did it
. I made that trip happen. That may not seem like a lot to you, but try accomplishing something like that from the hell I live in every day. I mean, think about it, the only thing I had was my cunning and genius. I couldn’t even hold a pencil to make some notes! Look, I’m not bragging, I’m just pointing out,
that’s how good I am.

I’m
super
proud of myself, but I have to be honest here—it made me wonder what else I could have accomplished in life if I hadn’t come down with this stupid disease. I mean, I could have been an astronaut! Not that I would have been an astronaut, because the idea of flying around space freaks me out. I’m just saying, I could have been
anything.

So I was thinking about all this and feeling pretty sorry for myself while I was in the hospital, because a), once again, they gave me a
guy
nurse, which is a total waste of my time, and b), I guess I’m due.

At first, I thought I was just bummed because the Broncos lost to the freaking Patriots (you really can’t say that enough, Bronco fans), but then I realized I was mostly bummed because I’ve been looking forward to that game for so long. I have spent so much time working and planning to make it happen that I haven’t had time to think of other, more unpleasant things, you know? Meaning
. . .
those thoughts that creep into my head when I’m trying to sleep. You know what I mean. You’ve probably had those thoughts, too, but maybe not as urgently as I have. Like
. . .
what’s it like to die? Will I know I’m dead? Will it hurt? What’s it like on the other side? Is Mom going to be there? Did she find Grandpa? What if she’s not there, and it’s all black? What if it’s
nothing
but
darkness
?

I won’t lie, I used to worry about that, but I don’t anymore. Maybe because lately, I’ve been having these dreams of running. I’m just running and running, and I’m impressed by how strong my legs are, and amazed that my lungs are working so efficiently, and my heart is steady as a drum, and it feels
good.
No, seriously, it feels
fantastic
. I would run up and down these mountains if I could. Here’s something I’ve never told anyone but you: sometimes, I want to sleep just so I can run.

If you don’t run, you should try it. It’s totally awesome that your body can do that, and then make you feel so good about it when you’re done.

So I was digging my running dreams, and then this weird thing happened. Don’t freak out when I tell you this one, but okay, here goes. When I got out of the hospital, Marisol brought over that little stinker Valentina and her
abuela,
her grandmother. Grandma is visiting from Mexico. She comes up from the interior once or twice a year and cleans Marisol’s house and makes tamales for Christmas. At least that’s the way Marisol talks about it. Her name is Maria, and she doesn’t know a whole lot of English, which is cool, because I don’t know a whole lot of Spanish other than
hola
and
besame
and
abuela.

So Granny Maria was sitting in the corner holding the baby and watching me like an old barn owl while Marisol combed my hair and made me change my shirt because I was wearing one with holes in it. Granny Maria didn’t say much, but every once in a while she’d let loose with a string of Spanish, and Marisol would fire right back at her in Spanish like she was mad, and then she’d say something to me like, “My
abuela
likes you.”

Well, of course she
likes
me. What’s not to like? And I’d say, “That’s a whole lot of Spanish to say she likes me,” and Marisol would say, “What, you
habla Español
now?”

And so it would go.

Anyway, Granny Maria liked my blue shirt better than my green shirt. Granny Maria thought I should have some
achicoria
in my food because it’s good for the liver. My finely tuned thinking skills translated that to chicory, which I thought was hilarious, because if Granny Maria thinks my
liver
is the problem, she’s crazier than her batshit gorgeous granddaughter, Marisol. And I promise you, Dad is not going to buy
chicory
without a fight.

Anyway, when they were leaving, Granny Maria waddled over to my chair—let’s just say she’s obviously enjoyed a
lot
of Marisol’s excellent homemade tortillas—and put her hand on my totally useless left arm. She smiled down at me, and she had these really pretty brown eyes, and they looked really deep to me, like there was an ocean or something under there, and she said, “The light, it is very bright for you in the heaven, Leo.”

I was like, “
What?
You speak English?”

She didn’t say yes or no. In fact, she didn’t say anything else in English. She kept smiling at me with those ocean-deep eyes and patted my arm before she waddled out with the baby, firing off in Spanish at Marisol.

I’ve been meaning to mention to Marisol that if she doesn’t watch it with those tortillas, she might end up with her
abuela’
s hips.

Okay, I didn’t know what Granny Maria meant at the time, but let me tell you, I was more surprised than anyone when the doctor called my dad a few days later and said my blood work was showing some liver issues. Freaky, right? I told Dad to get some chicory root, and he looked at me like I was crazy, and he fought it like I knew he would, but he did it, and he’s grinding it up and putting it in my gruel.

But wait!
That’s
not the freaky thing!

So get this—one day, I’m sitting in my room, staring out the window at the birdhouse Sam made and Dad put up so I could see some blue jays—who of course
refuse
to use our birdhouse, like they are staging some sort of birdhouse protest—and it just came to me. I mean, I suddenly felt all warm and gooey inside, and I had this epiphany, and what Granny Maria had said that day just jumped into my head, and I
got
it. It was like a door opened in me somewhere and light streamed in, and
I got it.

She was telling me that it’s not dark on the other side, that there is light, bright warm light. And there are grass and trees and sunflowers and cows and dogs and places to run. And it’s all for
me.
There are no chairs, no feeding tubes, no breathing machines. There’s light. Lots and lots of light that goes on for infinity. And there’s me, running. My arms and legs are moving, and I can breathe and swallow, and I feel so damn
free
.

No shit, I could see all of this in my mind’s eye, I could see me running like Luke and I used to run across that meadow up at the ranch, racing each other. But the totally amazing thing is that I could actually
feel
it. I could feel my dead legs pumping and my dead lungs working, and I could feel my smile and I could hear my own laughter. You know what? I was happy. I was
super
happy!

I was
running.

TWENTY-ONE

The St. Christopher medal did not go into the leather tote bag with the other things; Emma kept it with her. It wasn’t like those other meaningless things—she hadn’t traded a piece of herself for this one. In fact, this was actually the opposite of that. Cooper had tried to give her a piece of himself, and Emma had refused it. This time, the trinket meant something.

She couldn’t even reason why she’d taken it. To cling to a part of him? Whatever the reason, Emma couldn’t bear the examination of her motives. She was too appalled by what she’d done.

For the first few days after Cooper had left, Emma kept expecting his call demanding his medal. Oh, she knew he’d figured it out. He’d probably discovered it on the flight to LA. She had no idea what she’d say when he reached her.
Sorry
? No, she wouldn’t say that because she wasn’t sorry. She was ashamed, and that was not the same thing.
It’s mine now
? No, it was definitely his, and she intended to give it back, just as soon as she could.

But the funny thing was, Cooper didn’t call. And when he didn’t, Emma’s anxiety began to ratchet. She questioned everything that had happened between them. He’d said it was his good luck charm, that he’d carried it for years. Didn’t he
want
it back? Or was it more like the idea of having a good luck charm appealed, but that actual charm could be replaced? Maybe he’d had a dozen St. Christophers in his lifetime. Maybe he kept a dozen at home in case he lost one.

Or maybe the charm didn’t mean as much to him as he’d said, and he couldn’t care less if she had it or not. Maybe he really couldn’t care less about her, and he’d said those things—those things that were now firmly lodged in her heart—in order to get sex. Could she have really imagined the connection between them? Had she manufactured the thing that had flowed between their fingers and their eyes, turning back on itself and looping again? Was she really so out of touch with the truth of her emotions?

And she suffered the worst doubt—that he was really just like the others. That was more disappointment than Emma could bear, and she hoped to God it wasn’t true.

It seemed liked a lifetime had passed since Cooper had left, and since Leo had returned from Denver and the hospital, weaker than before he’d gone, the toll of another seizure evident in the way he looked and felt. Since he’d been back, Emma had lain in bed with Leo, watching TV. He wasn’t his usual chatty self, other than his ongoing post-game analysis of why the Broncos lost. But even that—armchair coaching, his favorite pastime—was a chore for him. Emma didn’t like the lines of worry around Bob’s eyes, or the way Dani chewed her lip when she came to visit. She didn’t like that Marisol was coming by every day, standing at the foot of his bed with her hand on Leo’s leg. She didn’t like any of it. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t
fair.

Fortunately, things were a little more upbeat up at the ranch. Madeline and Libby were completely caught up in the last-minute preparations for Christmas and the wedding. They’d enlisted Tony D’Angelo, the de facto governor of the Homecoming Ranch Veteran’s Rehabilitation Center, and a veteran himself, to build a tent awning over the old paddock in case the barn was too small to include their guests and the buffet. Tony didn’t like that idea. If it snowed, he said, the tent would collapse. Which prompted Madeline, Libby, and Tony to relentlessly study the weather forecasts on an iPad.

When they weren’t trying to predict the weather, they were making things. Libby made sashes for the chairs just like the ones she’d seen in a magazine, and Madeline and Luke were building an arbor under which they would stand for the ceremony. There were mason jars and ribbons and sashes and candles everywhere.

And Emma?

When Emma wasn’t with Leo, she was lying on her bed, staring up at the ever-changing mountaintops, thinking of Cooper and of all the things he’d come to represent to her. Hope, for one. Normalcy. Maybe even love.

Emma had never been in love. Not real, deep love. She wasn’t even certain that was what she was feeling—what she felt seemed awfully painful to be love.

She thought of all the things she wanted with every bit of her being, but couldn’t have. This painful love she was feeling. A home. Someone to come home to, someone to share her life with.
Children.
All of that had seemed out of reach for her for a long time now, locked up tight as a drum in this body and brain and soul she inhabited.

For a week, Emma was lost. For a week, she hardly remembered to eat at all, unless Libby yelled at her and shoved a piece of chicken under her nose. Emma began to understand that she had no direction, and she hadn’t had one in ages. When she was a kid, she’d had these ideas of what she would become—a wife, a mother, a fashion model. A famous painter! Which was more amusing than reality, as the idea had sounded romantic to a teenage Emma, even though she’d never shown the slightest bit of talent. But at least she’d been thinking of a future, of a life. It was as if her life had shuddered to a stop the summer she turned seventeen.

How far from that girl she was now. Look at her—she’d quit her job, she’d left Los Angeles, she’d developed a torch, a flaming bonfire of a torch, for Cooper Jessup. She would be twenty-eight years old in a few months with no destination for her life, and worse, a maddening inability to maintain a single relationship. The only thing Emma had going for her was the money she’d saved and some marketable skills in a certain world. But in the greater scheme of things? She had nothing that mattered. She didn’t have anyone to care for or who cared about her.

What would she do once Luke and Madeline were married and settled here? Emma presumed they would—they had no place to go until the fate of the ranch was settled. Libby’s life had done a dramatic turnaround since last summer. She was happy now, and she was talking about moving in with Sam and maybe buying in to a partnership with Sherry Stancliff at the Tuff Tots Daycare.

None of them had said a word to Emma about her length of stay at the ranch. None of them had asked her to stay. But then again, she’d made it painfully clear she wouldn’t be around long.

Because she was going
where
again? To do what?

Maybe she’d head east, she mused. To New York, to bright lights and high society. Surely there was a management company that could use her experience in Hollywood. But
. . .
but if she went to New York, did that mean she was starting over? Or did that mean she was still hiding, or whatever the politically correct term was for running away? Would she run to London after that? Then Paris? Islamabad, Hong Kong?
When,
Emma whispered to herself, when would she stop? When would she find the courage to stop and face her issues?

Emma didn’t have any answers. She lay there, turning the St. Christopher medal over in her hand, reflecting back on a life that had made her afraid of rejection and disappointment. Of wanting her mother’s approval and finding nothing but criticism.
You’re not as cute as you think you are. You’re pretty enough, but Laura is what I would call cute.
Of wanting a father to want her.
I think we should invite Laura to Vegas, don’t you, kiddo?
Of believing someone
could
love her and want her, even once they had discovered the person beneath the face.
I care about you.

Hope could be a cruel bitch.

Cooper finally called.

Leo was sleeping, and Emma was lying down on the bed in a room that was considered Luke’s on those rare occasions he stayed home with his father and brother. When Emma’s phone rang, she glanced at the number on the screen. It was an LA area code, and her heart skipped a beat or two. Before she could talk herself out of it, she hit the talk button. “Hello.”

“Hello, Emma.”

Cooper’s voice dripped into her like warm honey, and she closed her eyes, savoring it.
“Cooper,”
she said softly. “How did you get my number?”

“From Luke.” He sighed, sounding tired to her. “I’m guessing I don’t have to say why I’m calling, do I?”

“No,” she said weakly, and opened her eyes. She heard Cooper release a breath and imagined he’d been hoping she would tell him something like,
hey, you won’t believe what Libby found in the kitchen
.

“I’m flying through Denver tomorrow on my way to Texas. I’m asking you to bring the medal to me, Emma. My grandfather gave that to me. I’ve carried it for years.”

“I know. Where do you want me to bring it?”

There was another pause, and she wondered if there was something else she was supposed to have said. Perhaps he’d wanted her to deny it, to offer an explanation. What could she say that wouldn’t be empty and meaningless to him now?

“The airport, or some place around there. I have a three-hour layover. So you’ll bring it?”

Emma held up the medal and looked at it. “You don’t have more of them lying around?”

“What?” He made a sound of impatience. “Of course not. But would it matter if I did? It’s mine, it belongs to me, and you took it from me. I’m not another notch on your bedpost.”

Oh, she didn’t blame him for that, but it hurt. He was anything and everything but that. “No, of course not—”

“I don’t care what you have to do, but I better see you in Denver tomorrow. My flight arrives at two. I’ll text you when I land.”

“Cooper, listen, I—”

She heard the unmistakable click of his phone shutting off.

“I think I love you,”
she whispered, and clicked off her phone. She gripped the St. Christopher in her hand and turned on her side. A tear slid from the corner of her eye to her pillow. Emma wouldn’t allow herself to cry more than that single tear. She didn’t deserve tears. She hadn’t earned them. She’d brought this debacle on herself and there was no room for crybabies in her thoughts.

She had to get her act together and figure things out. And she had to give Cooper back the piece of him she’d taken without asking.

The next afternoon, Emma waited in the cell phone lot at the Denver airport, having left a message for Cooper to text her when he was coming out so she could drive around to the terminal and pick him up. His text in return was brief:
Here.

“Okay,” she said, and steeled herself.

She spotted him instantly, a head taller than most, heart-stoppingly gorgeous, standing on the curb. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder, one hand in the pocket of his black jeans. He was wearing a leather jacket, and under it, a Seattle Seahawks
T-shirt. He had a cap as dark as his hair that he was wearing with the bill to the back.

Emma tried to tamp down her nerves as she pulled up alongside him. He opened the door, tossed in his backpack, and got in.

He took a look at her in her jeans and boots, the turtleneck sweater beneath a down vest. She had braided her hair, and it hung like a rope over her shoulder. Emma smiled a little at his perusal of her, and when she did, Cooper sighed. It sounded full of resignation. He picked up the end of her braid and toyed with it between his fingers. “You’re a mess, Emma Tyler.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said, and put the car in gear.

“Where are we going?” he asked as she entered the stream of cars leaving the airport.

“I don’t know. Some place to talk, I guess. There are a few restaurants on Tower Road.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She looked at him and smiled sadly. “Me either, Cooper.” But she kept driving in the direction of Tower Road and pulled into the parking lot of a diner. Where else would she take him? A roadside hotel?

The hostess, a girl with straight brown hair and black pants that rode far too low and too tight on her hips, seated them in a booth. Cooper ordered coffee, black. Emma didn’t want anything, but she felt bad for the waitress, an older, plodding woman with gray hair and a stained uniform, so she ordered coffee and a slice of cheesecake. The waitress did not appear to appreciate Emma’s gesture.

When the waitress had gone, Cooper arched a questioning brow and spread his arms along the back of the booth. “Well? Give it to me,” he said. His gray eyes looked like stone.

Emma unwrapped a straw. “I don’t want to give it to you.”

“It’s mine.”

“I know,” she said. “I stole it from you, remember?”

Cooper groaned and suddenly surged forward. He took his cap off, ran both hands over his head and then reseated his cap. “I would ask you why you did, but I know you won’t give me a straight answer. What the hell, I’ll ask it anyway,” he said, and looked up, his gaze piercing hers. “
Why
, Emma?”

She swallowed nervously. “I guess that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? If I had a really good reason, a good explanation for taking shit, I probably wouldn’t take shit, you know? Catch-22.”

“That’s a cop-out. Give it back.”

Emma opened her purse and reached inside for the charm. She reluctantly slid it across the table to him. Cooper picked it up and looked at it. He laid it back down on the table and lifted his gaze to her again.