You Only Get So Much (17 page)

Chapter 35

Port Orchard, Washington

The hour-and-half-long ride
to Port Orchard was the most exciting and most painful drive of my life. I had
so many questions to ask her. I kept listing them in my head over and over to
make sure that I could get them out when given the opportunity.
 
But almost immediately Libby—I
guess that's what I'm calling her now—fell asleep against the truck
window.

Michelle said that I
needed to take it slow anyway.

"Don't overwhelm
her with everything," she had said the day before. "Match her
pace.
 
She'll tell you when she's
ready. This will be a lot for her to take in all at once."

Following her guideline
was excruciating, but was also the right thing to do.

We had just made it into
Port Orchard when she woke up.

"Turn here,"
Libby says, startling me. We get to the bottom of a hill near the terminal for
the ferry that crosses the Puget Sound.
 
We take another right on a road that skirts the water.

We pull up to a run-down
apartment complex tucked away behind a strip mall.

"I'm on the third
floor. Just like 12 years ago," she says glibly. "Ironic, huh?"

I don't laugh, but just
follow her up the stairs and into the small apartment. Inside is a twin bed,
ratty dresser, a futon and several cardboard boxes.

"Welcome to my
palace," she says. "The chandeliers are being delivered next week with
the gold-plated toilet and the wall-to-wall tapestries."

Now that's funny. I
laugh and we share a smile.

"It's all I can
afford," she says. "We were splitting the rent at the other place,
which actually wasn't much of a step up from this dump."

"It's nice," I
offer.

"No. It's ghetto
and only temporary. I signed a six-month lease so I could have a place that
wasn't with Dillon.

"Dillon is your
boyfriend who you were staying with before?"

"Was my
boyfriend," she says.

"Right,
sorry."

This conversation is
awkward. This whole situation is awkward. Two strangers who should know each
other, but don't.

She plops down on the
futon and pulls a pillow across her lap. This seemingly meaningless movement is
identical to what Jane would do every time she sat on the sofa at home. She
holds the pillow close to her chest. I wonder if she knows that's exactly what
her mother used to do too.

"So what do you
want to know?" she asks.

"How did I
die?" I ask.

It's like the Twilight
Zone, asking that question.

"We were in all in
New York, like you said. Mom and I left the hotel. I'm not sure why. I was
young and only remember bits and pieces. I remember the explosion though. Mom
was holding my hand as we stood under the big awning in front of the hotel. I
think we were waiting for a cab, but that's a guess. The ground shook and I
fell down, scraping my knee and elbow. Mom was crying, but that was even before
the explosion. She picked me up and ran down the street."

"She told you I was
inside?"

"Later, yes, but I
don't remember when," she says. "I've always known that's how you
died, so I never questioned it."

"Incredible,"
I say shaking my head. It's the only thing I can think to say.

"So that was all a
lie, then?" She asks.

"Yeah," I say,
quietly. I'm calling her mother a liar and ripping apart everything she has
ever known. "I'm real and I'm sitting right next to you, so yes, it was a
lie and I wish I could tell you why, but I can't."

I have so many
questions, so I continue.

"Do you remember
me?" I ask.

She takes a moment
before answering.

"You mean, did I
recognize you at the jail? Yes . . . there was obviously something familiar
about you, but I couldn't wrap my head around what because it's insane."

"How about now, do
you remember anything about us from before?"

"Yes and no,"
she says. "You know how when you look at pictures of yourself when you
were a little kid, you can picture the day and what happened?" she asks.

"Like a visual
clue. You form a memory based on that image," I answer.

"Right. Well, I can't
do that with you. Mom only kept one picture of you.
 
It was always in the top drawer of her nightstand."

Libby gets up and
crosses the room to a box next to her mattress. She returns and hands me the
picture.

"I took it from the
drawer after she died," she says.

I examine the photo.

"This was the day
you were born," I say.

Jane is in a hospital
bed, the strain of childbirth still visible on her face. Beautiful nonetheless.
Little hours-old Aspen is on her chest. And then there's me, leaning in with a
big goofy smile.

"You have always
been a shadow in the back of my mind and
that
guy next to my mom in that picture. But
that's it. I don't really remember you any other way. Just flashes. I'm
sorry."

"You don't have
anything to be sorry about. You didn't choose this. She did."

"I don't understand
why she did this," she says. "What was so bad that she felt she
needed to create her own life and leave you?"

"I don't know,
honey," I say. "I wasn't perfect, but I'm telling you the honest
truth that there was no reason why this needed to happen. I know you don't know
me, but I want us to be a family again. I know that it will take time, but
you're my daughter. I'm your father. It's not too late."

She stands up, visibly
shaken, and walks to the window with her back toward me. Her arms are crossed
tightly across her chest.

"I can't do all
this. This is too much," she chokes out through tears. "You're dead.
You've been dead since I was a little girl."

I stand next to her at
the window and put my arm around her shoulder. She shudders when I do this.

"We can't go back
and change what happened before, but we can make it better now and for the rest
of our lives," I coax gently. "I'm not the only one who wants to know
you. Your grandmother. Your cousins. Wait, did you know your mother's
family?"

I ask because Jane never
introduced me to her family. Said she left when she was a kid and never looked
back. It occurred to me that maybe Libby knew them.

"No. It was just me
and Mom," she says. "I have a grandmother?"

"My mother, yes.
She's as crazy as a one-eyed bat, but she's yours," I say to lighten the
mood. "Whenever you're ready you can meet her."

"I'm not sure about
that. I don't know her."

"You don't know me
either," I counter.

"I know," she
admits.

"I will tell you
anything you want to know, even if it takes all night," I volunteer.

"Did you love my
mom?" she asks with a vulnerability that tells me only one answer
 
will do. Thankfully it's the truth.

"With every last
fiber of my being. Yes. I wasn't the perfect husband, but I loved her and she
knew that. I have no doubt."

"Then why? Why did
this happen?"

I let the question fall
between us. I don't have the answer.

*
* *

The sun has set outside
and the dim street light peeking in the window is the only thing illuminating
the room. Libby is sound asleep on the bed. The exhaustion of the last few
days, and in particular the last few hours, finally got to her and she needed
sleep.

I, on the other hand,
have no thoughts of falling asleep. I'm as wide awake as a person could
possibly be. And I can't contain the smile on my face.

I have my daughter back.

Chapter 36

I'm up at the crack of
dawn. I blame Aspen's lumpy futon as much as my impatient excitement for
spending time with her. I'm still having trouble calling her Libby. She doesn't
know who this Aspen person was, so what's point? Part of me is resisting
because I know it was Jane who changed her name to Libby. I don't like going
along with anything she decided. Maybe that's cruel and unfair, but my feelings
of loss and remorse haven't faded. I still love Jane. But I'm having a hard
time reconciling these feelings inside me. Part of me hates her actions, but
the person? That's harder to deal with even after all this time. Maybe it's
because there is so much that I don't or can't know.

I decide to take a walk
by that shoreline I saw yesterday as we drove in. I'm careful not to wake Libby
as I get dressed in the living room. I leave her a note on the futon.
"Took a walk. Be back shortly," it reads. I can imagine what might go
through her head if she wakes to find me gone with no explanation. I was ripped
from her life once and it won't happen again. It's probably being overly
cautious, but I'd rather not upset her if I can avoid it.
 

I step outside and smell
the salty air. A mixture of moss and wet pine fills my nose. The apartment
building isn't in great shape. The pounding from the nearby Puget Sound has
left it stripped of paint and bowing in places from moisture. I see this
repeatedly as I walk block after block of this town, which all seems to slope
toward the water. Soggy houses surrounded by clumps of overgrown grasses. No
sidewalks.
 
I see only one other
soul during my walk. It's a kid delivering newspapers. It's only 5 a.m. No cars
pulling out of driveways with workers making their daily trek to the office. No
one seems to be going anywhere.
 

Why did Jane pick this
town? Why bring our daughter here of all places? Frank said that he met
Lisa—as he called her—when she was working at a bar. I didn't ask
any additional questions. I just assumed the bar was here. I never should have
let that guy leave without giving me every possible detail he knew. But I was
too shocked to think straight. I probably wouldn't have gotten anywhere with
him anyway. Maybe I could find him again. If he really was a long-haul trucker,
there has to be records of where to find him. Libby would know how to find him.
I make a mental note to ask her.

The troubling piece for
me in this whole mess is how close by Jane and Libby lived to me, even after I
moved to Montana. I was in Seattle several times between then and now. I was
less than a hundred miles from where they lived and had no idea.

There's so much I don't
know.

Before I realize it,
I've strolled miles away from Libby's apartment with no memory of what path I
used to get here. I left my phone charging back at the apartment, so I have to
rely on my not-so-great navigation skills to get back. I turn back to the path
by the water, knowing it's probably longer, but I'm assured to get where need
to go by following the shoreline road. On the way back I see some actual signs
of life. Cars line up for the ferry and joggers pass me on their morning runs.
Maybe this town isn't totally dead.

The return route takes
much longer, but that also means that Aspen gets more time to rest before I get
back and pepper her with questions about her mother. I want her to come stay
with me in Spokane. She's older than the other girls and will probably want a
place of her own, but we're her family and it only makes sense to stay close to
the people who love you. I think of Gracie, Kendall and even Mom. She's holding
down the fort at home. I feel terrible about not telling her the truth about
why I came to Seattle, but she's been through so much lately that one more
thing might be too much for her. The same goes for the girls. My girls now. I
want to be there for them, helping Gracie with her reading each night and
talking with Kendall about her goals for the future. They are a part of me now
and I miss them. I want them to meet their cousin too—Libby. I decide
right there that I will call her Libby from now on. For her sake, not mine.

Libby can have the
office or April's room until she gets her own place. I'm organizing her move in
my head as I mount the creaky stairs to the third floor of the apartment
building.

I stop to catch my
breath at the top of the stairs, which face the exterior of the apartment
building. I'm way more out of shape than I let myself believe. As I wait I hear
raised voices. It must be two of her neighbors going at it. But as I walk down
the hallway, the voices get louder, even though I can't make out what they are
saying. Then I do.

"Come on Lib!"
comes the shout from a deep male voice. "You can't do this to me!"

*
* *

I burst through the
door, which was left unlocked. Inside I find a hulking man in black jeans and
an oversize white tee-shirt. His skin is dark and his hair is black. Distinct
Native American features. His biceps, which are covered in tattoos, bulge from
under the sleeves of the shirt.

He's standing above
Libby who is sprawled out on the floor. I don't know why she's there. Did she
fall? Was she pushed? On instinct I rush toward her to comfort her, but I'm
knocked off my feet when I get close. One firm wave of his arm connecting to my
chest, sends me to the ground.

"No!" she
says.

"Is this
why?!" he shouts at her. "Is this the guy?"

I scramble to my feet,
ready to confront the brute head on. The Papa Bear instinct that I didn't know
I had inside me surges through my body. I could stop a runaway truck with one
finger at this point. I march toward him.

"Dad, no!"
Libby says. "He'll hurt you."

I'm momentarily tripped
up by the use of the word "Dad." This word stops him too.

"You call him
Dad?" he says, then turns toward me. "That's sick. You're a sick
bastard."

I move past him and lift
Libby off the ground, walking her toward the back of the futon, putting
distance between her and this man who I assume is Dillon, the felon
ex-boyfriend.

"I think you should
leave," I say, standing between the two of them.

"Who the hell are
you?" he says.

"I'm the guy who is
telling you it's time to go, now!" the words burst from my lungs with a
ferocity I've not felt in a long time. Strong. Commanding. "Dillon, right?
I've already called the police and I don't think you want to be here when I
explain how you assaulted me and my daughter. How many strikes do you have?
Time to go now. They'll be here any minute."

Of course this is a
complete lie, but he's got no reason to believe I'm not telling the truth. He
doesn't know that it's my cell phone plugged into the wall in the kitchen and
there is absolutely no chance I've called 911.

"This is none of
your business, old man," he spits at me.

"I've made it my
business and now we're in it together. Time to go," I say.

I don't know if it was
divine intervention or just a coincidence, but in the distance I hear an
emergency siren. Could be a police car, ambulance or fire truck. It has no
connection to us whatsoever; but he doesn't know that.

"I'm not gonna
forget this, old man," he says. "It didn't have to be like this, you
know?"

"Yeah, I
know," I say with a smirk. "Now, out."

I point at the door.

He bolts from the room
and I hear his heavy footsteps as he races down the hall, running from authorities
who aren't chasing him.

As soon as he's gone
Libby starts to cry. Her shoulders quiver and she covers her face with her
hands.

"Honey, it's
OK," I say.

I take her in my arms
and hold her close. A protective hug from a virtual stranger. Her tears run
down the front of my jacket. After a while she pulls back and wipes her eyes
with her shirt sleeves.

"That," she
says, "was Dillon."

"Quite the
fella," I say.

"He wasn't always
that way."

"Well, it usually
doesn't start out like that," I say. "What did he want?"

"First he said he
wanted to apologize for me getting arrested, but that's not why he came."

"Why did he
come?" I ask.

"He said there was
money missing from the house and wanted to know where it was."

"And when you said
you didn't know, he got upset?"

"Not exactly,"
she said. "I took the money. $750. He hadn't paid the rent in months and
he was keeping this stash in a shoebox in the closet. We were going to get
evicted. So I took the money and paid the rent with it."

"I assume he didn't
see it that way."

"No, he didn't. I'm
not a thief, " she says, exasperated. She takes a breath before
continuing. "You find me in jail and then this. I'm a mess. Not the
daughter you were hoping for. Not by a mile. I'm sure your opinion of me
couldn't go any lower."
 

She's embarrassed.

"Libby I don't know
you and you don't know me," I say, looking directly into her eyes.
"Who am I to judge your past? I haven't walked in your shoes or seen what
you've seen. I want to know every detail of your life, but I'm not about to
judge you for it. That's not fair to you or me. We are starting over. Clean
slate."

"I'd like
that," she says.

We sit on the futon and
she pulls a pillow onto her lap.

"You're exactly the
daughter I wanted and don't you try to think otherwise," I say. "I'm
just so happy to have found you."

"Me too," she
says, then pauses before adding, "I've never had that happen before,"
she says.

"I should hope not,
Dillon was—"

"No, not
that," she interrupts. "I've never had someone stand up for me like
you just did. Ever. Not Mom. Nobody. I didn't know what that felt like. I don't
know how to thank you."

"You don't have
to," I say. "This is how it's supposed to be."