You Only Get So Much (19 page)

Chapter 39

Well, another red-letter
day in the Redmond family saga for sure. I sit on the bed in my room wondering
how this went so wrong. Why would Mom say the things she said? Maybe she's
still adjusting to being alone since Dad passed or just bitter about life in
general. She's lived her whole adult life with him and now everything is
different. She's alone with no one to take care of. And then it hits me—I
left her. She said
abandoned for days
or something like that. Could she possibly be
upset about that? My being away couldn't possibly have caused this reaction.

I decide that I've got
bigger concerns than trying to figure out why my nutty mom is acting even
nuttier than usual. I look at my phone and see that I have a missed call from
Michelle. I need to fill her in on everything that's happened—including
this fiasco with Mom, but I need a few minutes to process first. I lie back on
the bed, my feet still touching the ground, and instantly fall asleep.

Jane comes to me in my sleep. I see her
sitting with me at a long table. Dozens of empty chairs surround the table and
Jane is at the far end. As far away as she could possibly be. Why is she
sitting there? Why isn't she next to me? Then the table is filled with people
talking. It's loud. The voices blend into one until all the people at the table
turn to me. It's Jane now sitting in every seat.

"Where have you been, Bill?" they
say in harmony. "We've been waiting so long for you to find us."

"I've always been here. I'm here
now," I try to say, but the words don't come out.

The Janes all stand up in unison and push in
their chairs. The legs of the chairs scrape against the hard ground like nails
on a chalkboard, causing me to cover my ears and turn away. And then in an
instant they are all gone, save for one at the far end of the table.

Her mouth is moving, but there is no voice coming
out.

"I can't hear you," I try to say,
but I can't get words out. She just keeps talking in silence. Her face is pale
like porcelain, beautiful and whatever she's saying is soothing and gentle. It
calms me. Then she fades away too.

*
* *

When I wake up it's dark
outside. I only slept for an hour. The dream replays over and over in my head.
I can't make any sense of it. I'm not sure dreams are supposed to make sense
anyway. I curse myself for thinking of Jane. I want to hate and forget her. I
want her to answer for what she did to me and our daughter. Not to dream of her
soothing voice and beautiful face.

It's not fair that she
has this hold on me. And it's not fair that she's done this to all of us.

The house is quiet
except for the rhythm of the TV. Gracie's watching some Disney show that
features really smart teens and really stupid adults. Must be how they see
us.
 
Go figure. We don't always act
like the smart ones.

I plop next to Gracie on
the couch.

"Hey kiddo."

She crawls into my lap
and rests her head on my chest.

"Sorry I was gone
for a few days," I say.

"It's OK. I was in
school," she says.

"Well, I'm just
starting to like you and I don't like being away for so long," I tease.

She swats me on the arm,
"Hey, that's not very nice!"
 

"Well, it's a rough
world out there kid," I say with a smile. "You'd better get used to
it."

She ignores that and
returns to watching her TV show. There seems to be an argument over two of the
main characters actually liking each other. The topic seems a bit more mature
than what I think Gracie would understand, but who knows.

"Who is
Liberty?" she asks when the show goes to a commercial.

"I think you mean
Libby," I say.

"Maybe. How do you
spell it?" she asks.

"L-I-B-B-Y," I
say.

"How do you spell
your name?"

"B-I-L-L-Y."

"That's like the
same letters almost," she says.

I realize she's right.
While it's not quite an anagram, it's pretty darn close. I wondered where Jane
came up with Libby as Aspen's new name. It's a bit unsettling that she found
one that was so close to mine—and that I didn't even realize it until
Gracie noticed. More questions without an answer.

"She's downstairs
with Kendall talking," Gracie says. "Who is she?"

"Well, it's a bit
hard to explain and I know you might not understand right now, but she's my
daughter. I just haven't seen her in a long time."

"OK, that's what I
thought," she says.

"Why's that?"

"Because you have
the same letters in your name, silly," she says with an expression that
means there could be no other possible reason.
 

"Yep. That's
why," I say and don't offer any additional explanation. When the time
comes and she needs to know what happened, I'll have to tell her. But I'm not
interested in crossing that bridge just yet.

"Is she gonna live
here too?" she asks.

"I'm not sure yet,
honey."

"Well, I want a new
room, so she can have mine."

"Why do you want a
new room?" I ask, but I know at the moment there are no spare bedrooms to
be had for anyone. I'm still sleeping on a bed in the office and I plan to put
Libby in the room April was staying in.

"Kendall is really
noisy. Her computer is really loud and she's on it when I go to bed and that
makes it hard for me to go to sleep."

"Maybe I should
just talk to Kendall about being quieter? Is it her music?"

"No," she
says.
 
"She just types loud.
She likes to type the stuff in all those blue books in her room."

"The blue ones,
really?" I ask, but she ignores me. The show has returned from its
commercial break and Gracie's attention is focused intently on the teen drama.
I make a mental note to ask Kendall about those blue notebooks again, but I
don't want her to think I was spying on her. I am curious though. Are those
still my blue notebooks and if so, what is she doing with them?

I slide Gracie over onto
the couch next to me and cover her with a blanket from a basket on the floor.
She snuggles in close, but keeps watching the show.

*
* *

"I think I should
go back to Seattle," Libby says after dinner. The girls and I ordered a
pizza. Mom didn't even come out of her room.

"Why would you do
that? You just got here," I say, trying not to let my emotions overcome me
and yell at her that there is no way in hell I'm letting her out of my sight
until she's 40—at least.

"You've got it good
here. Kendall and Gracie are awesome and they need you to be here for them
since their parents . . .
"

"Trevor and
Jennifer."

"Right, sorry.
Since Uncle Trevor and Aunt Jennifer died. They need you to be their new
dad," she says. "They don't need me here to take you away."

I'm impressed with this
act of selflessness, but shocked at the same time. Without any hesitation,
she's ready to give up a parent so someone else can have one. I want to be
proud of her, but I'm disgusted at the same time. She should never think I
would let her go so easily. Whatever Jane did to her has made her think that
parents can just pop in and out of your life when the seasons change. That's
sick. That's not how it's supposed to work and it infuriates me that she was
brought up in an environment that would allow such a thing.

"I'll be perfectly
honest with you," I say. "I know the girls need me and I love them. I
didn't think I was the guy who could help them. Just a few months ago, I was
ready to never see another member of my family again. I hid myself away from
everyone I knew to ensure that my actions didn't hurt anyone. It was better
that way, or so I thought."

"I'm not sure I
know what you're saying," she says.

"Life went on
without me. The pain, hurt and loss. The joys and happiness. All of it. And I
wasn't around to see it. It didn't help anyone but me to hide. I was a coward.
I hid myself—I thought I killed you and your mom and that exile to
Montana was my punishment. Now that I know that it was all a lie, I'm mad. Mad
at your mother. Mad at myself for allowing self-pity and loathing to blind me.
So, if I'm being perfectly honest with you—there is no way in the world
that I'm going to be apart from you. If you want to move to Alaska, I'll be on
the next dogsled behind you. I need to see you grow and become a strong woman.
We need to make all this right again."

Libby smiles and looks
out the window to the snow outside.

"I don't like the
cold," she says.

"What?"

"I don't want to
move to Alaska."

"Good. Me
either," I say.

"But I can't be a
burden to you. That's not fair to them."

"Let's make a
deal," I say. "I'll do the best I can to be the father and uncle I'm
supposed to be if you stop thinking of yourself as extra baggage. You're part
of this family and that will never change."

"I can try,"
she says.

"Good. Now there's
one other person in my life you haven't met yet."

"Not another crazy
grandma, I hope," she says.

"Not even close.
Her name's Michelle and I think you'll like her."

Chapter 40

That night I can't
sleep. Libby is staying in the office that doubles as my bedroom, so I curl up
on the couch in the basement with a blanket and pillow. I don't have the energy
to clear off the bed in April's room. But sleep doesn't come. A January winter
storm is raging outside, which is beautiful in its own way. The big sliding
glass door gives me a nice window to watch snow engulf the world. The wind
howls, swirling the snow in a dizzying dance to the ground. It's a welcome
sight and one of the reasons I'll always call the Northwest my home.

I watch the snow because
my mind won't shut off. I think about Trevor and Jennifer and how their deaths
kicked off a series of events that led me here today. I think about my father,
whose ashes are still sitting on the fireplace mantel upstairs. I'm thankful
that I was able to spend some time with him before the end. I wonder what he
meant when he told me, right before he died, to
be the man he raised
and that he was
proud of me. Was it because I finally came around and came home after being
gone for 12 years? Or was it something else entirely? What sort of man did he
want to raise? Am I being that person now? Or could he have been trying to give
me the kick in the butt I needed to stop being so selfish? Maybe it was a
little of all of it. I miss him and how easy it was for me to open up and tell
him anything I felt, even if he wasn't physically able to respond to me. He
knew and that matters.

I think about Libby and
how she fits into my world now. She's a grown woman—almost. She's 19 and
by any legal definition she can make her own choices and decide for herself
what she'd like to do. But in another way she's many years younger and
immature. She was raised on a lie and made to feel unwelcome. What can I do to
make it right with her? I've missed out on 12 years of parenting—learning
how to tell if she's OK or not. Now I want to be perfect for her and I have no
background to fall back on.

I can't fail her.

I feel like the snow
floating about outside—drifting aimlessly toward the ground. I'm being
tossed this way and that way before I land.

I don't want to lose
her.

My fear of making a
mistake with Libby sits in my gut because of Jane. Because I can't be certain
that I alone wasn't the problem. Sure, she's the one who took action and made
this situation happen, but why? What was it that led us there? I would be the
most self-centered person in the world if I didn't think that I had something
to do with her decision to run from me. I'm not perfect. Never was. But there
is so much distance between that life and today and I can't come to a conclusion
that makes me satisfied. I want to know so I don't do it again.

I can't force my family
away. I can't be Billy, the guy who exiles himself anymore.

But I have questions
that can't be answered by anyone but Jane, and obviously that's not going to happen.
I bristle even to think of her. I don't want to.

So I think of Michelle.
Sweet Michelle, who came into my life at the worst—or possibly the
best—time imaginable. She snapped me out of my funk by just being
herself. She was my safety net when Dad died, helping with the girls and
remaking Christmas. She's helped Gracie in school and out. If not for her I'm
not sure that I would be where I am. She gave me the strength and encouragement
to see Libby in that jail cell. Never once has she asked anything of me. Am I
worthy of that? Am I doing enough for her? I think the answer is a resounding
no, but I'm at a loss to try and fix it. I think about the conversation we had
in her kitchen about building families and how for a brief moment I thought she
might be pregnant. It makes me happy.

I can build a life with
her. I can start over or at least start again.

The wind outside settles
down and the snow stops blowing against the sliding glass door. It's quiet. I
pull the blanket over my shoulder, close my eyes and force myself to forget the
worry and pain, and to focus on what else makes me happy. I close my eyes and
see images of Gracie, Kendall and Libby. They are all smiling and with me. I
see Michelle and feel her touch. My mind begins to shut off as I finally drift
off to a much-needed sleep.
 

But the moment is
fleeting. I see Jane again in my dreams.

She's again at that big table, each chair
filled with another Jane. Then it's just one, sitting right next to me. She
stands up, walks away, stopping only to see if I follow her. She waits. I try
to follow but I can't move. She disappears.

I bolt upright,
instantly awake with a cold sweat covering my forehead.

It's going to be a long
night.

* * *

I spend the next few
days showing Libby around Spokane, which in the winter isn't all that exciting.
The trees are bare and the river is low. The city is a sloppy mess of slush and
crusty black snow pushed up onto sidewalks and into icy mounds in the middle of
grocery store parking lots. I really do love this town and it always feels like
home when I come back. I want Libby to see it in the spring. It's so much more
appealing when the trees are full of green leaves and the lilacs are in bloom.

I show her my high
school—North Central. It's a big brick complex with several structures
and random add-ons. Not much to look at really and she doesn't seem impressed.

Less than a mile away is
the house I was raised in. We park on the street in front of the house.

"It's a nice
house," she says of the craftsman style home across from Corbin Park.

The four-bedroom,
102-year-old brick home features a wide covered porch that extends the width of
the house. I explain that the inside is filled with deep mahogany woodwork, the
type of stuff that builders don't bother with today. I remember my dad would
spend long hours on the weekends restoring the original craftsman features of
the house. He took great pride in the work too. The bedrooms were heated with
radiators, which meant I would have my bedroom window open even in the dead of
winter to try and regulate the boiling heat and freezing cold. Even today I
tend to open the windows when I sleep. Habit, I guess.

Corbin Park across the
street spans several blocks in either direction. The mostly flat park is
covered in manicured grass and filled with large maple trees, a playground,
basketball court and walking paths. Today it's covered in snow, except for a
few paths tamped down by children looking for a shortcut across the park.
   

"My parents sold
the house when Dad needed full-time medical care awhile back. I loved growing
up here," I say. "It seems to be a little worse for wear today,
though."

A gutter on the east
side of the house hangs loosely off the edge of the roof. A broken birdbath
sits in three pieces in the flowerbed and a rusty Jeep with four flat tires
blocks the single-car driveway to the garage.

I try to ignore the
neglect the current homeowners have inflicted on the house, but it makes me
angry to see my dad's work go to waste because these people can't figure out
how to keep up with it.

"In the summer
April, Trevor and I used to spend all day at the park. I'm not sure what we did
all that time, but the park seemed much bigger back then than it does right
now. Adventure around every tree and rock."

"That sounds nice,
you getting to spend summers with your brother and sister," she says.

Something in her voice
makes me realize that I might be rubbing it in because I had it so good with
siblings and parents growing up while she was alone with her mom. I had several
friends who were an only child. Our experiences were never quite the same. They
seemed to grow up too fast, emulating the adult actions of their parents before
they really needed to.

"I'm sorry," I
say. "I'm being insensitive, bringing you here."

"No, not at all. I
want to see where you were raised. It's OK."

"I guess I don't
really know much about where you were raised either," I say, trying to
shift the conversation.

"There's not much
to it, really," she says. "We lived in this secluded little house by
the river near St. Cloud with Mom and Aunt Ella until I was in Jr. High. Then
we moved to Port Orchard and after a while we lived with Frank. Just those
places."

"Who's Aunt
Ella?"

"Just the lady who
owned the house we lived in," Libby says. "She rented us two rooms
and in exchange for rent Mom worked around the house a little. She was a nice
lady."

"Why did you call
her aunt? She wasn't really your aunt, right?"

"No. We lived with
her for years. She took care of me when Mom was working. I guess you just do
that. Her real name was
Aurella. Aurella Mackey, but everybody always called her Ella."

She shrugs her
shoulders.

"I never really
thought about where you guys lived or who you lived with," I say. "I
just assumed you hid out somewhere in an apartment or something."

"Remember, I didn't
think we were hiding. You don't question stuff like that when you're a kid. I'm
not sure why Mom picked that place to rent rooms, but I know that's where we
went after you . . . well. After you died."

"You went right
there? No place else?" I ask.

"I'm pretty sure. I
mean I was 6 I think, so I can't be certain, but that's the only place I ever
remember staying. I started kindergarten that year too. Half way through the
year. Pine Trail Elementary."

I was already trying to
figure out why Jane picked central Minnesota to live, or hide, depending on how
you look at it. And now to learn that Jane knew exactly where she was going
beforehand, it's just too convenient. She had to have been planning it, maybe
for weeks or months. Did I really miss those signs for months? Was I that much
of an idiot?

"Whatever happened
to Aunt Ella?"

"I saw her a few
years ago. Actually it was right before Mom died. She came out and saw us. She
was really old then. She stayed at Frank's house for a few days and then went
back to Minnesota."

"How old was
she?"

"I have no idea,
but pretty old I think."

"If you had to
guess?"

"I don't know?
Seventy years old? She wore one of those white wigs because her hair was really
thin after she had chemo treatment for cancer."

"Are you in contact
with her?" I ask.

"What do you mean?
Since I saw her last? No. She just showed up one day. Mom asked her to come. I
didn't friend her on Facebook or anything."

"Is she on
Facebook?"

"I highly doubt
it," she says. "Why does it matter who we lived with?"

"It probably
doesn't. I'm just curious," I say.

But it does matter. It
matters that there's some woman living in Minnesota who knows Jane from the
moment "she died" in that fire in New York. She also knows about the
new life she started in Port Orchard with Frank.

I leave these questions
behind and continue my Spokane tour with Libby, but my mind's not on it. It's
somewhere east of here, thinking about St. Cloud, Minnesota, and some woman
named Aunt Ella.