You Only Get So Much (24 page)

Chapter 50

The sun has set and it's
after dinnertime when April and I arrive at the Cedar House. I hit the remote
button and open the garage door. Seconds later Kendall emerges through the
garage to greet us. Before I even step out of the truck, she's standing at my
door, holding a picture up to the window.

"Oh, hi,
April!" she says, putting the picture down and running around to the other
side of the truck to hug her aunt.

"You're so
big!" she says.

"I've been
indulging my love of cheese steaks, I can't deny that," she says.

April's face beams at
Kendall and the affection is certainly reciprocated.

"What's this?"
April says, looking at the folded paper in Kendall's hand.

"Oh, it's for Uncle
Billy. Come over, into the light," she says, and we follow her into the
garage.

On Trevor's workbench,
Kendall unfolds a waxy piece of 11-by-17-inch paper.

"It's just a quick
rendering, but I think it's a pretty good one," she says.

Centered on the paper is
a drawing done in fine tip markers. Deep red lines, shaded beautifully with
oranges and blacks. A man stands in the center of the drawing, carrying a
briefcase, walking down a flight of stairs to a taxi cab waiting at the curb.
The attention to detail is astounding. The man has his hand on the head of a
little boy sitting on the stairs. He's tousling his hair.

In gold letters across
the top, read the words, "Your Loss." Then at the bottom of the page,
superimposed across the top of the taxi cab are the words, "A Novel by
Billy Redmond."

"Ethan drew
it," Kendall says.

My first thought is
seeing poor Ethan with his manhood zipped up in his fly, but I push that image
out of my head and look at the book cover.

"This is better
than pretty good," I say. "It's actually really great."

"Yeah, it looks
like it could be a professional one," April says.

"You should thank
him for me. This is cool," I say.

"He can finalize this
on his computer in a few days and we can upload it to the publisher's website
immediately after that," Kendall says.

 
"Honey, that's great, but the
publishing house picks the cover art, not the author," I say.

"Not when you
publish it independently. We talked about this. With your name recognition, you
don't need a big publisher to get your book out there."

"It needs editing,
though," I contend.

I hear a click of the
latch from the door that leads into the garage. Michelle joins us, rubbing her
arms because of the cold weather.

"I took care of
that," she says. "It was about time I put that English minor to some
use."

"You're not as
terrible a writer as you let on," Michelle teases. "It didn't need
that much editing at all. OK, yes, it did; but we're all good now. I spent some
serious time smoothing over the rough edges."

"Really?" I
ask.

"Really,"
Michelle and Kendall confirm in unison. Kendall explains that Michelle had been
getting chapters of the book as Kendall typed them out, then made editorial notes
on them. Kendall input the edits too.

"My friend
Cooper—he's a teacher too—does professional freelance editing on
the side and did the final review of the book too," Michelle volunteers.
"So it wasn't just us amateurs going through it. You've got a nice book
here. It's ready for prime time."

Michelle doesn't wait
for my reply, but turns to April.

"You must be
April," she says. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

I pick up the cover and
examine it a bit closer. It really is perfect and certainly not what I thought
the cover should look like, which means it's probably just right.

We walk inside to find
Gracie and Mom sitting on the living room floor playing a game of Connect Four
with Libby. It's peaceful in the house. There's a radio playing in the background.
Libby and Mom are actually talking. Whatever hiccup they had before seems to
have dissipated. I'm grateful.

Michelle, April, Kendall
and I sit on the couches and watch the game. I realize at that moment that
everyone who is important to me is sitting in this room. The entire world could
burn to the ground and I'd have everyone I need right here with me.
Need
. That's
a new one. I need them. I do.

There's no denying it
now, no way around it. These women—from the cute little first grader, to
the old one in the lime green pants—are my family. The people who will
keep me safe from the big bad world out there. And in return, I've promised to
do the same for them until I can no longer fight for them. I pledge at that
moment to be the best man that I can be. The best uncle, son, brother and
boyfriend I can be. What else do I have to offer but this?

Michelle slides her hand
on top of mine and our fingers intertwine. A warm sensation passes through me.
Happiness? Contentment? Maybe a mixture of both. It doesn't matter anyway. It
feels good and I don't ever want it to go away.

*
* *

I say goodnight to
Gracie and watch as Libby and Kendall walk her to her bedroom each holding one
of her hands. Her hair, which she'd cut lopsided at her friend's house last
summer has now grown out past her ears. I know now that the hair cutting was a
cry for help. I don't think she did it for attention. She did it because it was
one of the only things in her life that she could actually control. But now,
surrounded by supportive family and a commitment from me, her sister—heck
all of us—to care for her, she doesn't need to cry for help. I wouldn't
wish her situation on anyone, but given everything, she's a lucky girl.

I see Mom smile as she
puts her hand on April's swollen belly. The two of them quietly talk by the
living room fireplace and I'm sure April is recapping her last few months, just
as she did for me. Michelle and I watch from the other side of the room,
voyeurs. I hope Mom has the ability to actually listen to April's words, and
not offer critiques and the holier-than-thou commentary she's famous for.
Probably not. But I'm not going to insert myself into that relationship. They
need to bring it together themselves, healing the same wounds that I nursed
with Mom too.

With April's looming due
date, I suspect that Mom will enjoy being useful in the lead-up to the birth
and no doubt afterward as well. Only time will tell. But if April is as honest
with Mom as she was with me, then they are headed in the right direction for some
mutual understanding. Who am I kidding? Mom is going to drive her nuts and I'm
sorry to say I'm going to enjoy it. At least they are together. Annoying and
all.

I want April to be a
changed person and I want Mom to help her stay there.

"I missed
you," Michelle says, pressing up against me from behind. She slides her
hands across my stomach and up to my chest and pulls me in close. I can feel
her breath on my neck and smell her hair. I've missed her too.

"You did,
huh?" I say, toying with her.

"Yes. As much as I
try to forget about you, I just can't seem to shake you. It's a problem."

"That's too
bad," I say. "You know, I keep leaving town. You think you'd get the
hint by now. Guess not."

She squeezes my stomach
hard, like the Heimlich maneuver pushing a blast of breath out of me. But I
recover quickly, spinning around to see her face. I kiss her deeply.

"Get a room you
two!" April calls out from across the room.

I give her the finger.

"I missed you too,
babe," I say to Michelle as we walk into the privacy of the kitchen.
"I really did."

"So does that mean
you'll be staying put for a while?" she asks.

I've been thinking about
this ever since we left Minnesota. The question is, how can I explain my need
to seek answers about Jane, while not offending the budding romance I have with
Michelle? Sure, I could be cold about it and ignore her feelings altogether.
It'd be easier. But that's no good. Yet I can't let these unanswered questions
linger. If I want to release myself from my past, and fully open myself up to
Michelle, I need closure. I need it to be over. I just hope Michelle
understands that and understands how it has nothing to do with her or anything
I'm missing from her, but everything to do with me and closure that has been
nearly 13 years in coming.

"I think I've got
one more trip to take," I say.

"Oh, yeah? Where
to?"

I tell her about Grandma
Ella. I tell her that the Frank I met was really Jane's brother Alex.

"Why would he pose
as someone else?" She asks.

"That's the
question I've been asking myself since I found out. I don't know why," I
say.

"He obviously knew
that Libby was in jail."

"Yes, but he could
have just admitted who he was and explained the whole thing. He could have said
he was anyone in the world. Taking on another person's identity is a whole new
level of creepy."

"Right," I
say. "But how did he know she was in jail? He's nobody to her. Libby
didn't recognize him in the picture."

"So he wasn't
around her, claiming to be someone else," she says.
 

"I guess not."

"Wait, didn't you
say he showed you a picture of him with Jane in his semi-truck?"

"Yes, but I wasn't
looking at him or the truck. I have no idea if it was his," I say. "I
was looking a picture of my dead wife who had aged 10 years since she had
supposedly died."

"So the truck could
have belonged to anyone?"

"I guess, why's it
matter?" I ask.

"Because if the
photo of Jane and Alex was taken next to Frank's truck, it means Alex and Frank
know each other. And he just pulled out a picture and said,
hey, I'm Frank
.
So this tells me that he wanted to stay anonymous and keep you in the
dark."

"The best lies are
the ones with some truth to them," I say. "So you're saying that Alex
knew about his sister's deception?"

"I think it's more
than likely that he did," she says. "Otherwise, why show up and put
on a show like that?"

"I'm tired of being
lied to," I say. "Just for the record, you're really Michelle Dixon,
the girl I dated in high school, fell madly in love with, then didn't see again
for decades and who I am now madly in love with again? That's you right? You're
not secretly hiding a double life, a couple of kids and a weird brother
somewhere?"

"Define weird. You
remember my brother, right?"

"I'm serious,"
I affirm. "Clearly I never asked the right questions before."

"I don't think you
should have to ask those questions. When you love someone you tell them
everything. You don't hide from them. Oh, and I'm madly in love with you too,
since you mentioned it."

This girl really is
something special.

"Oh, good, because
I thought I was going to have to fake my death and make a run for it if you
didn't feel the same," I say to lighten the mood.

"There's been a bit
too much of that going around lately," she says. "Let's just stay
alive for now."

"Deal," I say.

"I think you should
make that trip to Colorado," she says.

"It doesn't bother
you that I need to go?"

"As long as you
come home to me afterward; no, it doesn't bother me one bit," she says.
"I can't imagine what you're feeling, but I know I'd want answers too.
It's OK. Go. But promise me one thing."
 

"Anything."

"That you'll still
be madly in love with me when I tell you my secret."

"Oh, man. The bar
is set pretty high with secrets around here," I say.

"Don't worry, it's
just one. Hurry back then and I'll tell you."

"You're such a
tease!" I say tickling her side and making her double over in laughter.

"Do you agree to my
terms?" she quickly recovers.

"Yes, I will still
be in love with you when you tell me your horrible secret."

"I can't wait. I
have to tell you now . . . I used to be a man!" she says laughing.

"Sheesh, and I
thought it was going to be something big."

Chapter 51

Sterling, Colorado

I wasn't going to show
up at Alex's house without doing a little bit of research first. Google is a
wonderful thing, unless you'd like to keep your privacy, then you're pretty
much screwed. I typed in Alex's address which I'd copied off the postcard I'd
seen at Ella's house. As the map zoomed in on the town, I saw that it was a
small, isolated place in the northeast corner of Colorado. The biggest thing on
the map was Sterling Correctional Center, which seemed as big as the town
itself. Sterling was surrounded by mountains, but looked pretty much flat, with
a highway slicing through it.

I clicked on the street
view feature and saw that Alex's house was a white colonial with big windows
and several low-hanging trees in the front yard. I pushed the view around the
screen hoping to find something interesting, but nothing stood out. There was a
driveway up the side of the house that led to a two-car garage at the rear of
the property.

Finding nothing of
interest, I spun the view 180 degrees to get a better idea of what the
neighborhood was like. The surrounding houses were of similar size. Not
dilapidated, but weathered.

Then I got an idea.

*
* *

As I pull my blue Chevy
Malibu rental car into Sterling, I'm immediately taken aback by how rundown the
town looks. The images from Google were taken in the summer, when the trees
were full of green leaves, masking the beaten down buildings behind them. There
is a thin layer of snow on the ground now, from what looked like the remains of
a storm days ago. The streets are clear and traffic is light. I navigate my way
into the parking lot of the municipal water district. The red brick building
has a small parking lot adjacent to the street. The lot is nearly empty. I park
between two SUV's likely owned by employees of the water district. People, who
at 2:00 in the afternoon are probably already counting the minutes until their
shifts are over and they can go home to their families.

I grab a magazine from
the passenger seat and pretended to read it. To anyone passing by I am simply
killing time in a public parking lot. A parking lot that just so happens to be
directly across the street from Alex Mackey's house. My rental blends right in
with the other cars in the lot and I plan to keep it that way.

For more than an hour
there was no movement noticeable from inside the house. I begin to question
what exactly I am doing sitting out in front of this house. What could I
actually accomplish in my little stakeout? Then about 3:20, two boys with
backpacks round the nearby corner and zip up the driveway to the back of the
house. I hear a screen door slam as they enter. The postcard photograph I saw
at Ella's house wasn't old, and I'd memorized the faces of all four of the
subjects. The boys were Alex's sons, John and Robert, returning from school.

This confirms for me
that I have found the right place. If I am lucky, Alex will return sometime
after 5:00 from whatever job he holds, and I can confront him. I don't want to
be in Colorado any longer than is required. I want to go home as soon as this
is done.

Moments later I hear the
screen door slam again, but this time it is followed by a car emerging from the
garage. A dark green, late model Toyota Camry slowly backs out of the driveway.
As it backs onto the street, the driver's window is nearly even with my front
bumper. Piloting the car is Alex's wife, Brenda, who I recognize from the
postcard. She's a heavy-set brunette with a round face. Alex isn't in the car,
but the boys are in the back seat.

I have only a few
seconds to decide what to do. If I follow the car I will have no way of knowing
if Alex is home or not, since he could slip in while I am gone. It was already
getting dark, I could sneak around the back of the house and have a look
around, but what good would that do? Leave footprints in the snow and put the
family on edge? No thanks.

Not putting another
thought to it, I decide to tail them and see where it leads me.

Brenda is a cautious
driver. She does the speed limit and uses her turn signal. This means I have to
keep way back from her for fear of being noticed. I nearly lose them after
getting stuck behind a red light. I gun it when the light turns green and
luckily see Brenda and the boys getting out of the car at the Sterling JC
Penney, just off Highway 138.
 

I hesitate, but go ahead
and follow them into the store. Frankly stalking someone doesn't come second
nature to me and it's a little strange. When they walk down one aisle or
thumbed through a rack of clothes, I watch from a safe distance while
pretending to be shopping myself. The boys try on jeans, modeling them for their
mother.
 
Each boy leaves the store
with a pair of jeans and a shirt.

This isn't getting me
anywhere, but I continue to follow, thinking that maybe they will meet Alex for
dinner at a restaurant or an event somewhere. After a trip through the Sears
store hardware section and buying a full cart of groceries at the Sun Mart, the
family turns back home, unloads the car through the back of the house and
disappears for the night.

At the Sun Mart, I
bought a deli sandwich and a few energy drinks, and another magazine, knowing
that I might be stuck in the car for a while. I guess this is what a stakeout
feels like. A very boring stakeout of a totally normal family.

I park on the street
this time, because for some reason the water district parking lot is nearly full.
There must be a shift of employees who work overnight. All the spots with a
good vantage point of the house are taken, so I'm forced to park across the
street from the house in plain sight.

I keep telling myself
that I am waiting to make sure Alex is home, but it could just as well be that
I'm afraid to knock on that door and confront him. So I wait. I watch as the
lights in the dining room turn on about 6:30 and then turn off again at 6:50.
Dinnertime. My stomach gurgles from the sandwich I ate. Then at 8:30 the lights
upstairs flip on momentarily, then off again. Bedtime for the boys. I play a
guessing game trying to figure out which window goes to the master bedroom. I
fight to keep my eyes open. It's cold and I have to keep turning on the car to warm
up.

Then, sometime after
9:00, I finally can't fight my exhaustion anymore. I fall asleep behind the
wheel.

*
* *

I hear pounding. The
inside of my car windows are fogged up. The pounding is coming from outside my
window.

"Hey, mister, get
the hell out of here," a man says.

I'm instantly awake.
It's not yet light outside. A yellow sheen of light from a street lamp glows
through the fog, so it's not completely dark.

"You hear me,
creep? Get off our street," he continues.

I smear the moisture off
the driver side window and see a man in police officer's uniform. I turn the
key and roll down the window.

But it's not a police
officer. It's Alex. Over the top of his pocket is an embroidered patch that
reads "Mackey" over top the word "Sterling Correctional Center."

He recognizes me too
because he mumbles, "Shit," before turning and walking toward his
house. He stops at the driveway and turns back toward me.

"Are you coming in
or not? I'm not asking twice."