Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  I open my mouth and then close it. He’s right. I have no idea what would happen if I ever heard from Monty. But that hasn’t happened, so the point is moot.

  “Monty is dealing with his guilt, Linnie. We all have our own to deal with,” Char shares. My head snaps to her. “When we saw him…”

  I don’t let her finish. “You…saw him?” My lips tremble. “How…”

  “His guilt is killing him,” Char says bluntly.

  “He wants to talk to you more than he wants his next breath, but doesn’t believe he’s worthy,” my father says grimly.

  Is he? A small voice inside me wars with the huge heart that screams YES! I run my hands over my cheek where the glass left a small scar and realize the mark has faded. Will my anger toward my mother?. Rearing back, I stand and begin to pace.

  In a small part of my heart, I dreamed of Monty getting well so we could move forward, be together. But ever since I read my mother’s journal, the hesitation has been growing. Am I strong enough to handle life with Montague Parrish knowing what could come from it? Does he even want me? Am I a catalyst for this?

  And why has he not contacted me?

  “It’s not that I don’t want to hear what he has to say,” I finally say. “I just don’t know if I’m in a place to respond.”

  My words cause silence to hang in the room. “Then don’t respond until you’re ready. But I think for him to get what you fought for him to have out of that program, and for you to heal, you should read what he has to say.” Compassionate green eyes rake over my face.

  I nod. “And if I can’t forget? What does that do to all of us?”

  “Absolutely nothing. I’ll always love both my children.” My father stands and opens his arms. I move into them quickly as if I’ve been doing it for years instead of months. “I’ll never force you to do or feel something you can’t.”

  “Then maybe I should keep my appointment with my therapist this week. See what she has to say.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Char murmurs. My head ducks down to see her resting her chin on her knees. “And as a mother, I think you should bring the journals with you. You’re not betraying your mother by sharing your pain.”

  Char’s words strike something deep inside me. That’s precisely what I’ve been doing; suppressing my pain, hiding Mom’s.

  And isn’t that what Monty did to put us in this predicament?

  A full-body shudder racks my body. I’m held tighter. “I just can’t believe it was all an act.”

  “Your mother?” he guesses.

  I nod. “And Monty. I have to believe this pain will go away because I’m scared of the alternative.”

  “What’s that?” He brushes hair away from my cheeks.

  “That happiness has worse odds than you and I ever being a match.”

  Char pushes herself to her feet and wraps her arms around me from behind. Laying her head against my back, she whispers, “Happiness is going to find you again, Linnie. Whether that’s with or without my son, well, that remains to be seen.”

  “At least my happy includes the two of you.” I’m rewarded with a tight squeeze for my comment before Char moves away.

  “That it does. Now, I heard something once about a deli sandwich the size of my head.”

  My eyes brighten before a V forms between my brows. “I don’t think we can DoorDash Wolf’s?” My stomach growls in protest.

  “No, I’m going to phone a friend and have Simon go get it for us. He said he’d leave it outside the door once it’s here. Just because I can’t see him or Bristol doesn’t mean the boy can’t be put to use.” He adds on, “Of course, I’m buying them dinner as well.”

  I nod solemnly. “Of course,” I say before I laugh at the idea of my famous brother-in-law being used by my father as dinner delivery service.

  “Come on, let’s find a menu where you can tell me what to get,” he tells me.

  “As long as it doesn’t have cilantro on it, I’ll pretty much eat anything,” I admit.

  “Same here. See, Char. I’m not the only one who hates that crap,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Char laughs. “Genetic freaks,” she teases.

  Yeah, we are. But we’re each other’s genetic freak. And as I hug my dad to my side, I’m so grateful for it.

  Seventy-Two

  Montague

  March

  It’s been sixty-three days since I’ve been here. I got a new letter from Mom today. She said she got to see Linnie perform on stage in this new Off Broadway show and is brilliant at it. I’m so fucking proud of her, I can hardly contain it. I can also barely stand the fact I’m not by her side watching it happen.

  Nothing is holding this woman back except maybe the albatross of love.

  I’m sitting outside of Victor’s office waiting for our daily session when one of the framed quotations catches my eye. Standing, I move toward it slowly. “The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them,” I murmur.

  “Ida B. Wells,” Victor says behind me. “An investigative journalist and an early leader in the civil rights movement. She was also one of the founders of the NAACP.”

  I remain as still as a statue staring at the beauty and simplicity of her words. My hand slips into my pocket, fingering the letter I wrote in the middle of the night.

  It’s time to let her go. To be free to soar the way I know she did before she ever met me.

  Turning, with tears burning in my eyes, I say, “Sometimes, the only way to right your wrongs is to just to own up to them and to let go.” Pulling out the letter, I slap it into Victor’s hands before I sidestep him and make my way into his office.

  Seventy-Three

  Evangeline

  “I wish you had told me about reading these, Linnie.” My psychologist, Dr. Audrey Gilbride, strokes her hands over the leather-bound volumes on her lap.

  “Would you have tried to stop me?”

  “Stop is the wrong word. I would have tried to prepare you.”

  I get more comfortable on the oversized sofa in her office. “What do you mean?”

  “Your mother had a disease. It would randomly manifest itself. Before she chose to stay sober, there were times when she was extraordinarily high functioning, much like what you experienced with Monty at the very end. It’s how you recognized he needed help versus prosecution.” Waiting for my slight acknowledgment, she continues. “But she persistently poisoned her body. Yes, you loved her, and you forged this incredible bond, but you forget about the woman who wrote these words—” Audrey lifts the volume that’s been like a persistent point of a knife in my heart. “—isn’t the woman who cried when you graduated from college. She isn’t the woman who sang on stage with you. It’s like comparing an infant to an adult in terms of understanding that it’s two different people, but they live in the same body.”

  I don’t respond right away. Instead, I turn and flop back on the couch so my head is facing the ceiling. There’s a poster Audrey tacked up there that says, “If you think you’ve got problems, imagine dealing with our shit.” And it’s the faces of hundreds of adorable puppies. Every time I see it, I can’t help but smile, which was her intent. “This is better than the poster at my gyno’s office.”

  “What do they have?” she asks curiously.

  “A poster that says, ‘A kiss makes everything better’ with a bunch of babies.” Audrey’s laugh bounces off all the walls of the room. “What would you suggest?”

  “Parse out reading them,” she says immediately. “Take a pulse of your mood. Texting your therapist when something like this bothers you.”

  I roll my head in her direction. “Oh, you mean being logical?”

  “Crazy, I know.” We both smile.

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  Reaching down, I pull out the next journal in the series. “Read this. Let me know if I should go on. Right now, if it’s more of what I just dealt with, I…can’t.”

&nb
sp; Audrey takes the volume from me and places it on top of the others. “I will. In the meantime, I have something for you. I’ve been briefed about it and, I’ve been waiting to give it to you.” Standing, she walks over to her desk, where she places Mom’s journals on the corner. She lifts a manila envelope with my name scribbled on the outside in an unfamiliar hand. Sitting up, I reach for it when she hands it to me.

  “What’s this?” I weigh the large envelope in my hand and hear a smaller weight shift back and forth.

  “A letter.” My face must be filled with confusion because Audrey continues. “From Monty.”

  Maybe it’s just me, but the envelope seems to make a racket in the room as it shakes in my hand. “Do you know what’s in this?” My voice is a harsh rasp.

  Audrey shakes her head. “Dr. Riley read it; he’s required to. In case there are threats they have to negate.” Even if the idea of someone reading Monty’s words to me initially shocks me, I understand that. “Once it cleared that check at his facility, I’m only briefed on the general contents so I can help you work through any issues.”

  I swallow to try to get moisture back in my mouth. Right now, my soul’s so mentally exhausted, it comes out harsh when I ask, “Am I expected to write back?”

  Her hand comes to lay on top of mine. “Only if you want to. If there’s a message or anything you want to send, I can get that there as well.”

  “Should I read it here?”

  “I think you should read it wherever you feel most comfortable.”

  An idea flashes into my mind. “Would it be impossible to have our session on FaceTime next week?”

  “If you plan on actually attending it, it won’t be a problem. Why?”

  “Because I want to read it at my father’s. I don’t want to bring Monty to New York. Not just yet.” And depending on what it says, maybe not ever.

  Audrey’s hand squeezes mine firmly. “Then, yes, I’m available for a session. Go see your father.”

  Standing, I hug her. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. And hopefully, by the time we talk next, I’ll know more about how to handle those.” She nods toward her desk where my mother’s journals lie.

  Slipping the envelope into my bag, I sling it over my shoulder. With a halfhearted smile, I duck out of Audrey’s office.

  * * *

  The manila envelope sits on the edge of my kitchen counter taunting me to open it all week. Every day I go to work, and every night it pulls at me. Just like Monty does in my dreams. But I was serious about what I said to Audrey. I’m not ready to invite Monty here, especially after what seeing the hateful side of my mother did to me.

  I called Dad and Char to let them know I’d be arranging for my understudy to take the second show on Sunday and when I’d be arriving. As I step off the small private jet at Dulles Airport, I grab my weekender bag and walk through the VIP terminal briskly. When I see Char waiting for me just beyond security, I walk straight into her arms. “I could have rented a car,” I murmur into her hair.

  “Your father wouldn’t hear of it. Now, come on, he’s likely run out of his data plan by now.” She reaches for my bag, but I hold it out of her reach.

  “It’s not heavy. But wait, Dad’s here?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course he is.”

  I tuck my arm beneath hers. “I’m glad I came here to do this.”

  “To do what?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll explain in the car.”

  We step out of the warmth of the VIP area, and there’s Dad’s Lexus. “Sit up front with him, Linnie,” Char urges.

  “You sure?’

  “Positive, honey.”

  Walking up to the passenger side door, I open it to hear, “…you would think I’d have better reception than this. This is utterly ridiculous. We pay how much to have a hot spot in this car? I’m going to write to the provider tonight.”

  “You tell them, Dad,” I tease. His head snaps up, and a broad smile crosses his face. God, even though I saw him two weeks ago, he looks better than before.

  “Linnie, I swear you just keep getting more beautiful,” he declares.

  I laugh as I slide in. “I look like a wreck.”

  “You look perfect.” Once I close the door, he leans over and gives me a one-armed hug. “Buckle up and let’s head home.”

  Home. Now I understand why I came here to read Monty’s letters. It wasn’t because I wanted to keep Monty out of New York; it’s because I want the cushion of home if the pain causes me to stumble and fall. What I don’t understand is when did New York stop being home?

  Relaxing back against my seat, I realize it was somewhere between meeting my father, trusting his wife, and falling in love with his stepson.

  A smile touches my lips as my dad and Char catch me up on everything happening at the farm as we drive the thirty minutes to get there.

  * * *

  A fire crackles in the room, sending a log rolling in the massive stone structure. “I tried my best not to take what she wrote personally,” I get out.

  “Be hard not to,” Char sympathizes.

  “But between everyone challenging my decision about Monty and then reading that, I began to doubt myself. If my mother would say things like that about me, what did Monty write?” I wonder aloud. I turn my head to take a sip of the spiced apple cider Char made when we got home.

  “I couldn’t do it alone this time. I knew if I read his letter, and it’s bad, I needed to be around people who understood everything. I needed to be home.” My father’s fingers tighten around the hand he’s holding.

  “Every time you say you wanted to come home, it makes my heart flip in my chest,” he admits.

  Leaning my head against his shoulder, I tell him, “I didn’t realize the farm had become home until you said it in the car.”

  He pulls back a little and puts a gentle kiss on top of my hair. “And let me say for the record, this is the last time you ask if you can come. We’ll get you keys this weekend.”

  Char, who’s sitting curled under a blanket across from us with her head resting on her fist, agrees. “First thing tomorrow.”

  A comfortable silence wraps around us before Dad breaks it. “You know we’ve heard from him, Linnie. And we’ve seen him too.”

  “I want to ask, but I think I should read his letter first,” I tell him truthfully.

  “That’s fair.” But I can’t resist asking one thing. “Was he glad to see you?”

  “That, my darling girl, is an understatement.” Something I wasn’t aware was coiled inside me relaxes. Pushing to his feet, my father holds out his hand. “Come on, it’s late.”

  I push the blanket to the side. “Do you know how long it took me to get adjusted to New York hours after I left? I was practically asleep in the middle of the second act of Queen of the Stars when we first debuted.”

  Chuckles come from all around me. “And now?” Char asks, running a hand over my hair.

  “Now, I go home and fall flat on my face. Maybe I’m just getting old,” I grumble.

  “Or you’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress,” she counters. Leaning in, she kisses me on the cheek. “Blueberry-lemon crumble muffins for breakfast?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Then I’m off to bed. Night, you two.” Char leans up and accepts a kiss from my father that makes me yearn for the days before his bone marrow transplant. The days when my blinders were still partially on.

  “I’ll be up soon,” he calls out. She waves.

  I watch as the process begins to extinguish the fire. First, there’s prodding at the wood and embers with the fire poker. Then switching for a shove, ash is scooped from the bottom of the fireplace and tossed on top. Soon, the fire’s out. “We’ll let that sit before I put on the baking soda,” he declares, brushing his hands off on his pants.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes before he says abruptly, “I heard a country song the other day that I thought reminded me of all of this. But th
en when I looked up the lyrics later, it didn’t.”

  My heart pounding, I ask, “Why not?”

  “Because you have never not once said Monty had to become a better man. You’ve said he was ill, that he needed help. But from the beginning, it’s been you reminding the rest of us he’s the best man there is.” My father pulls me back down to the couch. “Before you ever came into my life, Monty did everything to make this easier on us. When you got hurt, I lost sight of that.”

  I reach out and take his hand. Is this the way my stepfather felt, this bleak sadness at being unable to help my mother? “He’s getting the help now.”

  “Because you pushed for the right thing.”

  “I’m not the one who will have to fight every day to live life, Dad. That’s on Monty,” I remind him gently. “So who knows if the song you heard will be true after all or not.”

  He goes to open his mouth but instead closes it. “We’ll see. Come on. Let me finish making sure this fire’s out, and then we’ll head up.”

  “Okay, Dad,” I agree, ready to put myself to bed. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He smiles. “No. Just talk with me while I finish up. Tell me more about Bristol, Simon, and Alex.”

  While I chatter with my father for a few more minutes about my sister, he douses the warm ashes with baking soda, using the shovel to mix them. After he scrapes them into a pail and puts them outside, and after I’ve shared Alex’s new trick of blowing bubbles when people get close to kiss him, we hug each other before each heading up to sleep.

  In my room, I lie awake for a while, clutching a pillow to my chest. It’s hard not to wonder if I’ll ever get back the dreams I had in this bed when Monty lay here next to me.

  I guess tomorrow’s letter opening will give me a better idea of that.

  Seventy-Four