by Dan Kolbet
Gail,
I know this will sound crazy, because it is. I have a secret and I need your help. There is a nurse at Sacred Heart Hospital named Ruth Bouchard. I love her, but I have never met her. Somehow you need to introduce us after today. I’ll do the rest. Promise to NEVER EVER tell me about this note. I trust you.
Harold dropped the diary as his body tingled and a rush of memories washed over him.
#
Harold Emery was born in Spokane, Washington in 1946, and he died on November 24, 2020, surrounded by his three children and seven grandchildren. He lived a truly remarkable life, but his mark on the world didn’t come in outward accolades or achievements, but rather from those who knew him and loved him.
Harold met his love of 44 years, Ruth, in the summer of 1965. It was his day off from Frankie’s garage. His sister Gail had insisted he take her to the park near Sacred Heart Hospital. There, she somehow flew off the swings, and claimed to have a sore shoulder that needed immediate medical attention. She refused to be seen by any nurse other than one named Ruth. One look and Harold was smitten. The couple had a long-distance relationship for several years. Harold was in college, while Ruth joined the Peace Corps and served in several countries in Africa.
The couple married when Ruth returned home. They moved to Michigan so Harold could work for Ford. When they learned they were unable to have children, Ruth was not deterred. She had seen so many wonderful orphaned children during her time overseas. Beautiful little souls, who just needed the sort of care and compassion the couple had to offer. They first adopted a girl from Sudan, then another girl from Cameroon. Several years later they took in a boy from Detroit and adopted him too. The Emery children were happy and loved. Ruth was a fantastic mother, and Harold shined as a father.
When Harold retired from Ford, the couple stayed in Detroit to be near their kids and a growing number of grandkids, too. For decades, Harold had two season tickets to the Tigers and would take Ruth, his kids or one of the grandchildren for each game. At the games they would talk about life, love, and sometimes a little baseball.
He took Gail to a game once too, right after she published her first book, “Secrets.” Harold asked her where she got the idea for her book about a couple destined by fate to be together, if only they were put in the same room together.
“Sorry brother, you made me promise to never, ever tell,” she said.
-end-
From the Author
Thank you for reading this short story. I’ve always loved time travel stories, and really enjoyed writing this story for you. Playing with time and alternate futures is a lot of fun, even if I had to cover my office walls with timelines, outlines and story notes to keep it all straight. If only Harold didn’t forget things after he changed them! The Day After You Die is based in my hometown of Spokane, Washington, but forgive me for making up several of the locations and altering geography to fit the story’s needs. I attempted to make the story as accurate as possible for the mid-1960s. That history minor in college is finally paying off. I hope I hit the mark.
Thank you to my First Reader, my wife Kellie for working this story with me and helping smooth the rough edges. Thank you too, to Allison, Felicity and Blake for talking about the ideas in this story—workshopping ideas with your kids is super cool.
If you enjoyed this story, tell a friend and please visit www.dankolbet.com or find my novels on Amazon.
Continue reading for a free preview of Dan Kolbet’s novel “An Agreement We Made.”
An Agreement We Made – free preview
James is a stay-at-home dad, with a comfortable life of dance recitals and school volunteer work, despite his complicated marriage to workaholic Tina. When Tina suddenly dies, James struggles as a single parent to his three children, without the safety net and sizable income his wife once provided. For the sake of his family, he’s forced to return to a past he’d much rather leave alone.
As James’ world crumbles, he begins to question if he ever really knew his wife. Why did she want him to be the primary parent, while she stayed on the fringe of their marriage? And now that she’s gone, will he ever learn why she drained their bank accounts before her death?
An Agreement We Made is an examination of a modern marriage, the lies we tell ourselves to get through the day, and the secrets we keep from everyone.
An Agreement We Made
CHAPTER 1
I park behind the line of gleaming cars idling at the curb of Columbia Ridge Academy. It’s the same as every other day, all the moms and one dad—me—line up to collect our kids. Heaven forbid they get a taste of freedom for even a few moments in the thirty feet they walk from the elementary school door to the backseat. We can’t let that happen, now can we?
The three-story, red-brick Gothic revival structure was built in the 1960s but has been remodeled with modern updates several times since. The cost of admission alone is plenty to keep the place in pristine condition. It’s covered in ivy and dripping in expectation—expectations of the students, expectations of the parents. I know this building and the people who helicopter-parent around it all too well.
It’s 2:50 p.m., and I’m late, even though I’m here ten minutes before school lets out. I’m way back in the line of cars. My carelessness means I’ve been exposed to the moms who want to chat about room-parent duty, volunteer fundraisers, or which wine bar has the most generous pour. And I’m just not up for it today.
I flip the visor down in front of me in the naïve attempt to hide my face from the group of women assembling on the grass just outside the library. We know them as the ‘Stay-at-Home Tribe,’ and I’m an honorary member myself. The visor trick is useless and does nothing, of course, to hide my vehicle—a Mercedes-Benz SUV, which at eighteen months, is showing its age compared to the cars driven by the other parents at Columbia Ridge Academy. These are doctors, executives, attorneys, or dare I say, their stay-at-home spouses and a few nannies.
I have half a mind to visit the Mercedes-Benz dealer this week to find a suitable replacement. The lease is nearly up anyhow, and an early trade-in would be nice.
I look up and try to ignore the wave from Christy Woods. She is dressed in nearly identical attire as the other Tribe members, in her stay-at-home-mom uniform of black yoga pants, fitted cotton V-neck top, and white sneakers. I’d say they coordinate outfits, but they wear the same thing every day, so it can’t be that complicated.
Christy makes a break for it. Apparently, my ignoring her has backfired. She’s now striding toward my driver’s side window, adjusting her oversized black sunglasses the entire way. The other women close rank and watch her while desperately trying to act as if they aren’t judging her as she saunters over. They are judging, and we all know it.
“James, you’re late,” she says, tapping her manicured fingernails against the side of my partially open driver’s side window.
I glance down at the faded pink and orange scars covering most of her left hand as she taps. She burned her hand in a kitchen accident a lifetime ago. Christy used to be a chef, but like the rest of us, she no longer works outside the home. I’ve always wondered what sort of chef gets burned like that; something about it just never added up. Nonetheless, now she stays home, just like me.
She often keeps her hand covered with long shirt sleeves with thumb-hole cuffs that partially mask the disfigurement. She pulls her hand back when she notices the attention I’ve paid to it, swiftly tucking it under her arm.
“James, you forced me to make nice with those Tribe creatures.”
I roll down the window all the way while staying safely inside the vehicle. “They mean well.”
“They do not mean well, and you know it.”
I’ve known Christy since we were kids back in Shoreline, Oregon. And while there was a significant lapse in our friendship after high school, we’ve been close for the last fifteen years. If I could say so, I’d tag her as my best friend, but we’re both married and that just wouldn’t fly w
ith anyone.
I’ve spent quite a bit of time with her and her husband Malcolm, too. Both my older boys played on the same soccer and baseball teams as the Woods’ son RJ. And they’ve all attended the esteemed Columbia Ridge, then went on to public but respectable middle and high schools together. My youngest child, eight-year-old Paige, is in the same third-grade class as Christy’s daughter Sophie.
Paige is the lone child I still must ferry to and from school.
“The ladies are still upset you didn’t come to the school supply backpack stuffing party at Meredith Stonemeyer’s house on Monday night,” Christy says. “They never miss a chance to tell me I’m the luckiest married woman around, getting to spend such quality time with a hunk like you.”
“My wife would beg to differ,” I offer.
“Would she? Where is that wife of yours, anyway?”
She gives me a knowing look, of which I disapprove. I can’t remember which city Tina is currently in, but I won’t tell Christy that. After all, she knows I’m unaware. Tina is away from home more than she’s actually home. I keep track on a calendar, but I haven’t committed it to memory.
Then I remember.
“She’ll be home tonight. We’ve got big plans for dinner.”
“I bet. Good luck with that.” Christy nods, noting the difficulties I’m likely to encounter with her return.
Malcolm is a commercial pilot, so he’s gone as much as Tina, who’s in medical sales for Goodwin Labs. Christy knows the drill—spouse comes home, thrills the kids with tales of adventure, and promptly complains about the state of the house in their absence. An argument ensues and both sides retreat to their separate corners, only to have wild make-up sex the night before the spouse leaves again. Then we rewind and repeat it all over again during the next return home.
The bell rings, and parents hurry to their vehicles to wait for their kids to descend the stairs and run through the iron gates.
“We still on for coffee next week?” she asks, backing away from my window. “I want to try that new place in the Pearl District.”
“It’s your week to pick, so I’ll reluctantly drive all the way into downtown Portland just so you can get your fancy osmosis coffee.”
“Gravity coffee, not osmosis.”
“If you can tell me the difference between the two, I’ll buy,” I say. “But you have to tell me right now.”
Confident that Christy has no idea, I let my offer hang, which she promptly ignores.
“This is why the ladies love you, Mr. Mom. You’re so funny,” she says with a head tilt as she walks off to her car parked several lengths ahead. She got here on time.
Mr. Mom, ugh.
* * *
Paige climbs into the backseat, tossing her backpack on top of crushed graham crackers and string cheese wrappers on the seat. I make a mental note to vacuum the car. I would hate to let the Tribe see such normalcy. She pulls out her cell phone, not even looking up to acknowledge me. I keep the car in park and wait. And wait. I’m blocking the exit to the street. The car behind me honks once, then quickly twice. I see Paige finally look up at me through the rearview mirror.
“What did we say about the phone?” I ask.
She puts on a deep, annoyed voice, mocking me, “Emergencies only, Paige-bear. You are too young for a phone, anyway. I should have already taken it away from you. Blah, blah, blah.”
I’ve got to admit, it’s a pretty good impression, and we both laugh. She reaches up and places the phone on the center console next to me. Tina made me get her that phone, and it’s caused nothing but problems ever since. Paige smiles, and I put the car in drive. And all is well in the world again until we hit road construction heading to the freeway. This is a delay we cannot afford.
Today, like every Friday after school, Paige and I race across town and try to make it to her weekly dance class on time. Most days, we’re solid and on time, but it’s not looking pretty today.
As I weave through traffic, Paige starts to change into her required dance attire—a light pink dress with a short soft skirt. I pretend the dark-tinted windows, blocking out prying eyes, makes this action acceptable. Sure, people can’t see in, but at the same time, she’s not buckled into her seat, either. I’m not sure what alternative I have—we’ve got a schedule to keep, and there’s no dressing room in this Mercedes.
Paige is genuinely in love with her pink dress. She’s had the same one since Pre-Ballet more than two years ago. It’s carried her through to Ballet I and now Ballet II. The nylon and spandex mix, which includes a limp skirt at the waist, is Paige’s full-time outfit away from school. I’ve given up arguing with her about it. ‘Oh, you want to wear it to dinner? OK. And for bedtime, too? Sure. At the dentist’s office? Well, of course, why not?’ Don’t judge me here. It’s not that I’ve given up; I’ve just selected other battles to fight, like the phone.
Yet, the biology and growth of my child is no match for the venerable garment. Today, behind the tinted windows, she removes her school uniform—a white button-down blouse and blue pleated skirt—and yanks up the pink dress with a tug.
“Daddy!” she screams as I slam the brakes in panic. “No!”
The thread-bare seam on her right side gives up the fight and splits from under her arm to her hip.
I’m used to frequent, incoherent outbursts from Paige, so I don’t crash the car upon hearing her wail. This is the little game we play where she acts like a wild animal and I play our favorite guessing game of ‘what’s wrong, honey?’ This theater plays out most days. Honestly, we could sell tickets.
But I know her issue this time, it’s obvious. Her dress is toast, and I find myself secretly pleased, knowing it will necessitate moving on and buying an updated outfit that will match her ever-growing, but still slight frame. But the timing is not right at all. The class starts at four o’clock, and it’s now 3:20. Getting to Ms. May’s Dance Studio will take at least thirty-five minutes without traffic, which only leaves me with five minutes to spare. Without the dress mishap, it would have been close, but now we are full-on screwed.
I contemplate purchasing a new dress at the mall, but quickly rule that out. No shopping trip with an eight-year-old, in the history of the universe, has ever taken less than five minutes. I weigh my options. We could skip class, but we had to miss last week because of a parent-teacher conference, and I can’t do that again. I know Ms. May would veto Paige wearing her school uniform in class, even if she did have the right slippers on.
Ms. May had booted a sobbing girl from class last spring for not wearing approved attire. It wasn’t helpful that the girl’s hair was not in a tight bun—as per the Approved Attire Policy, along with pale pink tights and leather ballet slippers with elastic straps. And for heaven’s sake, no tutus. For some reason, tutus and nylon slippers are blasphemous and not allowed, either. Don’t ask me why. It’s Ms. May’s policy, and Ms. May must never be questioned. There is no wiggle room with her supreme authority.
So, where does that leave us? Time to improvise.
Ace Hardware is in the same strip mall as the studio. I’d visited it many times after Paige’s ballet classes for odds and ends needed for woodworking projects. I cross my fingers as we rush into the store. Paige clutches her ribcage as if wounded on the battlefield. People stare. We ignore them. We are on a mission and have less than five minutes before we are officially late and out of compliance with the holy Approved Attire Policy. One strike against us, we might be able to slide. But two? No way.
I had already ruled out staples or buying a needle and thread and somehow learning how to sew on the drive over. I’m a realist. Thankfully, Ace comes through. Just past the paint aisle, there is an entire adhesive section full of choices. This leaves me with one good option—duct tape. Standard gray is my go-to for just about everything. I like the stuff with the gorilla on it, but when I pick it up, Paige gives me one of those looks that, well… she looks just like her mom. I’ve seen that look many times over the last twenty-p
lus years. Not approved. I quickly put it back and move down a few feet to the decorative tape section.
Paige doesn’t hesitate. She makes a selection, spins on her leather slippers, and heads for the cash register. I grab the tape with the gorilla on it anyway because you can never have enough duct tape.
Three people stand in the line before us. We have three minutes. I kneel beside Paige on the dirty white linoleum floor, peel up a corner of the red duct tape with ladybugs on it, and wrap her up. As she spins, I overlap the tape around her midsection, covering up the rip as best I can without attaching it to her skin. On my fifth pass around her back, we start to attract attention from the other shoppers. Paige loves it.
The older woman directly in front of us is buying one small bag of wood screws. She sees our angst and impatience. With a knowing, grandmotherly look, she nods and allows us to skip her in line. I hold up the empty roll of red tape and my sturdy gray gorilla tape to the cashier and he scans them with his little gun. I see the price, $11.45. I toss a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, grab Paige’s hand, and take off like a bolt of lightning.
“Put my change toward that lady’s screws,” I yell over my shoulder before we burst through the automatic doors and across the parking lot.
I feel the three rapid zaps of my cell phone in my pocket. A text message alert. I know it’s my seventeen-year-old son Mason without looking. I set up a particular vibration for my most frequent contacts, and my pocket buzzes a lot. I ignore it for the moment. We have more significant problems.
Paige keeps up as we traverse the lot. We make it to the door of the studio with seconds to spare. I turn to Paige to give her the once-over before going in. Paige’s eyes are wide.