A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3)

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  I smile. “I am too. To tell you the truth, it wasn’t the reception itself that interested me.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Oh? Tell me. Wait… is it… a guy?”

  I frown. “Carrie….”

  She smiles. “You can tell me anything. Cross my heart.” She does, first making a sign of the crucifix, which would drive mother insane if she saw it, then she pretends to turn a key in her mouth and throw it away. But we’re interrupted when the waitress appears. We order specialty rolls, and Carrie orders white wine for both of us. The waitress gives me a very skeptical look, but doesn’t ask for ID.

  “There is a guy who fascinates me on this trip,” I say.

  “What’s his name? Tell me everything.”

  “I don’t know anything about him,” I say. “That’s why I’m so intrigued. His name’s Dylan Paris—he’s a senior, from Atlanta—and that’s all I know. He doesn’t really talk with anyone.”

  “Stuck up?”

  I shake my head. “The opposite, I think. All of the other guys are preppies. He’s not, and I think maybe he’s intimidated.”

  Carrie smiles. “You should take him under your wing then, before you leave for Tel Aviv.” Vintage Carrie there, to want to rescue someone.

  “Well, I’d have to get up the courage to talk with him first.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. “You’ve got a point, sister. Just keep me in the loop. You’re running off to a foreign country with a strange guy.” She gives the barest of mischievous smile as she says, “It’s very romantic.”

  “He’ll probably turn out to be gay,” I say with a grimace.

  “Most of the good guys are. Enough about that. Catch me up on home, will you?”

  I shrug. “Not much to say. Um… let’s see… Andrea spent two weeks with us in the summer.”

  “Oh, good! God, I miss her.”

  “Me too.” Our youngest sister, Andrea, has lived in Spain with our grandmother almost full time for the last couple of years. “You won’t believe it when you see her. She’s taller than I am already, and looks a lot like you did when you were little.”

  Carrie sits back. “That tall already? What is she, eleven?”

  “Ten. And I bet she’s going to be just as tall as you are.”

  “Weird. How did we get so lucky?” she asks in a sarcastic tone. “Have you seen Julia?”

  I shake my head. Twenty-five year old Julia, our oldest sister, is a law unto herself. “They’re on tour again.”

  “Yeah, I know—I went to the Allan Roark concert last winter; they were opening.” She shakes her head. “I’d have liked to have seen Andrea.”

  “None of us knew she was coming,” I reply. “Mom said she wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “That is so weird,” Carrie says.

  “No kidding. You know what the latest is? Mom’s absolutely obsessed with the British Royal family.”

  “What, William and Kate and all their drama?”

  I shake my head. “No—Prince George-Phillip and Lady Anne Davies… she’s having a baby soon, apparently.”

  “Never heard of her. But I know who he is, he spoke at my graduation. He was Ambassador to the UN at the time.”

  “He’s second cousin to the Queen?”

  “Something like that. Basically, what you’re saying is that Mom’s gone off her meds.”

  It takes no more than half a second before I can’t contain the laugh. Then both of us are giggling, hard. It’s not often I get to spend time with Carrie, and the twins are still in middle school and don’t really get some things. I wipe a small tear from my eyes.

  “It’s so good to see you, Carrie.”

  She smiles, the warm and loving smile I’ve always known from my big sister. “It’s good to see you, Alexandra. What about you? What’s happening in your life? Are you still thinking about Columbia?”

  I nod. “Yes. Dad is not happy about that. He wants me to go to Harvard.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad choice,” she says. “Though obviously I’m in favor of Columbia.”

  “I’d be locked into his future, Carrie. I don’t want to be a diplomat. I want to live in the same city, not move every three years until the airports and embassies become a blur and I can’t remember what year I was in what country. You know?”

  She nods. “I do. You know, though, just because you go to Harvard doesn’t mean you’re committing to his life. Look at Julia. She went off the track completely.”

  “True,” I say. “Though I don’t see any rock bands in my future. Dad still hasn’t forgiven her.”

  Carrie shrugs. “He’ll come around.”

  I suppress my doubts. “I’m seriously thinking about law school.”

  “Yeah?” Carrie looks skeptical. “Like corporate law?”

  I shake my head. “No. That sounds horrible. I want to do something meaningful. Can I tell you a secret?”

  Looking slightly amused, she nods. I mockingly half whisper, “I want to go to work for the ACLU.”

  Carrie’s eyes widen. Then she snickers. Just once. “Dad would rather you married a punk rocker, I think. Bravo.” She’s probably right. The American Civil Liberties Union is an organization best not mentioned in our home.

  We laugh, hard now, and I find myself wishing my stay in New York was going to be longer—long enough to spend a lot more time with my sister. Even though I hadn’t asked for it, in the end I’m grateful my parents got involved and that I got to see her.

  With the dawn of redeeming grace (Dylan)

  Blah, blah blah.

  That’s what the speakers have been saying for the last forty-five minutes at the reception at the American-Israel Friendship League.

  Blah blah blah.

  First they’ve been thanking people none of us have ever heard of for making cooperation between the two countries possible. A retired ambassador speaks, followed by someone from the Anti-Defamation League, then two speakers from the Council of Great City Schools. On and on and on.

  “Check that girl out,” Mike from Chicago says, his voice none too quiet. His eyes are on one of the girls from the Milwaukee delegation. She’s probably a junior, and she’s leaning forward with one knee crossed over the other. She stands out in this crowd of preppies: colorful spiked hair, a black leather jacket and bright pink combat boots. She’s cute, really—if anything, she kind of reminds me of Spot, a girl I used to know who hung around the Masquerade and a few other lesser alternative clubs. Spot—I don’t know what her real name is—was creative as hell, smart, cute, and addicted to painkillers. Her parents had kicked her out, and there were a few times we ended up shacking up together. Not out of lust or attraction—she was strictly a lesbian—but out of a need to stay warm on cold, homeless nights.

  Yes, homeless. See, my Mom is a parent of the tough-love variety, and when I dropped out of high school, she gave me an ultimatum. Go back to school and quit drinking, or get out. I couch surfed for a while—after all, I had plenty of friends. But parents of sixteen year olds become curious—too curious—when a sleepover turns into an extended stay.

  I found occasional work in the fall—landscaping, day labor. Show up at the 7-11 in the morning and stand in line with the illegal immigrants and other homeless looking for a day’s backbreaking labor for 25 bucks. Then I’d go hang out with the guys and smoke pot.

  I met Spot the weekend before Thanksgiving. I was standing with a couple of guys behind the dumpster in the back of the Masquerade having a smoke when I heard a short, muffled scream. I got up and walked down the alley, my friends trailing behind me. In the dark I could barely make out what was happening—a big guy, maybe six feet, and built, was shaking a girl who stood maybe five-feet two and probably weighed 95 pounds. Her head was flopping back and forth as he shook her hard, using his massive strength to shake her like a rag doll.

  “Stop!” she squeaked. He pulled his fist way back, about to slug her.

  He didn’t get to throw the punch: Snatching up a loose bri
ck, I lunged forward and hit him in the back of the head. He went down, and the alley fell silent.

  “Mother fuck,” one of the guys said. “That’s Lonnie Wallace. Dylan, get the fuck out of here before he wakes up. I’m out.”

  “Who is he?” I asked

  “Dealer. Dangerous man. Really dangerous. I’m gone.”

  I shrugged, then looked at the girl. “You okay?” I asked.

  She looked at me, a little dazed. “Yeah,” she whispered.

  I had my doubts. But I didn’t have anywhere safe to take her. “You got any place to go? Someone we can call?”

  She shook her head.

  I sighed. Then I said, “Let’s take a walk. Get away from here. I’m Dylan.”

  “Spot,” she said.

  Weird. Whatever. Lot of people used street names. I grabbed her hand and said, “Let’s go. I don’t want to be here when he wakes up.”

  “He’s got a gun,” she said.

  Shit.

  That changed things, didn’t it? I crouched down and touched the guy’s shoulder. He wasn’t moving. I hoped he wasn’t dead. I leaned close enough to see and hear that he was breathing. I rolled him over and, sure enough, a pistol was stuffed in his waistband. Automatic, I guess—I didn’t know much about guns other than what I’d seen on television and the one or two times when I was a little kid that my dad took me hunting. But we didn’t hunt with automatic pistols.

  Dad had taught me basic weapons safety. I slid the pistol out of Asshole’s waistband. It took a minute trying to figure out how to eject the magazine, then I found the button and ejected the magazine, then pulled the slide back. The chambered bullet went flying.

  “Come on,” I said. I left the ammo on the ground and threw the pistol in the dumpster. Just to slow him down, if he ever woke up. Then I grabbed her hand and we ran.

  A month later on Christmas Eve, I ran into Spot downtown, not long after the trains stopped running for the night. It was raining and cold, and my jacket did little to keep me dry. I was looking for a good sheltered spot to sleep when I ran into her. We walked together and finally huddled under the bridge under I-20. I’d slept there before, and knew the dozen or so semi-permanent residents who kept tents, clotheslines, mattresses and personal items stored there.

  When we got there that night, a blazing fire was going, and two families were huddled around the fire.

  “It looks warm,” she said.

  “Come on, then,” I replied, and pulled her over to the fire. I could feel the heat against my skin, and the heat of Spot as she leaned against me.

  Sometimes I wanted to track down her asshole father and punch him until he couldn’t see. I was just as homeless as Spot was, but I was homeless because of something I did—not because of who I was. She, on the other hand, was a good kid with bad parents. They had kicked her out because she was a lesbian. Not because of anything she’d done—they kicked her out because of who she was.

  That’s when it hit me. I could choose to go home any time I wanted. All I had to do was stop the drinking and pot. All I had to do was go back to school.

  Spot couldn’t go home. She had no one.

  The mother of one of the two families who lived under the bridge began to sing. Her voice was clear and beautiful and the moment she heard the singing begin, Spot began to shiver. Then to sob.

  Silent night, Holy night

  All is calm, all is bright

  Round yon virgin, mother and child

  Holy infant, tender and mild

  Sleep in heavenly peace,

  Sleep in heavenly peace.

  Silent night, Holy night

  Son of God, love's pure light

  Radiant beams from thy holy face

  With the dawn of redeeming grace,

  Jesus, Lord at thy birth

  Jesus, Lord at thy birth.

  Silent night, Holy night

  Shepherds quake, at the sight

  Glories stream from heaven above

  Heavenly, hosts sing Hallelujah.

  Christ the Savior is born,

  Christ the Savior is born.

  I’ll be honest. I cried just a little too, as I held Spot and she sobbed. I wished right then that I could find a home for her, find someone who loved her. But it wasn’t really feasible. I had no resources, no money. I had nothing.

  A few weeks later, I had signed up to go back to school. I had quit drinking and cleaned up my act. I had moved back home. And then I had gone looking for Spot. There were a dozen weekends over the months after that, when I went and looked for her, searching at clubs and under bridges—searching everywhere.

  But I never saw her again.

  Now, I’m slow to come back to the present. Now, my missing friend Spot seems far more real than the kids here in New York.

  “Hello?” Mike from Chicago says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Are you awake?” I’ve heard him introduce himself that way to half a dozen people now. Hi, I’m Mike. From Chicago. It’s become part of his name.

  I shake my head slightly. “Sorry. I guess I was stuck in a memory.”

  He chuckles. “Must have been a good one.”

  I don’t answer. I go through the motions for the remainder of the reception, listening where I need to and saying what I have to, but never really focused on the present. I’m interested in the foreign exchange program, but sometimes it is difficult to maintain my sense of reality. I’m surrounded by people who think hunger was not being able to get your favorite appetizer and who flaunt clothing which is unimaginably expensive, just because they can. They’re public school kids just like I am, but they’re public school kids with backgrounds I don’t really understand: tutors and test-prep programs, expensive extracurricular activities and parents who sponsor scholarships, academic camps and God only knew what else.

  I don’t belong there.

  I don’t belong anywhere.

  Chapter Three

  Love is Fleeting (Alex)

  I’ve never tried to quantify the number of flights I’ve taken in my life. After all, I’ve lived in a lot of places. I might be sixteen, but my father is a U.S. Ambassador. I’ve lived in San Francisco, Beijing, Brussels, Moscow and Washington, DC. The first flight I remember was in 1994. I was about four years old, and I somehow got separated from my mom and my sisters. I remember wandering through the terminal, and no one spoke English, and everyone looked huge, and I cried for Carrie. None of us ever cried for our Mom. From what I’ve heard in the years since, that was during a layover and plane switch in Tokyo—one of the largest airports in the world.

  Add up all the places we’ve lived—plus short trips for holidays—and this is probably the hundredth flight I’ve been on. Whenever possible, I fly as close to the front of the plane as I can—usually not a problem because when traveling with my father, one travels first class.

  Not so on this foreign exchange trip. My seat is on Row 51 in the coach section. That far back in the plane, the left and right rows only have two seats, while the center has four. I’m jammed up next to the window. At least it isn’t one of the tiny seats I was forced to ride in on the flight from San Francisco to New York three days ago.

  I know, in principle, that people have to ride in coach. Most people ride in coach. I’ve been lucky, very lucky, that I’ve never had to. At least this isn’t so bad, unless my seat-mate turns out to be obnoxious. We will see—our group apparently has an entire block covering most of the back of the plane, so it is likely to be another one of the students in our group.

  I stuff my handbag under the seat in front of me. It contains two paperback novels, my phone and assorted other junk. I pull out my neck pillow, stuffing it in the back of the seat for whenever I get sleepy, which will likely be soon. The flight is scheduled to leave at ten p.m., with a morning arrival time in Barcelona, where we have a short layover. .

  My mother would say I’m dithering: my mind is on the email I’m planning to send to Mike, but I haven’t quite organized myself to do it yet, s
o I’m doing and thinking about everything else.

  Michael Harrington comes from an old-money San Francisco family, and his father and my father are … friends? Colleagues? It’s hard to know the relationship. But the Harringtons are often guests at our home, and I suppose that it was inevitable that eventually Michael and I would date. Far preferable him than Randy Brewer, who my parents have been pushing on me since the eighth grade. Randy is a sanctimonious prick. Mike, on the other hand is … I don’t know. Bland? It’s not that he doesn’t have a personality—it’s just that it isn’t all that interesting. He gets okay grades, but isn’t brilliant. He plays piano because his mother forces him to have lessons, but he doesn’t really care for it.

  In truth, it seems like Mike doesn’t really care for much of anything. He just doesn’t have any passion in him. He goes through life knowing that he has a massive trust fund and that he doesn’t really have to do much of anything in life to survive. He’ll always have his country club memberships and access to the rich and powerful—he’ll always be rich and powerful, and not through any efforts of his own.

  His response? Complete disinterest.

  All the same, a few weeks ago, while my parents and his parents were attending some charity auction (I think it was for the San Francisco Opera? Or the Science Museum? I’m not sure which), the two of us were seated together. He was unusually quiet that night, but he finally leaned over and said, “Alexandra… would you like to have dinner with me?”

  I didn’t point out that we were already having dinner, though I wanted to. Instead, I assented. I don’t know why. It wasn’t pity, but it wasn’t interest either. We went out a few times—dinner, movies, the symphony.

  My reaction to his advances? Complete disinterest.

  I finally decided last night it was time to let him know. But how? Do I call? Not from Israel. And somehow it feels tacky to just text message or send him a message on Facebook. Which leaves me with email. Impersonal, but not as much as a text. Better than the painfully-awkward, ugly conversation we might have in person. The thing is, I don’t really even like Mike. And outside of my relationship with my family, I don’t think he really likes me either. Letting him know now will be a blessing in a way. He’ll have a few weeks to process it before I return home.