After the Fall

by Patricia Gussin

  Tim’s informal dining room was a cozy alcove off the kitchen that overlooked Center City. The table had been set for three, and Patrick wandered over to peer out the window. All of a sudden, he’d gone quiet. Always perceptive as a child, did he suspect something was up?

  When he returned to the kitchen, Laura was about to ask Patrick if he’d like a glass of wine—Tim would freak if she offered beer, Patrick’s beverage of choice, with the epicurean menu.

  “Okay, Mom, what’s wrong?” Patrick interrupted the surface tranquility. “I’ve been your son too long not to know that when you single one of us out for an ‘invitation,’ there’s a chance we might not exactly be in your good graces. Right?”

  Laura looked to Tim, who bent over his baking dish of potatoes, checking whether the cheese was bubbling adequately.

  “Or, is it you, Mom? Something to do with your health. Your hand? But if so, why not tell us all? Together?”

  “Tim?” Laura asked. “Can you take a break? I’d like for us to talk to Patrick.”

  When Tim turned to face her, she saw a look of disbelief cross his face. It took her a moment to realize that to Tim, interrupting his culinary preparations was earthshaking, at least. After a brief pause to regain his composure, he said, “Of course. Just give me a minute.” Tim adjusted a few dials on the stove, pulled out a stool at the kitchen counter, and nodded to Laura.

  “Patrick, you’re right. We—I—do have to talk to you. To tell you something I should have told you long ago. But something I was afraid—ashamed—to tell you.”

  Laura laid her good left hand on Patrick’s right arm and turned her gaze toward him. I can’t do this! How can I tell him I cheated on Steve?

  She felt hot tears flood her eyes. She blinked them back. This was not going as she planned. But then, she had to admit, she’d had no plan. Blurt it out: that had been her plan.

  “Mom?” Patrick asked, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He looked to Tim. “What’s the matter with my mother? What is she talking about?”

  “Laura?” Tim said. And to her wonderment, just hearing Tim’s voice fortified her to go on.

  “Patrick, I still don’t know how to tell you,” Laura said, voice quavering, “but it’s about your father.”

  “Dad?” He’d turned to face her, but she still had her hand on his arm as if holding him there, preventing his escape, his leaving her life forever.

  “Steve,” she said. “Steve was not your biological father.” Laura felt the trickle of tears on her cheeks. “That’s why, when you were a little boy, going off to have surgery in Detroit, that’s why he didn’t come. He had just found out. He was upset…” Laura gripped her son’s arm tighter, holding on to him. Please, God, make Patrick understand.

  Patrick stared across the counter at Tim. “You.” An accusation, not a question.

  “No!” Laura said. “No, no. Not Tim.”

  Patrick’s tone had a sharp edge. “But you know all this?” His eyes met Tim’s.

  Tim said, “I knew something had happened between your mother and your dad back then. But until your mother told me just recently, I never knew the details. You were nine years old and needed emergency surgery. We had all we could do to get you to Philadelphia. I never asked your mother, though I had no idea what had sent your father into such a rage.”

  “Mike and Kevin know,” stated Patrick. “They told me when I was a kid. That my dad was—”

  “I am so sorry, Patrick.” Laura turned toward her son, attempting an embrace that her mangled right arm would not allow. She felt Patrick pull his arm out from under her hand. He inched his stool away from hers. A sob escaped. “I want to tell you,” she managed to say, “everything.”

  And so, she told him. About how she and Steve had problems in their marriage. How she’d fallen in love with a surgeon who had wanted to marry her. But he’d never known he was Patrick’s father, until… She faltered.

  “Until he died,” Tim said, “when you were still a baby, Patrick.”

  “I refused to leave Steve,” Laura said. “He was a good father to you boys. And after he died, you still were too young to understand, and I never told you. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  “Sorry,” Patrick echoed.

  But Laura was not sorry about David. She was not sorry to have David’s child, Patrick. Only sorry she had to tell her son that she had strayed, that she had been unfaithful to her husband, that she had broken her marriage vows.

  “Who was the guy? My biological father. What is his name?”

  “David Monroe,” Laura said. Whenever she said his name, she felt a twinge in her chest. She detected a note in her own voice that she hoped Tim would not pick up on. “And, Patrick, you have met…a relative.”

  “What?” Patrick shot back, shoving his stool violently backward. “What the fuck!”

  This was a first. One of her children deliberately using the f-word in front of her. They all used it when they didn’t think she could hear—even the girls—but to her face, never.

  “Who, Laura?” Tim asked.

  Shit, how could she possibly have forgotten to mention this to him. Now was Tim doubting her too?

  “Yeah, Mom, who do I know who may be my what? Cousin? Uncle? Aunt? Grandparent?” Patrick got up, went to the refrigerator, selected a beer, sat back down beside her. “I mean, this is too much…”

  Laura looked sideways at her son. She had three sons and two daughters, and honestly could say she had no favorites. She adored them all. Would do anything for each one of them. But in the here and now, Patrick required all the love she could muster. She needed him to forgive her.

  “Are you going to tell us or not?” Patrick stared across the counter now, at Tim. “Doesn’t seem your soon-to-be-husband knows either.” Something she’d never heard in Patrick’s tone, sarcasm bordering on surly.

  “Paul Monroe,” Laura said, turning to face him, to gauge his reaction. “Mike’s friend from Notre Dame.”

  “Shit,” Patrick said, his head in his hands now. “Mike’s buddy from Notre Dame. The one who came to the house on winter breaks. His brother is Scott Monroe, the Yankees catcher. Used to get us spring training tickets. That Paul Monroe?”

  Laura kept silent.

  Patrick lifted his head. “What’s his relation?”

  Laura looked across at Tim, who eyed her curiously. “He would be your blood cousin.” Trying to stifle a new surge of tears, she continued, “David had a brother, Nick. He and his wife had four sons and they adopted a daughter.”

  “Have you met them, Laura? Spent time with them?” Tim’s questions.

  Laura bit her lip. She would not lie. She’d never been formally introduced to Nick Monroe, although she’d seen him at David’s funeral, which she’d attended with Patrick in her arms. He’d communicated once through an attorney, but that didn’t count. “No,” she said. “I enjoyed Paul when he stayed with us, but that’s it. Mike did mention that Paul’s mother died a couple of years ago.”

  “And Scott Monroe’s injuries took him out of baseball last year, that much I know,” said Tim.

  “Shit, when Paul and I played pickup baseball,” Patrick said, “I was playing with my fucking cousin!”

  Laura could never express the collage of feelings that surged in her whenever David’s nephew and Patrick’s cousin, Paul Monroe, had stayed at her place. Everyone but she innocent as to Patrick and Paul’s family relationship. No one else but she picking up on the hazel eyes, the identical hairline, the chestnut brown hair, Patrick’s cut longer than Paul’s.

  “What do Mike and Kevin and the girls know?” Patrick finally broke the silence.

  Laura looked across at Tim for encouragement, but he simply nodded. She knew she’d shocked Tim with her disclosure about David. When she’d been a student and Tim a surgical resident, the rumor of a medical student and the chief of surgery having an affair would have been rejected as unbelievable. Not an affair, she reminded herself, one night. One glorious night.

&nbs
p; Laura answered her son, “Nothing. I never discussed it with them.”

  “Well, Mom, Mike and Kevin told me when I was a kid: that I was not a real Nelson; Dad didn’t want me because Mom was a—well, I can’t even say the word. What was I supposed to think? If you’d explained all this, I wouldn’t have had to deal with that crap for all these years.”

  “I am sorry.” Laura could not contain her tears, and she picked up the nearest napkin to swipe her cheeks. “Patrick, what can I do to make up for all the pain I have caused you?” Laura had had no idea her older sons had tortured Patrick about his paternity. Or what Steve had told them about her. He had been vicious back then, and vindictive.

  “I don’t know, Mom. This is too much for me. I can’t stay here tonight.”

  Patrick stood, and Laura and Tim with him.

  “Please, Patrick. You know how much I love you. I just didn’t know how to tell you. I was scared. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Tim, I’m sorry about dinner. This is too much of a shock.”

  “Know what you mean, buddy. I was pretty blown away too. But now that the truth is out, we have to deal with it, try to put the past aside, move forward.”

  Patrick collected his overnight bag and his coat and headed toward the door. As he reached to open it, Laura put her arm around his waist. “Please, Patrick, forgive me,” she pleaded.

  Patrick turned abruptly. “One more question. How did he die? My biological father, this David Monroe?”

  He was killed by a bullet intended for me. But she did not say that. “A disturbed young man shot into the crowd at my medical school graduation. The bullet killed David instantly.” The instant after he’d realized that the baby in her arms was his own.

  And this was, in fact, the Detroit PD’s version of David’s murder. They, in turn, shot the killer dead. Laura had never been questioned about any relationship between her and the shooter. But there had been one—Snake Rogers had come after her that day. And now Lonnie Greenwood was threatening to reopen that whole nightmare scenario in her life. What did Lonnie Greenwood know and what did he want? How long could she put off returning his call?

  “What the fuck?” Patrick exclaimed. “My biological father and the father I grew up with, both…murdered? This is too much…”

  He pulled open the door, and had one foot in the hallway before he turned. “Mom, this is truly a shock to me, but I want you to know that what I said about Mike and Kevin—that wasn’t quite true. I did hear Mike talking to Kevin once about how weird Dad got when I had that operation. I think Mike might know. But even if he did, you should know all your sons better. They would never taunt me with something so hurtful.”

  Laura felt a weight lift. Patrick had wanted to hurt her, but in the end, he couldn’t.

  “But are you going to tell them? The other kids? Or do you want me to tell them that I’m just their half-brother?”

  “No, I should tell them,” she stuttered. “But how?”

  Patrick turned back from the hallway. “We should tell them,” he said, “so there will be no more secrets. But right now, I need time to think about what you told me, to figure out what this means to me. I cannot imagine the effect right now. Whether my life will be different or impacted in some way. I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “Where will you stay? You can’t go back to New York tonight.” Always the anxious mother, especially with your youngest.

  “I’m twenty-two years old, Mom. And Tim, again, sorry about dinner.” And then with a hint of a grin, Patrick asked, “And while we’re at it, Tim, do you have anything you want to reveal?”

  “Uh, no,” Tim said. “I’ve led a simple life. Always a bachelor.”

  But not celibate, Laura knew. But that was more than Patrick needed to know about Tim.

  One of two horrible secrets that had haunted Laura for twenty-three years, now was in the open. The other was not marital infidelity, but murder. As much as she yearned to tell Tim, she’d decided against it. But the wild card that could change everything was Lonnie Greenwood and the call that she’d so far left unanswered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SUNDAY, MARCH 1

  Jake had rehearsed all night long different versions of what he’d tell Addie today. “Addie, I want to marry you, now.” “Addie, I want to marry you, but we have to wait until the police stop investigating Karolee’s murder.” Like a scene in a Broadway play he’d once seen. “Addie, I killed Karolee so we’d be free to marry.” “Addie, I will convert to Islam if that’s important to you.”

  Convert to Islam? Would that mean no alcohol? Like he could do that! So he’d be like all the other religious hypocrites. Talk the talk; not walk the walk. The only other requirement he knew—besides not eating pork—was he’d have to kneel down and pray to the East. But maybe that was really just a myth? Jake had never seen Addie on her knees on a prayer rug. Maybe women needn’t bother. They weren’t worth much in the Muslim world. But they had to follow the rules.

  Awaking from a restless sleep, Jake checked his bedside clock. Nine thirty. He hauled his legs over the edge of the bed. He’d be late for work and he had so much to do. Then he sank back into the pillows. Today was Sunday. A day with great promise. A day he and Addie would cherish forever. Their engagement day. Sometime during the night, during all that back-and-forth with himself, he’d decided to contact Addie today, to declare his love, to propose marriage. Once they were married, she’d be able to stay in the United States. Her family would not be shamed. She’d come into her money from Immunone. They would be able to live anywhere. Screw Karolee and her goddamned will. He and Addie will have more money than that miserly bitch ever could have imagined.

  Jake showered, dressed in gray slacks and a light-blue striped shirt, and went to the window. Clear bright skies, a good omen. He decided to stop for coffee and breakfast on his way to Addie’s. Optimism always boosted his appetite.

  After feasting on eggs, bacon, and pancakes, Jake pulled up to a parking spot on the crossroad by Addie’s building. Before getting out, he hesitated for a moment, wishing he’d stopped for flowers. Addie loved roses. He imagined the smile that would break out on her gorgeous face. Nothing like the smile a diamond ring would bring. But the ring would have to wait. He wanted a huge stone, an elegant cut, one appropriate for her imminent status as a woman of wealth. When Jake did climb out of the car, he saw her at once; Addie, walking briskly toward her building. How perfect.

  “Addie,” he called, rushing to her side.

  She picked up her pace, ignoring him.

  Jake increased his stride and reached to take her arm.

  “Stop it.” She shook off his arm and marched forward.

  Jake did not want a scene. Soon enough, he and Addie would no longer bother about who saw them in public.

  In silence, side by side, they covered the distance to the door of her building.

  “I’m coming in with you, Addie,” Jake said.

  “No, Jake, you didn’t even call me. I mean nothing to you—”

  “Addie, not out here.” He reached over to put his hand on her shoulder, exhaling with relief when she did not brush him aside. With a nudge, he urged her inside and followed behind her as she stalked ahead to the elevator.

  Addie unlocked the door to her apartment and let Jake enter behind her. Once she had bolted the door, he snatched her from behind, turned her around to face him and drew her into in his arms. Before Addie could utter a sound, Jake covered her mouth with his, kissing her, burying his fingers in her long black hair. His heart accelerated as he felt her voluptuous body melt in his arms. She felt so perfect, so angelic. He had missed this woman so much. Never again would he be separated from her. Still locked in an embrace, they stumbled into her bedroom, onto her bed, and into blissful passion.

  By late afternoon, sated, Jake and Addie showered, and she made a light lunch that they brought to the coffee table in the living room. “I still have some of that white wine,” Addie said, going back int
o the kitchen. “I almost threw it out, I was so mad at you.” She poured a glass for each of them.

  They sat side by side on the sofa, tentative, sipping their drinks, neither one eager to start a difficult conversation. Jake knew Addie was upset and thought it best for her to speak her mind, then he would preempt with his proposal. And don’t forget to go over what she told the police about calling my house that night.

  “Jake, why didn’t you call me?”

  “I love you, Addie. So much that I had to hold back. My wife was murdered. I couldn’t let you be drawn into it.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, stroking his thigh with her delicate hand. Addie had only a sketchy idea of American justice.

  “Addie, I want to marry you,” he said, taking her glass, setting it down and kissing her. “Will you marry me? Here, wait a minute.” Jake stood, then knelt and took her hand. “Marry me, Addie. You love me, don’t you, Addie?”

  Still on his knees, he waited. When Addie slowly opened her eyes, he was gazing directly into them. What he saw perplexed Jake. Shock? Fear? Concern? Not the unadulterated love he’d envisioned. She covered her mouth with her hands as he stood. Before he sat back down at her side, he stared at her for a moment. He couldn’t read her body language. Jake felt a jolt of rejection. Then as Addie leaned into him, turning to take his face in her hands, he relaxed. Tears—of happiness?—rolled down her cheeks.

  “Addie?” he prompted.

  “All last week I did not hear from you. I’m frantic about Immunone. It must get approved. Nobody will tell me. You did not call me. I felt alone, abandoned. Like you did not care about me.”

  “Addie, Addie, please. I love you. I want you for my wife. I just had to let the police investigation cool down.”

  “They talked to me, you know. About a call I made to your house. I know I’m not supposed to call, but your wife was away…I didn’t know she was dead, that the police were there.”

  Jake had hoped to put off that conversation till later, but now he’d get it over with. “What did you say to them?”