I stopped talking, and instantaneously a flush of realization burst out of my sweater and washed up my throat. With the absence of my voice, only then could I hear how loud I had been. It certainly didn’t help things that we stood below a twenty-six foot ceiling surrounded by nothing more than open space and marble. I thought about keeping my head bent just a little longer, but Dominic’s low chuckles denied me any hope I had about the possibility of my bright face going unnoticed.
“Sorry,” I said quietly, and raised my head. As I met the actual expression I found it to be identical to the one imagined: a combination of wry amusement and struggle for seriousness.
His mouth twitched. “For?”
“For . . .” Unable to sequester an answer, I raised one shoulder a few inches. “Yelling?”
“That was yelling?” he asked, blue eyes flinging wide with shock. “No.” He shook his head definitively. “That was not yelling—not even close. I can’t be relied on for determining too many things, but I was born into a family of professional yellers, and that, I assure you, was not yelling.” A slow smile built into a grin as he took a long look at me. “And correct if I’m wrong, but I believe that was the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time?” There was a distinctly congratulatory tone to his words. “I could get used to listening to those impassioned speeches.”
My appreciation had spawned into a tangent, which very nearly turned into rigmarole. Before I could distract myself further, or what was more likely, being distracted by Dominic, I needed to say it—quickly.
“Thank you. It means everything to me that you were there for them.”
He laughed, though it didn’t feel mocking. “You’re welcome—but Foster, honestly, it’s them you should be thanking for putting up with me all day. I really wasn’t kidding when I said today on the phone that I was having just as much fun as them—probably more. Four hours passed by in what felt like four minutes. All of sudden Mr. Sandhearn is shaking my hand, thanking me for coming on such short notice. I’m pretty sure I just stared at him like, ‘What are you talking about? I just got here,’ until the six o’clock bell started ringing.” I laughed, having the same experience a number of times. Somehow, as improbable as it seemed, seven hours of time was eaten up in the joviality, laughter, and minute by minute absorption of extremely energetic children.
He reached up and pulled a hand through his hair. “So, this is slightly embarrassing,” he continued, “but too good not to share. After you called me and we talked, I turned my phone off. It had been ringing all day, and was beginning to become a distraction. The last time I checked it, though, it was about a quarter after four, around that time the game we had been playing ended, and when I asked the kids what they wanted to do for the rest of the day, they all agreed on another game of baseball. Earlier—before we headed up to the fields—I had been told to keep an eye on my watch or phone—that it was easy to get caught up and lose track of time. I kinda smiled and nodded, but really I figured I’d have no trouble knowing when it was getting close to six. The next thing I knew, we had just gotten started when someone drove up in a golf cart and told us it was time to start walking back.”
He paused, switched his weight to the other foot, and crossed his arms on a sigh.
“Well, there’s really no other way to say it.” His voice was filled with self-chastisement. “I had a tantrum. Oh, but before that, I had the nerve to tell the lady who’d come to get us that she was mistaken, that it was only around five.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, and breathed out roughly through his nose. “She must have thought me a complete idiot, but was nice enough not to say so—just repeated that it was a quarter till six and to start heading back in.”
“That happens all the time,” I chimed in, reassuringly. “They’ve sent someone to come and get us plenty of times.”
“Yeah . . .” he said, though didn’t sound at all reassured. “And if that was all that happened, then maybe I could have walked away with a little dignity, but as much as I’d like to say that’s where the story ends—it’s not.”
“It’s not?” I repeated.
His face was grave. “No.” Looking at him, I thought maybe he regretted bringing up this story. He was having a difficult time standing still.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I said.
“Oh, no, I definitely do.” He laughed, a derisory sound infused with genuine amusement. “But thank you for offering.” He laughed again and continued his story. “So, she’s driving back toward the path—the lady in the golf cart—and I just . . . I just call out to her. I wasn’t even thinking—obviously I wasn’t thinking.”
“What did you say?” I asked, unable to help myself. He looked so incredibly abashed, my curiosity skyrocketed and I began to fidget along with him. He stared directly at me, though I could tell by the glaze across his eyes that he was envisioning the scene.
“I said—correction, I whined at her, ‘Do we have to? Can’t we just have thirty more minutes?’”
I did laugh; picturing him this way—boyish and petulant—was a far cry from how he usually asserted himself around me. “That’s not anything to be embarrassed about,” I told him. “You were having a nice time with them; there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No, you’re right,” he agreed, subdued, “there’s nothing wrong with that. What is wrong, is when she didn’t hear me, or pretended not to hear me, I then started chasing after her cart—” He paused, cringing, and I didn’t know why. Then I felt my eyes, and coerced them back into my skull.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. He shook his head as if to say, “I deserve it.”
“Yeah, so . . . I started jogging after her to see if we could have an extension”—he shrugged in a feigned sort of way and made a face—“you know, just to finish up the last inning in the game. I’m a few feet from her cart, when all of sudden I hear shouting and this mini-stampede come up from behind me.” He began to laugh and his face was turning red from the effort it took to restrain it. “I turn around and look over my shoulder, and there’s all the kids! All of them! They’re right behind me, running as fast as they can, yelling ‘Come on! Give us more minutes!’ at the poor lady just trying to do her job.”
I was immensely glad that at the same moment I could no longer hold the laughter stinging my chest and throat, was precisely the same moment Dominic couldn’t either. After that, he tried a few separate times to continue the story, and was immediately waylaid with another fit of hysteria, forced to bowl over.
When he could talk, and when I was wiping tears from my eyes, he said, “Once that happened, I managed to realize how insane I was acting, and caught all the kids before we got into a lot trouble. Everyone is way too nice to bring it up, but I’m pretty sure all of them were laughing at me when I left.”
“No,” I murmured, sounding unconvincing.
“Yes,” he countered, a look of blatant self-deprecation on his face. “So how’s that for most embarrassing story ever?”
Rather than answer that question with the truth, I empathized. “I know exactly how you feel. By six, I’m never ready to go either, and am already planning what we’ll do the next time I see them.” He was quiet for a moment, content to watch me with those acute blue eyes and a smile that sent my heart aflutter. I grew self-conscious under his stare and began to simper, plucking at the fibers on the sleeve of my sweater. “Do you . . . would you like a tour of the house now?” I asked.
He lowered his head and his lashes fell, brushing against the cheeks stained with copper. They remained there for a moment so I couldn’t see his eyes. Then keeping his head bent, he glanced up with an expression causing me need for an extra breath of air. I took it and held on.
He smiled. “I’m following you.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The tour throughout the inside of the house was brief. Primarily because I avoided lingering in one room for very long, fearing he’d catch a glimpse of the multitude of humiliating picture
s of me clustered on every table, and hanging in montages on the walls. Me as a toddler, naked in a bubble-filled tub; me at age six with my legs stuck as I dangled, wedged in a gap of a jumbo trampoline; me as a third grader, dressed up as a strawberry for Halloween—green stem for a head and all. Each time I noticed him eyeing another moment captured, I subtly suggested we move on, and led him out of the room. It wasn’t very long before Dominic caught onto my tactics by the second or third time, though said nothing, sparing my dignity. Only once did he put up a fight and refuse to be ushered away. It was so he could look closer at a candid of me, inside a white frame, perched on an end table beside a stack of geode coasters.
His keen interest in the photo surprised me—and that he’d spotted it from all the way across the room. About to head into the corridor, he’d stopped as if stabbed, turned, and walked with a purposed stride toward what I thought would be the mantle above the fireplace. Instead he’d cut left, ending up before the small table. Very slowly, almost with caution, he reached down to pick up the small wooden frame. The picture inside was a slightly out of focus, a black and white photo of me at ten years of age. My back is arched over a tire swing, my face shiny with sweat and smudged with something indiscernible without color to distinguish it. The ends of my much longer curly hair tickle the sand, almost touching the bottoms of my shoes.
With vivid recollection, I could still feel the soft white cotton of that dress, and the sash made of red silk. I’d worn it until it had all but deteriorated from the endless washings. The picture was one of my favorite. The reasons, however, would only pertain to me and perhaps my parents too. So why Dominic was staring at it with focused intensity took me aback. One quiet moment turned into the next, and finally he was satisfied, setting it back down in the same spot he’d picked it up. And if I thought I might be less confused when he turned to look at me, I would be wrong.
“It’s you,” he said softly, no trace of a smile or laugh anywhere on his face.
Lacking a response to the obviousness of this statement, and feeling shy under his eyes, I simply nodded and replied, “It is.” Then we left, silence not uncomfortable and leading us onward.
His reticence continued as we entered the greenhouse, though it was sheer awe and astonishment that stole his words, I was certain. Being in here tended to do that to people, rendering them incapable of anything but a series of oohs and ahhs for the first couple minutes. Since Dominic’s arrival, I finally began to relax a little, playing docent as we wandered through my parents’ botanical wonderland. Normally I would have had to contend with Viva, and go through the rigmarole of commands to activate the greenhouse’s features. As I had never had reason to visit without my parents, I was unsure if I would be able to manage it alone. This had caused a bit of anxiety on the walk over, only to be allayed the moment we came upon unlocked doors. My mom had taken care of everything, turning on the falls and the twinkling lights strung over the bricked paths and all throughout the trellising of the gazebo.
The air was perfect—balmy and fragrant. Passing a plot of dark soil filled with pink, purple, and white Hyacinths, Dominic reclaimed his momentarily lost composure, continuing the casual conversation that began in the foyer. He asked about Connecticut and how I came to end up here, in “paradise” as he referred to it. It was only with the slightest bit of reservation that I informed him of my parents’ newfound affluence, not sure how he would react to the billionaire status that often resulted in dropped jaws and protuberant eyes. I couldn’t expect him not to be shocked—and he was, of course—but rather than goggle over the exorbitance of money, he was only curious about the formula. I explained this as best as I could, which wasn’t all that well, and promised to get him an audience with one of my parents who would do a much better job of it. It was easier to disclose to him the events following—the move, the retirement of one career and the birth of a passion turned purpose, each of them having a devout appreciation and respect for all things green and conserved.
When he was through questioning me, it was my turn to learn a little more about him, though I hadn’t quite yet worked up the nerve to pick a place to start. Sensing this, I thought, he digressed lambently into his own upbringing in Virginia, beginning with his parents, Jonathan and Delilah. It was mostly Delilah with whom his earliest memories resided; until about age twelve, his father was away from the home more often than he was in it. Not by choice, but when bequeathed the family business after an untimely death, the responsibility to carry on its legacy had been Jonathan’s alone to bear. His uncle, the one Dominic was living with now, was tied up in another venture, bound by contract for the next three years. Although Dominic didn’t come right out and say it, I had the sense that those years may have been filled with more than their share of strain and tenacity.
The description of his mother left me with a distinct impression of an omnipresent woman, with a big heart and arms elbow deep in multiple pots. Delilah ran a tight ship; operating as wife, mother, housekeeper, cook, and teacher to all four children, she expected each child to pull their weight and contribute equally in keeping the household piloting smoothly. Not exactly iron fisted, but certainly intolerant of disrespect, and not accustomed to asking things twice. This shared information gave me more than a peek into who Dominic was at his core. As the eldest and only boy, in his father’s absence, his role was man of the house. While Jonathan had been put in a tough situation, Dominic made the best of his own, delegated to incur the brunt of the hard labor, and ensure overall functionality of things. To me this more than explained the impeccable manners, prowess in diffusing and mediating intense conflicts, and in general the maturity of someone many years older than his unremarkable eighteen.
I continued to listen as he paused at the koi pond. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the grass. It had no stepping stones to walk on.
“Of course,” I said, leading him across the short patch of verdant land. He dropped onto his haunches, dipping a long finger into the still water, like black glass. Orange and white shapes darted by, wily and blurry. Dominic watched them with a smirk, mesmerized by the surroundings once more.
At the gazebo, we approached the steps. Inside, he turned to me with a look of great affection in his eyes. For a second, I was overcome by nerves, until he went into detailed description of each of his three sisters: Deanna, Drusilla, and Daniela. If not for that unmistakable look, I might have thought him part-sadist the way he admitted shamelessly, the unbounded joy gleaned from heckling the younger siblings. Deanna, the youngest, was born with a rare congenital disease; similar to the one I had, but even more severe. Subsequently, she had spent most of her life in a wheel chair. Once Dominic was old enough to drive, the responsibility of getting Deanna to and from the rehabilitation center, where she received muscle therapy each week, was his. Even if only a little, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d resented this charge or begrudge it as encumbrance of his time. He didn’t though. In fact, even when his mother was otherwise available, not off retrieving or transporting one of the other children from school or an activity, both he and Deanna made it clear that Deanna’s appointments were “their” thing.
On the wooden step, he reached out to touch a ruffled zinnia. A shadow of sadness passed over his face as he spoke of the last visit to the center before he’d left for California. Again, I didn’t need him to say the words to see the guilt he wrestled with for not being present for Deanna. He was comforted to know that beyond family, she had great friends, those who could know and understand exactly how she felt. These were the other children Dominic had come to care about since advocating himself as caretaker. Most of them were permanent residents, too ill to be away from the hospice and complicated machinery helping them breathe and circulate blood. After a certain amount of time, it was only natural that a trust had been forged and relationships built. Not so very different than my kids, the children began to look forward to his visits, waiting expectantly to hear the boy with guitar sing silly made-up song
s, but mostly to help them forget they were sick for a few hours.
Hearing about this helped me to understand why the kids at The House of Hope had taken to him so quickly, and vice versa. Watching him last Sunday I had suspected as much, though nothing to this extent. But similar as our experiences were, they were vastly different in a few major areas. A year ago, Deanna had lost one of her very best friends, an eleven-year-old girl with angina. One day she was there, she and Deanna holding hands and coercing Dominic into playing every single Taylor Swift song they could think of, and the next day she was gone. I honestly didn’t believe I could handle that sort of loss. The loss I felt was of another kind, of childhoods corrupted and robbed. This—it was simply unbearable. I could only imagine the shock of arriving one day to learn someone had died, and the agony as I realized I would never see one of my kids again. Inside the warm dome, I shuddered.
In silence we walked over the cedar bridge, our aligned footsteps not the only thing hollow and heavy. Dominic slowed his steps, pausing about halfway across and stepped over to the balustrade. Hunched over, he rested his forearms, moving the conversation to another topic. I was grateful for this. He spoke of missing sports, namely football and lacrosse—the two teams he’d been a part of back home. Suddenly, he turned to me smiling, asking whether or not I participated in any extracurriculars beside Music. He was already laughing, though, well aware that the answer was an absolute and irrefutable, “No.”
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