Dominic smiled, gave his head a light shake. “I don’t mind at all. My mom is not shy about sharing our stories. She’ll tell anyone who will listen.” He reached up to scratch the corner of his mouth. “Whether they want to hear them or not,” he added dryly.
She laughed into her wine glass, and took a sip. “We can’t help it, I’m afraid,” she said, pushing a clump of hair behind her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter where we are, who we’re talking to—if there’s a way to bring up our children, we’ll find a way to do it.” She turned to my dad, sharing a moment solely with him. “James was just as bad as I was, I think—maybe even worse. For years, he carried a picture of Foster in the front pocket of his lab coat. It got to the point where our colleagues would see him coming down the hallway and immediately turn around and start walking the other way, or enter the room they’d just exited.” In the dimness my father’s complexion grew noticeably pink. “There is nothing less interesting to a room full of scientists and physicists than a baby.”
“She wasn’t just a baby,” my father put in mildly. “She was special.” He glanced at me, smiled, then looked away quickly, filling his mouth with a forkful of asparagus.
“I’ll never forget the time I was standing in line for a smoothie—you had a horrible sore throat that day,” she recalled to my father, “and I realized I was lamenting to a complete stranger about a rash on Foster’s neck. I must have gone on about it for ten minutes and the poor girl couldn’t even run away!” We all laughed and my mother tipped her head back, brushing tears from her eyes. She sighed contentedly, smiling with mirth. “Anyhow, I thank you for letting me share,” she said with genuine appreciation. “Working at home, it’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to dote on her.”
“I really don’t mind,” he repeated. “I think it’s only your own stories you want to try and save people from.” He turned toward me, the color of his eyes a sparkling navy blue in the candlelight. A shadow leaned down and covered a portion of his face so that one half looked nearly blank and dimensionless, and the other half aglow with incandescence by comparison. Then he blinked, slowly, and the blue eyes struck me like a blast of wind. “I could listen to Foster’s stories all day,” he said softly.
Although the remark flattered and touched me, I felt my cheeks burn. I could feel the weight of my parent’s open stares; though they remained silent—whether with surprise, embarrassment, or merely with the interest, I didn’t know. It felt like days were passing until my mom asked another question.
“So do you have many brothers and sisters?”
The quick smile he gave me before looking away turned my stomach to goo. “No, ma’am. No brothers,” Dominic said evenly, without regret. Then he grinned. “Three little sisters.”
Though my gaze remained fixed on Dominic, I could hear incredulity in her voice. “All younger than you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said on a breathy chuckle and nodded, “all younger.”
The candlelight continued to play with his features, cutting shadows through his high cheekbones and beneath the fine, shapely jaw. This rendered his already angular face acutely pronounced and rutilant, etching it in golds and oranges. “I’m the oldest by two years,” he added, his tone turning dry. “A fact the oldest little sister tells me is inconsequential on the grounds that girls mature quicker than boys.”
I laughed along with my parents, then was struck by how much that comment reminded me of Emily. No wonder Dominic had been so confident going into that situation; he’d grown up with a respective Emily of his own.
“No, we were homeschooled,” Dominic replied, in answer to a question I hadn’t heard. “My father didn’t see any problem in putting us into public school, but my mother was adamant about overseeing our education—especially as very young children. She comes from a long line of home-taught children and firmly believes that first few years of a child’s life are the most important and hold the most potential.”
“I agree,” my mother voiced earnestly. “How fortunate she could educate you herself.”
Dominic made a face halfway between a wince and smile. “Yes, but unfortunately I didn’t see it the way for many years. To be honest, I hated it,” he declared succinctly. “The year I turned five I found out I was the only one of my friends staying home; everyone else would be going into kindergarten. It was the end of the world, I’m pretty sure. Probably, it was only a couple days, a week at most, but it felt like years that all my friends could talk about was what teacher they got, who was in their class. They made it sound so exciting; I felt like I was missing out on everything. I told her that, too—my mother.” He chuckled. “Somewhat rudely, if I remember correctly. I was a stubborn kid. Still am.” He tossed his gaze at me and smirked. “But I’m learning, I think,” he murmured, then looked away. “Back then, though, I wasn’t a stranger to time-outs and was prepared to stay there all day when I came to her complaining about having to stay home. It’s strange . . . I don’t know why or how I remember it so clearly, but I do.” He continued to stare straight ahead, but I could tell by the way his face had slackened and his eyes blinked slowly that he was seeing only a memory now.
“When I reached her, she put my father’s pants down on the foot stool, got up from the chair and stretched. She smelled like maple syrup,” he said errantly, deep in memory. “We had french toast that morning and I could smell it on her dress. There was a drip stain down the middle of it I stared at because I couldn’t make myself look up. She’s not a very tall person—only about five-four. But being five-years-old, she seemed like a mountain standing over me. All of sudden she got down on both knees so we were about the same height, clasped her hands together behind my back and looked me hard in the eyes. She has this way of looking at you . . . it’s hard to explain, but it’s like she sees your thoughts, or their essence, I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice soft with reverence. “Everyone says I have her eyes,” he said so matter-of-factly, leaving me with the sense that he didn’t quite believe it.
I exhaled a bit loudly then, not realizing I was holding my breath and further realized I was nodding, absently. Even if I had been aware of it, though, I doubt cognition would have prevented this muted response. Maybe it was the way Dominic described his mother to me in past conversations that amounted to a concrete vision I had of her face. I could see her. I knew with absolute clarity which look he referred to, and everyone was right: Dominic had his mother’s eyes, both in startling vibrancy and numinous acumen.
“Ever since I can remember she’s called me ‘Cricket.’” He paused to smile vaguely, then shrugged. “I think it’s because I could never sit still for very long, or maybe because I was noisy, I’m not really sure actually,” he mused with fondness, curiosity, and humor. “But I always liked the nickname, thought it was incredibly funny whenever she called me that. So when she used it seriously for the first time, in a voice that I wasn’t used to . . . well, I didn’t know what to make of it and started blubbering in her face and threw myself into the front of her dress.” He made a derisive sound, indicating that this was not behavior he was proud to admit. “She wouldn’t let me hide, though. She was big on that, too; said only cowards and thieves don’t look people in the eyes, then she said, ‘The only things you’ll be missing out on by schooling at home is unremitting sickness and an arsenal of foul language. But I know you can’t see it that way and want what you want. You’re going to have to trust me. I won’t let you miss out on the good stuff, I promise.’ I can’t remember what I said, if anything after that, but I do remember she enrolled me in every afterschool sport and activity I asked to join, and I can’t recall ever bothering her about it again. The things she exposed us to . . . art, cooking, elocution—we never would have learned those in school, not the way she taught them, anyway. She didn’t know how to do things halfway. Neither do I.” He laughed, then glanced up with what could have been a flush surging to his cheeks. “Wow, I apologize. That was an incredibly long answer. I also don’t
know how to tell a short story, apparently. ”
“Oh, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” my mother said. Her throat sounded dry and made me reach for my water glass reflexively. “After that, I feel like I know her! She sounds like a marvelous woman and mother, someone I’d very much like to meet. I’m sure I would like her.”
“Yes . . . I think you would,” Dominic agreed, a fervent note in his voice amid a hesitancy.
As the three of them chatted, I couldn’t help but think that maybe Dominic was right; I had worried for nothing. Things couldn’t have been going any better, I thought wondrously, raising my glass to take a sip of water. I drank most of it already, and there was only a sparse amount of liquid trapped between the small ice-cubes. Not wanting to interrupt Dominic or rudely reach across him for the pitcher, I jiggled the glass gently over my mouth. When it refused to produce a sip, I shook it harder. My eyes bulged as a small tidal wave came rushing toward my face, a small cry of anticipation rising from my throat and another when the freezing cubes smacked my nose, slid down my chin, and tumbled into my bra. I began to choke, though there couldn’t have been more than half a sip left in the entire glass.
Trying to be helpful, Dominic rubbed circles on my back while my parents looked on patiently. I tried to smile reassuringly, failed, then held up a hand signaling I was fine and not in any ultimate danger. I continued to splutter and cough, sounding very much like a seal, until all traces of water had been purged from my esophagus.
I heard Dominic make a muffled noise, as his hand remained lightly pressed between my bare shoulder blades. It was warm and comforting—in direct opposition to the other sensation occupying my front side. I shivered involuntarily. “Are you all right?” The whisper was meant to be discreet, which considering the circumstances was actually quite funny, and I laughed. Seeing I was in fact fine, he added, “If you were feeling left out of the conversation you could have just said so.” I laughed again, removed my napkin from my lap, and abruptly excused myself from the dinner table.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, unnecessarily—right after I remove the ice melting in my bra.
A few minutes later I rejoined them, pleased to hear what sounded like normal conversation as I took my seat. Dominic acknowledged me with a smile of affection, even if his eyes were a tad wary. I resumed eating, meticulously maneuvering around soggy noodles pooled in melted ice cubes.
“Did you know it was Dominic’s father and uncle who designed Shorecliffs cafeteria?” my father asked. “More like a banquet hall,” he added with a low snort.
“The structure really is phenomenal,” my mom added, her knuckles tucked under chin. “Your family is very talented.”
“Thank you,” he said with a proud humility. “I’ll be sure to tell them you said so. It’s a pretty incredible story, actually.” I saw him put down his fork once more and frowned. While he didn’t appear to be overly concerned, I knew he would never finish his dinner. “My great-grandfather started the business when he was seventeen. His parents didn’t have enough money to put him through college, so he built his empire the old fashion way—with persuasion and a lot of charisma,” he laughed.
“It was in his generation that the company flourished on the growing need for factories. When he passed away the business was inherited by my grandfather, and so forth until it was left to his three sons. My father and both my uncles—actually, the older one is retired now—were instrumental in propagating the company and making sure that the ideals it was founded upon in the early nineteen hundreds were upheld. My father especially did a lot of commuting in the expanding years, spending weeks at a time in Hampton and Virginia Beach. That’s where most of the building was taking place at the time. My uncles, both unmarried, were willing to relocate permanently, wanting to capitalize on what turned out to be profitable uncultivated real estate. The proximity would ensure a personal relationship and earn them more opportunities for expansion. They didn’t have the kind of communication devices they have today—nothing like Skype or Facetime.
“My uncles pushed hard for my dad to move our family west, but he was against it. My youngest sister just entered first grade. It was a reasonable request on their end—the architecture industry at that time was exploding, new buildings and housing development deals happening every day. The opportunity to make millions came and went in a single afternoon.” He paused, nodding. The look on his face was pensive and maybe a trifle plaintive. “I’m glad my father didn’t move us. The success, like you said, Sir”—he glanced at my father—“came at a cost. Overall, though, I would say the success outweighed the disappointments. He didn’t live to see it, but taking the company bicoastal was a lifelong dream of my grandfather’s. He would have been proud to see that happen.” Without realizing it, I had leaned toward him, captured and mesmerized by both the story and his voice. I sat up now, took a breath and was surprised to further realize I wasn’t the only one under his spell.
“Incredible,” my mom said on an exhale. “Persistence and perseverance will get you everywhere in life.” My father nodded his silent agreement.
“You two would understand that more than most,” Dominic replied, resting his wrists on the edge of the table. “The Fuel Efficiency program must have been years in the making. You both must be so proud to have been responsible for discovering its potential.”
My mom smiled, touched and a little flustered at such thoughtful words. “Well, yes we are, thank you. We certainly didn’t do it alone, and some days I wondered if it would ever feel worth the time we spent putting into it. Not to mention the funds allocated to source the project.” She glanced at my father, her chest rising as she breathed deeply. “I went through a very pessimistic phase in my life,” she said honestly, “but James was always so sure that one day we would do it. I couldn’t have done it without him,” she murmured, her eyes glistening with moisture. “Goodness, not again,” she exclaimed, wiping at her eyes. “Never fails.” She laughed, then looked pointedly at Dominic. “Hopefully Foster has warned you; I tend to get emotional whenever my family is concerned.”
“To be very honest . . .” Dominic began, sounding both vulnerable and almost diffident. He swallowed, and met my mother’s eyes across the table with hesitancy. “In many ways you remind me of my mother.” At this, a fresh batch of tears filled in her eyes. She smiled, raised the corner of the napkin to her eyes catching a tear just as it spilled over. “I want to thank you, for welcoming me into your home, for wanting to get to know me, and most of all allowing me to spend time with Foster. Being around all of you, watching you be a mom to her . . . it’s felt a little like being with my own family.”
My mother blew out a quick breath, then sat back in her chair as if winded. “I think probably that’s one of the nicest compliments anyone has ever given me.” Her voice was husky, strangled with emotion. “I hardly know how to respond.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father’s mouth twitch. I shifted my gaze slightly and was mildly surprised under the circumstances to find his eyes on me, an unusual look of intensity about him. The green eyes, oddly golden in the candlelight, shut briefly and his expression relaxed, a tender smile forming on his lips. I returned it and we both looked away at the same moment. He put his arm around my mother, drew her close, and kissed her lightly on the temple. A silence, not at all uncomfortable, abounded.
Dominic reached out and took my hand in his, setting them both overtly on the table between us. I felt a ping of uncertainty, expecting to be overcome by shyness or unease. Never before had anyone—other than the two people across the table—touched me with such open affection. What I felt was neither shyness nor unease, but something else; new by all accounts, something that could only be described as full.
“Was that always the plan? To move out here in the middle of the year?” And like a change in seasons, Fall’s congeniality gave way to Winter’s hardness, and the temperature dropped.
Beside me, I felt Dominic tense as if bracing f
or impact. I squeezed his hand gently, reassuring myself just as much as I was reassuring him. Would I be able to retrieve him from the ice? When he turned to look at me, though, I saw that the hardness wasn’t penetrating; it was but merely a shell, crystallizing over something which remained vulnerable. An acute ache rose up in me. Dominic smiled at me, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, then turned to answer my father’s question.
“Ah, well . . . no. It wasn’t always the plan,” he said, and shook his head lightly. “Originally I was going to finish out my senior year in Belle Haven, but I’ll be interning with my uncle’s company ov—” He stopped abruptly, a look of sudden surprised pain on his face. I clenched, feeling it slice through him as if he were made of paper. He swallowed, tried to speak and couldn’t, then thrust his arm forward. “Excuse me,” he said roughly, raising the thick-lipped glass to his mouth and drank.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 67