Been Searching For You

by Nicole Evelina

  At work, things were busier than ever. I was pulling double duty as writer and AE until Laini found a replacement for my old position.

  Miles and I were comparing mock-ups for an annual report for the Children’s Hospital Foundation when my cell phone rang. The caller ID said it was Mirabelle.

  I stepped away a few paces and answered. “Hey, sis. Before you ask, no, I don’t need another pep talk about Alex.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling.” Mirabelle’s voice was somber and strained.

  I sat on the corner of Miles’s desk, my left hand fluttering to my throat like a bird come home to roost. Something wasn’t right. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Mirabelle swallowed loudly. “It’s—it’s Daddy.” A choked sob escaped her lips. “He died, Bethy.”

  “What?” Tears began to flow even as my mind grappled with her words.

  “Last night.” Mirabelle’s voice was rough. “He must have had a heart attack during the night. Mom couldn’t wake him.”

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, bending forward to rest my arms on my knees, cradling my head in my hands. I rocked back and forth without really knowing what I was doing.

  Miles must have heard my distress because he squatted so his face was even with mine and wrapped his arms around me. “Tell me.”

  “My dad.” I choked and spluttered. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. Do you want me to go with you?”

  I nodded mutely, unable to form words.

  Miles took the phone from me. “Mirabelle, it’s Miles. I’m so sorry for your loss. How’s Alice?”

  Through the haze of my tears, I noticed people gathering in the doorway of our cube. Most wore compassionate looks, sensing something was seriously wrong, but a few simply looked annoyed. I wanted to beat each of them into a pulp, to take my pain out on them, make them hurt as much as I did, but I couldn’t move.

  In front of me, Miles made sympathetic sounds. “Of course. We’re on our way.” He tucked the phone into my purse then helped me to my feet. “Come on, dear. I’m taking you home to pack and then to the airport. I’ll even fly to Des Moines with you.”

  “I don’t want you to waste the money.”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders. “It’s never a waste. My mom will be happy to see me. Come on. It’s time for you to be with your family.”

  “Does it make me a bad daughter that I can’t look at Mom today?” I asked Mirabelle as we waited at the soggy gravesite for the line of mourners to gather.

  “No. We each grieve in our own way.”

  “It’s not just that. Seeing her so upset makes my pain all the worse. It’s like I’m taking on part of what she’s feeling.”

  Mirabelle put an arm around my shoulders and hugged me. “She’s your mom. It’s natural that you don’t want to see her hurting, just like I don’t want to see you hurting.” She kissed the top of my head.

  I felt as though I should be crying, but I had used up all my tears over the last two days. No matter how hard my heart squeezed, nothing more would come out. All I was left with was a jagged hole where my heart used to be.

  My cheek resting on my sister’s shoulder, I watched the last of the stragglers pick their way across the soggy lawn to the three rows of white folding chairs that waited next to the open grave. Vaguely, I wondered if it was a rule that it had to rain at every funeral, nature grieving along with the family. But that couldn’t be right; people died and were buried every single day, not just on the dreary ones.

  “I believe we are ready to begin,” the pastor said softly. “My friends, we gather here to say farewell to Randall Coe—a loving husband, devoted father, and proud American veteran.”

  Mom sobbed, and Mirabelle and I each took one of her arms, helping to support her. Chuck stood next to Mirabelle, our knight ready to help whoever needed it most.

  “Please bow your heads while we pray,” the pastor continued.

  I knew the prayer was supposed to provide some level of comfort and closure to us, the family left behind, but I really didn’t hear it. My eyes were fixed on one person in the crowd. His head was bowed respectfully, his hands clasped in front of him, but his eyes weren’t closed. They were fixed on mine. They were so blue and so sad.

  Nick should have been the last person I wanted intruding on a day like this, but instead, my fickle heart warmed from seeing him standing in the crowd. He had practically grown up in our house and even occasionally addressed my father as “Dad,” so it was only fitting that he was here. Remembering that this wasn’t just my loss was tough; all of these people had a part of their lives missing now as well. In the face of that, a childish spat between two adults seemed insignificant.

  After a few more prayers, the pastor called each of us up to say a final farewell to my father before the casket was lowered into the ground. Most people placed roses on their loved one’s caskets, but we chose to use blue hydrangeas instead, cut from his very own bushes.

  Suddenly, I was again the little girl who helped tend the flowers. “Do you think God will let him plant them as clippings in heaven?” I whispered to Mirabelle, twirling my flower between my thumb and forefinger like a child.

  She squeezed my hand. “I don’t see why not.”

  My mom held tightly to each of us as she stumbled to the casket. At first, she simply kissed her hand and placed it on the lid above where his face would be, but then she embraced the coffin as though she could hold him one last time. Chuck gently pried her away so my sister and I could say our farewells.

  Mirabelle was silent as she placed the blue flower on top then backed away a few steps, but she never loosened her grip on my hand. I took a few tentative steps, then the world tilted once, twice, before righting itself again. He was really gone. My daddy, my hero, the man who had taught me how to ride a bike, row, and drive, would never again call me kitten. He would never see my wedding day or witness the birth of his grandchildren. It was too soon. He’d still had so much life in him. How could this have happened? Without warning, I sobbed, a keening sound pouring from my lips.

  Mirabelle’s arms came around me. She carefully guided me to a chair, where we both sat, her gentle rocking and soft coos settling my hysteria to a hiccupping sob. Wrapped in her arms, breathing in the floral scent of her damp hair, I watched the uniformed military men fold and present the American flag to my mom, tried to drown out the mournful notes of taps which made the loss so much more real, and stared vacantly as mourners filed past my father’s gravesite. I was so numb and empty that everything felt as if it was happening to someone else, as if I was a spy intruding into someone else’s life. Even when aunts, cousins, and relations I hadn’t seen in years stopped to shake my hand or offer their condolences, I barely registered it. And the sad thing was I wasn’t even on any drugs. My poor mom was medicated to the gills, but I had no excuse.

  It wasn’t until nearly everyone had gone and the casket was lowered into the ground that Nick approached us. The rain had ceased, so I could tell the wetness on his cheeks was born of grief. He paused in front of my mom, said a few words, and hugged her.

  “Oh, Nick, my boy, Nick, it’s so good to see you,” she cried.

  “You’d swear he’d just come home from the war,” Mirabelle quipped.

  I smiled for the first time all day.

  Nick disengaged himself from my mom and greeted my sister warmly. But when he got to me, his eyes were wary, his touch tentative. “How are you, Annabeth?”

  “I’ve been better,” I said with a weary sigh. The little girl in me was gone; I suddenly felt every one of my thirty-five years.

  “Why don’t I take you ladies home? Mrs. Coe, I’m sure you’d like to lie down.”

  We’d opted not to have a post-funeral gathering, so that was the logical next step.

  My mom patted Nick’s arm. “You always know just what to do. Thank you, son.”

  Mirabelle helped my mom inside while I sat in Nick’s car, unsure of what to do nex
t.

  The hesitation must have shown on my face because Nick said, “You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”

  I bit my lip uncertainly. “But what if they need me?”

  “Text them. Your sister can handle your mom. She’s just going to medicate her anyway. She’ll probably appreciate the quiet time alone.”

  “So what? We just sit here?”

  Nick put the car in drive. “No. We go celebrate Randy’s memory. He may as well have been my dad too, and I want to give him a proper sendoff.”

  Over the next two hours, we stopped at my dad’s favorite hardware store, the service station where he’d gotten his car fixed since moving back to Des Moines in the late 1960s, his barber shop, and the independent bookstore where he’d done all of his Christmas shopping for “his three girls.” We listened to story after story of good deeds he did, trouble he got into as a child, and quite a few off-color recollections of his wild, pre-army days. All over town, people were sad to hear of his passing. I’d expected to cry while hearing these personal reflections, but I found myself smiling instead.

  There was one last place we needed to go, and neither of us needed to say it to know the destination. When Nick pulled into the parking lot, I felt as if I were five years old again. We’d spent so many weekends at this park with my dad—playing in the sandbox, chasing butterflies, chasing each other, just being happy and carefree kids. As we’d gotten older, I’d sold Girl Scout cookies here, Nick had had soccer practice at the adjacent field, and my dad had asked us to help in the community garden in the far lot. He taught us how to care for the plants and take responsibility for something outside ourselves. So many memories in such a small place.

  Nick hopped up on the warm hood of his car and shook his head. “Man, that’s how life should be. People mourn your passing, but they also remember you fondly.” His face darkened. “I’m afraid not too many people would think kindly of me if I died today.” He helped me up next to him.

  “Maybe, but that’s only final if you die tonight.” I placed a hand on his. “There’s always time to change tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a soft smile. “Actually, why wait? I can start with you. Can you ever forgive me for the way I’ve treated you, especially lately?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Not even my father’s death could wipe away so many years of pain, not to mention what he’d put me through in the last year. “I don’t know. Maybe eventually.”

  “Good enough.” He seemed satisfied as he watched the sun slowly set, turning the sky into a giant Creamsicle. He leaned back on his arms. “What was your favorite memory of your dad?”

  I flipped through many in my mind: the day he taught me to make scrambled eggs, reading in his den while he worked, arguing with him when I was thirteen that I was old enough to wear makeup, the day he dropped me off at the dorms at Drake, and on and on. Finally, I settled on one, a small giggle escaping even as my eyes misted over. “I’ll never forget the father-daughter dance freshman year of high school.”

  “Oh, I was there when you and Mirabelle were getting ready for that. Your dress was hideous, all pink and poufy.” He laughed. “You looked like a deranged ballerina.”

  “Maybe so, but his smooth moves on the dance floor got us crowned king and queen of the ball.”

  “I bet you still have that tiara, don’t you?”

  I blushed and examined my hands.

  “I thought so.” Nick flopped back on the hood, propping his head in his hands. “Mine has got to be when I went with your family to New England. When your dad showed us Princeton, then Boston, it was the first time history really came to life for me. Honestly, if it weren’t for that, I doubt I would have passed American History.” Nick gently tapped his fist on the metal. “I owe your dad a lot.”

  I gave him a half-hearted smile, fighting the tears threatening to return. “That’s the thing I hate the most about all of this—the things we’ll never say to him, never get to do.”

  Nick shed his suit jacket, laid it next to him, and loosened his navy tie. “What is it you regret?” He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up.

  I decided to get comfortable too. I turned onto my left hip so that I was facing him and kicked off my shoes before tucking my feet beneath me. “I really wanted him to walk me down the aisle.” My mind conjured up a mental image of that, and the water works started all over again.

  Nick pulled me into his arms and held me until I’d cried myself out. It was only then that I realized how comfortable I was. This was the way it used to be, the way it should have been and might have stayed if we hadn’t gone to Rome. I breathed his cologne, savoring the musky scent of my teenage memories and longing to be back there again, when things were simple, when my dad was alive. Maybe, just maybe, things could be like that again.

  I looked at him. “Nick—”

  He placed a finger on my lips. His eyes scanned my face, reading the conflicting emotions there. Slowly, he leaned over and touched his lips to mine.

  It was like stepping back in time. His kisses were morphine for my wounded heart, numbing the pain and grief with his familiarity. A wave of dizziness overcame me, and when I righted myself again, my tongue was searching for his, my hands unbuttoning his shirt, his hands tangled in my hair.

  The next thing I knew, we were in the backseat of his car, undressing each other as fast as we could. I slid down beneath him on the sun-drenched leather, welcoming the heat of his body as his skin pressed against mine. Nick’s touch wiped all the pain from my heart, all the memories and troubles from my mind, giving me oblivion sweeter than any alcohol could conjure. I reveled in the nothingness, losing myself in his touch.

  I opened my eyes only when my leg cramped, and I shifted my position to alleviate the pain. Nick’s kisses didn’t miss a beat. If anything, he took my movement as a sign of desire, allowing his weight to press against me, silently telling me that soon there would be no going back.

  A shaft of dying light caught my eyes, and suddenly, I was in a very different place on another hot summer day. All of my old concerns about Nick came rushing back as I relived Rome along with the memory of his recent cruelty.

  What was I doing? This was no way of honoring my father’s memory. He wouldn’t want his daughter debasing herself just to escape the pain of his passing. He would want me to face it head on—with the man I truly loved not some poor substitute.

  I pushed at Nick’s shoulders, trying to get him to stop. “Nick, this isn’t right. We can’t do this.”

  He growled in frustration, slowly raising his head so that his hard blue eyes met mine. “Why not? You aren’t with Alex. He’s moved on. You should too. We’re meant to be together.”

  “No, we aren’t. We never should have tried.”

  “Annabeth—”

  I shoved him again, moving him just enough that I could wiggle out from under his body. I grabbed at my clothing, dressing as quickly as I could.

  Nick knelt on the seat, running his hand through his hair. “You aren’t seriously doing this to me again, are you?”

  “I’m sorry, but yes. You wouldn’t understand.”

  He leaned toward me. “You’re right. I don’t. What’s going on?” I grabbed my purse and yanked on the door handle, intent on walking back to my mom’s house, but I didn’t get far before he stopped me. “What did I do?”

  “You were you. Every time, you manage to charm me, to make me forget. But it wasn’t enough this time. I remember everything you tried to make me forget.” I shoved past him and out into the twilight.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means we’re done—for now and forever. Have a nice life, Nick.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Miles sat with me on the flight back to Chicago, drinking with me until I could forget the last few days completely. Mia, freshly back from her stint in England, picked up our stumbling, giggling, pickled selves at the airport and tucked us each into bed—Miles at her pl
ace, me in mine.

  Even when I was sober again, she cooed over me like a mother hen, making sure I had company when I wanted it during my bereavement. Miles took over the role of my chef, bringing in all my favorite fast foods and even cooking twice.

  In honor of my first day back to work, exactly one week after I received the devastating phone call, he was making spaghetti from his nana’s secret family recipe, one his mom had served for him when he’d spent time with her in Des Moines. He was at the counter facing into the living room chopping fresh tomatoes while I sipped at a glass of red wine on the couch.

  “Have you heard from Alex? He sent flowers with his apologies, but he didn’t call.” I didn’t bother trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. Just yesterday, a card had arrived from Alex along with huge arrangement of white roses and peace lilies. In the card, he apologized for not getting the news soon enough to send them to the funeral or be there in person and offered his condolences to my family and me. That had nearly undone me, reminding me of the two great tragedies in my life.

  “Yeah, I’ve talked to him twice. He really is sorry about your dad and about what happened between you.”

  The rhythmic thwack of steel on the wooden cutting board rang out over the sizzling meat in the pot as I contemplated his words. “If that’s true, why doesn’t he call?”

  “The phone works two ways, you know. He left the ball in your court.”

  “I guess,” I groused into my wine glass. “Is he still maintaining his innocence in the whole picture debacle?”

  “Yes. You know, I’ve been thinking about that.” Miles scraped the mushy pile of tomatoes into a large sauce pot and stirred. “Mirabelle and I had a long talk while you were off making kissy face with Nick, and I think she’s right about the photo being a setup.”