Remembering You

by Stella MacLean

  “Caught in the act, Mom.”

  I heard the smile in his voice, and my heart rose. My irreverent son had that effect on me. Connor could charm birds out of the trees. “You just missed your sister and your new nephew. They went home a few moments ago.”

  “You got to babysit?”

  “I babysat the other day. Today we talked about your father.”

  “Wish I'd been there.”

  For two months after Graham died, Connor was unable to talk about his father. And to this day, he hides his grief behind a show of bravado. Hearing him say he wanted to talk about his father was a great relief. “You'll have lots of chance to talk about your dad at Christmas.”

  “Feel like taking a break from everything?”

  Connor switched topics faster than he switched traffic lanes. “Are you making me an offer? It has to include Fergus, you realize that.”

  “Where we’re going your felonious feline can’t come.”

  “Don’t talk nasty about my cat. And where exactly are you thinking we might go? Why don't you come home instead?”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but you need to get out of Dodge, and I have just the place.”

  Connor’s computer business took him all over the world. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” I implored, so happy to be having this conversation with this crazy man who happened to be my son.

  “How about flying off to Chile?”

  “The Chile in South America?”

  “One and the same.”

  That was the last place I expected him to say. Well, not the very last—Antarctica would win that designation. “When?”

  “January. I need to fly down there for a couple of weeks, and it would give us a chance to live a little.”

  “You haven’t forgotten I’m your mother, have you? I don’t spend my evenings going to bars.”

  “You might enjoy a bar in Santiago. All those Latin men—you might get a whole new perspective on life.”

  I'm speechless at the notion of visiting a county I've only ever read about.

  “Still there?” Connor asked, a faint tinge of worry in his voice.

  “Yeah, I'm here, and let me do an instant replay. You want me to go to South America with you in January. And you mentioned Latin men.”

  His deep, throaty chuckle reaches out to me. “That about covers it. Once I’ve got my business done, we could play tourist while we're there—mountains, wineries, seashore, all sorts of wildlife. You'd have time to learn a little Spanish before we go.”

  I'd never just packed up and taken off in my entire life. So why not now, with my son who'd traveled everywhere? I'd be perfectly safe. “You're on. I'll have to get my Passport renewed, and I suppose I'll need shots.”

  “Don’t worry. We can work out the details later.”

  “Have son with big job, will travel, right?”

  Connor’s laughter warmed my soul. “That’s the whole point of the trip to Chile. You and I both need to get a life.”

  “Oh, oh. Something happened in your love life?”

  “What love life?”

  “Okay, I'll read up on Chile. This could mean a whole new wardrobe,” I said, making a mental note to go on the Internet and check the temperature of Chile in January.

  “It could mean a whole new everything,” Connor assured me.

  “Love you,” I murmured, my voice sounding thick in my ears.

  “Love you, too,” he said before he hung up.

  Yes, my darling Connor embraced life with such enthusiasm. An enthusiasm that was sorely tested fifteen years ago.

  I'll never forget the call we got that dark November evening when Connor was fifteen and hockey was his whole world. His injuries put an end to his dream of playing professional hockey. And that night at the hospital, for the first time in our marriage, I saw fear in my husband’s eyes.

  The struggle to remain calm and hopeful in the midst of the surgeon’s dire prognosis of possible brain injury took every ounce of emotional strength we could muster.

  I can still hear Graham’s words that night in the E.R. waiting room as we waited for the surgery on Connor’s brain to undo the damage from hurtling headfirst into the boards. “We’ll get Connor through this. We'll keep him safe and we will make him better. You'll see—he’ll be fine. He’s our son, and he will recover.”

  Sure enough he did—except for the limp and the need for a cane. And Connor being Connor, he never once complained.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, I was up early on the Internet, looking for information about Chile while I mentally went through my closets searching for clothes that would work for everything from the mountains to the beach. I was surprised to discover that Chile is a huge country, with every type of climate imaginable. My next project was to borrow Spanish-language tapes from the library. But as much as I enjoyed researching Chile, I wanted to read Graham’s next letter. After saving several tourist sites as bookmarks, I shut down the computer.

  Graham had been very interested in Connor’s computer business and what his work involved. If only Graham had lived to retire, he would’ve been thrilled to take a business trip with his son.

  Trying not to think about what might have been, I scooped Fergus into my arms and settled back in the chair behind Graham’s desk. At the sight of Graham’s familiar scrawl, loneliness rushed through me, making me squeeze Fergus tighter.

  With a yowl of displeasure, my four-legged fur-ball leaped from my arms. I ignored his pleas to get back in my lap as I flattened the rumpled pages of the letter on his desk.

  * * *

  Dearest Susan,

  It’s early April and my treatments are over. I woke up feeling good this morning, so thankful for everything life has given me. I’ve been so lucky all these years!

  From my office I can hear you in the kitchen getting breakfast ready. You stuck your head in here a few minutes ago to see what I felt like eating, and I was inordinately pleased to be able to tell you I wanted French toast and maple syrup. My mouth is watering just writing these words. I remember all those Sunday mornings of French toast and coffee we shared while we read the newspapers, and the sheer delight of having Jonathan and the twins in the kitchen with us. So many memories... The awareness in your eyes when I kissed you before pouring a cup of coffee. The ease with which you made Sunday mornings a familiar event. But, most of all, how simply hugging you close could heat my blood.

  And to think I let a stupid situation at work invade my life to the point where I questioned the value of those precious experiences.

  I realize what I’m about to tell you is something you'd rather forget, but I need to explain what was going on in my head during those hectic years when the law practice was booming, the kids were showing us how vulnerable we were to growing older, and I was doing my best to deny it all. I was too busy to give the whole age thing much thought until my fortieth birthday. I'd gone into work as usual and my secretary had a cake for me. The staff was pleasant in their teasing and congratulations, but when I looked around, there were only three of us who'd passed the forty-year milestone. And I was one of them.

  Suddenly, those long evenings at work seemed dull and pointless. And the newer lawyers coming into our growing firm were young, ambitious and determined to set the legal world on fire. I felt like an old uncle whom they tolerated, not the brilliant lawyer I believed I was.

  Every night I worked late, there were half a dozen of the young associates there. One of these was Jennifer Sargent, a name you hate to see or hear, but please bear with me. Jennifer was determined to prove something to her father, the judge, and she sought my advice and help at every opportunity.

  I was flattered. Not only was she attractive and pleasant to be with, she enjoyed my company. She wanted to be a good trial lawyer, and she was willing to work hard. A dedicated associate who was eager to learn was exactly what I needed in an associate.

  It was all so innocent in the beginning, when our mutual love of the law prov
ided us with hours of strategizing and planning for court appearances. It was exhilarating and I felt alive in a way I hadn’t since I started in law.

  Meanwhile, you were busy with hockey games, basketball, gymnastics and your volunteer work at the school, while I spent most of my time at the office. We talked so little, mostly about events going on around us rather than about us and how we felt. As my law practice became busier, I came to see myself as a lawyer first, a husband second.

  It wasn't until Jennifer made a pass at me that I realized she wanted more than just an opportunity to prove herself. What we did next I had no business getting involved in, and what those months did to our marriage, Susan, was my fault and mine alone.

  I regret what I did, and if I had to do it over again, it would never have happened. I would have been home with you and the children. I would have put you first no matter what. But now I will make it up to you as best I can by putting you and your feelings first through this scary time.

  Love always,

  Graham

  * * *

  My hands shaking, I put the letter down. The memory of those days and nights when I was preoccupied by the fear that something was terribly wrong in my marriage flooded back. Two nights in particular stood out, nights when I began to see how much our life together had changed...for the worse.

  The ringing phone interrupts the bedtime story I'm reading to our rambunctious nine-year-old twins. “Daddy, Daddy,” they scream in unison as they tumble off the bed and out of their bedroom.

  “Wait a minute, you two,” I call after them, despite the fact that I know how pointless it is. They’ve been restless this evening due to the longer spring days, and partly due to the sense of uneasiness we'd all been living with these past months.

  Graham hadn’t been home one evening in four weeks—always an excuse, always a pressing court date. But he’s promised to be here tonight in—I check my watch as I race to the phone—about twenty minutes.

  I lift the phone from its cradle and before I can speak, I hear Graham’s voice. He’s talking to someone, sounding annoyed and preoccupied. I immediately feel somehow responsible for his state of mind, mostly because Graham has taken to reminding me of what he calls the good old days, when we both had our separate careers. I assume he’s missing the freedom of two salaries and no major financial commitments. But who knows?

  “Susan, I’m still working on the Costain case for tomorrow, and I won’t be done for at least another two hours.”

  I feel lonely and unappreciated, but because the twins are listening to every word I say to their father, I pull myself together. “We were going out for dinner this evening. I didn’t take anything out of the freezer—”

  “Don’t worry about it. One of the associates is getting some takeout. I'll be home as soon as I can.”

  Disappointment follows its familiar path through my heart as I try to think of something upbeat to say.

  “Are you there, Susan? The kids are all right, aren’t they?”

  He hasn’t asked about me or how I'm feeling or what I'll have for dinner. “They're fine. We're all fine, thanks for asking,” I snap.

  “Susan, I'm sorry, please don’t be angry. I'll be home in a couple of hours. Why don’t you make yourself a drink and wait for me?”

  Another night of waiting? Why is it always me who has to wait around for him? “Why should I? You'll be too tired and too uninterested in my life to stay awake longer than it takes to brush your teeth. Besides, I have no intention of becoming an alcoholic,” I reply, feeling my chest tighten.

  “Please don’t do this” Graham says barely above a whisper. I can hear the exhaustion in his voice, and it’s an automatic reflex for me to make some soothing remark to help him get past these moments of unease between us.

  But I realize I don’t care anymore. I’ve spent far too many evenings alone as it is. Now I'm going to spend another. So I say nothing.

  “Look, I have to be ready for tomorrow, I have no choice. There's no one else who can go to court with this. Susan, I need you to understand.”

  I'm already supposed to “understand” the new suits, the change in hairstyle, the early morning running group—and now I’m to understand that he can’t keep our date.

  “What's to understand? You don’t have time for me anymore,’ I answer, my mind screaming to say much more. But I’m afraid that if I bring up how I’m feeling or confront him about his indifference, he'll use his tact and charm to convince me the that I'm overreacting.

  “Susan, that’s not fair. I don’t have any other options. If only you knew how hard this is for me”

  He hangs up before can I answer him with all the things I desperately need to say. Even though there's no point in arguing with a dead phone line, I ache to tell him what I think of him and his career. What I wouldn't give to have the courage to yell all the angry words I’ve been keeping inside me...

  How long had this been going on? I can’t remember a specific day, only that our conversations have been ending the same way for far too long. Graham calls to tell me he'll be late yet again, I bury my disappointment beneath a question about when I can expect him home. I hang up the phone, put the kids to bed and eat alone. And tonight he’s made another request for understanding softened, or so he hopes, by an apology. But all I’m left with is a deep-seated resentment of his career—and a growing dread that I have no real role in his life.

  Despite the anger, I can’t bring myself to say what really lies beneath everything that‘s been happening. I'm afraid Graham no longer loves me.

  The next evening, I hire a babysitter and go downtown to Graham’s office, determined to persuade him to go to dinner with me so we can talk the way we used to.

  I pull into the parking garage, and I'm about to get out of the car when I see Graham coming from the elevator bank with one of his young associates: a beautiful blonde who's walking way too close to my husband. I watch in agony as he puts his arm around her shoulders, his lips brushing her forehead while his eyes sweep the parking garage before returning to meet her wide smile.

  I lean back in my seat, whispering a silent prayer that he won't see me, that no one will witness my humiliation. When their laughter fades and is replaced by the sound of Graham’s Mercedes starting up, I close the car door and speed out of the garage.

  Somehow I manage to drive back to the house, park the car, pay the babysitter and make it upstairs to the bedroom I share with Graham. I wait, hiding beneath the covers, listening for the sound of Graham’s car. It’s after three in the morning when he finally comes home. By then, I’ve made my decision.

  Lost in my memories, I didn’t hear that someone was tapping on the window of Graham’s study. Remembering what Sam had said about the break-in, my heart jumped in my throat. Burglars don’t knock, I chided myself as I scrambled out of the chair and crossed the room.

  Chapter Eight

  “Jonathan, what are you doing out there?” I asked through the glass.

  “Let me in and I'll tell you.” He smiled, and it was as if Graham were smiling at me.

  “Have you forgotten where the door is?” I asked, giving him my raised-eyebrow routine.

  “I tried the kitchen door, but it was latched and you didn’t answer when I knocked. Your car’s in the driveway.” He shrugged and gave me a questioning glance.

  This wasn’t the time to tell Jonathan that since the neighborhood break-in I’d become more security conscious. I didn’t want my son to have anything more to worry about. “I’ll be right there.” I met him at the kitchen door and hugged him tight. He hugged me back, his arms locked around me, his face buried in my neck, his arms almost rigid in their hold.

  “What’s wrong?” was on the tip of my tongue, but knowing my oldest son’s pride, I didn’t say the words. Jonathan would tell me when he was ready to talk. For now, he needed to hug me and that was more than okay.

  “How was your flight? Did your meeting in Boston go okay?” I asked, wanting to eliminate th
e obvious concerns, but I could see by the way he held me that whatever the problem, he was afraid.

  He gave me one last bone-crushing squeeze and let go. Without meeting my gaze, he dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. “The flight was great and my meeting went really well.”

  “I'm so glad.” Still feeling the need to connect with him, I smoothed the shoulder of his jacket.

  With a half-smile, he said, “Mom, it’s so good to be home. How’re you doing?”

  “Life’s good. But Fergus is growing larger even as we speak. I may have to enroll him in Weight Watchers,” I said, determined to keep it light, to play along until he told me what was worrying him.

  “That cat won’t be able to put one paw in front of the other if he keeps eating like this.”

  “I do what I can to hold the line on his food intake, but he outmaneuvers me by burning fewer calories.”

  “Face it, Mom. Your poor excuse for a cat is spoiled,” Jonathan teased, his eyes regaining some of their usual sparkle.

  “Jealous?”

  “Absolutely.” The beginnings of a grin moved slowly over his face.

  “How about coffee?”

  “Sure.” Jonathan said, glancing around the kitchen.

  “Before you ask, I haven’t changed anything in the house. I can’t decide what I want to do. But I’ve started going through your father’s desk,” I offered as I made the coffee.

  “Need any help with Dad’s office?”

  I turned to look at my son, my heart swelling in my chest at the expression on his face—one I’d seen so many times when my firstborn believed he could make my life easier.

  How often had he lifted huge bags of peat moss out of the back of the car when I was on some mad gardening scheme? How often had he lugged things up from the basement for me?

  I brought the tray of coffee to the table and sat down next to him. “I don’t want you to do anything while you’re here but enjoy yourself. You’ve done enough this week, and having you here is such a wonderful surprise. And then there’s baby Graham. Let’s drop over there in a little while and see them.”