Derailed

by Siegel, James

  “Have you put the house up for sale yet?” I asked her.

  “Yes. I told anyone I’m still talking to that I have to get away. There are too many memories. I have to start fresh.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Hardly anyone. Now. My aunts and uncles have given up on me — I had another fight with Joe. Our friends? It’s funny . . . at first they give you the song and dance how nothing’s going to change — you’ll still get together for Saturday night dinners and Sunday barbecues. But it does change. They’re all coupled up and you’re alone and they feel awkward. It becomes easier to just not invite you. We were worried how we’d manage to cut ties with them, and it’s happening on its own. Who do I talk to? My mother, mostly. That’s it.”

  “The first decent offer you get on the house — sell it,” I said. “It’s time.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  I found a house outside Oakdale.

  It wasn’t much of a house, a modest ranch built sometime in the fifties, but it had three bedrooms and a small garden and lots of privacy.

  I rented it.

  And waited for them to come join me.

  Deanna sold the house.

  It wasn’t the best price we could have gotten, but it wasn’t the worst, either. It was expedient.

  When Deanna told Anna they were going to be moving, she had to weather a storm of protest, however. Deanna was ostensibly moving to be rid of the memories — Anna wanted to hold on to them. Deanna said it was done; there was no going back. Anna retreated into stony silence.

  She left most of the furniture. We didn’t want a moving company having an address of delivery.

  They packed up the car and left.

  Somewhere between Pennsylvania and Ohio, Deanna pulled the car over and told Anna I was alive.

  We’d agonized over this.

  How exactly do you go about telling your daughter that her father isn’t dead? That he didn’t die in that hotel explosion after all? I couldn’t just pop out of the woodwork when she got there. She had to be prepared for something like that.

  We’d also wondered what should be told to her. Why was I alive? Or, more to the point, why had she been allowed to think I was dead all these months?

  She was fourteen — half kid and half not.

  So we decided on a story that was half true and half not.

  Deanna pulled the car into the parking lot of a Roy Rogers along Route 96. Later, she told me how it went.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said to Anna, and Anna barely looked at her. She was still on a kind of speaking strike, using silence as a weapon, the only one she had.

  “It’s something you’re going to have a hard time believing, and you’re going to be very, very angry at me, but I’m going to try to make you understand. Okay?”

  And now Anna did look at her, because this sounded serious.

  “Your father is alive, Anna.”

  At first, Deanna said, Anna looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. And when she repeated it, as if Deanna were maybe playing some kind of sick joke on her. A look of near disgust passed over Anna’s face and she asked her mother why she was doing this to her.

  “It’s the truth, darling. He's alive. We’re going to meet him now. He’s waiting for us in Illinois.”

  And it was at that point that Anna finally believed her, because she knew her mother hadn't lost her mind and wouldn’t have been cruel enough to joke about it. She broke down, finally and completely and spectacularly broke down. She cried rivers of tears, Deanna said, cried so hard and so much that Deanna didn’t think the body could contain that much water. She cried out of happiness, out of sheer relief.

  Then, with Deanna stroking her hair, came the questions.

  “Why did you tell me he was dead?” Anna said.

  “Because we couldn’t take the chance you would tell somebody. Maybe that was wrong — I’m so sorry you had to go through that. We thought it was the only way. Please believe me.”

  “Why is he pretending to be dead? I don’t understand. . . .”

  “Daddy got into some trouble. It wasn’t his fault. But they might not believe him.”

  “Theywho? ”

  “The police.”

  “The police? Daddy? ”

  “You know your father, Anna, and you know he’s a good man. But it might not have looked that way. It’s hard for me to explain. But he got into trouble and he couldn’t get out.”

  Deanna told her the rest. Their names would be different. Their lives. Everything.

  “I have to change my name? ” Anna asked.

  “You always said you hated it, remember?”

  “Yeah. But . . . can’t I just change my last name?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  All in all, Deanna said, she thought the overwhelmingly good news that I was alive canceled out the overwhelmingly bad news that her life was being turned upside down. And that we’d lied to her all these months.

  Anna said, “Jamie.”

  “What?”

  “My name. I like Jamie.”

  I was waiting for them in Chicago.

  The car rolled up to the curb and Anna jumped out before the car actually stopped and flung herself into my arms.

  “Daddy,” she said. “Daddy . . . Daddy . . . Daddy . . .”

  “I love you,” I said. “I’m so sorry, honey . . . I’m so — ”

  “Shh,” she said. “You’re alive.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Our new life.

  I got up at six-thirty and made breakfast for Deanna and Anna. For Jamie. She went off to school with me. I was able to enroll her at George Washington Carver. When the principal asked if they could have her previous academic records forwarded to them, their favorite new teacher said sure — he’d notify her last school and they’d be there in a few months or so. The principal said fine and never asked me again.

  I’d scouted out a local endocrinologist named Dr. Milbourne, so Anna could continue her dialysis without interruption. He asked for her records. I gave him the same answer I gave the school. He didn’t seem overly concerned because Deanna had Anna’s blood journals for the last five years. That and her current blood sugar reading and medical work-up seemed to tell him all he needed to know. He put her on dialysis in the office, and wrote her a prescription for a portable machine we could use in the house. My new medical insurance, courtesy of the Illinois Board of Ed, took care of everything.

  I managed to find a drugstore in Chicago that carried the special insulin Anna needed, the one made from pig cells that was slowly being phased out in favor of the synthetic insulins that Anna didn’t respond to as well.

  Deanna, who used her previous middle name of Kim, took a part-time job as a receptionist to help out with the family finances.

  And an odd and wondrous thing happened.

  We became happy again.

  It dawned on us gradually, in small increments here and there, until we could finally and fearlessly say it out loud.

  We’d been given another chance at this thing called family. We grabbed it with both hands and held on for dear life. It felt a little like when we’d first started out, newly married and imbued with passion and hope. We didn’t know how long we’d have Anna for, that’s true, but we were determined to appreciate every single minute we did. We talked about it now, comforted each other, found strength in each other. Silence was forever banned from our doorstep. We became a kind of poster family for communication.

  And slowly, intimacy came back as well. The first night we were together again, with Anna safely asleep in bed, we tore into each other with a kind of desperate abandon. Sex had taken on a new edge and, with it, a new excitement. We mauled each other, we banged bodies, we screwed ourselves sweaty, and in the end we looked at each other with a kind of amazement. Was that really us?

  Two months later, Deanna announced she was pregnant.

  “You’re what?” I said.

  “With child. Knoc
ked up. Preggers. So,” she said, “what do you think? Should I have an abortion?”

  “No,” I said.

  We’d wanted another child once. Anna’s getting sick had changed our minds. But now, I believe I wanted it as much as I’ve ever wanted anything.

  “Yeah,” Deanna said. “I kinda feel that way, too.”

  Seven months later, Jamie had a brother. We called him Alex. Call it a homage to Jamie’s previous incarnation — and to my grandfather Alexander.

  I had one close call.

  I was coming out of Roxman’s Drugs with Anna’s prescription. I was marveling at the actual severity of a Chicago winter; Windy City didn’t quite do it justice.

  Frigid City. Subzero City. Frozen Stiff City. Yes.

  I was wearing a parka, knit cap, earmuffs, fur-lined gloves. I was still quivering. Strands of frozen moisture sat on my upper lip. I was looking for my car in an outdoor parking lot and hoping it would start.

  I walked past an office building and bumped into someone with blond hair.

  “Excuse me,” I said, turning around to face her.

  It was Mary Widger.

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  I whipped back around and kept walking. I remembered — one of our packaged goods clients had its headquarters here. She must’ve been coming from a meeting. When I turned the corner and peeked, she was still standing there.

  Did she recognize me?

  I don’t think so. I still had my beard. I was bundled in leather and fur. Still, it felt like my heart went on hiatus for a while. I found it hard to breathe.

  I waited a few minutes, enveloped in my own clouds of hot vapor, then walked back to the corner and peeked again.

  She was gone.

  FIFTY

  Alex was two.

  He was talking up a storm, doing calisthenics on the living room furniture, and generally delighting, amusing, and captivating us on a daily basis.

  Kim was back to working as a receptionist.

  Jamie was holding her own. Medically, scholastically, even socially. She’d made friends with two girls who lived down the road. They had sleep-overs and pizza parties and went to the movies together.

  Mr. Wid? He was teaching A Separate Peace and several works of Mark Twain in seventh-grade English.

  One of Twain’s classic lines seemed remarkably apt these days.

  The reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated.

  Jamie wasn’t the only one who’d built up a social circle. After keeping a low profile for a good part of a year, I’d finally taken some of my colleagues up on their invitations. Slowly, we began to see people. A dinner. A movie. A Sunday get-together.

  My previous life began to fade. Not just because time had passed, but because this life was better in so many ways—all the ways that really counted, I now knew. I’d made more money before, that’s true. By all the usual standards of American success—a prestigious job, a nice salary, a large house—this life was a come-down. But in this life I could measure job success in something other than dollar signs. My annual bonus was seeing children who came into my class struggling and unmotivated leave it on track and engaged. It was good for the soul. And I didn’t have disgruntled and demanding clients looking for my head every day, either.

  And married life? It continued to surprise in ways big and small.

  Lawrence Widdoes was a happy man.

  One Saturday in the summer, I took Alex with me into Chicago.

  I had to pick up another prescription for Kim, and I thought I’d take Alex to the Children’s Museum.

  First, we went to Roxman’s Drugs.

  The druggist greeted me by name. We were old pals now. He asked me how I was doing.

  Fine, I said.

  He said the weather was too hot.

  I agreed with him — we were stuck in the middle of an unrelenting heat wave. Something I was only too aware of, since I was teaching summer school in a building with no air-conditioning. At the end of each day, I came home drenched.

  The druggist slipped a lollipop to Alex, whose eyes went wide, the way kids’ eyes do when you present them with their version of money. He made me unwrap it for him, then popped it into his mouth and smiled.

  Then the druggist’s assistant walked over and said: “Mr. Widdoes? I’m sorry, I thought you understood. I said the insulin won’t be in till Monday.”

  “What?”

  “Remember, I said Monday.”

  “You said Monday when?”

  “When you called. I told you that.”

  “When I called?”

  “You asked me if the insulin was in. I said Monday.”

  “You mean my wife. She must’ve called you.”

  He looked puzzled, shook his head, shrugged. “Okay. Well, it’s not in till Monday.”

  “Fine. I’ll come back.”

  We went to the Children’s Museum.

  There were several hands-on exhibits. Alex climbed through a giant left ventricle and into a model of a heart itself, where he sat down and refused to budge. He knew I couldn’t climb in there with him, and he relished this momentary independence. I had to wait him out.

  Eventually he appeared from the right ventricle.

  He saw what his weight was on Mars.

  He tapped in Morse code.

  He finger-painted on a computer.

  He put on bird’s wings.

  I took him to the museum café, where I bought him a hot dog and fries — but only if he promised not to tell Mommy, who was waging a personal crusade against junk food these days.

  Sitting there eating, I had what you might call a flashback.

  Something was bothering me. It was sitting on my shoulder and buzzing in my ear. I tried swatting it away, but it wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t kill it. It was maddening.

  I remembered sitting and eating with Lucinda, Didi, whatever her name was. I remembered pouring my heart out to her the day she’d asked about my daughter. About Anna. I remembered telling her something.

  I suddenly felt cold.

  I took my cell out and called Kim.

  “Honey?” I said when she picked up.

  “Yes, hi. How’s it going?”

  “Fine. After this we’re going to the museum of dead parents. I feel like I’ve run a marathon.”

  “Then he must be having a good time.”

  “You could say that. Look, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you call Roxman’s this week? About Anna’s insulin?”

  “Roxman’s? No. Why?”

  “You didn’t call? You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Charles . . . woops . . . yes, Larry, I’m sure.”

  “It isn’t possible you did and forgot? Isn’t that possible?”

  “No. I didn’t call Roxman’s. I would remember. You want me to sign an affidavit? Why?”

  “Nothing. Just something they said to me. . . .”

  I said good-bye. I hung up.

  I stared at my son. He was munching on his last piece of frankfurter. Voices were echoing off the museum walls, a child was screaming bloody murder at another table. He looked up at me.

  “Daddy . . . okay?” he said.

  FIFTY-ONE

  I went on-line.

  I went back three years. I went back to the day of the explosion.

  There were 173 entries for “Fairfax Hotel.”

  Everything from newspaper articles to magazines articles to mentions in TV shows and even Internet jokes.

  Did you hear about the new rate policy at the Fairfax? It bombed.

  Most of the articles were what you might expect.

  Stories of heroic firemen and innocent victims. And among the stories of innocent victims, I saw my name there again — among the missing at first, then onto the list of the dead.

  Charles Schine, 45, advertising executive.

  And Dexter’s and Sam’s and Didi’s names, too.

  And his — placed alphabetically right at t
he end of the roll call.

  I kept reading. There were other stories there, stories about the bomber.

  RIGHT-TO-LIFER BOMBER’S HOMETOWN REMEMBERS, one of them was titled. Jack Christmas was born in Enid, Oklahoma. He was a friendly boy who washed blackboards, his third-grade teacher said. Though one school friend remembered him as kind of spooky.

  There was an article about the hotel itself.

  HOTEL’S UN-FABLED PAST GAVE NO CLUE. It was built in 1949. It originally catered to a mostly business clientele. It fell into disrepair and became a haven for short-rate prostitutes and low-income residents.

  There were several entries about domestic terrorism.

  An article about an organization called the Children of God. A manifesto from an army of antiabortionists. Several items about survivalists. A recounting of the Oklahoma City bombing and its similarities to the one at the Fairfax Hotel.

  And later on, another list of the dead — with brief obituaries this time.

  Charles Schine was employed as a creative director at Schuman Advertising. He worked on several major accounts. “Charley was an asset to this company, both as a writer and a human being. He will be greatly missed,” Eliot Firth, president of Schuman Advertising, said. Charles Schine leaves behind a wife and daughter.

  Samuel M. Griffen was touted as “a shining star in the world of financial planning.” His brother said, “He was a generous and loving father.”

  There was something about Dexter. “He was one of our own,” the holding company for the Fairfax Hotel said. “A dedicated employee.”

  Even Didi received an obituary — at least I assumed it was her.

  Desdemona Gonzalez, 30. A loving sister to Maria. Daughter to Major Frank Gonzalez of East Texas.

  I took a detour. I looked up East Texas newspapers. I knew the hometown papers would have been falling all over themselves to write up the stories of their local victims.

  I found her. An article from a Roxham Texas Weekly.

  Retired Major Frank Gonzalez sits on his front porch nursing a very private pain for his youngest daughter, killed in the Fairfax Hotel bombing. Desdemona Gonzalez, 30, had lived in New York City for the last ten years, her father said. “She didn’t keep in touch much,” he said, but she’d “call on holidays and things like that.” . . . Family friends admitted that the elder Mr. Gonzalez and his daughter had been estranged for a number of years. . . . There had been a drug arrest when Desdemona was a teenager and allegations of child abuse against her father. A family friend who wishes to remain anonymous added that these charges were all “unsubstantiated.”