by Graves, Jane
But no. Brett never did anything like other men. Instead, he took her on the subway for a good twenty minutes, dragging along a bunch of stuff in two shoulder bags, after which they climbed the stairs back up to street level and began to walk. And walk. And walk.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I told you it’s a surprise.”
“When are we going to be there?”
“Knock it off. What are you? Five years old?”
“We’ve walked six blocks since we got off the subway.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m getting tired.”
“You’re getting tired? I’m carrying all the stuff.”
“What is all that, anyway?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
After another block and a half, Brett came to a halt on a street corner. Kelsey watched as he opened one of the over-the-shoulder bags he was carrying.
Canvas folding chairs?
He set them up near the curb, facing a large concrete planter. Then he pointed to one of the chairs. “Sit.”
“Here? On the street corner?”
“Yes, Kelsey. Here on the street corner.”
She closed her eyes. “You’re going to embarrass me again, aren’t you?”
“This is New York. You have to do something crazier than this to embarrass yourself.”
Finally she sat. He sat in the chair beside her, then dug through the other bag he’d been carrying. A bus passed by, its deafening rattle setting Kelsey’s teeth on edge. The engine jerked and groaned, then belched out a cloud of exhaust‑filled air. Sucking in a lungful of carcinogens made this experience even more delightful.
“Okay,” she said. “That was fun. Date’s over.”
“Nope. It hasn’t even begun yet.”
“We’re sitting on a street corner.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If I saw me sitting here like this, I’d arrest me.”
“On what grounds?”
“Public weirdness.”
“Get out the penal code. Show me that law, and we’ll leave. In the meantime…” He pulled two small red Solo cups out of the bag and handed one to her. Next he brought out a Thermos and unscrewed the top. “Hold out your cup.”
“What’s in there?” she said.
“Wine.”
“Alcohol? This isn’t the Vegas Strip. There’s a law against drinking in public.”
“That’s why I put it in a Thermos.”
“That doesn’t make it legal.”
“Come on, Kelsey. Live a little.”
“Fine,” she muttered, holding out her cup. “I might as well anesthetize myself. But I don't really like wine.”
“No. What you don't like is cheap, crappy wine. Try this.”
She put the cup to her lips and sipped, and it was as if there was a flavor explosion in her mouth. “Oh,” she said, and that was all. Just oh. Because her mouth was too full of wonderful to say anything else.
“I told you so,” Brett said, as he poured himself a cup. Then he held it up for a toast. “To first dates.”
Kelsey tapped her glass with his and took another sip. Then another. And another. Pretty soon she felt pleasantly lightheaded. Hmm. Why she hadn’t considered drinking wine on a street corner before? Maybe because she would have felt a little too much like a bum in the gutter, but bums didn’t drink really good wine, which this clearly was. Who knew just how good good wine could be?
She turned to Brett. “So now what?”
He checked his watch. “We wait.”
“For what?”
“Will you be patient?”
“That’s not one of my virtues.”
“This gives you a chance to work on it.” Then he nodded toward a group of people piling out of the subway. “Ah. Here we go. The show’s about to start.”
Kelsey stared at the people, wondering what he was talking about. Then a tall, dark man with a wild afro streaked with gray emerged from the pack and walked to a spot along the brick wall they faced. He opened the case he was carrying and pulled out a guitar, looping the strap over his shoulder. He lay the open guitar case in front of him, seeded it with a few crumpled one dollar bills, then sat down on the brick ledge. When he put his fingers to the strings, Kelsey couldn’t believe what she heard.
The man sang a soft, gentle song with a strong, clear voice, piercing the frantic pace and pandemonium of the city and falling over Kelsey like a warm, cozy blanket. Suddenly she was transported back fifteen years to a time when one of the only things in her life that was good and calm and relaxing was the sound of an acoustic guitar and the warm, kind, sparkling voice of a person she imagined was singing just for her.
“Oh, my God,” Kelsey breathed. “He's amazing.”
In the next several minutes, the man sang one love song after another, his music alternately haunting and beautiful, melancholy and upbeat. Something about the soothing, gentle music the man played in the midst of the New York chaos made people slow down, stop, and listen. But thanks to Brett, the two of them had front row seats, and pretty soon Kelsey didn’t feel silly or self conscious at all. She just felt glad to be there.
“How could you be sure he’d show up today?” Kelsey whispered.
“I used to live in this neighborhood,” Brett said. “The guy’s like clockwork.”
"How did you know I'd like it?"
"The night we danced in my apartment, you said you really liked guitar music. I thought you'd like to hear more.”
God, yes. The music had been wonderful that night, and it was even more wonderful now. Brett put his hand over hers, a gentle touch that felt wonderful. She turned her hand over and twined her fingers with his, finding it hard to believe he’d actually listened to her. Found out what she liked and what she didn’t. Even that first night when she’d assumed he only wanted to get her into bed, he’d been listening. How could she have been so blind about how wonderful this man really was?
They sat there together, enjoying one song after another. All the noise and dissonance of the city surrounded them, but it was as if the man and his guitar were there only for them. When he strummed a final chord, then pulled out a bottle of water to take a break, Kelsey looked at her watch and realized forty five minutes had passed. It felt like five.
Then out of nowhere, Kelsey thought about Kiki, and those woo-woo shivers started all over again. Could Brett actually be the man she had talked about? Her Mr. Right who was right under her nose?
She didn't know. But what she did know was that there was no way Kiki could know something Kelsey didn't. Things like astrology were stupid. Numerology was moronic. Psychics were all charlatans. Superstitious people were missing a few intelligence genes. She believed all that from the bottom of her heart. So why was she even wasting thought on what that clearly crazy Jamaican woman had said?
Because she felt so wonderful, and Brett was there, and life was good. She knew tomorrow she’d come back to her senses, but right now, with the wine and the concert and Brett’s hand on hers, she could believe almost anything.
They had a little more wine, and by the time the man finished another set, afternoon was edging into evening. Brett grabbed a twenty from his wallet and dropped it into the guy’s guitar case. “Nice concert.”
The man nodded his thanks. Brett packed up their stuff, and they started back toward the subway. When they hopped aboard, for maybe the first time ever, Kelsey didn't notice suspicious smells, strange people, or trash flung from one end of the car to another. All she noticed was Brett, and the only thoughts that filled her mind were good ones.
Once they were back in their neighborhood, they stopped at the coffee house down the street from their apartment building. She'd been to this particular place hundreds of times, but suddenly the scents of scones and pastries and fresh-brewed coffee seemed more enticing then ever. For at least an hour, they sipped their coffee and chatted about nothing in particular.
It was the perfect end to
a perfect day.
By the time they arrived back at their apartment building, the lobby lights shone through the dusk. Once they were in the elevator, Brett grabbed Kelsey and trapped her against the wall. When he ducked his head to kiss her, for once she didn't cuss the old elevator for moving as slow as a geriatric snail.
"Your place or mine?" Brett murmured.
"You choose."
"How about we flip a coin when we get there? Or maybe just see who can get their keys out the fastest."
"You're on."
"We'll have to make it a quickie," Brett said, "because I need to take Boomer out. I bet I can have your clothes off in fifteen seconds."
"Works for me."
"But after that, we can move as slow as we like." He kissed her on the neck. "As often as we like." He nibbled her ear. "And then—"
Just then the elevator dinged and the doors opened. A woman sat on the bench near the elevator. As they stepped out, she stood. The moment Kelsey saw her, she stopped short, an icy feeling trickling down her spine, one that told her this wonderful day had just gone straight to hell.
"Mom?" she said. "What are you doing here?"
13
Almost two years had passed since Kelsey had seen her mother. Her thin face was as haggard as ever, her eyes just as weary. As always, the aura of a much more beautiful woman surrounded her, but it had faded more and more as the years passed.
When she met Kelsey's glare of displeasure, she turned to Brett instead. She extended her hand and gave him a tremulous smile. "Hi. I'm Carlene Morrison. Kelsey's mother."
Brett took her hand, returning her smile. "Brett Hollister."
"Do you live in this building, too?" she asked.
"Yes. Right across from Kelsey. She moved in first, and then I—"
"Don't," Kelsey snapped.
Brett turned around, looking surprised, at the same time her mother's smile faded.
"What are you doing here?" Kelsey said.
Her mother's gaze shifted down the hall, then back to Kelsey. "I came by your apartment and you weren't home, so I waited."
"You actually thought I would want to see you?"
"No, I didn't," she said with a weak shrug. "All I could do was hope."
Kelsey felt a slow burn of anger that set every nerve on edge. Just being around her mother made her feel as if no time had passed, as if all the old memories were stepping up to slap her in the face one more time.
Her mother clutched her purse against her side, her shoulders hunched with uncertainty. "I left you a message several days ago. Did you get it?"
"I got it.”
"You never called back."
"That should tell you something. But for some reason, it never does."
"I just want you to listen to me," her mother said. "For just a few minutes."
No. Kelsey couldn’t do this. She had to get out of there before she got sucked in again, before she started to believe all her mother’s promises, which always turned out to be lies. And worst of all, this time the awful scene was playing out in front of Brett. How was it her mother always knew the precise time to show up when it would hurt her the most?
"I'm better now," her mother said. "It's been three months. Three months since—"
"Don’t even go there. Three months is nothing. I'll tell you what. When it's been three years, you show up here again. Maybe then we’ll have something to say to each other.”
“I got a job. It’s not much. I’m working as a dispatcher for a flooring company, but it’s a real job.”
Kelsey blinked with surprise. That was definitely a step in the right direction. Then again, when her mother had thousands of miles to go with hundreds of possible detours along the way, did that single step really mean anything?
Kelsey turned to Brett. “Let’s go.”
“No!” Carlene said. “Wait. Please.”
With a huff of irritation, Kelsey stopped and turned back, preparing herself for the usual onslaught of pleading and promises. At the same time she was keenly aware of Brett watching them, confused as hell, wondering what was going on. Well, he hadn’t seen anything yet. If her mother didn't leave very soon, this would turn into one of those horrible, tear-filled scenes that had burned themselves into Kelsey's memory from the time she was six years old.
But instead of plunging into her usual breakdown, Carlene reached into her purse and took out a piece of note paper. She held it out to Kelsey. "This is where I'm living now. And my phone number. Please take it."
Kelsey folded her arms and glared at her mother.
"If you'll just take it, I'll leave,” Carlene said.
With a sigh of irritation, Kelsey finally accepted it. Her mother closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Kelsey," she said helplessly. "For everything. But this time it'll be different. I swear."
Kelsey had played this scene so often she had the lines memorized. But now, with Brett standing there, she needed to put an end to this performance.
"You said you would go,” she told her mother.
Finally Carlene turned away and pushed the elevator button. A moment later, the doors opened, and she was gone.
Kelsey immediately crumpled the note her mother had given her, walked to the trash can beside the elevator, and tossed it away. As far as she was concerned, that was the end of it.
* * *
As Kelsey headed down the hall, Brett followed in her wake, trying to fathom what had just happened. From all indications, she had just told her mother to go to hell. Her own mother. Kelsey had been known to be a little abrupt sometimes. A tiny bit irritable on occasion. But this behavior was something he simply didn't understand.
"What was that all about?" he asked.
"It's a long story. One I'd rather not go into."
Kelsey unlocked her apartment door and they went inside. When Brett dumped the stuff he'd carried halfway across the city onto her living room floor and she didn't object to the mess, he knew her mind was somewhere else. The sex they’d planned didn’t appear to be on her radar, either.
She tossed her purse on the kitchen counter, then turned and gave him a smile. "I'm hungry. How about a pizza?"
"That was your mother," Brett said.
"I said I don't want to talk about it."
"I don't get what just happened there."
"I have a coupon. What do you want? Sausage or pepperoni? Maybe both?"
"Neither. I want you to tell me what's going on."
Kelsey stared at him a long time, then gave him an offhand shrug. "Okay. You want to know what's going on? I'll tell you. My mother is an alcoholic. She's been an alcoholic since before I was born. I had the kind of childhood they make dark, depressing movies out of. She comes around every few years and swears she's changed, but she never has. I'm twenty-nine years old. I can hear the promises only so many times before I start to think, hey, maybe she's not going to deliver. And sure enough, she doesn't. There. That's the story. Now, are we going to have that pizza, or not?"
Kelsey opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a neat stack of coupons, removed the paper clip, and thumbed through them.
"She seemed perfectly sober," Brett said.
"Anyone can hold it together for a few days. A month or two, even. Trust me—she'll fall off the wagon again soon enough.”
"What if this is the time she makes it stick? She came to see you, didn't she? She's asking for forgiveness."
"And she'll get that when hell freezes over. Ah! Here we go. Luigi's has a special going. A large meat lover's pizza for only twelve bucks. How does that sound? I’ll call."
"Kelsey."
"What?" she said, digging through her purse for her phone.
"She's your mother. Doesn't that count for something?"
"Exactly. She's my mother. She's not your mother. Stop projecting your experience onto me. You don't have a clue what she put me through."
Brett took a few steps closer. "Yeah? So why don't you tell me about it?"
"Because it's water under t
he bridge. Over and done with."
"Are you kidding me? Nobody treats her own mother like that if the whole thing is over and done with.”
Kelsey faced him. “Okay, here’s a story for you. Once on my birthday, she took me and a school friend to a bowling alley. She bought us hotdogs and nachos and let us bowl and play pinball. I even won a stuffed animal from one of those grabber machines."
"Sounds like fun."
"Oh, yeah. It was. Right up to the moment I realized that the whole time we were playing, my mother was drinking. By the time we left, she was so falling‑down drunk that we got on the wrong subway. We ended up in a part of town so dangerous I seriously thought we were going to get killed. I had nightmares about it for years."
Brett blinked, his expression turning sympathetic. "That's terrible."
“She ruined everything for me. Every single time. And the place we lived in was a mess. I’d clean our apartment as best I could, then go to school, and by the time I came back, she'd trashed it all over again.”
"She was home all day? What did she do for a living?"
"She was on disability. I was never quite sure what her problem was, but the checks kept coming, thank God. I think she was just really good at convincing people she couldn’t work. But that barely kept us alive. I babysat a lot to bring in more money. That didn't add much, but every little bit helped."
“She said she has a job now.”
“She can get one. The question is, can she keep it?”
“She seemed pretty determined.”
“You saw her for three minutes. I have a lifetime of listening to her. She’s always determined, right up to the moment she screws up all over again.”
“So I guess she didn’t exactly take care of you when you were a kid?”
"By the time I was eleven, I was taking care of her. I even forged her signature on checks to pay the bills. If I hadn't, we'd have frozen in the dark or been evicted.”
“My God,” Brett said. “I was lucky to be able to tie my own shoes and feed myself when I was eleven."