Surface

by Stacy Robinson

  Andrea cleared her throat from the doorway. “So, would you all like to come in?” she asked in a voice that was both upbeat and calming. She was a petite woman with a soft round face and long dark untamed curls and, except for her striped tights, was dressed in full black.

  Nick pushed himself up from the love seat and walked over to her. “I’m Nick Montgomery,” he said, shaking her hand, as they had always taught him. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Well, hello, Nick Montgomery. I’m Andrea Anspaugh. It’s very nice to meet you, too. You can call me Andi.” The tiny diamond stud in her nose enhanced her aura of cool authority. “Please.” She indicated her office beyond the door, and waited for Claire and Michael to unglue themselves from their seats. Nick disappeared into the room.

  “I’m so sorry,” Claire said, standing. “I don’t even know what to—”

  “It’s just that we’re in somewhat of a . . . transition at the moment,” Michael interrupted, his face looking even more waxen than when he’d walked in. “And Nicholas sometimes has difficulty controlling his emotions.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’ve been doing this for almost twenty years, and I’m very comfortable with raw emotions. Just as long as I don’t have to put anyone in a headlock.”

  For a second Claire imagined the diminutive woman pinning Michael on the floor from behind, and laughed without really meaning to. Michael stared at her.

  “It’s happened,” Andi assured them matter-of-factly. “But usually only with kids who have significant frontal lobe deficits. And from the hospital and rehab reports I’ve skimmed, I don’t anticipate those issues with Nick,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears with turquoise- and silver-jeweled fingers. “He’s made tremendous strides, and I’m already very impressed with his progress.”

  “We are as well,” Claire said, her expression hovering somewhere between pride and still-stunned.

  “Can you help him with his educational goals?” Michael asked point-blank.

  “Let’s find out.”

  They followed her into her office, which resembled a loft with exposed brick walls, cozy furniture, and canvases of varying sizes hanging from picture wire. Nicholas stood in front of an acrylic portrait of Kurt Cobain.

  “Did you do these?” Claire asked, scanning the other musicians on display.

  “I did.”

  “Ray told me you teach . . . some classes at the Art Institute,” Nick said, turning around. His spirits appeared intact, elevated even.

  “Yes.” Andi offered them seats on maroon velvet couches. “Just a couple intro and human form classes.”

  Claire sat down next to Nicky, and Michael chose the adjoining sofa. “Your Jim Morrison is wonderful. Incredible likeness.”

  As Andi reviewed Nick’s history with them, Claire watched Nicky’s eyes travel from canvas to canvas with obvious admiration. Clever man, that Ray. Nick spoke openly with her about his speech and memory challenges, and his desire to work through them. Michael was not as easy to read.

  “I don’t remember the . . . drug overdose,” Nick said, making his air quotes around the offending event. “But I guess I can’t . . . anything—do anything about that. I just want to finish school.” He looked at Andi as if she were the only person in the room, determined, focused. Resolute.

  Claire relaxed into the couch. Nick was clearly making more than just physical progress at Craig, and with Ray. Michael’s knee started up again.

  “You absolutely can reach your potential, in spite of your injury, Nick. Your brain is just functioning differently than it once did.” Andi leaned in toward him. Her earrings swayed hypnotically against her cheeks. “I’m guessing you can probably blow right through a calculus problem, but maybe you have a hard time making change for a dollar?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Totally normal after a TBI. It takes time for the brain to rewire itself, so you’re just going to need some special strategies. Got a smart phone?”

  “Yeah.” He took his phone from the pocket of his hoodie.

  “Ever use the calendar function?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’d like you to enter basic things into the calendar like breakfast, shower, workout—your everyday tasks—with times and alarm reminders when you get home today. Organization and planning are crucial for school, and I want you to get used to scheduling everything with an alarm so you can increase your follow-through and independence. You should use a planner, too, for assignment due dates.”

  Nick started typing into the phone.

  “You could put blood tests in there also,” Claire suggested. “And your classes at Craig.”

  “What about school?” Michael asked. His posture was perfectly still and erect now. “Can he finish senior year and get his diploma?”

  Andi walked over to her desk and returned with a folder. “I like to look at short-term goals, say four to six weeks at a time, since Nick’s needs and abilities are evolving. But in terms of school, I think he would do great at East. That’s your district high school, right?”

  “Yes,” Nick answered, looking up from his phone.

  “I work with several students there. The teachers and class options are excellent. We can get him registered and can get an individualized education plan in place to give Nick some time accommodations and other help.” She handed Nick a course catalog. “I think you’d like the art department there as well.” Their faces radiated an obvious simpatico. They were partners in his future already, Claire could see.

  “What about tutoring him privately, rather than public school?” Michael asked in a reedy tone, as if the thought had just suddenly occurred to him. “So that he could, maybe, meet graduation requirements at Andover?”

  “Dad!” Nick fixed a defiant stare on Michael. “I’m not graduating from Andover. I’m not . . . going back there,” he snarled, clutching the catalog with both hands. “And I’m obviously not Princeton—not going to Princeton.” The face-off shifted to mute, the two of them engaged in the intractable power struggle between fathers and sons.

  Attaboy, Nicky. Claire studied Michael’s neck, the involuntary bob of his Adam’s apple above his straight-point collar, and wanted to strangle him, almost as much as she wanted to give her son a standing ovation.

  Kurt Cobain’s piercing eyes seemed to look down over Nick’s shoulders at Michael, too. The intense blue was almost an exact match to Nick’s, she noticed. But while Kurt’s exuded pain, Nick’s unwaveringly said: “My will is strong.” And like the whisper of a brush through hair, Claire heard the subtle rustling of a defining moment. She laced her fingers and smiled.

  Andi came around the table and sat down next to Michael, and for an instant Claire panicked that she would put her hand on his knee or make some other ingratiating gesture that would completely offend Michael’s sense of the professional. Instead Andi handed him a report. “In my experience,” she said in the confident manner of an expert, “patients have a better shot at reaching their goals in real-life settings. Being in class with other students, getting where they need to be on schedule, socializing—these are all challenging situations, but also good opportunities to build the skills they need for success moving forward.” She paused, assessing her audience. Michael scanned the information, while Nicholas moved closer to the edge of the couch. “Of course these situations will be frustrating at times. For all of you.” She and Claire locked eyes this time, like coconspirators. “But as you can see,” she said, pointing out the relevant figures, “the odds for an improved outcome for patients with Nick’s abilities increase dramatically with school reintegration, and combined with intervention by strong advocates, like you two”—she smiled reassuringly at Michael and Claire—“and with a specialist, a tutor, like me, if you’re so inclined.”

  Claire felt certain that this was how Nick would find the keys to move forward. “What do you think, Nicky?” she asked.

  “I want to go there . . . to East,” he said without hesitation. “I just want
to finish.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t break down.

  Their focus shifted to Michael, who placed the report on the coffee table and appeared to compose his thoughts. After an excruciating pause in the proceedings, he finally responded. “Well, sport, it sounds like Andi’s got a good program in mind.” He reached out and enveloped Nick in an embrace. “I know you can make it work. And then we’ll just see what comes next. You know, in terms of college.”

  Michael’s phone vibrated loudly from his pocket. He pulled away from Nick to read the text. And in what amounted to a thirty-second fire drill, his eyebrows migrated nervously around his forehead as he apologized for having to duck out, thanked Andrea for her time, and asked Claire to make arrangements with her for school registration and a tutoring schedule.

  Which was the ideal conclusion in Claire’s estimation.

  “I would’ve . . . punched him if he said no.”

  You and me both. “C’mon, Nick, you’re far more resourceful than that,” Claire said as they gathered his ski clothes and gear from the basement for his group trip.

  “So, when’s it . . . happening?”

  “Well, I’ll download the paperwork tonight and go over to school Monday morning with Andi and get you registered.”

  “No,” he said, “the divorce.”

  Claire stepped out of the storage closet and leaned on Nick’s ski pole. “Oh.”

  “Is it because of my . . . accident?” His surprising vulnerability transformed his features. Behind the action-hero jaw and dogged stoicism, her little boy reemerged, exposed and in need of the same reassurance every child in limbo craves. Despite earlier statements to the contrary.

  “Nicky, your dad and I—we have our problems. But they’re just that, ours. Don’t for one second think you’ve done anything to cause them.”

  Claire turned on the fireplace and sat him down on the floor. And huddling there with Nick in front of the hearth, she laid out the simple, unfortunate truth that life takes left turns at the most inconvenient times, but that her devotion to him—along with his dad’s—ran to the moon and back. Always had and always would. She apologized and told him that things might get tricky for a while, but that his best interest was always their number one priority. The flames reflected in his pupils, and she could see him fighting some deep, painful emotions. She knew this was the moment of reckoning. But she was also afraid to elaborate on his parents’ mistakes, because in spite of her desire to finally be frank and truthful with Nick, she never wanted him to feel that as equal parts them, he was also equally stupid and selfish.

  “Nicky, the cocaine from your overdose,” she said in a trembling voice. “It came from that man I invited to the house. He was a business associate of your dad’s. I didn’t know him well . . . and that was my mistake.” She swiped at the tears that fell from her eyes.

  “Then why did he come?”

  She swallowed hard. “Because he seemed like an . . . interesting person. And I thought—I thought his business proposal was promising, so I wanted to spend some more time with him.” It was a cop-out, she knew, but the psychologist had told her to not to get too deep into the particulars unless Nick asked specific questions.

  “Why did he bring . . . coke?”

  “I guess it was something he liked to do. But after I saw it, I asked him to leave.” She looked away for a second, debating. “I should have made him go sooner. But I didn’t. And he must have dropped it,” she said, reaching out for him. “Inviting him over in the first place is the biggest regret of my life, and I would give anything to change that, honey. I’m so incredibly sorry.”

  Nick pushed back, eyes narrowed, as if considering the veracity of her story. And Claire sat there, holding her breath, waiting for him to pronounce the fate of their relationship, and suddenly nervous that he would bring up Taylor again. That was Michael’s story to explain, and she doubted she could fake uncertainty about it this time. She needed to keep her cool.

  “And Dad blames you for . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Yes.” She exhaled. “And I . . . can understand that.” There was still no erasing the painful truth that, in spite of Nick’s discovery about his father’s dalliance and the anger it had clearly inspired in him before the accident, they would not be sitting in this place were it not for her choices.

  He turned to Claire with an expression that conveyed both sudden insight and long-term resignation. “I still can’t remember that . . . night. But it was obvious for, like, ever, that you and Dad weren’t . . . that happy anymore. I get that much.” His voice was quiet and sad, and so sure.

  Claire sat dumbstruck as Nick stood up and began stuffing his ski clothes into a duffel bag, his back intentionally to her. Her gauzy portrait of the past, it seemed, had not been so puzzling a picture for their son. “I love you so much, Nicky,” she said after a beat.

  “I know.”

  Later that evening over her last quarter bottle of sauv blanc, Claire checked in with Jackie and shared her strangely illuminating discussion with Nicholas, along with her optimism over his new academic path. And just like during their teenage assessments of the latest Seventeen magazine, Jackie waxed poetic on the intelligence of sensitive, creative boys, and wholeheartedly endorsed Andi’s East High game plan.

  Switching gears, they tossed around Claire’s options with Michael in light of recent revelations: Dig deeper into the pension mystery, or give it all up to Jack and his legal eagles to handle, and file the papers ASAP. Jackie voted for Plan B. Claire was getting sick of Plan Bs, but held off on any concrete decisions until she understood more.

  And then without planning to, Claire blurted out the story of her massage. The memory, which continued to bubble up and alternately shock and comfort her, was too uncontainable, too good a story not to share with someone.

  “Oh my God,” Jackie shrieked through the phone. “He totally took advantage of your vulnerability.”

  “What? No, not at all,” Claire said, not at all expecting that response from her sister. “It was . . . therapeutic. It was good.”

  “Therapeutic? Are you kidding? This seems like something you’d be so not comfortable with.”

  “That’s just it. I felt so weirdly at ease. Well, and maybe not a little pissed at my philandering husband, and I just went with his efforts to release all the blackness, so to speak.” They both dissolved into hysterics. “Seriously,” she said, trying to be. “It wasn’t at all sexual. This man saw something in me, Jax.” She left out the part of seeing Richard in the man. “And he helped me step out of my misery.”

  “Well, that must have been one hell of an orgasm. So, good for you, I guess.”

  “Yeah.” Claire stared guiltily at her empty bottle of Groth. “As long as we’re analyzing my louche behavior, do you think I’m drinking too much?” she asked.

  “You’re asking a woman who, at this very moment, is wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Wine Makes Mommy Smarter.’ Carpe vino.”

  CHAPTER 41

  “Smitty!” Richard stepped into the grotto-like lower level of the restaurant and waved to Claire, backlit by stained glass saloon doors. If he had doffed a cowboy hat and flung it onto the nearby cactus, no one would have thought it odd. “Great joint,” he said, wrapping her in a fleece hug.

  “Best guacamole in town.” Claire stood back and studied him with a reflective smile. He looked tanner and more rested than he had at Rancho, or possibly it was his haircut—all of which made him appear younger. He wore a Pebble Beach turtleneck under his jacket, baggy jeans, and what looked like bowling shoes.

  “You’re digging the sartorial pizzazz, aren’t you?

  She hugged him again, fighting back an unexpected avalanche of emotion. “Did you leave your loafers at the bowling alley?”

  “These are some of the finest golf shoes my buddy at the pro shop could sneak out the back door, I’ll have you know.”

  They sat down on opposite sides of the rough-hewn table as the av
alanche gathered speed, and broke free. “I thought you were here to ski,” she feebly choked out.

  “Hey,” he said, reaching across to her. “What’s going on? I usually don’t inspire tears.”

  “Sorry. And I’m usually not such a puddle. It’s just that since we last talked, things have gotten . . . complicated. It’s a Grand Canyon–sized mess, and I just don’t want to do anything stupid. Again.” She wiped mascara from her cheeks and readjusted her posture, hoping her mood would follow suit.

  The dimples that framed Richard’s mouth conveyed the cheerful optimism Claire had tried, but failed, to muster. “First things first,” he said, signaling to the waiter who had been hovering close by. “Señor, you’ve got some thirsty customers here. How ’bout a vat of margaritas, Smitty?”

  “Hmm.” While her pre-five o’clock protocol said no, her willpower bent. And swiftly snapped. “Maybe just a pint of tequila. And a chaser of salt for my wounds.”

  He gave her a look that said Oy. “We’ll have a pitcher, please. And keep the chips and guac coming.”

  For the next half hour, Claire brought Richard up to speed on her discovery of Michael’s extracurricular and apparent financial waywardness, as well as Nick’s progress—which somewhat tempered the bleakness of the situation.

  “So,” Richard asked, scrunching his nose and looking vaguely alarmed, “what do you think is going on with this pension stuff?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. It looks like he may have borrowed the funds to prop up some of his deals, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Claire, that money belongs to his employees. And the fact that Janus just sent him the funds doesn’t smell right. That money needs to be transferred directly to another pension account. Which is probably what this Kessler guy has his pants on fire about.”

  She nodded and poured each of them another glass from the pitcher. “I don’t know what to do next.”

  “One of my colleagues did a story not too long ago about a fund manager who went to jail for something similar. This could be serious, Smitty.” The optimism had totally left his face. “You’re not an officer of the company, are you?”