Everything We Give_A Novel

by Kerry Lonsdale

  “How long?”

  He smiles, exposing a row of yellow-tinged teeth. “The prodigal son returns.”

  “Surely you have a better line than that.”

  He nods once. “Long enough. Who told you I was sick?”

  “Lacy Saunders. You probably remember her as Laney. Or better yet, Charity Watson, or Charity Mullins? Any of those ring a bell?”

  He nods ever so slightly.

  “Did you know she was Mom’s stepsister? Back when she helped you find me?”

  He shakes his head. “Not at first. Your mother told me later who she was. Charity’s a meddlesome woman.” His words come abbreviated and breathy, and I have to turn my ear toward him to hear over the sound of the tractor working the field next to ours.

  “That story of her finding you in a diner with the police you told me as a kid?” The one I’d told Reese when we dated and Aimee while we were in Mexico. “Was any of it true?”

  “Some of it. You were asking too many questions then.” He lifts his head. “That your wife?”

  I look back at Aimee. She raises her hand in a short wave but her eyes hold mine. I feel her love and it gives me the strength I need to keep my anger at bay. Stu never shared anything with me about Lacy, about the source of my mom’s condition, so I’d have a better understanding. About his own disease.

  “You should have told me.”

  “Probably.” He drops the car keys in his pocket. “Let’s take a walk.”

  I follow him around the house to the ash tree with the trunk that’s thickened, its web of branches filled out. A mixture of burgundy, yellow, and green leaves dance and shimmer like jewels. A blanket of them covers the ground.

  The oxygen tank bobbles over dirt clods and stones. I consider offering to buy a cart with larger wheels. It would be easier to manage over the property’s uneven ground. But making the offer would force my dad to answer, and talking while walking is an effort for him. Just walking seems too much.

  We stop at a new-to-me wood park bench under the tree. The painted wrought-iron scrollwork is peeling and the wood stain is worn away on one side of the seat as though someone sat there often, looking out over the property. One could see quite far, as we can today, when the cornstalks have been removed and the soil is tilled in preparation for the oncoming winter.

  My dad eases onto the bench, using the oxygen-tank handle like a cane. He invites me to sit down.

  “I’m dying,” he says without preamble when I take up the spot beside him. No warning. No I’ve been diagnosed with. Just I’m dying. Well done, Stu. Let the sharing begin. Thankfully, Lacy had warned me, else I don’t know how I would have handled that blow, no better than an uppercut from the right.

  “From what?” I ask.

  “Lung cancer. It’s a bitch.” He coughs.

  My knees are spread and I clasp my hands between my legs, rest my forearms on my thighs. I inhale deeply and close my eyes, allowing his words to make their impact. His life is over, and no thanks to my stubbornness, I missed so much of it. Then I let him speak, and I listen, something I should have done a long time ago.

  “I’m selling the farm. Never wanted it. Your grandfather insisted. I had to give the dying man his last wish. Looks like I’ve come full circle.” He chuckles. It turns into a coughing fit. I wait it out, looking at my hands, hands shaped like my father’s. Funny how I never realized that before, and today it’s the first thing I noticed.

  My dad wipes his mouth with a soiled handkerchief he dug from his pocket and continues. “I didn’t lease the land until he passed. I didn’t want him to know I had no interest in it.”

  Grandpa Collins passed before I’d been born. I’d never met him. “You never told me about this.”

  “I didn’t tell you a lot of things. Seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

  “And now?”

  “‘To regret deeply is to live afresh.’”

  I look at him. I never took my dad to quoting Thoreau, or reading poetry. But my mom had stacks of books, from Frost, to Wilde, and plenty of Thoreau. Why this quote? What is he trying to do right by this time? I don’t have to wait long. He finally catches his breath.

  “I have a buyer. Half will go to you and the other half into a trust I’m going to ask you to manage.”

  “For whom?”

  He quickly glances at me, then looks at the ground. He pushes dead leaves with the toe of his shoe.

  At first, I think he plans to give half the money from the property sale to his tenant, Josh Lansbury, but he turns his gaze to the horizon. His throat ripples. He wipes his nose. And he takes a deep, fluid-filled breath where the air moves through him like water thick with mud around boulders and it dawns on me who will get that other half. My own breath leaves in a whoosh and I look at him, shocked to my core.

  “That night in West Wendover nearly destroyed your mother. She didn’t know your camera was stuck in the door. She didn’t know she was dragging you. She couldn’t hear your screams. She was on suicide watch the first couple of years until a psychiatrist took interest in her case. She helped your mother manage her condition. It was your mother’s decision not to come home. She’d almost killed you twice. She couldn’t risk a third time. She left you because she didn’t trust herself around you. She left you because she loves you. She gave up her right to be your mother to keep you safe. And I agreed with her decision. I couldn’t let something else happen to you. I couldn’t leave you alone with her again.”

  It takes him a while to explain this, with plenty of starts and stops along the way. When he’s done, he sounds like he ran a 5K at race pace. His chest rises and falls deeply. He doesn’t look at me and that’s when I realize he has known. He has known all along what happened to Sarah.

  “You saw Mom when she was released.”

  “I set her up in her apartment. I found her a job as a seamstress.”

  “And you’ve been supporting her ever since. That’s why you need me to manage the trust. After you’re gone.”

  He nods. “Her term came up and she made me agree not to tell you. She didn’t want you to come looking for her. She thought it best for you to believe she didn’t care. That’s why I stayed away when I should have been your father. I thought you’d see right through me.”

  “You knew what her leaving did to me. How could you agree to such a thing?”

  “I swore that I’d keep her safe and you safe from her. I love her, Ian.” His eyes sheen and hands clench tighter on the cart handle. “I did it because I love her.”

  I feel my face heat. I’m sure it’s as red as the leaves scattered around us. I want to punch him. How could he let her take herself away from me when I needed her most? My teen years were more confusing without her than my youth had been with her.

  But as I stare at him, seething under my skin, something happens. An epiphany of sorts. That damn lightbulb goes off like a camera flash and frames the picture. I recognize something else of me in him. No matter what my wife does, or has done—yes, that includes kissing James and keeping his damn paintings on display at the café—I would always love her. Had Aimee been in my mom’s place, I would have done the same as my dad. I love her that much.

  “I know you blame yourself. It’s not your fault, Ian,” he says. “Your mother’s leaving has never been your fault and I’m sorry I made it seem that way.”

  Emotion wells and I can no longer contain it. I bend at the waist, a tree giving in to the wind, and I do something I haven’t done since I was fourteen. I weep.

  CHAPTER 29

  AIMEE

  When Ian first told me about his mom’s arrest and imprisonment, he explained that he wanted to be up-front with me. James hadn’t been open and honest about his family history and Ian respected my need to know about his childhood, and why he was estranged from his dad. Over dinner one evening, he relayed the sequence of events, from being abandoned on the roadside to being dragged in a truck-stop parking lot, with the detachment one used as though talk
ing about someone else. I listened in stunned silence, my heart going out to the young boy he’d been. My soul ached for the man he’d become. That detachment spoke volumes. His past was as much a part of him as the humor and carefree spirit that made up his character. And he hadn’t moved on from it.

  Ian had told me previously his mom didn’t physically abuse him, but emotionally? I couldn’t understand why he wanted to find her after the years of turmoil he endured. His love for her, though, was unconditional. He didn’t blame her for how she was. It wasn’t her fault her mind fragmented. But after hearing the full story today, I better understand his pursuit, and his guilt. He believed he owed her an apology for taking the photos the prosecution subpoenaed—the photos he thought would help her case, not imprison her. He blamed himself for why things were the way they were with his parents. That’s an enormous burden to be carrying all these years.

  I watch him talk with his dad, head bowed and hands on hips. Their voices are low and Ian keeps his face averted from mine. I can’t hear them so I don’t know how Ian’s taking everything in—seeing Stu for the first time in a long time, Stu’s sickness, and whatever Stu’s telling him—until he turns to me. They both look my way. While Stu’s expression is curious, Ian’s demeanor is all sorts of anger, confusion, and hurt.

  I want to go to him. Everything inside me is pushing me his way. But other than waving, I don’t move a muscle. I give him the space he asked for.

  Ian’s eyes latch onto mine. We watch one another for a long moment, and when I smile, a smidge of the tension straining his face eases.

  They walk off together and talk under a large tree behind the house, a bench and leaf-sprinkled ground giving the yard a parklike setting. They talk for a long time, and I wait. I’d wait for as long as Ian needed me to, for he’ll need me when it’s over.

  I catch up on e-mails. I call Kristen and ask about the new baby. Theo is nothing short of perfect. He’s a good eater and sleeper and isn’t fussy. It’s Kristen’s third child. I figure she has a good handle on motherhood by now and anything Theo does will seem like a stroll through peppermint frosting compared with the first child. Short of the usual exhaustion that accompanies a newborn, life is grand for the Garners.

  I call my mom, dodging her questions about Idaho and Stu. This is Ian’s story to tell, and perhaps he will share it with her one day during our Sunday lunches at my parents’. For now, I let her know we’re flying home in the morning.

  I’m reading a book I’d brought along with me when Ian settles on the porch chair beside me some ninety minutes later. His face is drawn, the conversation with Stu, jet lag, and the National Geographic assignment taking its toll. He takes my hand, kisses each knuckle, and asks if I don’t mind spending the afternoon at the house, which I don’t. Finding my way into town, I buy us lunch, deli sandwiches and sodas. Ian spends the next five hours working himself to exhaustion. He patches the hole in the laundry room and repairs the porch. He’s sweaty and dusty by the time he’s done and I get the sense he’s making up for lost time by cramming as many odd jobs around the property as he can in these few hours.

  We learn that Stu moved into an assisted-living facility five months ago. He makes it out to the farm every few weeks to check on the house. He collects the mail and papers, and when he agrees to my offer, I go online and arrange for both to be forwarded to his new address, little things he never got around to doing when he moved out.

  It’s late afternoon when we say our good-byes. Ian reassures Stu he’ll call to schedule a date to sign the paperwork, for what, I don’t know. He’s quiet on the drive back to Boise, lost in his thoughts. I hold his hand so that he knows I’m here for him when he’s ready to find his way back.

  We check in to a hotel near the airport and Ian immediately shuts himself in the bathroom and takes a shower. When he’s done, his hair still damp and jaw overdue for a shave, his skin smelling of soap, he settles at the table with his laptop.

  “Al moved the feature up an issue. He wants my pictures tomorrow morning.” He powers up the laptop and types in his password.

  “Did you just find that out?”

  “He e-mailed this morning.”

  “That doesn’t seem right. He isn’t giving you much time to edit your work.”

  Ian shrugs.

  “Does he expect you to edit them?”

  He shakes his head. “He wants the raw images. His team narrows the selection to support the article and edits them. But that’s not how I roll.” They’re his photos, his work and reputation on the line. I don’t blame him for putting in the extra effort, but after sailing in a similar boat, I worry he’s taking on too much. Squinting at the computer, he opens his apps and gets to work. He barely registers when I kiss his cheek and tell him I’ll pick up dinner.

  I walk across the street to Applebee’s and order dinner to go. The hostess hands me a pager and I slip outside to make a few phone calls. I explain to my banker that I’m certain I want to cancel the loan application and I tell the property owners of the two sites I’d been considering that I’m no longer interested. When I finish, gone is the desire to conquer the coffee world, as Ian once described to me. In its place blossoms the same excitement and nerves I felt when I first opened Aimee’s Café. It makes me eager to get back to milk-and-butter basics. Baking cakes and breads and delicacies. Crafting new specialty drinks to add to my ever-growing menu. Taking down James’s paintings.

  Yeah . . . that.

  I should have removed them years ago. Good thing James is expecting to receive them.

  I’ll take care of it this week, I decide, adding a note on my calendar to pick up packing material, and the Applebee’s pager vibrates.

  After I get our food and start back toward the hotel, Nadia calls me. I stop at the sidewalk and stare at the image on my screen, the two of us at the Garners’ ugly sweater party last Christmas. Time to change that photo, but I’m not sure I’m ready to talk with Nadia. Still, I answer the phone.

  “Hey, are you OK?” she asks after I greet her.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you. Did you really go to Spain?”

  “I did, but we’re in Idaho now.”

  “Idaho? What in the world are you doing there?”

  “Visiting Ian’s dad. Hey, can we talk later? I just picked up dinner and Ian’s waiting.”

  “Yeah, whenever you what. But, Aimee, about Thomas. I’m sorry.”

  At the sound of Thomas’s name, I slow down and turn around, spotting a bench off to the side of the hotel entrance. I sit down. The stale odor of nicotine clings to the air. Cigarette butts litter the receptacle beside me, ends sticking out of the sand like rotted dock pilings on a beach.

  “I went to see him.”

  “Thomas? You went to his office? About me?”

  “Another matter, but yes, your name did come up. I’m still having a hard time understanding why you took the job.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line before she comes on to say, “Do you remember Thomas in high school? He used to be funny and real.”

  “And then he changed.”

  “Yes, he changed,” she agrees, her voice quiet, reflective.

  “Now he’s cold, calculating, and manipulative,” I point out. “You can’t forget that.”

  “I know, you’re right.”

  “So, you didn’t go to dinner with him the other night?” I ask, recalling their text message exchange.

  “I did, and . . .” Her voice trails with remorse.

  “Please don’t tell me you slept with him.”

  “Jesus, no. We didn’t even kiss.”

  “What did you do, then?”

  “We ate, Aimee. And we talked. He’s lonely. He has a lot of regrets.”

  “Nadia.” I drag out her name. “Do you have feelings for him?”

  “I don’t know if I’m attracted to him, or just got caught up with the man he used to be. The guy sure can turn on the charm.”r />
  “I repeat. He’s manipulative.” I don’t say anything further, and for a moment we’re both quiet, lost in our thoughts. I’m not sure I can handle Nadia dating Thomas, but I don’t want to lose her as a friend either. “Are you still working with him?”

  “Yes, but not for much longer. I send off the plans next week. Unless he makes any changes, my contribution to the project will be done.”

  “Are you going to see him again after that?”

  “I won’t if you don’t want me to. Our friendship is too important.”

  “I can’t tell you who you can or can’t date. Just know that I don’t trust anyone in the Donato family, especially Thomas. You shouldn’t either. Be careful around him. I care about you too much.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I will.”

  “Good. Now I need a favor from you. Meet me at the café Thursday evening.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see. I’ve got to go. My dinner’s getting cold.”

  I end the call, and on the way back to the room, I purchase two beers in the lobby bar. Ian’s still at the table upon my return. He briefly looks up when I set his dinner and open beer beside him, but he doesn’t touch his food. I quietly eat mine so as not to disturb him, then take a shower. When I’m finished, dewy and wrapped in the hotel’s terry-cloth robe, I return to his side. He’s turned off the lights and shut down his laptop. He faces the window, which he opened in my absence. The sheer curtain billows like an ocean surface. Our room is on the second floor and the soft glow of the parking lot lights cast Ian’s profile in muted grays like an old black-and-white movie. He still hasn’t touched his food.

  “Ian?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Al won’t contract me again if he doesn’t have the shots by morning. I’m not even halfway done.”

  “They seem to be in an awful rush for this feature. Can you get an extension? Tell him you’ve had a family emergency.”

  “Oldest excuse in the book. He won’t buy it.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  He looks at his hands and runs a nail around his thumb cuticle. “Stu knows where Sarah is.”