“Man, that’s right. Audrey’s entire family is visiting from Montreal and it’s just crazy here. Why are you still up?” Somewhere in the background, Audrey tittered that “the Cabral boy” was giving me a nice birthday present. My father groaned.
“Oh, Dad, it’s a long story.”
“You can tell me.”
“No…I really can’t. It’s business-related. But you know, I don’t want to think about it right now. Care to distract me?”
“Gladly.” For the next half hour, I listened, arm flung over my eyes and wretchedly homesick, as my father and Audrey soothed me with stories of his organic nuts on display at the Garden Market (I had to laugh), her pink highlights, and Lyons High’s seven homeruns at the Friday night football game (touchdowns, Audrey, touchdowns).
I didn’t notice when Samuel turned off the shower. At some point I was aware it wasn’t running. I said good night to my mother and peered into the bedroom. The bathroom door was open, remnant steam billowing from the shower and fogging the mirror. Samuel’s wet clothes lay in a heap on the dressing bench, water trickling from the cuffs.
But the bathroom was empty.
So was the bedroom.
The entire suite was empty, save for a small white box tied with a red ribbon. An envelope with my name rested under the bow. It was creased, as if he’d carried it for a while. I slid a fingernail under the flap and ripped it open.
Happy Birthday, Firecracker.
This isn’t a conventional gift, I suppose. But then, you’ve never been one for gifts unless there’s meaning attached. Kaye, you are more precious to me than my own life. I’ve known as much since I was a scraggly, six-year-old boy. It’s always been you. It always will be. You are so strong. I trust you. I love you, Samuel.
I untied the ribbon with trembling fingers. It looked like a jewelry box. More specifically, a ring box. A thought rose, unbidden. Please don’t let it be an engagement ring. I’m too overwhelmed, I’m not ready, he promised me a trial period then he’d move to Boulder…
And then, Oh my, I want this. I’ve waited so long for him…
No jewelry. My heart sank a bit. I frowned at the tightly folded piece of paper wedged in the box.
It was a legal document.
Medical Power of Attorney
Effective Upon Execution
I, SAMUEL CAULFIELD CABRAL, a resident of 16 Margaret Corbin Drive, New York County, NY; designate ASPEN KAYE TRILBY, presently residing at 902 Fifth Street, Boulder, CO, as my agent to make any and all health care decisions for me, except to the extent I state otherwise in this document. For the purposes of this document, “health care decision” means consent, refusal of consent, or withdrawal of consent to any care, treatment, service, or procedure to maintain, diagnose, or treat an individual’s physical or mental condition. This medical power of attorney takes effect if I become unable to make my own health care decisions and this fact is certified in writing by my physician…
I scanned the document…the additional powers, the indefinite duration unless Samuel chose to revoke said power of attorney. His signature was at the bottom, followed by two witnesses: Justin and his business manager. The document had been notarized by Ace the very day we arrived in New York City. A sticky note from him explained the original was already on file.
My eyes burned. Like so much about Samuel, I didn’t know whether this was sweet or morbid. He was giving me the power to make the calls for him, should he ever become incapacitated again. He didn’t want me steamrolled like seven years ago. He thought I was strong enough: not Caroline, Alonso, Neelie, or Aspen. Me.
He trusted me with his life.
And then I turned around and lied to him about Mr. Avant Garde. It wasn’t a stretch to figure out why he hadn’t given this to me in person.
The late hour and the remnants of alcohol made my temples throb. I squeezed them, praying that when I opened my eyes, the pain would be gone. But the light only made them ache again. I called his cell phone. A ringing sounded in the other room, coming from the depths of his overnight bag. I tried not to panic. Well, that meant he had to be coming back, if he’d left his phone behind.
But my gut…or symbiosis, or love, or simply understanding of Samuel Cabral…told me otherwise. Truth hit me like a loaded-down semi.
He was running again.
Chapter 14
Cut Away
In the event of a parachute malfunction,
a skydiver must make a quick, life-saving
decision to jettison the main canopy
to allow the reserve canopy to deploy.
Hydraulic Level Five [working title]
Draft 3.35
© Samuel Caulfield Cabral & Aspen Kaye Trilby
35. Hiding Easter Eggs
“I’M THINKING AFTER GRADUATION, I’m going to travel the world. Australia, China, Thailand—as far away as I can get,” Lacy says as she nestles an Easter egg beneath a hedge.
Aspen hands her another from the basket. “You know, you can still travel when you work.”
“Psh, you sound like a career counselor. I’m not hitting the work force right away, but maybe in a couple of years. Don’t look at me like that, all disapproving. You get this funny crease between your eyebrows. Anyway, apparently the continental US is still too close for my stepmom.” She reaches for a branch, then decides if it’s too high for her, it’s too high for the children in her Bible class. She hides the colorful egg in a tree knot. “Who knows, maybe I’ll venture out to New York with you and Caulfield next year and look into grad schools, unless you don’t want a third wheel hanging around you newlyweds. Hey, isn’t your first anniversary just around the corner?”
“Next month.” Aspen tucks an egg in a cluster of yellow daffodils. “Caulfield’s planning to whisk me away to a B&B in Vail as soon as my classes are over. I heard him talking to his dad about it through that air vent in their basement.” The convenient air vent Maria showed her years ago.
Lacy sighs. “So romantic. That guy has always been too perfect for his own good. Where’d he go, anyway? The minute worship ended, he bolted out of that church pew like the minister was going to ask him to stay for another sermon.”
“I think his mom sent him to the grocery store to get crushed pineapple for the ham glaze. I bet he got dragged into baseball talk with my dad.” But now that Lacy mentions it, Aspen realizes he has been gone nearly an hour. She scans the churchyard, searching among Easter service stragglers and antsy kids with empty baskets. No Caulfield.
Lacy reads her mind. “If you want to go find him, I can hide the last of these eggs.”
“Thanks. Save one for us to split.” Aspen hands her friend the basket and walks around the side of the church to call Caulfield. But before she dials, she glimpses her rosy-faced husband across the lawn near the forest edge, the only spot of real color against a drab sky.
The ground is soft and muddy from an early morning rain shower, so she ditches her heels and wades barefoot through the squishy grass. She calls out to him.
“Hey, Hubby, the point of an Easter egg hunt is to hide the eggs, not yourself.”
He hurriedly tucks something in his back pocket and turns to her with devastated eyes.
“Caulfield?” Her grin fades.
“Is the egg hunt over already? That was fast.” He’s jumpy. She cautiously places her hand on his crossed arms then jerks it back when he recoils.
“What’s wrong?”
He leans against a tree, heedless of the bark sap staining his pale green oxford.
“Talk to me,” she tries again.
Caulfield takes a deep, shuddery breath. “I’m troubled—no, disgusted—by what I’m doing.”
Aspen freezes. “What have you done?”
“I was sitting in that damned pew I’ve sat in since I was six, listening to the minister talk about love, forgiveness, faith, and all these things I’m supposed to care about. And you know what’s going through my head?” His voice breaks. “How long before I can escape throug
h those doors and forget everything I’m hearing?”
She hums. “To be honest, half the congregation was probably thinking the same thing. I know for a fact that the guy who kept nodding off in front of us wasn’t paying attention.”
Frustrated hands tear through his hair. “I’m not talking about wanting to make a beeline for Easter dinner. I’ve bastardized everything I’ve ever held sacred, Firecracker. My faith, my writing, my love for you.” He ticks each on his fingers. “Especially my love for you.”
The thing about Aspen, though, is that she hasn’t experienced enough to truly understand the depth of her young husband’s pain. What is there in life that can’t be fixed by having someone at your side, loving you? Aspen bites her lip in confusion. “Is this some sort of God-guilt thing?” she asks. “If you want to go to church more often, I won’t fight you on it anymore. We can get involved at that Boulder one you like.”
Caulfield offers her a small, sad smile. “Just let me hold you for a while.”
He pulls her into the fold of his arms and rests his chin on the top of her head. Together, they watch as children in flouncy dresses and Easter suits trample down the steps of the church, swinging baskets and falling over each other to uncover the most eggs. They remember a time not all that distant…yet an eternity ago…when they’d been those children, fingers still tinted pastel from eggshell dye. Even now, Aspen’s fingertips are pale purples and pinks from the eggs she and Lacy hid.
“You are so warm,” he murmurs.
Sam—Since you left a week ago, my days have been a whirlwind of people, with their maddening curiosity and condolences. But when night comes, it’s too silent. Which is a conundrum, because I’ve had seven years of nights alone. We only shared them a short while and yet, I need your steady breath on my neck to fall asleep. So I’ve had some time late at night to study your writing more closely—the way you phrase things, words you would use—and I think I’m getting better at it.
I’m finding as I learn more about what you went through in the months we were married, a lot of things that didn’t make sense are suddenly clearer. Writing this out is cathartic—I see why you enjoy it so much. Put all that guilt and regret on paper, exorcise it, and send it back to the past, where it belongs.
I love you.
P.S.—Has it really only been a week since you ran from the Standard Hotel? It feels as though it was another lifetime…~Kaye
Samuel was running again.
It was apparent he was not returning to the hotel, so I hoped he might be at his apartment.
I dropped a wad of cash in the cabbie’s hand, hefted both my garment bag and Samuel’s duffel bag over my shoulders, and barreled up the stairs of the Inwood apartment building. I prayed he was upstairs. But when I flung open the door—darkness. A quick search of the place told me he’d already come and gone. The jeans and T-shirt he’d carelessly tossed over the bedpost were missing, as was his old Red Sox hat. He’d taken nothing else…no luggage, toothbrush, razor. So perhaps he’d just stepped out for a while.
At two a.m. In Washington Heights. Crud.
Jerking on sweats and sneakers, I tried not to think about how big and scary New York City was at night. I didn’t care that I was in an unfamiliar city, alone. Still, I grabbed Samuel’s familiar Lyons High ball cap and plopped it on my head, a talisman.
The elevator was too slow. I tapped my foot; why was it so flipping slow? The doors opened and I skidded into the lobby, nearly tripping over the soles of my shoes.
“Excuse me,” I said to the wide-eyed night man, “did you see Samuel Cabral leave?”
“About half an hour ago, ma’am.”
“Did he have anything with him? Bag, luggage, anything?”
The man squinted, thinking. “A backpack. Oh, and a laptop bag.”
I took a calming breath. Breathe…breathe…Maybe he just went somewhere to write, like a twenty-four-hour diner. Eccentric, but Samuel. I asked the doorman if there were any such places in the neighborhood. He jotted down three and handed me the paper, with a stern warning to be careful and maybe even consider waiting until dawn to go exploring. I took the paper and thanked him for his help.
Fortunately, I wasn’t robbed. Unfortunately, none of the greasy spoons produced my AWOL lover. I hunted for him in the park. He wasn’t on any of the lighted paths and it was impossible to search the wooded areas in the dark. I wandered out of Fort Tryon and along Broadway, clutching a pepper spray key chain, my shirt clinging to my sweaty back. I shivered in the cool air. I hadn’t realized how cold the weather had grown the past few weeks and its chill bit my cheeks. The street was relatively quiet, save for club music pounding behind neon signs and well-worn residents wandering in and out of Dominican convenience stores with flickering fluorescents. I gave a cursory glance in each of the stores, used my Spanish. Each store clerk shook his head—no sé.
My skin began to prickle, and I slowly became aware of all the eyes following me. They probably only wanted to know why a white girl was tearing through the Heights after midnight—I think they believed I was jacked up on something—but it scared the crap out of me. What on earth was I doing? New York City, alone? My behavior was completely reckless. Samuel would give me an earful when he returned. I choked back the fear clawing up my throat.
He will return. He’s coming back.
Fear for my safety sent me jogging, then running, up Broadway. I didn’t know if anyone followed me, but I felt like a hundred people were on my heels. My lungs wheezed and my legs ached as I plowed into the apartment once again and collapsed on the couch.
It was dark, just as I’d left it. No Samuel.
At four thirty a.m., I started calling our New York acquaintances, fingertips still numb from the outside air. Justin. Lexi. Jerome. Even Caroline. Voice mail, every one, except for Justin. He hadn’t seen Samuel since the Boom Boom blowup.
I called Dr. Vanderbilt. “I’m sorry, Kaye,” he said. “He wasn’t at the hotel. There’s nothing I can do for Samuel until he’s found. In twenty-four hours, if he hasn’t returned, you can call the police…”
I dialed Samuel’s number again, on the off-chance he’d returned to the apartment for his cell when I was out. Once more, I heard it ring in the bedroom where I’d left it. No one was picking up. For the love of everything holy, why wouldn’t someone answer me? Snot dripped from my thawing nose. I grabbed a wad of tissue paper and fisted it, then angrily hurled it across the living room where it plopped unsatisfyingly on the area rug. Who else was left to call?
There was someone else…
I stared at Alonso’s name in my contact list, my finger hovering over the send button. Not again. Never again.
Desperate, I scrolled further down. Molly? No, as much as I loved my friend, her solutions didn’t always pan out. Dani? Angel? Hector? No.
My finger paused over my father’s number, and the little girl inside of me ached for her daddy. I dialed the one person I knew would always answer the phone, no matter the hour.
“Hello?” answered a sleep-heavy voice. “Flower?”
“Dad!” I cried.
“Kaye?” I heard him scramble out of bed. “Kaye, what’s wrong?”
“Dad, I n-need you. Samuel’s m-missing.”
“Criminy,” he mumbled. “Baby girl, I need you to take a deep breath…good girl…try to stop crying. Now explain what’s going on.”
A stream of words poured from my mouth. I tried to slow them, but they rushed through the receiver and into my father’s patient ears. I told him about the fight at the Boom Boom Room, how he had punched out Avant Garde. How Samuel was fit-to-be-tied, and scared, and all muddled. I explained how he’d been back to the apartment to change clothes and was last seen leaving with his backpack and laptop.
“You should know that Samuel…he’s got bipolar disorder, Dad.” I heard him curse softly. “But something’s not right. He’s been switching back and forth, and I’m afraid he’s gone manic or something.”
“Huh.
Well, that explains a lot. I’ve heard about that illness before, especially when people go missing.”
“I’m really scared for him. He gave me power of attorney for my birthday…”
There was a pause, then a sigh. “Flower, I’m going be real honest with you. I love you, but I’m not the person for this. You want someone who can stay level-headed and do what needs to be done. Baby girl, that’s your mom.”
I tried not to feel the sting of his rejection, and instead thought this through. Then I did as my father suggested. I called my mother.
My mother could be as cold and hard as the ground before sunrise. But at a time like this, emotions couldn’t trump common sense, could it? When I finished telling her what I told Dad, I heard a car door slam over the phone.
“Kaye, honey, I’m leaving Lyons for Denver right now and I’m gonna fly out there. Look around the apartment again. Is anything else missing, something that might give you a clue to where he’s gone? Passport, keys, weapons.”
I rifled through his desk then his overnight bag. “Passport’s here…keys are gone, along with his wallet…crap, he forgot his meds. I don’t think he has a weapon. Kitchen knives, maybe? No, those are still there.”
I gazed around the living room. It felt off. Slightly different. Then my eyes fixed upon the empty mantle above the fireplace and I knew why.
“Mom,” I whispered, “he took the urn.”
“What?”
“His mother’s urn is gone. And…” I flipped open the cardboard box next to the coffee table, “some of his writing’s gone, too. I know where he’s going. Listen, when you get to Denver, catch the first flight to Boston, okay?”
“Boston!?”
I dashed through the apartment, gathering up my purse and messenger bag, still packed from yesterday at the Standard Hotel. I stuffed Samuel’s medications and a change of clothes for both of us in my things. Then I turned off the lights, slammed the door, and locked it. Subway or cab? Call a cab.
“Phone me when your flight gets in and we’ll find each other. Mom…I’m so sorry.” Because I just needed to tell someone I was sorry.
Skygods (Hydraulic #2) Page 32