But the truth is, I don’t feel like I’m from anywhere. I am not from the Azores, though I was born there. I am half-British but I have never been to England. I have lived in Virginia, Maine, Nebraska, Arkansas, Ohio and lately Illinois, but I don’t feel like any one of these places is where I am from. If I were to die today, I suppose my father would bury me next to distant, deceased Longren relatives who lie under the grass in a small cemetery in central Wisconsin near where his parents live. But I’ve never called Wisconsin home. Chicago is beginning to feel like home to me. And since it has always been Simon’s home, I feel a growing attachment. But I doubt I will someday be buried there. I doubt I will ever say it is where I am from.
The luggage carousel for my flight is empty and unmoving when I reach it. I lean against a wall, waiting with dozens of others who were on my plane for our suitcases to find their way to us. I think about the other times I have been to St. Louis as I wait.
The first time can hardly be counted. Dad and I drove through St. Louis two weeks after Blair, Jewel and I found the baby and reluctantly gave it up. We were on our way to Wisconsin to see his parents, my grandparents. We looked at the famous arch from the air-conditioned confines of our car as we crossed the Mississippi River into Illinois. I don’t remember much about that particular trip. Too much had happened in the preceding few weeks. I do remember Dad asking me, more than once, what I thought of Shelley. But there was nothing to think of Shelley at that point. I had only known her for about a month, about as long as he had.
The second time was about a year later, for my fourteenth birthday. Dad took Blair, Jewel and me to downtown St. Louis where he got us our own hotel room—right next to his. This time we went up inside the amazing arch. I began to hyperventilate when I saw the arch’s shadow swaying in the muddy river below us. Blair thought it was hilarious. Jewel began praying under her breath that I would not faint. I was glad to come back down and touch solid ground. Two days after we came home from that trip, Dad gave Shelley an engagement ring.
The third time was when Blair, who had moved to St. Louis after college, got married and I was one of the bridesmaids. I decided to drive out from Ohio for the wedding. My address at the time was the spare bedroom at Dad and Shelley’s, where I was contemplating going back to college. I was in sort of a mental in-between place. I was twenty-three, not dating anyone and very unsure of what I wanted to do with my life. I still needed eighteen credits to complete the business degree I thought I wanted, but I had no motivation to do anything about it. I had no job then, either. At Dad’s urging, I had returned to the house we had moved into—him, me and his pregnant, second wife—after we left Arkansas.
It was the house where I spent the last three years of high school, where Zane was born, and where Dad hung up his Air Force uniforms after deciding Zane needed a normal, stationary life. His orders to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton were to be his last. My father retired from the Air Force the same month I graduated from high school in Ohio and he began his new career as a lecturer at a medical school. Shelley, who was just a new second lieutenant when she met my dad in Blytheville, gave up her commission as soon as her four-year commitment was up so she could be a fulltime mother to Zane.
Lucky Zane.
So there I was, five years out of high school and I was still looking for my place in the world. I had changed my major three times, had worked part time at an animal shelter, a French restaurant, an antique store and a private school for gifted children. I had moved away from Dayton and come back twice.
My father was very patient with me during this chaotic time in my life. Too patient, really. I wanted him to sit me down and talk some sense into me. He just kept writing out checks to Wright State University for the phantom degree I pretended to pursue. To her credit, Shelley tried to find ways to help me, but she really had no idea what it was like to stare at a big world with no idea of where to go in it. So nothing she said really mattered to me. That she is only twelve years older than me probably had something to do with my indifference to her counsel as well. Not because she wasn’t old enough or smart enough to know anything, because I am sure she was. It’s just I couldn’t—and still can’t—think of her as a mother figure capable of dispensing advice.
So when Blair called me after tracking me down at my Dad’s and asked me to be a bridesmaid at her wedding, I decided a road trip was in order. She offered to fly me out then, too, as she had already gotten quite adept at spending Brad’s millions, even before the wedding. But I was glad for the opportunity to be alone in my car for the long stretch of hours between Dayton and St. Louis. It was actually one of the best decisions I had made in a long time, because on the way back from the wedding, I took a side trip to Chicago to visit a friend from my sophomore year of college, which incidentally I spent at the University of Ohio. It was this same friend, Emily Trowdell, who now lives in Atlanta, who convinced me to stay in Chicago, helped me get the job in the Customs Office at O’Hare where she also worked, and who later introduced me to Simon—a friend of a friend of a friend.
I met Antonia at O’Hare, too. She made several trips to Italy that first year and I came to know her on a first name basis because she always seemed to come through customs when I was on duty. She intrigued me and I apparently intrigued her. She told me on our second meeting she would give her left foot to have my color hair, but not her left or right arm, because she would need them both to style it. Antonia said my auburn hair was the exact color of the sky over the Mediterranean at sunset. She also told me, on our third meeting, that I was very wise to stay away from beige. I had laughed. Veronica Devere, Blair’s mother, had told me the same thing when I was fourteen. It was one of the few things I remember her ever saying to me. I went to work for Antonia at Linee Belle my second year in Chicago when she offered me two dollars more an hour than what the customs office paid, plus a regular work schedule and an impressive title—assistant manager.
So in sense, St. Louis, with its celebrated Gateway to the West, became a gateway for me personally. I used it as a passageway to move out on my own—for the last time—away from Dad and Shelley, away from the place where my childhood was supposed to have ended and my adult life was supposed to have begun.
My suitcase is one of the first to be deposited on the carousel and once I have it, I follow the Ground Transport signs to the rental car agencies section. I pick the one with the shortest line, but I soon discover the lone woman ahead of me wants a white Cadillac Seville, not a blue one, and that she is prepared to be adamant about it. While the flustered rental car agency explains there isn’t a white one available, I take out my cell phone and press the speed dial button for Blair’s number. I hope she will be mentally able to give me good directions to the hospital. I have no idea where anything is in relation to this airport.
Blair’s cell phone number rings six times before her voice mail picks it up. In a sunny tone that doesn’t fit the day, Blair’s recorded voice asks me to leave a message. I quickly leave one, telling her I am at the airport, in line to get a rental car and will wait to hear back from her before I leave.
Fifteen minutes later I am sitting in a red Camry in the rental car parking lot and my phone call has not been returned. I decide to try again and I get the same message after six rings. I hang up without leaving a second message and whisper, “This is not good,” to the steering wheel. I have Blair’s home address and the GPS on the rental will no doubt get me there, but I doubt anyone will be at home. I can call a couple of local hospitals and ask to speak with the family of a patient named Brad Holbrook and see what happens. I can look for a hotel room near the airport and at least have a place to sleep tonight while I keep trying to reach Blair.
I decide on choice number three but I dial Blair’s number one more time before starting the car. Blair’s number rings five times and I am almost ready to hang up when I hear a man’s voice say hello.
It can’t possibly be Brad. I do not know the voice.
&nbs
p; “Hello?” I say. “I’m looking for Blair. Do I have the right number?”
There is a pause.
“Can I ask who this is, please?” says the voice.
If I had the wrong number he would not have asked this, so I must have gotten through to Blair’s phone. But I am hesitant to give this stranger my full name.
“This is Tess. Can I speak to Blair, please?” I say, trying to inject a little authority in my voice.
Another pause.
“She can’t come to the phone right now. You’ll have to call back some other time,” the man says.
“Wait!” I yell into my phone, fearing he is going to hang up on me. “Blair called me earlier today. She told me Brad had a heart attack and she asked me to come to her. I just flew in from Chicago and I am sitting in a rental car at your airport, okay? Now can you please let me talk to her?”
A third pause.
“Just a minute,” he says and I can tell he has placed his thumb over the mouthpiece of Blair’s phone. Several long minutes pass.
“Look,” he says and his voice sounds softer, but strained. “This is just a really bad time. Brad… Brad died half an hour ago and everything is a little crazy.”
As he says the word “died” I feel my breath catch in my throat. “Brad is dead?”
“He… he never regained consciousness after he collapsed,” the man said, emotion lacing his words. “They don’t think he suffered.”
“And Blair?” Emotion is now thick in my own voice.
“She’s taking it pretty hard,” the man continues. “A doctor here at the hospital has given her a sedative. We are getting ready to take her home.”
I have no idea who he means by we. “Can… can I ask who you are?” I venture.
“My name is Peter Agnew. Brad was a partner in my investment firm. He… he worked for me.”
“I am so sorry,” I mumble because nothing else seems adequate. I am aware that my cheeks are wet and that the lump in my throat has expanded into something larger and heavier and has moved down into my chest. I am aching for Blair.
“My wife and I are going to stay with her tonight,” Peter Agnew is saying.
“Does she know I am here?” I say, feeling alone in strange place. It’s a new feeling.
“She’s not very lucid right now,” Peter says. “It might be best if you got a hotel room for the night. There’s a Holiday Inn just across the freeway from the airport. I can call ahead and tell them you’re coming. I can put it on the company credit card. What’s your last name?”
“You don’t have to do that,” I start to say.
“I am sure it is what Blair would want,” Peter assures me. “I will come and get you in the morning and bring you to her, okay? Now, what’s your last name?”
“It’s Longren,” I answer, and then I have a sudden thought. “Mr. Agnew, if she wakes in the night and asks for me, please tell her where I am. If she wants me to come to her, I will. I don’t care what time of the night.”
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Longren,” Peter Agnew says. “I promise I will tell her. I will try and come for you around nine tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
We say our goodbyes and I click off.
It takes a tremendous amount of effort to maneuver the unfamiliar car out of the lot and to look for a way to get across the freeway where a cluster of hotels is located. I finally locate a street that takes traffic under the busy freeway to the other side. It does not take long to find the Holiday Inn and true to his word, Peter Agnew has called ahead. My room key is waiting for me. It is after eight and I am as hungry as I am weary. The hotel clerk must sense this because when I ask where to get a quick bite to eat he suggests I call a nearby pizza place that delivers free to the hotel. He gives me the phone number and I head to the elevator and my room on the fourth floor.
Once inside the room, I fling my suitcase onto one of the two double beds. I make the call to the pizza place as I sit on the other bed and kick off my shoes.
I am exhausted but I should call Simon.
In a few minutes, I think to myself. I stretch out on the bed to rest my eyes for just a moment but my body willingly gives in to the pull of sleep.
Seven
I am barefoot on a deserted street on Terceira. In one hand I hold my canvas bag, in the other, the smaller hand of my half-brother, Zane. I am young. Too young to have the canvas bag that I carry as an adult and too young to have a little brother named Zane. I realize both of these things at the same moment that I drop the bag and pull Zane close to me.
“Watch out!” I yell as the pounding of hooves fills my dream.
I pull Zane away from the bulls as they race past us down the empty street, angry and afraid. The sound of my voice yelling out a warning to Zane wakes me. The pounding of hooves is replaced by a pounding at my hotel room door.
“Pizza delivery!” I hear someone yell from the other side, perhaps not for the first time.
I am disoriented as I grab my wallet out of my bag on the bed beside me. I make my way to the door and open it.
“Sorry,” I mutter to the young man standing there holding a flat box with a spinach, black olive and feta cheese pizza inside it. I hand him fifteen dollars for the nine-dollar small pizza, telling him to keep the change and hoping my generous tip will make up for my slow response. He pretends not to be surprised by it.
“Have a good evening,” he says as he stuffs the bills in his pocket and hands me a receipt.
“You do the same.” I close the door as he walks away.
The bottle of water I’d brought with me on the plane is warm and half-empty but I don’t feel like leaving the room to get ice or a fresh drink. I fill the bottle the rest of the way with tap water from the bathroom.
I eat the pizza slowly, trying to clear my head. I dismiss the dream and concentrate my thoughts, as I chew, on making the call to Simon. When the small pizza is half-gone and I feel somewhat satisfied, I close the lid on the pizza box and push it away from me. I hold my cell phone for several minutes before pressing the button that will speed dial my phone at home in Chicago.
I can’t seem to shake the dread I feel. I’m afraid that Simon won’t be there and equally afraid that he will be. I’m painfully aware that the last spoken words between us were unkind words. Words meant to wound.
“Don’t let him leave me,” I whisper to no one as I press the button.
I nearly collapse in relief as Simon answers the phone by saying my name as if he’s been waiting to say it all day. I know caller ID has allowed him to see I’m calling, that he answers by saying my name because he knew it was me, not because he hoped that it would be. But it sounds like there is hope in his voice and I have not heard such a thing in quite awhile.
“Oh, it is good to hear your voice,” I say to him, because it is.
“Is everything all right? Are you with Blair?”
“No and no.” I relax back on the headboard of the bed. “I’m actually at a Holiday Inn by the airport. Brad died half an hour before I got here. His employer got this room for me. I won’t be seeing Blair until tomorrow. She’s sedated right now.”
“Oh, Tess,” he says, but nothing else. We are both weary of bad news.
“I feel so bad for Blair,” I continue without thinking. “She’s so young to be a widow.”
But of course Simon doesn’t want to contemplate Blair’s future without her husband. It must surely remind him of the man whose wife and daughter died when Simon’s phone-fumbling and ill-timed pass sent them to their deaths. I am wishing I could take back what I just said. I am about to apologize when Simon asks me how long I think I will be gone. I am only too happy to change the subject.
“I’m not sure yet, Simon. If Blair wants me to stay through the funeral, well, I think I should.”
“Yeah, I suppose that would be the right thing to do,” he says, and I can tell he wants me to come home but I can’t tell why. I decide I cannot bear another moment not knowing.
“Simon, is it good news or bad news?” I ask.
“What?”
“Whatever it is that you want to talk with me about,” I answer. “Does it have to do with us?”
He pauses for a moment. I hold my breath.
“Well, yes,” he replies.
I close my eyes as if that will keep me from hearing whatever it is he will say next.
“Tell me,” I am able to say.
I can sense that he’s thinking of how to say what is on his mind. I hold onto the bedspread under me like it is the handle of a roller coaster car.
“Tess,” he begins. “I think I know what’s wrong with us.”
I grip it tighter.
“Wrong with us?”
“Yeah. I think I know why you don’t want to get married yet. Why I pretend it doesn’t matter. Why you still grieve for your mother. Why I can’t seem to forgive myself for what I did to that family.”
Every word from his lips pokes at me. I feel afraid, like the roller coaster ride has started but I can’t see the tracks ahead. I don’t know where we are headed.
“What are you saying?” I manage to say.
“I am saying I think we need help, Tess. Both of us.”
I’m not sure what he means but I’m beginning to think that he’s not planning to leave me.
“Help?” I echo.
“We’re going nowhere, Tess. We’re just spinning in circles. I didn’t realize how bad off we were until my accident and I finally understood how debilitating it is to live without peace.”
The Remedy for Regret Page 6