A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “He can’t. Look what you’ve done.”

  “It’s not what he wanted. Dad’s happy, though. My brother toed the line. He lives a few blocks from my parents, takes his family over for Sunday dinner, and works in Dad’s tax firm.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m okay—now. Pops has helped me. He’s taught me what a father can be and what a son can be. I’ll keep trying with my dad, but it’s hard.” Alex looked up at me.

  I nodded. That’s all I know about parents—it’s hard.

  “Your sisters?”

  “I’m closer to them. Jenni lives in Texas and Suzanne in California. They don’t get in the middle, but they don’t shun me either. But it’s all hidden, all in secret. Even my mom won’t call unless Dad’s out of the house.”

  “I’m sorry, Alex.” I needed to offer him something in return. But how much? “My parents died a few years ago. The Muirs accepting me like they have is a miracle for me.”

  Alex stared at me a moment, and I could see his jaw flex. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything?” He paused and leaned forward. “I feel a little selfish complaining about my perfectly healthy—if dysfunctional—family.”

  “I like it. Not the dysfunctional part. I mean I like hearing about them. About you. I don’t like to talk about my parents. In fact, very few people know even that much.”

  “I’m honored. Will you tell me more?”

  I held my breath. I didn’t want to deflect, and I refused to hide, but I lacked courage. “Can I tell you about them another time? It’s not an easy subject for me. But someday I would like you to know.”

  He smiled, slow and long. “When you’re ready, I’ll listen.” He held my eyes. “What shall we eat?”

  “Everything.”

  The food was delicious. The pizzas are cooked in bowls with the dough draped over the top. The waiter then flips it over onto your plate and pulls out the ceramic bowl, and the cheese, which was at the bottom, is now on top and spreads over the sauce.

  As we ate, my mind wandered back to my parents. Usually thinking about them fills me with fear and, more recently, anger. Not tonight. Tonight I remembered something Father John said when he told me my father had died.

  “He was sick, Sam.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “No, I mean he had clinical mental illness.” Father John took my hands and held them, drawing me into his words. “I read his file, Sam. He suffered terrible abuse, and only in prison did he get counseling and medication. There’s no indication that on the outside he got any help at all.”

  “He went to college, Father John. He was some drugged-out genius and dropped out. That’s what my mother once said.”

  “That’s not entirely true. But she was right about his being smart. He was off the charts in some respects and not hitting even minimal markers in others. It’s hard to say how the brain works. I think the abuse broke an already fragile brain.”

  “What are you saying? He was out of his mind?” I spat the words out.

  “Yes.” Father John squeezed my hands to gain my attention. “I am not excusing him, Sam. I’m saying that he may not have known what he did or why he did it. He was terribly sick.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Not now, but someday you might. And when that day comes, I wanted you to know the truth. He caused tremendous pain, Sam, but he was also in tremendous pain.”

  I sat in that safe, high-backed booth eating pizza while all this played through my memory. And I accepted it. I let it flow over and through me in a way I had never allowed before. I don’t know how I feel about my father now, but tonight the memories took on a different tone. The black/red fear I associate with him faded. There are shades of yellow and even more temperate colors like blue swirling in the scene.

  Alex was quiet too. Maybe his own thoughts swirled about him—I don’t know. I simply know it was comfortable and wonderful. I felt safe not striving for words and smiles and laughs and sighs—all those things Ashley and Debbie threw out at that Halloween party—to intrigue him and show my interest. I felt sure that no matter how quiet or contemplative I became—Alex would call me again.

  Sincerely,

  Sam

  AUGUST 12

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  The professor had a heart attack. At least that’s what I think happened. Mrs. Muir called it “atrial fibrillation.” He had chest pains and shortness of breath and passed out. I call that a heart attack.

  “He’s going to be fine, dear. I wanted to call so you wouldn’t worry.”

  “Does Alex know?”

  “Yes, dear, I called him. Robert has had episodes before, and this one wasn’t as bad as others. The doctors here have examined him thoroughly and given him new medication.”

  I leaned against the counter. There was nothing I could say. I know this was about them, but I could only think of myself. Horribly selfish. But I felt like a fool for wishing, for letting them in, for wanting them to be mine.

  “Sam?”

  “I’m here.”

  “He wants to talk to you. Just a moment.”

  “Mrs. Muir, he should rest, please don’t—” I didn’t want to hear the professor’s voice. I wanted them to fade away. I wanted to finish washing the dishes, keep their garden, pay their bills, and in a month—pack my bags.

  “Sam?” The professor’s voice was soft and breathy.

  “I’m here. Are you okay?” I wiped my hand across my eyes, leaving a trail of suds.

  “Did I scare you?”

  “I think you scared everyone.”

  “I’m sure I did, but I bet I got you . . . I bet I got you good, Sam.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, Sam, I see so much in you. We’re alike, like father and daughter. And I think you feel . . .” His voice grew soft and drifted away.

  The line fell silent, and I panicked. “Professor? Professor?”

  “Sam?” It was Mrs. Muir. “He’s asleep, dear. He’s been so anxious to talk to you, and I think now that he’s heard your voice, he can rest.”

  “My voice?”

  “Don’t you know how much you mean to him?” She paused. “Sam, God was good to us today. Don’t forget that. Robert will be fine, and we’ll be home soon.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Tears trickled down my checks. “This doesn’t sound good.”

  “Oh, darling. You should see the look of peace on Robert’s face right now. We were right next to a police officer when he had the episode, and he’s been given a wonderful report. We are blessed.”

  I wanted to believe her, to have her faith and confidence. I felt my heart trip forward—almost to hope.

  They’re going to stay in Paris a few days longer so the professor can rest before continuing to Spain. And if he gets too tired, they’ll stop completely and wander in the “pink light” of Paris. I didn’t get that. Is the light really pink there?

  I hung up the phone, and fear crept back into me. I felt small and alone. I called Alex. It was the first time I’d initiated contact—a huge mistake and not my finest moment. I didn’t even say hi.

  “You knew. You knew and you didn’t tell me? Don’t you think I care? I know they mean more to you, but I’m staying in their house. I’m not a nobody, Alex. How could you do that to me?”

  “Nice to hear from you, Sam.”

  “Don’t give me that.”

  “Give you what? Mom M called me twenty minutes ago. I didn’t call you because you were her next call. Calls one and two, Sam. I don’t think you could’ve found out any faster.”

  “Well . . .” My anger lost its steam. “Still . . .”

  “Still what?”

  “I don’t know.” I put on a new coat of mad. “You should fly over.”

  “I’m not flying to France.”

  “He should mean more to you than that, Alex. I—” What would I do? That moment surprised me. What would I do for the professor? Almost anything . . .

  “Sam, s
top. This has happened before. Pops is fine, and I’m not going to insult him by acting like it’s worse than it is. He wouldn’t want that.”

  “ ‘I beg your pardon. Excuse my interference. It was kindly meant.’ ” I cringed.

  “Caroline Bingley? Really?” Alex paused. “You think I insulted you? Is that it?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I didn’t.” Alex’s voice got gentle, and that upset me even more. “Is that what you do when—”

  “I’m hanging up.” I felt so embarrassed and exposed.

  “Sam, don’t—” I didn’t hear another word. I can’t believe I did that to Alex. What must he think of me?

  I need to finish the dishes,

  Sam

  Later . . .

  I won’t be able to sleep until I update you.

  As I finished the dishes, I sobbed. I can’t explain why. I’ve known the Muirs a shorter time than some of my shortest foster placements.

  But they could slip away. The professor could die. I could die. Everything changes, you know. Each and every moment things change. I was beginning to think that change could be good, but I was wrong. I know I’m twenty-four and I don’t need a mom and a dad, but I wanted them. That’s a lie too—I need them. I hoped the Muirs could be mine and nothing would take them away from me. And the heart attack broke my heart.

  Then the doorbell rang. I scrubbed my eyes with a dish towel as I raced to answer it. Alex was the last person I expected to find.

  “What are you doing here?” So much for making a good impression—ever.

  “I thought you could use a hug.” Alex stepped into the doorway and held me for the longest time. It wasn’t romantic. It was strong and comforting and exactly what I needed. I held him tight around his waist, sniffed into his shirt, and rested.

  When I started breathing normally, he stepped back. There was a very embarrassing wet mark on his shoulder, but he kindly didn’t note it.

  “I’m so sorry.” I started swiping at it with my dish towel. “I was so rude to you.”

  “It’s okay. It was a shock. And I’m sorry if I appeared blasé. I’m not, you know. I love Pops very much.”

  “I know you do. You’re not blasé about anything that I can tell.”

  “ ‘Accept my thanks for the compliment.’ ”

  “No Lizzy. I can’t believe I did that to you.” I almost started to cry again, for completely different reasons.

  Alex smiled and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No more quotations.” He tilted his head out the open front door. “It’s a gorgeous night, Sam. Let’s take a walk.”

  We walked to the lake and then stopped at Homer’s for ice cream on the way back. I was so tired from the stress and sobbing that I don’t think I was good company, but Alex didn’t seem to mind. He told me more about his relationship with the professor.

  “We’d go down to the Boys and Girls Club every Saturday and play basketball and stuff. Pops would sit on the side and read to anyone who’d listen. I played ball.”

  “On Saturday mornings? Not what I’d expect.”

  Alex laughed. “I know. Pops made me do it. I was so angry when I got to NU. It was me against the world. Pops was trying to show me it wasn’t, and that I wasn’t alone feeling that way.”

  His whole face lit up. “You should’ve seen it, Sam. It was a blast—a bunch of angry kids and scary thugs coming together to play ball. That gang leader in Redemption, Crit? He’s based on a guy from there. Scariest dude I ever met, but a good ballplayer and honorable on the court. Never left a guy on the ground without offering him a hand—weirdest thing.”

  I smiled, thinking of Kyle. Someday—if I get the courage—I’ll introduce them. They’d really like each other.

  “Why don’t you find something similar in New York?”

  “I’ve tried. Once they learn my name, I never get past the development directors. They want my name and my money—and that’s important too, I’m not knocking it—but they don’t want me.”

  “You should try again. You could make a difference, Alex, and you clearly loved it. Think of the new characters you might find.”

  “True.” We walked without saying more for a while. He simply stayed beside me.

  It was good. And I didn’t make it that way. Alex did. He also told me about the professor’s previous episodes, his medications, and what he does to take care of himself. It was good to hear. Not only because it didn’t sound so tragic after all, but because Alex made me feel like my knowing mattered.

  And this is where I must stop, Mr. Knightley. Writing helps me process things, but these emotions are too much, too foreign. And I’m too tired. I’m so glad the professor will be well. But more . . . I can’t consider that right now.

  AUGUST 22

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  Summer is over. My internship ended two days ago. I wrote sixteen articles under a joint byline and seven under my own name. I edited seventeen of McDermott’s pieces, and by the end he trusted my voice and my judgment. He was a great mentor and I think he liked working with me. He hugged me as I left the building and said, “You did good, kid.”

  I’m sad that it’s over. I didn’t knock the ball out of the park—Mike actually won an award for one of his fifteen solo articles—but I did good, solid work and I’m proud of it. Ms. Ellis asked me to apply for a full-time job after graduation. I didn’t get an offer, but she didn’t say good riddance either.

  But now Alex is gone too, and I’m sad all over again. We spent the past two days in a frantic effort to see all that remained of Chicago: another Cubs game, Navy Pier, one museum, six different restaurants, a last run along the lake . . . He jotted notes and I took pictures, building details for the book as we walked along. I think he may even use a few of my quips and quotes—and he hinted about giving Cole a girlfriend.

  “What happened with that detective Cole hated?”

  “I never said he ‘hated’ her.”

  “He should.”

  “Why?”

  “Conflict drives emotion, Alex. If he hates her at the beginning, he can love her at the end.”

  “You are so set on him getting a girlfriend. Don’t you think once he finds someone, he’ll be all in? He’s a pretty intense guy. What if she doesn’t feel the same? Best not to rush it.”

  I pondered this. “Don’t avoid it, though. That’s a cop-out.”

  He laughed. “Love stories are too easy. They’re trite. Cole doesn’t need that.”

  “Then don’t make her light and easy—make her tough, and real, and flawed. I’d like to read about that, because if it’s difficult, but beautiful, then I’ll believe it can be real. And you can draw that out. Complexity will give Cole time.”

  Alex stopped and stared at me. “Okay, I’m sold. You sure you want to be a journalist?”

  “For now. Gotta use all this training. But I’d like to write a children’s book someday—a book of fun stories that go completely wrong, but end well with the kids tucked into bed safe and happy.”

  “That I’ll read.”

  And that was how these two days felt too—safe and happy. I was so desperate to hang on that I asked if I could take him to the airport tomorrow.

  “You’d have to get up at three thirty. I’ll take a cab.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’ll go back to bed after.” My face flushed. I must have sounded pathetic.

  Alex touched my chin and turned me toward him. “Have dinner with me tonight instead?”

  “It’s your last night. What about your friends? Jim . . . or that other guy?”

  “I’d like to spend it with you. I’ll pick you up at six?”

  “Sure.”

  I hopped the train north to go home and change. I could barely breathe for how pleased I was to spend his last evening with him. What to wear? What to wear? That one thought consumed the half-hour train ride.

  After scrounging around, I settled on a fitted black sundress with a cream shawl. I also wore a pair
of high wedge sandals that I could never wear with Josh. I love Alex’s height. When he arrived, I walked steadily to his car and didn’t feel like a tree. In fact, I felt quite pretty.

  He took me to Topolobampo on Clark Street and requested the chef’s five-course tasting menu.

  It started with Sabana de Jitomates, tomatoes in sherry dressing. The tomatoes were so sweet against the pungent sherry that you could feel the sensation at your lips and again at the back of your mouth. My favorite course after that was the Borrego al Pisilla, lamb infused with black garlic. And last came dessert—in a class by itself. Pastel de Chocolate, Helado de Menta. It’s a fancy Spanish way to say devil’s food cake, glazed with chocolate crème and served with mint ice cream. I think that’s when I closed my eyes and sighed. (If you’re wondering how I remembered all this so well—I asked to keep the menu. I’m sappy.)

  Over the past several weeks Alex and I have met almost daily for coffee, lunch, dinner, runs, shopping trips, grocery trips, movies . . . But tonight he let me see more.

  We’d been talking about our history with friendships, and for the first time he mentioned a woman named Simone. It was casual—too casual—and the hair on my arms stood up.

  “Tell me more about Simone?” I tried to sound indifferent. I was scared he’d laugh it aside, when I could tell it was important.

  But he sat back in his chair, and I could tell he drifted in time. Maybe all good writers do that: they don’t remember, they see. Alex can weave a story or describe a scene so distinctly that you feel you’re there. He went back and I followed.

  “Simone . . . I haven’t thought about her in a while. There was a time when she was all I thought about.” He paused and focused on some spot beyond me. “We met my last fall at Columbia. I was writing Redemption and Simone was working at Jarad-Patel, the hottest gallery in the meat-packing district. She was gorgeous—tall, raven-haired, half French. She knew she had allure, knew she could wrap us all around her finger. But I thought I was different. I was just young and stupid.” He glanced at me and grimaced. “How old do you think I am?”