When You Go Away

by Jessica Barksdale Inclan

  "So are you mad at Dad for what he did or for what Graham did?"

  "Both. I hated him for leaving. I hated how I could always see Mom loved him, even though she didn't tell me till the end. I hated that he thought he could have it all--Mom, the secretary and us. I hated that Graham wasn't even as good as Dad, not wanting Brooke or me, the damaged parts."

  Peri sighed, rubbed her arms and put them under the blanket. “Dad and I haven’t been close since her left Mom. You know that.”

  “Dad saw us at least,” Noel said, his voice at the same time defensive and conciliatory, holding both his father and his sister in his voice. It was strange how before the divorce Peri had been her father’s favorite, but afterward, he and Noel became friends, buddies. Before Carl retired, they met at least one night a week for drinks and dinner at a Financial District restaurant, loosened their ties, exchanged stories about the market and the economy, clients, and women. At least, that’s what Peri imagined, Noel not divulging more than she wanted to hear. “Went out with Dad last night,” he’d say.

  She sank against her pillow. Why did all that had happened so long ago bother her, when Brooke’s illness and Graham’s and her marriage were still weeping wounds no stitches could mend? But it wasn’t just her. The past must bother Noel because aside from his questions about her and her family, his work was all he ever talked about. She never heard much about his short-term girlfriends. And after Brooke was born, her family gave her space and permission to be selfish, focusing on herself and her girl. Now, it seemed too late to ask what he wanted. A wife? A family of his own? For so long now, she and the kids had been his family, his only family, really. They still were. After all, who was here with her? Her father? Graham?

  Staring at the swirls of plaster moonscape above her head, she could not fathom how Ryan and Carly could ever emerge unharmed from their childhood. She didn’t worry about that with Brooke—her childhood was written on her crooked body. How could Peri’s depression, insane road trip, and inevitable punishment, not to mention the divorce, Brooke's hospitalizations, Brooke's surgeries, Brooke's constant, all-day care not leave a scar?

  "Dad's trying to change, Peri. He really is."

  Turning again to face him, she pulled the covers to her chin, yawning. Seeing him like this, rumpled, his hair sticking up in the back, she almost could imagine it was 1968, and both of them were staying up to listen to the noise of a dinner party in the living room, giggling as adults bumped down the hall, drunk and desperate for the bathroom. Her father’s business friends and their hair sprayed wives would drink martinis around the table until everyone except their mother forgot children were in the house. Once, she and Noel found Mr. Samuels and Mrs. Merrimack kissing in the hallway, their heads clattering against family photos hanging on the wall. She had pulled Noel into her room, both of them breathing hard as if they’d discovered a murder. After that, she made Noel stay in his room with the door closed.

  All her life, Peri had tried to forget that worried girl she’d been, make her life better than her mother's, her father's, make her children's lives completely unlike her own. And that's what she still wanted, more than anything.

  Of course her father was trying to change, but maybe it wouldn’t matter until Peri could truly leave her childhood behind. "Aren't we all trying to change?" she asked, closing her eyes, pulled suddenly into a deep, short sleep.

  ELEVEN

  When Graham flew in on Friday, the first thing he must have done was call Carl from his cell phone, his voice echoing in the taxi--or no, limo, the sound too quiet and smooth for a taxi. Figures, Carl thought, his heart pounding as he sat down, holding the phone to his ear.

  "I'm coming to get them, Carl. I know what you said to my mother, but it's not going to fly with me."

  Carl's felt angry words like tacks on his tongue, but then his old negotiating self came back to him, the one that had convinced the entire Bestway Superstore board of directors to let him be the one to find them a new headquarters, and he sat back in his chair, wishing he had a cigar to slow his responses down, a word, a drag, a mouthful of delicious smoke, a exhale, another word. "So, Graham. Where have you been this past year?"

  "What?"

  “I said, 'Where have you been this past year?'"

  "Don't start with me, Carl."

  "I haven't even begun yet. I'm not sure where you even get the idea you can come and take these children anywhere after leaving them. Abandoning them."

  “I didn’t abandon them, Graham.”

  "They're my kids."

  “Well then were in the hell have you been?” Carl asked, his voice steady, sure, unlike the waver of fear under his skin.

  “Look, we can’t argue about this now. I am their father.”

  "That may be a biological fact, sad but true. But I don't think the social worker or psychologists are taking too kindly to your disappearing act. Your I-live-in-wealth-and -splendor-while-my-children-don't routine."

  "This isn't about me. This is about Peri and her illness. She's crazy. You should talk to my wife Blair about what happened Wednesday morning. Maybe I wasn't there, but at least I’m normal."

  Carl felt the blood pulse in his neck. "That's up for debate, I think."

  "Look. I’m coming to get them. I'm taking them to my mom's. You can't stop me. I have visitation rights. Let's call this an official visitation, all right? Have them ready."

  "Here's a news flash. It's twelve in the afternoon."

  "So?"

  "Your kids are at school. You know, that’s what children do?"

  Graham was silent, and so was Carl, hearing nothing but the whooshing echo inside the limo, the same buzz that had been inside the conch shell his mother had displayed in the family room. On his way to school each day, Carl had pressed it to his ear, knowing there was only the sound of his own head inside it. Now, he wished he could put the phone down as he had the shell.

  "After school then. What time do they get out?"

  "A friend is picking them up and bringing them back here. Home. The social worker thought it was best they go to school back in Walnut Creek. Of course what would be best for them is to be in the Monte Veda schools, but that's another story, isn't it?"

  "What friend?"

  Carl wanted to tell Graham about Rosie, mention all that Rosie had done in lieu of a parent, finding the children, calling the authorities, traveling in the ambulance, but he knew that Peri's absence was as keen as Graham's in that story. "Someone who lives near the kids."

  "What time, Carl?"

  "Come over at three-thirty. But I'm going to have to call my lawyer and the social worker. Don't expect you're going to walk off with them."

  "I'll expect exactly that. Don't get on your high horse with me. You have nothing on me, Carl. You are the disappearing Dad yourself. I'll be there at 3.30. Have them ready."

  Graham hung up without another word, and Carl held the phone to his ear, listening to the buzzing sound of his own head.

  He walked outside for some air, picking up the clippers he'd bought at Home Depot last week, new fancy clippers with a “rust resistant" coating and a ten year guarantee. Last week, that had seemed very important. That along with the new string job for his tennis racket with synthetic gut at 60 pounds of tension and his new Wilson DST 02 tennis shoes, both of which he knew would blow away Ralph, scaring him out of his killer backhand. And the sprinklers. He couldn't believe he'd gone ahead and fixed them before getting around to calling about Peri. He'd been more concerned about Mrs. Trimble than Peri, thinking his girl could take care of her life, as she'd always done. Peri had always thought Carl needed help, but now, less than a week since he'd fixed the last sprinkler head, he knew that his girl was in big trouble. The worst kind, and now that Graham was in town, things could go to hell in a hand basket, just like that.

  Around the side of the house, under the bottlebrush tree, he knelt down and pulled up some oxalis that thrust up year after year despite his best efforts, the bright yellow flo
wers beautiful but dangerous as they burst from their deep green clovered leaves, shooting seeds everywhere. And then there was the crab and Johnson grass, and it felt good to grab what wasn't wanted and yank it out, taking care of something.

  "Mr. Randall? Oh, Mr. Randall?"

  Carl closed his eyes, sighing. This was all he needed right now.

  "Yes, Mrs. Trimble." He stood up, brushing the dirt off his Levi's and then giving up. He had to change his clothes anyway, needing to look decent for Garnet and Graham. Like someone who could care for a thirteen- and fifteen-year-old.

  "How are your grandchildren?"

  He looked at her, squinting. The kids? What did she want to complain about now? "They're fine. Teenagers, you know. What can you do?"

  She took off her hat and ran a hand over her head. He almost stepped back, amazed by the blonde hair that fell just below her chin. He'd assumed she had gray hair. In fact, if he were being honest, he imagined Mrs. Trimble didn't have any hair at all, going bald in that sad way women sometimes do, patches of shiny scalp below once-a-week hairdos.

  "Oh, I have five grandchildren of my own. I know they can be trouble. But I don't get to see them very often."

  Carl moved closer, still holding his clippers. "Where do they live?"

  "My son works in Saudi Arabia. Oil. It's dangerous, don't I know it. Especially now. And the kids go to school in Europe. Boarding school. They only come home to visit here once every two years."

  So that's it, Carl thought. She's bored and has to take it out on her garden, pestering him about the rhododendrons and their blasted roots. For the first time, he felt sorry for Mrs. Trimble, who with her blonde hair didn't seem like someone he should be calling Missus. Garnet, the judge’s wife, was someone he should call Missus. He wished he didn't have to call Garnet anything at all.

  "That's too bad they don't come more often."

  "Are the kids staying with you for long?” Mrs. Trimble put her hat back on, and his new vision of her disappeared under the brim. She was Mrs. Trimble again, zinc oxide and all.

  "I hope so. I really do." He smiled and waved with his clippers, turning back to the house. He had to call somebody, anybody to make things right.

  "Do what he wants. Make nice. Be sociable. We want to seem congenial, interested in offering a compromise. Fran said the same thing. He is their father. We don’t know what exactly happened. Can I put you on hold?" and Preston clicked off without an answer.

  Carl shook his head against the phone, not wanting to make nice to Graham or Garnet. It was as if all the years they were a family together had disappeared and along with it, Carl’s ability to be pleasant. Before, when Garnet bossed Graham or his sister Marcia around or made unending suggestions to Peri, Carl had shrugged it off. “A mother,” he would say to Noel. “What can you do with those alpha females?” He meant bitch, but because he’d screwed up so damn bad before with his own marriage, he didn’t want to make things harder for Peri.

  And Garnet was generous with time and money, sending the kids to camps, making sure Peri had access to the experts that would help Brooke. So how could he let her tone of voice ruin a good thing? Once Graham left, though, Carl felt it was the first day of hunting season, all his irritation let loose in such force that Noel finally said, “God, Dad. She wasn’t the devil.”

  And now, he wanted to bash both Graham and Garnet with his newly strung racket, beating them with the synthetic 60-pound gut, and then stomp all over both with his new shoes. Maybe he'd have a go at them with his clippers.

  “I’m back,” Preston said.

  “Oh.”

  “So, what are you going to do, Carl? Remember, this is about Peri and her case.”

  "If you really think that's the best thing. But how long do they have to stay with them? I mean, how long do they have to stay?"

  He heard Preston shuffling papers. "He gets a two-week visit with them a year. It's in the visitation agreement. But it's a bit unclear now that the primary caregiver is incapacitated. Just let them go. He's their father, after all. But I'm on the case, Carl. Don't worry."

  "Easy for you to say," Carl said. So many phrases slipped off the tongue easily like "Have a nice day," or "It's not so hard," or "Get over it," or "Cheer up." He said them all the time, not imagining that someone might go home and try to actually use his words as advice.

  Preston snorted. "Yes, it is. But I mean it."

  Hanging up, Carl looked out the window as Rosie pulled up in her truck, Ryan and Carly jumping out of the passenger's side door. It had only been a couple days, but he swore the kids looked better. Carly had lost the pale blue tinge along her jaw that had initially frightened him until he realized it was the fan of veins just under her skin. What she needed was more food and sleep, and here it was only a half dozen meals since he'd gone over to the apartment and she looked almost pink. Ryan still looked like an idiot in his baggy pants, the hem in folds on top of his hulking skateboard shoes ("Everyone wears them," he'd assured Carl), but he was smiling at something Rosie was saying to him. Was there any way Carl could pretend nothing had happened? For one second, two, three, his grandchildren were home, the world only this scene in front of him, none of the others he knew were playing out all around them. Carly's skin, Ryan's laugh. That's it.

  "We're back," Rosie said, pushing open the door as Carl walked to it. Her eyes were full of light, brighter than that day at the hospital, and Carl breathed out, feeling lighter himself.

  "I can see that. How about a cup of coffee. I've got sandwiches for the kids."

  "I just want meat," Carly said. "I read about this carbohydrate addict’s diet in Seventeen. No bread. No starch."

  "For crying out loud," Rosie said, putting her heavy purse on the kitchen table as Carl pulled out the plate of sandwiches. "Pretty soon you'll be reduced to cucumbers."

  "How's Brooke today?" Ryan asked, his backpack thumping on the ground.

  "Good. The doctor says her infection is almost gone. Your Grandma Garnet was out there this morning."

  Despite her addict's diet, Carly sat down at the table and grabbed a turkey sandwich, biting off a corner that included the white sourdough. "So are we going to the hospital later?" she asked, pushing the lump of meat and bread into her cheek.

  "Well . . ." Carl turned to the Mr. Coffee he'd bought at K-Mart two years ago when his percolator finally died a sizzling electrical death. He measured out six cups of water and scooped grounds into the cup.

  Carly picked up a curl of crust and popped it in her mouth. “Brooke’s fever was down yesterday,” she said. “She was much better.”

  “That’s good, right?” Ryan asked, and Carl could see he wasn’t just talking about Brooke. He meant good for his mom.

  “Of course. It’s very good.” Carl took two cups out of the cupboard, looking inside them quickly. He swallowed, realizing he was a little nervous with Rosie here, as if suddenly he was the kind of man whose cups were home to cockroaches.

  "I have some time," Rosie said. "I'd like to see her again. She's a trooper, that one."

  "Grandpa?" Ryan asked, taking a ham and cheese, chewing as he stared at him with eyes that were just like Graham's. “So are we going to go?”

  Carl pressed the on button on the coffee maker, water starting to roil in the machine.

  “Grandpa?” Ryan said again.

  Carl searched in his body for the light feeling Rosie had given him just minutes ago, but all he could find was a dull dark spot that felt as heavy as Ryan's shoes. "Okay, here’s the latest. Your Dad's in town. Now. He's coming by in about fifteen minutes. I guess you're going to stay the weekend with him. Maybe--maybe more."

  The kids both looked down at the table, still chewing, and Rosie stood up, grabbed her purse, and then patted each child on the shoulder as she walked by. "I’ll take a rain check on that coffee. There's things for you to do then. So I'm hightailing it. You guys keep up the good work at school. If I can, I'll get you a couple times next week. All right?"

  N
either said anything, nodding into their food. Carl shook his head and followed Rosie to the door, walking outside to stand on the porch, just out of the kids' view. "I don't have a choice here,” he told Rosie. “He does have rights. My lawyer says to play nice, and we'll have the lion by the tail when it's over."

  "I don't know what to say. He’s their father. That's true. But I swear, Carl. If I have to testify, I will. I saw that apartment first. I know what those kids were going through."

  Carl almost laughed. Of course! What Rosie had seen that night in the apartment might be the answer to his legal prayers. But then he closed his eyes for a second, letting the laugh still in his chest. What happened in the apartment wasn't all Graham's fault. It wasn’t. He understood that, at least, despite the defensiveness that crawled with prickly fingers across his chest. "That night says just as much about Peri as it does Graham. Maybe more."

  Rosie put a hand on his arm. "She is plain sick. Mental illness is the brain suffering. Just like a kidney or a liver. It's an organ, no better, no worse. This husband doesn't have an excuse. He was a perfectly healthy man who left his kids and didn't send them what they he was supposed to. Don't forget that. Not ever."

  The underside of his jaw felt thick and tight, and all he could do was nod, feeling her hand on him, pressing hard. She was the only one he'd been able to talk to about any of this. Maybe he could have gone up to the tennis court with the terrible story, but Carl knew he'd have made a joke about being a father again, teased Bob or Ralph, asking them to baby sit on a Saturday night. And no matter what happened, Carl could count on this woman, this virtual stranger, to do for him what no one he knew could.

  "Thanks. Thanks a lot."

  Rosie let go and smiled. "No problem. Give me a call when you need me. I'll try to sneak a visit to Brooke."

  Carl waved as she drove off, knowing she wouldn't have to sneak into Brooke's room. Graham wouldn’t be paying attention, wouldn’t want anything to do with his damaged child or care who saw her.