Accidental Happiness (30 page)

“Well, Mr. Contemporary Lit major. So
you
read
The Thorn Birds
?” I leaned close to him, tried to see if he was blushing, but in the dim light of the car I couldn’t tell.

“Only the sex scenes. My sister highlighted them for me. And let me tell you, there was no shortage of steam in that book.”

“Okay.” I smiled. “I’m reasonably convinced you’re not gay.”

“I don’t know.” He laughed. “I think you need to investigate, do a little more firsthand research to be sure.”

“You think?” I leaned my head on his shoulder.

“Yes, I do. Why don’t you go on up to my place and I’ll run through my security rounds and meet you in a few?”

“Can you take Georgie?” I asked. “I don’t feel like walking her.” The dog heard her name, sat up behind us, as if to monitor any decisions made that concerned her.

“You have the leash?” he asked.

“It’s at the apartment,” I told him.

He shook his head, looked far more resigned than pleased.

Then I put my head back on his shoulder, rode the rest of the way without ever feeling the need to speak; when we got back to the marina, Georgie jumped out of the car and headed for Derek’s apartment instead of the boat. It occurred to me that, when it came to emotions, dogs were probably smarter than people.

29

Reese

“I
’m sorry about all that,” Reese said. “I know that stuff makes guys uncomfortable.”

“It’s okay.” Andrew leaned against the porch rail, looked out toward the water. “I’m married. And I have sisters.”

She wondered why he was hanging around. Why she wanted so much for him to be there.

“Why don’t you talk with your friends about everything that’s going on with you? About your condition?” He offered the suggestion as if there were no consequences to declaring oneself a partial invalid.

“I’ll tell them when I’m ready. I got to figure out a plan first. One that keeps me with Angel, but gives her some stability too. I’m working on it.”

“Gina seems willing to help you.”

Reese thought of Gina, felt the resentment begin to rise straight up through her chest. She was being too damn nice. Something was up. “I’m not sure about Gina, not yet.” She kept her feelings out of her voice.

“Why?”

It couldn’t be explained. Not all of it. “She blames me, I think, for things that went wrong with her and Ben before he died. I don’t completely buy her generous act, that’s all.” She hadn’t thought about it much, until the party. But Gina had been ready to spit fire about Angel and Ben on the porch at Lane’s that day. Then suddenly she was all sweetness. Reese hadn’t put it together until she saw Gina and Derek together, both of them moving around the cottage like it belonged to them.

“I don’t think she has any real agenda, Reese,” Andrew told her. He had a trusting nature. Reese liked that about him. But she knew there was always an agenda.

“I’m being careful. Let’s leave it at that.”

By the end of the evening, Reese thought, even Angel was buying Gina’s act, warming up to her. Reese knew she’d wanted this at first, for Gina to take an interest in Angel. The child needed all the extended family available. But earlier in the night, it became clear to Reese that Gina wanted more. Derek, the cottage, and Angel thrown in the mix. Gina had blown it with Ben when he tried to bring Angel into her world. Maybe she didn’t intend to make that mistake again. Angel already had a crush on Derek. Gina had to have noticed that. It made a nice picture, the three of them. She was the only thing that didn’t fit in neatly. Her invalid status could be a legitimate excuse to push her out of the picture.
Stop it, Reese.

“I’ll talk with Lane before too long and see what she’s decided,” Reese said. “I think she’ll agree pretty soon and then I’ll tell her the whole story.”

“Agree to what?” he asked.

“Being Angel’s guardian, if something happens to me and I can’t look after her.”

“It’s getting worse pretty fast, Reese. In just a week I’ve seen a decline.”

“It gets worse. Then it gets better. I’m taking medicine.” Reese felt irritated by his persistence.

“You need a doctor.”

“Doctors need money. I don’t happen to have any at the moment.”

“You have a local address now,” he said. “I’m pretty sure that qualifies you for care at the county hospital.”

He was right, but Reese had to laugh.

“The story of my life,” she said. “County health care. Indigent care. Pretty ironic, huh? I have a pricey waterfront address, but need freebies from the county hospital. Strange world, ain’t it, Preacher?”

“You need to see a doctor,” he said again, ignoring her dismissive tone. “Your medicine isn’t working. Not the way it’s supposed to.”

“It takes time,” she said. “It’s only been a week. And besides that, when did you get to be an expert?”

“Since you told me, I’ve been reading. Looked it up on the Internet.”

“And what did you figure out?” she asked.

“That they don’t understand it. What makes it come and go . . . progress in some and not others.”

“That about sums it up.”

“But,” he added, “they can do a lot to control symptoms.”

“I know that. I told you, I’m on meds.”

She made her way over to the porch swing, sat down. He stayed on the other side. Silence wasn’t a problem for either of them. Minutes could pass without words and he never felt awkward. Just the opposite of Charlie, who’d read the phone book out loud before he’d endure a minute’s lull in conversation. She wondered if Charlie would come around again, after seeing her so weak. She felt about a hundred years old, another species entirely from the woman on the vinyl mat in the storage room.

“I’ll look into getting help,” she said, trying to appease him. He seemed so troubled. Men always think there’s a solution. But sometimes, she knew, there’s nothing there but the problem. With her stronger leg, she began to push lightly back and forth. She liked the motion; it soothed her mind and her body.

“I could talk to my doctor,” he said after a time. “See if he has any ideas. That would be a place to start.”

“Let’s don’t talk about it right now,” she said. “I’m too tired to make any plans tonight.”

Another man might have taken it as a cue to leave, but Andrew seemed to understand that she wanted peaceful company. Not that they hadn’t done their share of talking.

She’d opened up with him several times since that first long swing set confessional. Since then, seemed that no matter where she planned to go, she found her way to the church. She’d yet to set foot inside, but she would call him from the gas station at the main turnoff. He’d meet her outside when she arrived.

She’d told him about living with her uncle, until her aunt became so horrible. Then Reese decided it was better to leave. She’d been on her own since she was seventeen.

She’d told him about the nightmare with Angel. How’d she’d left the child with a friend when she had to go into the hospital in Boone, and the next thing she knew, she was listening to a terrified phone call from her daughter.

It was sketchy still, even to Reese. Angel didn’t open up entirely, and Reese hadn’t pushed it. But she thought back on all the things that Janet had told her in the past. She’d figured out that it involved Janet’s boyfriend and an illegal deal gone bad. Drugs, most likely, although it didn’t really matter. Angel never said what she saw going on, but whatever it was must have been enough to make someone want to come back for her. Janet had never returned, and Reese worried about what had happened to her. The first time the men came, Angel had been alone. She didn’t answer the door, called Reese in her hospital room, frantic. By the time they came back, Reese was there to hear them calling out, asking for Angel to open the door. Reese was already packed and ready, and instead of going out the front of the building, they went down the fire escape.

Andrew had heard all of that. So many things no one else knew. He inspired her to tell the truth, to trust. She suspected that she was in love with him, and that it was mutual. But that was one thing they wouldn’t talk about. She no longer had any desire to destroy him. And he’d made promises to his wife. But their meetings would have to end sometime. It was getting too difficult to be near him.

“What does your wife say about you being here?” she asked. Might as well get it out in the open.

“She thinks you’re after me,” he said, with no particular inflection in his voice. “She thinks I’ve just convinced myself that I’m only helping you, being a good pastor.”

“So she’s not assuming anything’s happened between us?”

He glanced over her way, fixed his eyes on her without apology. Something did happen, she thought. Every time he looked at her like that. Part of her said, screw the wife and the church. Neither one of them had ever done anything for her. But it would bring him too far down. He’d hate her for it eventually. For making him weak. He’d already said he didn’t want to make that mistake again. Neither his marriage nor his life’s work could survive it.

“I don’t know what she really believes,” he said. “I hope she trusts what I tell her. As you know, she’s had reason not to in the past.”

A small breeze moved across the porch. Potted ferns responded with a swaying dance.

“Well, I won’t come out to the church anymore.” It wasn’t like her, to be so generous. Unless it involved Angel, and then she’d move heaven and earth. Maybe Andrew’s essential goodness had rubbed off on her. “And I don’t think you should come here either. You’ve been great and I love you for it. I really do. But it’s time to let it go. Before any real damage is done.”

He stood watching her. The shadows made him look large and transparent, his shape shifting with the strange play of clouds and moonlight. The far bank of the opposite shore blended with the dark water, and the night appeared to be infinite.

“Can I help you with anything before I go?” he asked.

She’d wanted him to protest, at least a little. She didn’t realize this until it became clear that he didn’t intend to.

“No. I’m good.”

He still didn’t move. He stared out across the yard, down to the water.

“Will you call if you need me?” he asked finally.

“I’d like to say no,” she told him, “but I’m too self-serving for that. So yes, I promise I’ll call if I need you.”

He turned without saying anything more and walked to his car. Watching him leave, she wondered if she could stick to it, if she could stay away from him entirely. She waited until he drove away to stand up. At least, she didn’t want his parting image of her to be one of struggle. And when she was sure he’d driven well out of sight, she took her cane and made her way back inside.

30

Gina

T
he restaurant was freezing. I preferred cozier bistros, places where ceiling fans and minimal AC output allowed the summer season to actually exist. But I had to admit, the food that arrived in front of me transcended the descriptions of ingredients described on the menu. With some alchemy of butter, onion, and fennel, a humble catfish became food of the gods. And in keeping with my mother’s tastes, it was priced for the gods too. Still, she rarely missed when it came to dining out, and at least I wasn’t paying.

“So who are all these people again?” she asked, sipping on her second glass of wine.

I’d tried to fill her in on Reese and Angel, on the preceding weeks—minus the shooting and the revelations about Ben and Angel. Angel was referred to as Reese’s daughter, without further explanation. Reese was Ben’s ex-wife. A surprise to Mom, but not a shock. Divorces weren’t the stuff of polite conversation in my mother’s circle. The less said, the better, so I’d never mentioned anything before.

“And I’ve been seeing someone.” I decided it was time to tell her. “His name is Derek. He just finished a graduate program and he’s working at the marina while he applies for writing jobs.”

As I told her about him, I saw the rapid calculations she was making. After thirty-plus years of reading her, I could guess how it would come out. Graduate school canceled out the present, unfortunate blue-collar status.
And
the advanced degree, along with family still living in Savannah, all good. He was younger, but that could be overlooked.

“He sounds wonderful,” she said. “I’m glad to see you getting on with your life. You’ve hardly been living at all these last months.”

I made a mental note of suggesting the restaurant to Derek sometime when we wanted to go someplace nice. If I remembered to wear a turtleneck, it could make for a terrific evening.

“And this child,” Mom said. “What’s the story with her?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” I said truthfully. “I haven’t gotten the whole story from Reese. She’s raised her alone. I know that much.”

Mom didn’t dig any further. Why ask more than you care to know? But the thought of Angel stirred other, unfamiliar feelings in me. Sitting so close to the woman who shared my history with Elise, my shift in perspective seemed nothing short of remarkable.

“I’ve gotten kind of attached to her,” I said, testing the waters. “Angel, I mean.”

“She must be bright.” Mom buttered her bread. Still skimmed the surface of serious inquiry. “Very engaging from the sound of it.”

“Sometimes.” I smiled, thinking of Angel in a mood. “But it’s surprised me, actually.” I wondered what it would take to crack my mother’s social veneer.

“What has?” It was a casual inquiry.

“After all those years with Elise, never really . . .” Really what? Never wanting to be near her? “Feeling connected. Like a sister. I’ve never been around kids, let alone a single kid, for any length of time. Not since I was a kid myself. I like having her around sometimes.”

Mom took a bite of her scallops, nodded as if I’d mentioned something I heard on the news.

Maybe if I climbed in a basket of dirty laundry, I thought; found the industrial-sized maintenance room at the hotel when we walked back, and borrowed a pile of soiled sheets and towels, maybe that would set her off. Maybe that would bring out the woman inside the well-groomed facade. But then again, maybe just talking about Elise would be enough. I’d come close on the phone when I opened up with my questions.

“Why is it,” I said, treading carefully, “that I can get so fond of somebody’s else’s child, when I could barely pour a glass of milk for my sister without resenting it?”

She sat back in her chair, picked up her wine. The look on her face told me she didn’t appreciate having a perfectly nice lunch botched up with my unpleasant, obsessive concern with a long-dead sibling.

“You were a child, Gina. Children see only their own concerns. I would hope that as an adult, you’d be capable of all kinds of feelings that weren’t possible when you were twelve years old.”

“It wasn’t just me, Mom. I’m not trying to criticize. But you stayed as frustrated with Elise as I did.”

She took a deep breath. I thought she might simply get up and leave. If we’d been on the phone, she would certainly have made her excuses—someone at the door, the oven timer going off—and said her good-byes. But I sat across from her. Unless she made a scene, there was no way around the conversation. I hadn’t come to lunch planning it, but now I’d waded too deep to turn around.

“We weren’t talking about me, Gina. Frankly, I don’t care to discuss any shortcomings I might have had when it came to your sister. But as for you and your affection for this other child . . . Well, I doubt many children have the . . .” She paused, seemed to be looking for the right word. “Issues,” she said finally. “The issues that your sister had.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, her problems, I mean. They’re not that common.” She looked genuinely perplexed, as if I had overlooked something completely obvious. “We were doing all that we could, but—”

“What problems?” I put down my fork, leaned forward so I could hear clearly. “What are you talking about?”

I saw something remarkable in my mother’s eyes. Pain. I hadn’t seen it in years. Not even at Elise’s funeral.

“Mom?”

The waiter came and asked if we were doing all right. I nodded, waved him away, but didn’t break eye contact with my mother. After an odd silence, she leaned slightly forward.

“Her developmental problems, Gina.” She said it low, as if the other tables might hear and begin to judge her for having flawed offspring. “Academically, things were okay, of course. But in other areas, social and emotional areas, she had real problems. You knew all that.”

“How was I supposed to know if you didn’t tell me?”

“She didn’t behave like other children. I thought you would . . .” She stopped, seemed to be searching for some outside help. “I suppose I thought you’d just figure it out. How could you not?”

“Well, I didn’t. So please tell me now.”

In spite of the substantial AC, I felt myself flushing hot. I waited for her. I would wait all day if I had to. I wanted her to finally tell me what I’d wanted to believe my entire life. That my sister’s problems occurred
before
my feelings about her became obvious.

“Why do you think she followed you around all the time?” My mother still spoke in riddles; answered questions with more questions.

“It’s what little sisters do.”

“Not the way she did. You
had
to know that. She didn’t have any friends. She didn’t know how to have friends. She couldn’t seem to understand what most kids know about getting along, about playing. She had developmental problems, Gina.”

“But she did fine in school?”

“With the work, yes. I didn’t say learning problems. She had emotional problems. We’d been to see a number of doctors, and finally, a child psychologist. Someone the school counselor recommended. He suggested we begin looking at special schools, and that’s what we were doing when . . .” She stopped. I knew the rest all too well.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Mom? About the psychologist. That you were thinking of another school.”

“You were twelve years old, for goodness’ sake. We thought we’d explain all of that to you when it happened, after we had it all worked out.”

All the words had come so quickly. After twenty years of nothing. No explanations, no acknowledgment of the guilt my sister left with us. Suddenly, there were so many words. I felt anxious, as if she would turn again, take it all back, or worse, pretend it had never been said at all.

“But you loved her, didn’t you?” It was a ridiculous question. Even I knew it. But I asked it anyway, and I let it stand, waited for an answer.

She looked at me, didn’t look beyond me or to the side as I might have expected. The expression on her face looked something close to benevolent. I wanted to freeze-frame the moment. Keep her there just a little longer.

“Of course I loved her,” she said finally. “The frustrating thing about Elise was that she needed so much, but she had no idea how to accept it. Even the doctors told us that, and it made me feel . . . I don’t know, not
good,
but less
bad,
I suppose. She didn’t have the wiring to understand the difference between one emotion and another. That’s why anger and irritation registered as nothing but attention to her.

“I know I’m not the warmest person in the world, Gina. It’s my nature and I won’t apologize for that. But Elise had a disconnect that had nothing to do with me or your father. And it had nothing to do with you. I thought you understood. I’m sorry we let it go without sitting down with you.”

She had cool water, if not ice, in her veins. I’d known that all my life. But if I really thought about it, when I was growing up, she’d given me most of what I asked for by way of attention, of parental concern. I’d judged her far more by what she withheld from Elise than what she did, or did not, give me. Even that was hypocritical. I could never fill the void of my sister’s needs either. Here she was telling me that no one could. I felt as if I’d been underwater too long and had suddenly found the surface, found air.

“Your father’s getting out of his meeting soon,” she said, done with the discussion. I knew I would hear no more about Elise. But what more did I need? “Would you like to go back to the hotel, maybe have some coffee and visit with him for a bit?” she asked.

“Sure, Mom.”

“Well, then,” she said, picking up her purse. “Just let me give him my card and we can be on our way in a few minutes.” She turned away from me, looking around for the waiter.

Within the dark-paneled existence of the restaurant, it could have been any time of day. But I could catch a glimpse of strong summer light through the windows across the room. The waiter took the card and came back, laid the leather folder on the table beside Mom.

“Let’s go,” she said.

She signed the check and stood up. I followed her out into the bright afternoon.