Secret Sister (9 page)

This time he lay on his side, shirtless, in bed. His wide, strong shoulders were tan and close enough to touch. I could smell him, sweet and soapy and sexy.

The man was Nick Chance, Zoë’s brother.
Cathy’s husband.

Why had such an intimate image of Nick Chance taken over my brain? It made no sense. My past was on the verge of coming back to me. And I realized that it might not be full of the memories I had been told to expect.

But one thing was clear. I needed to talk to Nick.

I hurried out to the car, threw the stuff inside, and pulled out of the parking lot, finding it hard to see through my tears but determined to get as far away from this place as I could.

Chapter 8

Monday, July 25, 4:20 p.m.

Nick at Golden State Insurance Office

I shot my sister a questioning look and she nodded, so I picked up a pen and signed the papers releasing Roxanne Ruiz’s car insurance company and Betty Haverty’s homeowner insurance company, the same conglomerate, from any further claims due to the death of my wife.

There was a case pending against the truck driver, but I had little stomach for a prosecution that would award me ‘probably over a million dollars.’ So the lawyer had said.

“Payable over ten thousand years,” Zoë had added.

This, from the asshole drunk who had no job, no home, no insurance, no nothing. He was going to prison, probably for more than ten years according to the district attorney, for killing her.

It wasn’t enough. But it was enough to stop me from thinking about tracking him to where he lived and killing
him
.

I handed the pen back to Steven Schribner, the attorney handling this claim, and wondered how I would feel about the truck driver in ten years. I couldn’t imagine ten years. Hard as I tried, I could barely see the end of the day. Not even tomorrow.

“Thank you, Mr. Chance. And if you’d initial this last document, we’re done. Your check is in the envelope.” He offered me the pen again and I glanced over to where Zoë sat watching. I took it and scribbled my name. Schribner, a portly, white haired gent who smelled like cigarettes, handed me the envelope.

While he worked his way through a few more papers, I gave the envelope to Zoë, as if it would burn my hand if I held onto it too long. She stuck it quickly in her backpack. It was for $263,111; a two hundred thousand-dollar death benefit, the rest for hospital bills, emergency services and burial costs.

Zoë and I were lower middle class kids. We’d never touched this kind of dough, and I could see she was as unsettled as I was to have that kind of money in our possession.

When Cathy and I bought our house, we’d taken a cashier’s check for $22,104 to the closing. It was every cent that we had saved for six years, plus an eighteen hundred-dollar advance from our Visa card. When we refinanced a couple years ago to build the patio, put in a new bathroom and the kitchen floor, we’d been given a check for $25,050.

Cathy said, “Wow, we’re rich!”

Being handed a check that was ten times Cathy’s ‘rich’ money was one more unreal moment in the surreal past few weeks. Others included having to decide what to bury my wife in.

“The blue dress is nice, it always flattered her,” my mother had offered. Five minutes after telling my mom to pick whatever she thought, I answered the front bell and had to tell the Girl Scout mom who was dropping off Cathy’s cookie order that Cathy was dead.

“Dead?” The woman’s cheeks flushed as worry clouded her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Do you still want the cookies?”

“One last thing, Mr. Chance,” the attorney said as Zoë and I headed for the door.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Haverty would like to speak to you for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

Zoë inhaled loudly.

“What about?” I asked.

“I think she wants to express her condolences. She said she didn’t get the opportunity to speak to you at your wife’s service.”

“I don’t remember anything about that.” Which was true.

His watery blue eyes looked sympathetic. “I’m sure you don’t. My wife died last year. We were married thirty-eight years. I can’t recall anything about the day we buried her. I know what you’re feeling, Nick. But I also know Dr. Haverty. She’s a fine woman. I’m sure she’ll keep it brief.”

“Nick?” Zoë said.

I realized I had been staring for a longer time than was socially acceptable. Betty Haverty. Okay. I’d met her on a handful of occasions over the years; Cathy’s graduation, a wedding, and once at Roxanne’s during the holidays. She had seemed nice enough. Maybe a little superior. Cathy didn’t think she was a very supportive mother.

“Okay,” I said. “When?”

“Now,” Mr. Schribner replied. “She’s waiting across the hall. Why don’t I show her in and leave you folks alone for a couple of minutes? Take all the time you need.”

Zoë sank onto the leather sofa. Her eyes were huge. I returned to the chair. We looked at one another.

“You going to be all right?” she asked.

I nodded and heard her stomach growl. Before I could ask if she’d eaten anything at all today, the door opened.

Betty Haverty walked in and promptly burst into tears.

Great
. Why the hell was she crying? What was I supposed to say to her?

The attorney handed Betty a box of Kleenex and left. She sat next to Zoë on the couch and seemed to compose herself.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Nick.” She squeezed Zoë’s knee. “And yours too, Zoë. How are you doing?”

Zoë clutched her backpack and smiled like a ghost. “Fine.”

“Good. You look lovely.” She nodded at me. “I wanted to let you know, Nick, that Roxanne is home now. She was released a few days ago. She’s doing much better, and getting ready to go back to teaching, if you can believe that. Althea Cornell, the principal—”

“I know who Althea is,” I interrupted. “I’ve known her for years.”

“Of course you do, Nick. I’m sorry.” Betty turned to Zoë. “Althea told me you spoke with Roxanne today when you went to pick up some of Cathy’s things.”

Zoë nodded. “Her lunch cooler. Ms. Cordell said Cathy’s lunch cooler was in the teacher’s room. And some files and stuff. While I was there, I saw Roxanne.”

I was shocked.

“Well.” Betty folded her hands in her lap. “I wanted the opportunity to tell you in person how sorry I am about Cathy’s death, Nick. And I want you to know if there is anything I can do, or Roxanne can do, please let us know.”

I nodded again, unable to talk.

Betty stood, and I struggled to my feet to get the door for her. Shockingly, she hugged me. I had known the woman for twenty years and I was pretty sure it was the first time we’d ever hugged. I remembered that even at my wedding, she shook hands with Cathy and kissed her cheek, and smiled at me in the reception line.

‘The cold fish,’ Cathy used to call her.

Betty’s eyes glistened. “I know Roxanne would like to meet with you, Nick.”

“With me?”

“Yes. I think it would help you both move past this.  Whenever you’re ready.” She faced me squarely. “I have a couple of books in my car I’d like to give you. They deal with the stages of grief people commonly experience with the sudden loss of a loved one. I’ve used them in my practice for years, and I’ve received a lot of feedback from people about how helpful they are. You know, it’s very healing sometimes to realize that others have felt the same pain you are experiencing. And that it’s okay to grieve, be disbelieving, even angry. It’s all part of the process.”

Like a bobble head, I moved my skull up and down. I heard that rushing water noise in my ears, the same as in the hospital the day Cathy died.

I didn’t want to see Roxanne. Not now. Not ever again. As for moving past the loss of my wife . . . I balled my fingers into fists.

Betty squeezed my arm. “It would also be helpful, Nick, and Zoë as well, to get some counseling. Grief counseling is a very specialized art. I can give you the name of some of my colleagues, if you want. To help you move on.”

“I don’t want to move on, Betty,” I blurted out. “If anything, I want to move back in time. To July 9. I want to go back to that day and pull Roxanne’s head out of her ass and tell her to grow up and stop dragging my wife around like a fucking security blanket. If she didn’t care about her own life, fine, but she should have been careful not to kill my wife!”

Betty Haverty went white, her arms rigid at her side.

Zoë clutched her backpack. “Nick, don’t . . .”

“So tell Roxanne I don’t care to meet with her.” My voice got louder. “And tell her that when she can remember her life, to remember that Cathy was the best person she ever knew, and the best goddamned friend she ever had. And that she’s lost that friend now because she’s a careless, selfish, boneheaded bitch who never thinks about anyone but herself.”

I brushed past Betty and grabbed Zoë by the arm and pulled her off the creaking leather couch.

Zoë seemed to hover beside me, weightless, a mute Tinkerbell as I stormed through the hallway. I didn’t hear her footsteps beside me, but I could hear Betty crying and Steven Schribner call my name as we took the stairs to our car.

I knew I was acting like an asshole. I knew Cathy would be disappointed in my behavior, and that Zoë was probably convinced her brother had tripped right off the deep end.

But I didn’t turn back. Call it the
‘don’t give a fuck whose feelings you hurt’
phase of grieving. Because I didn’t.

Chapter 9

Monday, July 25, 6 p.m.

Roxanne’s Apartment

Exhausted, my hands shook so badly I could hardly slot the key in the front lock. I’d gotten lost leaving St. Anne’s after seeing Zoë Chance, and drove into the Angeles National Forest; pulled off into a scenic overlook. But I didn’t watch the scenery, I sat and cried. Finally, I got my sense of direction back and followed the GPS voice back to the apartment.

The confrontation with Zoë had rocked my equilibrium. These past few days I had lulled myself into thinking everyone would react to me as Althea and Michael and Bradley had, with sympathy and support. I had counted on goodwill from people, assuming they would only want the best for me.

As if Roxanne Ruiz is the center of the universe
.
What a foolish person I am.

Though I had worried about people’s reaction to my role in the accident that caused a woman’s death, I had not expected to be confronted with criticism, as with Vera Apodoca’s comments about the memorial service, or Zoë’s naked pain and anger.

Hadn’t Mick Jagger explained a person couldn’t always get what they wanted?
Duh.

I hurried in and closed the door, dropping my school bag on the floor. It promptly tipped over and the ‘$10 Please’ box tumbled out, spilling its contents. I picked up the money and threw it and the box back into the bag, then opened the closet, tossed the bag inside, and slammed the door.

It was hell to not remember. I should remember, and feel shame or outrage, or loss or anger or whatever it was I would feel if I could recall my emotional attachment to the people whose lives had been wrecked. If I didn’t ever remember, how would these people who had suffered such a loss ever get past it?

How would I?

The tea I made remained untouched in front of me while I sat on the sofa and stared at the cell phone. I needed to call Nick Chance. These past hours convinced me I had to talk to him sooner rather than later, touch base with him, hear his voice.

I lifted the phone. But what would I say other than the obvious? ‘I’m sorry about the accident.’ I practiced aloud, and sounded lame. Like a zombie, and an insincere one at that.

A glance at the clock told me Nick would probably be home from work by now. I picked up the cell again and punched in his number; let it ring, the tension in my throat intense. When his voicemail came on, I got a shock and slammed down the receiver.

Nick hadn’t changed the message since Cathy’s death.

Her voice
was
familiar and hearing it brought fresh tears to my eyes. After a few minutes I took a sip of my tepid tea, then got up and stomped into the bedroom, disrobed, and buried myself under the covers. But I couldn’t sleep.

After what seemed like days but was actually less than two hours of staring at the ceiling, tossing, turning and trying unsuccessfully to relax, I rolled out of bed and went back to the phone. I had decided, under those non-comforting covers, what I would say
. “Nick, may I come by and talk to you?
” Simple and honest. No trying to ‘read him’ or save myself from hurt. That was it.

Betty said he was a kind, easygoing guy. He wouldn’t turn down a personal request like this. My hands perspired. In my ear, the sound of his phone ringing was clear and measured, like a heartbeat.

Three rings. Four rings. Five rings. Then her voice. “Hi, this is Nick and Cathy. Leave us a message. Bye now.”

My eyes ached.
God, this is hard.
“Nick, may I come and talk to you?” I said in a rush. Then I heard a beep.

Had I spoken too quickly? I dropped the phone and slumped back into the sofa and closed my eyes, fighting nausea and a sensation of weightlessness.

From somewhere outside I heard chimes, clear, melodic wind chimes. I listened hard to pinpoint the source of the sound, but now that I was paying attention, the sound disappeared. I rubbed my eyes, swollen with tears or sadness or fatigue. I didn’t know which emotion was predominant, though they all held their hands up as I called roll.

And I was exhausted. At least I might now be able to sleep. I snuggled against the cushion but right before I dropped off I realized I had not said my name in my message.

I wondered if Nick would recognize my voice.

I dreamed.

It was raining and I slipped and fell and hurt myself very badly. My arm was broken and my head was bleeding. I was in a hospital, though it looked like my classroom at St. Anne’s. A few feet away, a young, blonde-haired girl with long legs and perfect oval eyes was sitting on a student chair across from me, staring.

There was a lemon tree in a pot next to her. I could smell the lemons.

“What happened to you?” I asked her.

“My stepfather hit me,” she replied.

“That’s horrible.” The right side of her face was swollen, black and blue. “Did you call the police?” I asked.

She shook her head and placed a red snow cone against her injured face. As sweet, red liquid dripped down her cheek, a gray cat with yellow eyes rubbed against her legs, but she ignored it.

“There’s someone at the door,” the girl whispered.

I reached out to pet the cat. There was a crash and I woke up and saw the teacup on the floor. And someone was knocking on the door.

For a moment I had no idea where I was. Then I remembered.
Roxanne’s apartment.

I got up stiffly and walked to the door; peered out the peephole. Michael Cimino was outside. I ran my hand through my hair and looked at my watch; it glowed 9:25. I opened the door, leaving the security chain in place.

“Hi,” I said through the slim opening.

“Hey, beautiful.” Michael was dressed in jeans and a white tee shirt, a beat up leather jacket under one arm. He held a small paper bag and his dark hair was wet from a shower. He took a step back and met my eyes. “Can I come in?”

I shouldn’t have opened the door
. “Ah, I was asleep, Michael.”

“Little early, isn’t it, babe?”

“No, not really. I’m still recovering, remember? You should call before you come over.”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Yeah, I did. Several times. You don’t answer, and you don’t call back. But I need to talk to you, Roxanne. It’s important.”

“I still don’t remember anything. I can’t remember you. Or us.”

He nodded. “That’s okay, babe. I remember ‘us’ enough for two. Why don’t you relax and let me come inside for a few minutes and I’ll bring you up to speed. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I knew I shouldn’t let him in. It wasn’t that I was afraid of Michael Cimino; I just didn’t want to be alone with him. His kiss in the hospital room loomed in my mind.

“I know that,” I said.

“Good. So, let me in. We’ll talk.”

He made ‘talk’ sound like something intimate. “Okay, for a couple of minutes,” I said sternly.

“Sure. I’ll leave whenever you say, Miss Ruiz.” His green eyes glowed as he held the paper bag aloft. “But I brought you some ice cream we need to eat first. Your favorite.”

“Lemon sorbet?” I said without thinking.

“Whoa! Lemon sorbet? What kind of sissy ice cream is that? Your favorite is ‘Cherry Garcia,’ same as mine. You really don’t remember anything if you’ve forgotten that.” He took a step closer.

“Hang on.” I shut the door, undid the security chain, and let him in.

“No lights? What were you doing in here?” Michael asked.

I snapped on the lamp beside the front door. “I was sleeping. I told you.”

He gave me a head to toe appraisal, for the first time treated to my appearance, which featured faded sweatpants, baggy tee shirt and no make-up.

“I’ll get some bowls for the ice cream.” He put the brown sack on the coffee table and disappeared into the kitchen. I took that opportunity to duck into the bathroom. I locked the door while I washed my face, brushed my hair and, as a nod toward civility, rolled on some red lipstick. The face in the mirror looked presentable. Actually, it looked beautiful, but I didn’t feel beautiful. I felt pissed off, like I wanted to throttle the truth out of someone.

When I returned to the living room, Michael was sitting on the sofa. He had put on music, Norah Jones singing about not understanding why she didn’t go see her lover, and had dished up two huge bowls of ice cream. I smelled the chocolate when I sat at the opposite end of the sofa and my stomach did another little flip.

Do I like cherry vanilla ice cream with chocolate chunks? Yes. Yes, I do.

We ate in silence, the music dreamy around us. “So, how you doing, babe?” Michael set his bowl on the table and leaned back into the pillows. “Tell the truth.”

I took a last bite and placed my bowl next to his. “Pretty good.” I eased as far from Michael as I could get. “All the scabs are healing, and my ribs aren’t so sore.”

“And how’s this?” he asked, tapping his head.

“What do you mean? The concussion?”

“How are you
feeling in here?
Come on, Rox, you can tell me. Are you sleeping? Are you taking your meds? Are you still depressed?”

“I have a lot to be depressed about, wouldn’t you agree? A woman’s dead, for Christ’s sake.”

Michael put his hand on my arm. “I know, I know. It’s horrible about Cathy, it is. But I’m concerned about you, Roxanne. I don’t know if your mom explained it to you or not, but you weren’t in good shape before the accident.”

“Actually, Betty hasn’t explained much to me at all.  I was hoping, Michael, that you’d do me a favor.”

“Yes. Sure. What do you need?”

“Will you tell me about Roxanne as she existed before July 9? Tell me what was going on in her life.”

“You mean between
us
?”

The man had a very healthy ego. “That, too. But I want to know about everyone in my life then. Tell me whatever you know.”

“Is it okay? I mean, the doctors in the hospital said no one should hit you with too much. Overwhelm you. That’s why I’ve been keeping my distance. Giving you space until you could remember something.”

“I can take it.” I met his eyes. “Please.”

“Okay,” he said after a few seconds. “But can I kiss you first? I miss you so much, Roxanne. And I thought you were dead. It’s been horrible for me.”

I felt a pang of empathy for him, but before I could answer, Michael pulled me to him and kissed me. I wasn’t that surprised. I think I expected him to do this from the moment I saw him outside the door. Maybe I wanted him to.

When I didn’t protest, he deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue into my mouth, demanding unspoken things my body responded to independently from my brain.

For a few seconds I was a spectator, watching as two bodies that knew each other very well got reacquainted. Then, despite the fog that filled my brain in the place of sweet remembrances, I became a willing participant.

Michael Cimino was skilled. Very, very skilled. He removed my clothes and his own without me noticing either while his hands, fingers, mouth and energy were all enveloping, leading, demanding, showing me what to do and when to do it.

Naked above me, he was gorgeous. Broad chest covered with silky black hair. Round, firm butt, muscular legs and arms. His penis was thick and he knew how to move and thrust and inside of ten minutes I was panting and moaning and begging him to move faster. Hearing that, he withdrew and put his mouth to work on me.

Oh my God, what he did with his tongue, and his lips, with the stubble on his chin. I climaxed and screamed softly, then came harder a second time, for what seemed like five minutes. I had the fleeting thought someone might hear me and call the cops for help.

Immediately, an image of another time having sex with Michael flooded my senses. I could see him in my mind’s eye; we were on a beach in the dark. I felt the sand grinding into my naked skin and the hot hardness of his dick probing for the moist center between my legs. “I knew you wanted this,” he said in the memory.

I’m remembering!

My brain recoiled from that revelation and whipped back to the present. I wanted him at that moment more than I wanted to breathe. Sex freed me from myself and my blank past in a way sleep, or drugs or therapy had not been able to.

I was free of the past, the future, and all speculation. I was only flesh, a bundle of nerve endings begging to be sated. Michael pulled me to the floor and rolled me over onto my hands and knees and entered me from behind like he owned me.

He cupped my breasts and pinched my nipples between his smooth fingers and did me for more thought-numbing minutes. I came again, then again explosively with him a final time.

When he was done, he collapsed over me. I was vaguely aware of rug burns on my knees and hands, but I was liquid flesh without a voice and didn’t care and could not have moved if I did.

Minutes later, I took my first non-gasping breath and looked at my watch. It said 10:29.

“Jesus,” I said.

He lifted his head. “Welcome home, Roxanne. I’ve missed you, babe.”

“Is it always like this between us?”

“It’s always good. But
that
was something. You’ve never been so willing.”

“What, I’m usually a tease?” I didn’t like saying that about myself and bit my lip.

“No, no. But sometimes, I don’t feel like you want to let go. Like maybe you don’t enjoy sex as much as I do.”

“Wow.” How anyone could not enjoy what he had just done to me, with me, was beyond me.

Unless of course, there were issues between us. Issues that came between your body’s ability to enjoy because your heart and mind were distracted by other concerns.
Like fidelity
.