Skipping a Beat (26 page)

Thirty-nine

“I WAS SCARED TO see you,” Noah said. I could feel his thin body shaking. “I thought you’d be so mad at me.”

“Never,” I said, hugging him tighter before pulling back and looking him in the eye. “Noah, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—not the driver of the car that hit him, or Michael’s for running into the road, or even that silly squirrel’s. It was just an accident.”

“Do you think it hurt him a lot?”

I shook my head. “He didn’t seem to be in any pain. And Noah, he wasn’t scared. Michael wasn’t afraid to die.”

I let go of him, and he threw the stick for Bear again. Even though it was colder now, with patches of snow on the frozen ground, Bear leapt into the water as eagerly as ever. Instead of a dive, he belly flopped this time, his paws splaying out in all directions and water splashing high into the air. He took a moment to look around and spot the stick, then he sank under the surface.

“Do you believe that our souls go somewhere after we die?” Noah asked. His little brow furrowed as he looked up at me. “Do you think that’s where Michael is right now?”

“I don’t know what I believe right now,” I said slowly. “I
want
to believe in something, though, and I never did before.”

“A lot of the greatest mathematical minds believed in life after death,” Noah said.

Bear broke through the surface and snatched up the stick, then began paddling back to shore.

“And I once read about this guy named Galileo, and he said everything in the universe is written in mathematics,” Noah said. “And it’s true. It’s not just Fibonacci numbers. Sometimes it makes me wonder: Do you think I see math everywhere because someone or maybe something created the world that way, or do you think I just like math so much I impose it on everything I see?”

“Now that,” I said, taking the dripping stick that Bear offered up as if it was a priceless heirloom, “is an excellent question.”

“Kind of like the hen and the egg,” Noah said.

“Exactly.”

“Hey, Julia?”

“Hmmm?”

“Did you bring anything to eat?”

“Aren’t we supposed to go have dinner with your parents after we walk Bear?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “But that’s an hour away.”

“Check that bag, kiddo,” I said. “I was thinking we’d have a little predinner junk food snack.”

He grinned. “I’m glad you came back.”

I looked out at the rushing water, and lifted my face to feel the gentle winter sun. “Me, too,” I said after a moment, and I felt Noah’s warm hand slip into mine.

The next day, I sat on a cushioned window seat upstairs, watching a procession of shiny sedans and stretch limousines and older, inexpensive cars file into the long, circular driveway. It was raining out, and the steady drizzle meant umbrellas blocked my view of mourners’ faces as they exited their cars and approached the front door.

I’d planned hundreds of events during the past few years, but my husband’s funeral was by far the most difficult. For days, I’d agonized over what Michael would have wanted. A small outdoor ceremony? No service at all? I’d been desperate to honor his wishes, but I didn’t know what they were. Finally I called Kate, Michael’s former assistant. Somehow, her calm voice and sensible suggestions steadied me enough to make decisions, to dial the familiar numbers of caterers and chair rental companies and explain that this time, it was me who needed their services.

Kate had recommended we hold the funeral here, in this historic mansion usually rented out for weddings. Not surprisingly, it was the perfect choice: The main room stretched the entire length of the building, but faded Oriental carpets and big fireplaces on both ends softened the space and made it seem cozy. Lit candelabra on the walls filled the room with a yellow glow that was more welcoming than bright overhead lights.

Michael wanted to be cremated, it had specified in his will, with his ashes scattered in our river in West Virginia. Someday soon, I would fulfill his final request alone, but today was about letting others say good-bye to Michael.

“Honey?”

I turned toward the sound of Isabelle’s voice.

She stood in the doorway. “It’s time to begin,” she said.

This was the room where brides prepared themselves for their weddings, perhaps waiting for those very words. Some of them had probably curled up in this window seat, wearing a dress the opposite color of mine, anticipating the moment when they’d be joined to the man they’d chosen.

I didn’t realize tears were rolling down my cheeks until Isabelle moved closer and tucked a tissue in my hand. I held on to her arm as I stood up, then we walked downstairs together. As I moved toward the front row of folding seats, I saw Dr. Rushman and a few of the Washington Blazes players, their heads towering above the others in their rows. I spotted Noah, tugging on an uncomfortable-looking blue-and-red striped necktie, sitting in between his parents. A former U.S. senator, recognizable by his prominent nose and thick mane of white hair, tapped out a message on his BlackBerry before tucking it into his breast pocket. And toward the back was Sandy, the young Irish woman who’d brought us homemade cookies and told us about her sister who’d died of cancer. Nearly all of the three hundred chairs I’d rented were full. Kate was right; we had needed this space.

The service was simple. Raj, who was perhaps Michael’s only true friend at the office, told funny stories about their early days in the company together, like the time Michael worked straight through the night, and early the next morning, wandered over to the refrigerator and ate the entire sheet cake intended for someone’s birthday. “He ran out to Giant and got a new one an hour later,” Raj said. “No one even knew about it, at least until now.”

Kate had originally demurred when I’d asked her to speak, until I reminded her how much Michael had depended upon and liked her. She gave a beautiful tribute, her voice cracking as she recalled how Michael once gave her a holiday card that included a check for her daughter’s college education.

Then Noah stood and walked to the front of the room. I felt my lips curve upward as I got a better look at him; someone had tried to tame his hair, but his cowlicks were putting up a valiant fight.

“Michael saved my life,” Noah began in his sweet, high voice. “I was chasing after my dog Bear, and all of a sudden, I was in front of a car.” His chin began to tremble. “I was so scared. I knew I couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. And then Michael was there. He lifted me up and pushed me. And I was safe. I wish—” Noah was crying hard now, but he managed to get the words out. “I wish I could tell him I’m sorry. And thank you. Because we were becoming friends, and I really liked him.”

When Noah finished, he returned to his seat and I saw his parents reach out for him. The room was silent for a long moment, except for a few murmurs and sounds of people blowing their noses.

Then the music began.

The love song written by Puccini was my last gift to Michael. I’d never get to see an opera with him, but I could give him this. I could share the light and the hope and the heart of its music with Michael.

I mouthed the words from
La Bohème
as I closed my eyes and saw my husband again: “Ho tante cose che ti voglio dire, o una sola ma grande come il mare, come il mare profonda ed infinita … Sei il mio amor …”

I’ve so many things to tell you, or one thing—huge as the sea, deep and infinite as the sea: I love you
.

“Julie?”

I turned around, surprised by my old nickname, and found myself staring into the eyes of Michael’s father. Impossibly, he was unchanged by time. I gasped and almost took a step backward, before I realized it had to be one of Michael’s brothers.

“I wanted to convey my respects,” he said. I nodded, thinking it spoke volumes that I had no idea which brother he was.

“The checks Michael sent … well, they meant a lot,” he said. His cheeks reddened and he lowered his voice. He rubbed his rough, workingman’s hands together. “Not sure we deserved them, though.”

I held his eyes for a long moment as understanding passed between us, then I nodded. People change, I could almost hear Michael saying. At least someone from Michael’s family had come to the funeral. “Thank you,” I said at last, before turning to the next person waiting to talk to me, a dark-haired man in his forties or fifties.

“I’m Carl Shevinski, from Johns Hopkins University,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “I never met your husband, but I wanted to be here. The gift he gave us for stroke research is the single biggest donation we’ve ever gotten. He was an incredible man.”

I couldn’t speak for a moment. Stroke research. In honor of my mother.

I took a deep breath, willing my voice to remain steady. “I’m glad you came,” I finally said.

He started to say something else, but I didn’t hear him. I’d caught sight of two people approaching me from the other side of the room. My heart began pounding so loudly it drowned out his words, and I felt a white-hot rage course through my veins. I couldn’t believe either of them had dared to come.

Isabelle, I thought wildly, and looked around for her, but she was caught up in a conversation. She couldn’t see what was about to unfold.

“My condolences,” Dale said. Roxanne stood next to him, staring at me with those wide cat eyes, not saying a word.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered, almost choking on the words. I was so angry I wanted to lunge forward and push them out the door.

Roxanne finally spoke. “We came to pay our respects.”

“Your respects?” I echoed incredulously. They’d tried to ruin Michael, to ruin us. And now they were stealing away the peace I’d received from his funeral service.

“I want you to leave,” I said.

Dale raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t move. My rage intensified as I realized I was powerless. I couldn’t create a scene, not here. Had Dale counted on this?

Suddenly, I felt an arm slip across my back, and a deep voice said, “I believe the lady told you to leave.” I looked up and saw Scott Braverly.

Dale’s brow creased, then he placed him. “Scott, right? We met a while back. We chatted a bit about your lawsuit against Michael.”

Scott’s wife Kimberly intercepted Dale’s hand as he extended it toward her husband. She batted it down, like it was an insect. “Michael and Julia did right by us,” Kimberly said. “Things got mixed up for a while, but he fixed it. There is no lawsuit against Michael. And now you need to leave.”

Suddenly Isabelle was standing on my other side, and Noah was in front of me, his thin arms spread out protectively. Another voice cut through the crowd like a knife, clear and elegant and unmistakably firm. “You really should be going, Dale. Don’t you need to start looking for a new job?” It was Kate.

As I looked at the little army surrounding me, a laugh formed deep inside of my chest and bubbled out of me.

Dale spun around and walked off without a word, and after a beat, Roxanne followed.

“I’ll just see that they make it to the door,” Scott said, removing his arm from my back and giving me a wink. I nodded my thanks.

“Can I get you a drink?” Kate offered.

“How about a cookie?” Noah suggested. “I’ve been checking on the food, and they just put some chocolate ones out on plates.”

“You okay?” Isabelle asked gently.

I looked into their dear faces, one by one, then exhaled deeply, feeling the tension leave my body. The room was filled with the good smells of fresh coffee and just-baked breads and roasts. And people were waiting to talk to me, to share their own memories of Michael.

“Yes,” I finally answered. “To all three of your questions.”

Epilogue

I PARKED BY THE curb and turned off my car and studied the house for a moment. I’d been here only a few times before, years ago, and now the small, wooden bungalow had been repainted in a pretty shade of blue. Someone had added a front porch, and a few leftover blue and white Christmas lights decorated the front bushes. They looked so pretty I wondered why people didn’t leave lights out all year long. Celebrating shouldn’t be confined to just December.

I got out of the car and stretched my arms up over my head, feeling my spine make a satisfying little pop, then I checked my purse to make sure the manila envelope was still inside. I slowly walked up the steps and lifted the brass knocker, letting it thud a few times against the door, and hearing my heart echo the sound.

There wasn’t any reason to be nervous, I told myself. I stood up straighter, and after a moment, I knocked again.

Silence.

I couldn’t help smiling. It had taken me months—no, make that
years
—to get to this moment, and now no one was here. Next time I’d call first.

I’d walked back to my car and was just opening the door when I heard him call my name, a question in his voice. I turned around.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

He was standing by the corner of the house, wearing gardening gloves and holding an aluminum ladder.

“It’s you,” he said after a moment. “I was getting a branch off the roof. I thought I was imagining things.”

“I got your card,” I said. “I wanted to thank you.”

He put down the ladder, then took off his gloves and rubbed his hands against his khaki trousers. “I drove up right away when I heard. Julie, I’m so sorry.”

“You drove up?” I asked. “To D.C.?”

“You weren’t home. I waited for a couple days … and then I wanted to come to the funeral, but I wasn’t sure …” His voice trailed off.

“You waited for me?” I felt my forehead wrinkle. “You mean at a hotel?”

He shook his head. “I brought a sleeping bag, just in case. And I turned on the heat in the car when it got cold,” he said.

I swallowed hard, thinking of him parked outside my house for so long.

“I wasn’t home for a while, and I didn’t think to go through the mail until a few days ago. That’s why I didn’t answer your card sooner.”

He ducked his head. “I wish I’d been there for you.”

I took a deep breath. “You would have been, if I’d let you.”

I don’t know which of us took the first step toward the other, but suddenly I was hugging my dad. He was so much thinner now; my arms could fit all the way around his waist and touch each other. But he still smelled like Old Spice.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, his voice muffled by my hair.

“I need to tell you something.” I brushed the tears off my cheeks and leaned back to look up at him and saw the worry spread across his face.

“No,” I said. “It’s good news.”

Earlier I’d done the math and figured it out: Paris.

I reached into my purse and handed him the envelope. He opened it and took out the slippery piece of paper. He stared at it for a long moment, then his eyes grew wide.

“Is it—are you—?” he asked.

I nodded. “It’s your grandson’s first photo. He’ll be here this summer.”

Isabelle had already bought a full wardrobe of miniature shirts and pants and shoes—yes, shoes—and I’d woken up from a nap yesterday to see her stacking boxes of diapers in a closet.

“What?” she’d asked when I’d raised an eyebrow. “Girl Scouts taught me to be prepared.”

“First, you were never a Girl Scout,” I’d responded. “And second, I’m not Octomom. Do you think we need eight
cases
of diapers?”

I’d already asked her to be my birthing partner, and she was insisting that the baby and I live with her for as long as we wanted. “I was the one who said families come in all shapes and sizes,” she’d reminded me. “Why can’t we create a new one?”

“But what if you meet someone?” I’d asked.

“Then I’ll kick you out on the street and stop taking your calls, of course,” she’d said. “Come on, Julia. I’ve got seven bedrooms. Let’s just take it day by day, okay? I want you here. I want
both
of you here.”

I’d looked down and put a hand on my stomach. It had started to curve, just the tiniest bit, like the beginning of a smile. “Is being constantly hungry a normal side effect of pregnancy?”

“Let me check,” Isabelle had said. She’d reached into a shopping bag and pulled out a half dozen books.

“Isabelle!” I’d laughed. “Can we just make some sandwiches and fruit salad?”

“Oh, great. Every other pregnant woman wants ice cream. I get stuck with the only one with healthy cravings,” she’d groaned. “I need to gain my sympathy weight, you know. Don’t deny me that.”

Now my father looked back at the sonogram photo as I pointed out the baby’s head and his round little torso. At four months, he was the size of an orange, one of the books said. But he was getting bigger and stronger every day.

I thought back to that morning in Paris, when I’d run out of the hotel room and had suddenly seen children everywhere. Michael had forgotten to pack my birth control pills for the trip, and neither of us had thought about protection that night.

Had I known, even on some subconscious level, that inside of me cells were busily multiplying, laying the groundwork for this little person to be formed?

“He’s perfect,” my father said. He shook his head. “You’re having a son. I can’t believe it.”

I stared at my father as he looked at the photo again. His face was deeply lined, and gray had overtaken the brown in his hair. His canvas coat looked too big for him; he probably hadn’t bothered to buy a new one after he’d lost weight. My mom had always been the one to cook and clean and buy socks when my father wore holes in the heels of his old ones. It must have been hard for him to learn to live without her.

He’d aged so much since I’d last seen him.

He caught me watching him and suddenly asked, “Will you—I mean, would you want to come inside for a bit?”

I took a deep breath, and he quickly said, “I’m sorry. You probably need to get going.”

“Dad?” I put my hand on his arm. “I thought I might stay with you for a couple of days. I wanted to see if you’d make the baby’s crib. Then I was hoping you could come to D.C. next month and help me paint his room.”

He looked at me for a moment, then my dad reached out and held me in his arms for a long time.