Spinning (14 page)

“Spring,” I called out. “Spring?”

I abandoned the suitcase to check on her. I found her, with arms crossed, lying perfectly straight on her bed and staring at the ceiling. Her duck backpack sat filled on the floor and her clothes were piled up next to it. The toe-end of a sock stuck out by the zipper of the backpack.

“Spring… Her eyes were still red, but she looked tired of crying about something that she didn’t understand. “Do you know where your mom kept the key to her suitcase? We’ll need it, if we’re going to pack her things.”

She continued to stare.

I sat next to her and touched her arm. “Spring?”

She said nothing.

“We’re going to go in a little while. I’m hungry for some mac and cheese. I picked up some fresh pasta and I might need some help remembering how to make it.”

Nothing.

I returned to Diane’s room and opened the Aspen Rolling Duffel Tote and packed a few items. I could come
back for her clothes later although I had no idea what to do with them. I grabbed the address book, her perfume and the robe I found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. The robe, a short and well-worn pink and black silk kimono still smelled like Diane not just her perfume or her hand lotion or her shampoo, but like her body after a night of sleep and with the oils in her hair. I pressed it to my face and inhaled. This was the scent I wanted to capture forever. I folded it and set it in the suitcase. Then, I took it out. What if between here and my place, Diane’s scent was replaced with the new Ballistic-nylon-smell of the tote? I wrapped the robe in some of her T-shirts, tested if it would pass a NASA inspection for leaks and felt confident I could protect the robe until I could place it on my own bedroom door hook.

All the important things in Diane’s apartment — at least those that were important to me fit into the luggage. Spring’s clothes would probably fill it up. This was going to be its maiden voyage, a few blocks south from Walker to Duane.

“Spring, are you ready to go?”

“D?”

“Yes, Spring?”

“When is Mommy coming home?”

She just stood there looking up at me, wearing her yellow raincoat over her pink dress with the grape juice stain. She was wearing her red boots and toting her duck backpack. Other than the pink dress, she looked like the little girl I’d met a few weeks before in the middle of the night.

“Do you remember Mommy had an accident?”

She nodded.

“Mommy can’t come home.”

She stood there, biting her upper lip, like Diane, while little raindrops rolled down her cheeks.

I sat on the floor and lifted her to my lap, hugging and rocking her. If Spring was going to cry again, I might, too. While rummaging through the apartment had given me something to occupy my time, now it was just Spring and me.

“Spring, did your mommy ever talk about anyone?”

She nodded.

“Who?”

She pointed at me.

“Anyone else?”

She shook her her head.

“What about friends, relatives?”

“No.”

“What about Daddy? Did she ever mention your daddy?”

Spring thought about it. She hesitated for a long time before answering, as though she had gone someplace else. Finally, she looked up at me and asked, “Are you my Daddy?”

I shook my head and she cast her eyes downward.

No, I’m not your daddy, Spring,
I thought.
I don’t know what I am to you, or even for how long. Guess we’re going to find out soon, huh?

That night, we broke Spring’s bedtime ritual. With a small cup of water on the night stand, I sat next to her on the bed and put my arm around her.

She looked at me. “D, do we have to do animal sounds tonight?”

“Not if you don’t want to. Do you want me to sit with you for a little while?”

“I’m okay.”

I sat with her anyway, waiting until she fell asleep.

On the way out, I left her door open a crack to make it easier for me to hear her if she woke up crying. I went into the living room and poured myself a glass of wine. About 15 minutes later, I heard Spring click on the table lamp.

“Today, we got you a box with flowers on it,” she said softly. She must have been talking to the picture. I wanted to see what she was doing, but I didn’t want her to
become self-conscious. “It’s really pretty. I like it. You’ll like it, too, when you come home.”

There was a long pause.

“I miss you, Mommy. I don’t feel very good.”

I expected to hear her say more or to start sobbing, but all I heard was the sound of her putting the picture back on the table. She clicked the light off.

I didn’t know what to do with everything I was feeling. There was the hollow ache of my own sense of loss of Diane. Over the past six weeks, I had been reveling in the new sensations she had introduced to me. But I wasn’t at all prepared for this one. And then there was the overwhelming sense of uselessness I felt when it came to Spring. I didn’t want her to be sad or lonely or wounded, but I also knew that there was nothing I could do that would cause her to not feel that way.

I put some Dave Matthews on very quietly, lay back on the couch and closed my eyes. I half-wondered if I would fall asleep there. Instead, I remained distinctly conscious of my thoughts.

Maybe 20 minutes later, I felt a presence alongside me. I opened my eyes to find Spring standing there.

“You forgot to kiss me goodnight.”

I
had
kissed her goodnight, but that was hardly the point. I picked Spring up and hugged her, kissing her forehead. Then I carried her back to her room and tucked her in again. Perhaps she would sleep this time, but I knew at this point that I wouldn’t be doing much sleeping myself. I wanted Spring to be happy and have a home, and that meant finding the person who would take her in. The only remaining ties to Diane’s past sat in my closet: her address book and the suitcase.

Although its clasp still locked, the old relic was worn with age,. Earlier, I had been concerned that I might uncover a secret about Diane that would make me uncomfortable. Now I realized that it didn’t matter what secret I might find inside the suitcase. Either I wanted to help Spring, or I didn’t really love Diane. If I didn’t find someone to take care of Spring, the State of New York would take her. I had seen some of those foster families in the news. Not the good ones. You never see the good foster families in the news, just the bad ones. But the bad ones were flat-out scary and there was no way I was allowing Spring to wind up in one of those situations. There had to be someone in Diane’s past who could become Spring’s guardian. Maybe some second cousin three times removed. That stuff happened in movies all the time.

I set the suitcase aside and reached for the address book, thinking that I might have missed something when I was in her apartment. I went page by page until I had reviewed the entire book again.
Nothing new.
Only the
E
under the
S
heading and a phone number with no area code.

Knowing what I did about Diane, I knew that if there was an
E
, it had to have some real significance. The
E
meant nothing secretive, I was sure, and she hadn’t written it that way to keep it from me. Then again, her suitcase was locked and I hadn’t seen a key.
She must have had it on her when the accident happened. The police said they didn’t find her purse at the scene.
I decided that before I destroyed her suitcase, I should exhaust the
E
possibilities first.

Chicago had two area codes I could recall. Dialing 312 and the phone number next to the
E
, perhaps I could get lucky and find someone in Chicago who knew her.
The number rang to a disconnect. I tried again with 773 and someone answered.

“Yeah?”

“Hello? I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m, uh, looking for someone who knows Diane Sommers.”

“Who?”

“Diane Sommers? Is there someone there who…”

If Diane’s
E
had moved, I could call all over the world without luck. There had to be a better approach. I could check her personnel file with Mr. Barnes at work, but I wasn’t optimistic. I fired up her laptop and checked everything I could think of. Apparently, she hadn’t yet used it much for work, as there were only a handful of files.

In the morning, after calling Barnes, I could call her old employer. Somebody had to know something. Someone she worked with might have seen her date Spring’s father, or knew an aunt she’d lunch with.
Somebody. Someone had to know Diane.

Someone out there knew something. Although I had come to care deeply for Spring, there was someone out there who could do a considerably better job of raising her. Her staying with me long-term was not an option. I couldn’t take care of a little girl. Hell, I couldn’t even give her a bath without the need of a first-aid kit.

Futile though I knew it was going to be, I decided to go to bed. But first I checked on Spring again just to make sure she was okay. She was sleeping soundly with the Teddy Bear duck which she had named Mr. Jimmy on her pillow next to her cheek.

I gave her one more kiss on the forehead.

Diane always told me that Spring needed a routine. I had a feeling that this applied to me as well. I needed something to do and to keep my mind occupied, seeing how everything in my life had changed not once but twice in the last couple of months. Although I was the same guy, some of my friends might not recognize the changes in me, and some of them wouldn’t like those changes at all. I hadn’t been to the Magenta Martini in a month and I hadn’t spent much time hanging out with Jim just a couple of dinners at my place with Diane and Spring, and even once with his kids. And I hadn’t spent any social time at all with Hank. It wasn’t like those guys required a lot of maintenance. A beer or tequila shot here and there, a bit of trash talk, and a crooked smile for a waitress, that was it. But I hadn’t toasted booze, babes, or season tickets since the second week of the football season.

I sought reassurance in the one thing in my life that remained constant: my job. I needed to get up and go to work to feel a semblance of normalcy. At the funeral, as some generic minister paid tribute to a woman he’d never met, a part of me wished it would be over so I could get back to the office. I decided that I would go in the next day.

Since I’d known her, Spring had been a morning girl, running around the apartment doing things with her mother, while I tried desperately not to hear in the hopes that I could squeeze out another hour or so of sleep. That morning, I should have known there was a problem when I tapped on her door. She was up, but she wasn’t ready to come out.

“Spring?” I opened the door. On her bed, she had stacked a pile of her clothes and was hiding behind them. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

That pretty much said it. Her nightgown was off and she had one leg in her stretch pants. My first thought was that as she’d started to get dressed, she collapsed on the bed in grief. But then I realized there was something more fundamental at play here. Diane had always helped her to get dressed.

“Do you need a hand?”

She nodded.

I helped her climb into her pants and then we picked a shirt out from the pile. Eventually, we were ready to go. Her hair, a little messy yet still presentable, was sans bow. I hadn’t mastered the hair thing yet and the best I could muster was a flapping ponytail. I pretended to ignore the pile of clothes.

She hugged me very tightly when I dropped her off at daycare and asked me to stay “just a minute.” But then she went off to play and I thought she’d be fine. Less than 20 minutes later, I received a call on my cell asking me to return right away.

When I opened the door, a woman hurried to meet me. “Mr. Hunter?”

“Yes. What happened? Is Spring all right?” I recognized the woman from Diane’s funeral. “You were at the funeral. Thank you.”

She nodded. “Yes, Stephanie Eckleburg. I watch Spring everyday, and Mr. Hunter, she isn’t herself today. Which is to be expected, all things considered, and why I wanted you to return. Why did you bring her in today, Mr. Hunter?”

“I thought she needed her routine.”

Stephanie seemed to be in her mid-forties, dour and stern. But when a child passed by, she was still capable of flashing a carefree smile.

“Spring needs time to adjust. While her routine will be comforting when she’s ready for it, until then she needs to be around those who care for her. What she needs, Mr. Hunter, is love.”

“Yes, I suppose…”

“You are her only…” she paused. “… family?”

“Yes.”

“Her grandparents?”

“Deceased.”

“Her father?”

“No freaking idea.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hunter. Spring is very lucky to have a caring guardian.”