The Story of You and Me (35 page)

Now I sat on the concrete ground on the tenth floor of the same circular, open-aired parking garage that featured moderately priced apartments above it. They were moderate because while the building overlooked water, it wasn’t a postcard view of Lake Michigan but a grimy skinny branch of the Chicago River that trickled past in the near distance.
 

I leaned back against a cold, concrete support pillar about twelve feet from the sturdy, coiled metallic rope that connected more columns in front of me. A chilly wind sliced through my hair and I shivered. The rope separated this solid structure from the open air surrounding it. The thickness and metal design of the rope were intended to keep vehicles from catapulting off the edges of the garage. That worked most of the time.
 

My butt was numb from the cold concrete and I hoped my jeans and T-shirt didn’t absorb the garage floor’s oil stains, discarded cigarettes or the spray-painted gang graffiti tags that I leaned against. I shivered again and hugged myself.
 

I’d bolted from Preston Academy without
my coat and was wearing only a paper-thin long sleeve T-shirt in fifty-degree weather. My cheeks were undoubtedly stained with mascara rings and I probably looked awful. But really, who cared?
 

I craned my neck forward and checked out the vacant lot below the parking structure. It was a sad sight: a large patch of weeds littered with trash and junk that had been dumped in the river had found their home here most likely after a storm got wild enough to toss them onto the riverbanks.
 

Aside from the newer makes and models of the neatly parked cars, ten years after the accident this whole scene still looked pretty much the same. Except this time I wasn’t strapped into the back seat of a car hanging by its rear tires caught on the safety wire, ten stories off this ledge, suspended between sky and ground, life and death. And according to the police report and descriptions from several witnesses, who raced to the scene, screaming my lungs out.
 

I guess it’s good I had no memories of the actual accident. Amnesia, post-traumatic stress, whatever, I’d blacked it all out. I woke up on a skinny mattress in a tiny antiseptic-smelling hospital bay in the emergency room with wires hanging off me and Dad peering into my face.
 

At that point, Mama was only missing two hours. Dad probably thought she escaped the wreck and wandered off, dazed. Too bad we’d never seen or heard from her again. Where had she gone? Why had she left?

Over the years I learned enough about our accident by overhearing what people slipped in conversations as well as what I Googled. The police investigated but never found the car, or the driver who rammed us. They never found my mama; suspected she used the accident as a ‘Get out of Jail Free,’ card. Escaped her life as a mom and wife to start someplace new.
 

Dad never bought that. But after she’d been gone two years, he gave into mama’s family’s request and had her declared dead so she could be officially mourned. Eventually people pretty much forgot I was that poor girl whose mom disappeared. I was able to introduce myself without getting socked with questions, or the all too familiar looks loaded with pity.
 

So sitting here now back at the scene, I didn’t know whether to feel surprised, shocked or nothing. Between getting dumped by Brett, the possibility of losing my scholarship to Preston Academy and having a panic attack, today was awful.
 

I thought that if I had the courage to return to the scene of our accident and sit for a while, perhaps even tried to meditate or pray, I would remember what happened. Then I could have less fear and feel more peaceful. And be able to climb a stupid ladder. But the only things I felt right now were confusion and a heavy ache in my chest.

I looked around the parking structure and noticed a bunch of gang tags painted onto the concrete next to newer model cars. Apparently people weren’t scared to park here. They’d probably never even heard of the accident that happened ten years ago in this very spot.
 

What was I thinking? That she’d show up and explain why she left ten years ago? That she’d drop off a box of chocolates with an
‘I’m sorry I abandoned you
,’ note? I’d been here for a couple of hours. Other than the obvious outcome—my lips were probably blue and my fingernails definitely white—I hadn’t gained anything by coming back.
 

I rubbed my hands together, held them to my mouth and blew on them. I wondered what my life would have looked like, felt like, if Mama had never disappeared. Frankly, the only person I would have missed would be my stepmom Sophie.
 

I heard a jangle of keys and an older guy said, “Hey, kid. You look cold. Need a ride?”
 

I looked up at the man who belonged to the voice. He was late-forties, handsome, full head of dark hair, thin and tall. He walked up the ramp toward me. He wore crisp khakis and a fine dark brown weathered leather bomber jacket. I heard the low throaty hum of a finely tuned car engine in the distance. Probably his ride.
 

“Thanks, no.” I waved him on.

“I’d believe you except that your fingers are purple.” He held out his right hand in front of me. “Look at mine. Wow. They’re a normal fleshy color.”

“Kudos on your great circulation,” I said.
 

“Look. Whatever your beef is you need to get out of the cold, call your folks and talk it out.” The guy reached in his pocket and held his cell phone out toward me.

I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

“Right. If you don’t want to talk to them yet, at least find someplace safe to stay tonight. I can recommend a couple of shelters.”

“It’s not what you think.” I heard a high-pitched grating sound and some lame car backfired a couple of times. Busted. Dad driving his beater ride huffed up the garage incline toward me.
 

He screeched to a stop in the middle of the ramp, yanked the parking brake, flung open the driver’s door and catapulted out. The keys were in the ignition, engine still running as he raced toward me with his longish salt and pepper hair flying all over the place.
 

“Daddy?”

“You stay away from her!” Dad thrust one arm out at the guy in the bomber jacket and shook his fist at him.
 

The guy stared at my dad like he was crazy but took the hint. “Just trying to help.” He walked back down the ramp. The smooth engine revved below us. The guy must have had a friend behind the wheel of his ride.

“We don’t need help from strangers.” Dad strode after the guy determined, almost manic.
 

“Dad, no!” I pushed myself off the ground and ran after him. “I’m fine.” I grabbed his arm. His eyes met mine and they were a little crazy. Reminded me of the old days after the accident. Guess I wasn’t the only one having a hard time today. “This man did nothing wrong.” I shook his arm.
 

But his eyes were dilated and he was breathing quickly. Dad was in his crazy zone and I had to break through to him before he did something he’d get in trouble for. I could not lose him again. “He was just trying to help,” I said. Dad’s nostrils flared. “Leave him alone. You cannot fight everyone.” I yanked on the sleeve of his jean jacket.
 

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. When he re-opened them, he appeared sane.
 

“Okay,” he said. “If you recall, I had a rotator cuff injury on that arm you’re yanking on and I’d really appreciate it if you stopped doing that.”

“Sorry.” I patted his shoulder.
 

“Much better.”

The man regarded us. “I didn’t come here for a fight, sir. I spotted your daughter and, well, I have a teenager. Stuff happens. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
 

“I’m sorry, man,” Dad replied. “I apologize.”
 

“No worries.” The man turned and continued down the ramp.

Dad wrapped his arms around me and squeezed so hard I coughed. “You’re catching a cold! You shouldn’t have come here.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Darn, now I’m catching that cold.”
 

I hugged him back. Was this the first time we really connected since Mama disappeared? Dad smoothed my hair, over and over. It felt strange coming from him. But it also felt really good. “What were you thinking?” he asked.

“I thought if I came back here, talked to Mama... Maybe I could find a way to remember?”
 

“You don’t need to remember,” he said. “I’m glad you don’t remember. I can’t lose anyone else right now.” He pulled off his jean jacket and handed it to me. “Put this on before you catch pneumonia.”
 

“You will never lose me,” I said. “As long as we can order Joey’s Pizza Super Combo Deluxe for dinner. Extra large so Sophie and Jane can have some.”
 

He frowned. “Ack, Joey’s! White flour carbohydrates topped with decrepit vegetables with zero nutritional value and do you even remember what I told you about how they kill cows?” We walked the few feet to his car and he opened the passenger door. “Jane has a sleepover and Sophie’s leaving for a business trip.”
 

“Again?” I asked.

“Yes. But we decided. You’re getting your big present tonight.” Dad pulled his cell out of his pocket and made a call. “Pick-up. I want the insecticide pizza deluxe. Yes, I meant the super deluxe combo.” He pointed to me. “Happy? Get in.”

Four

I slumped in a spindly antique hand-carved wooden chair in my parents’ study. I managed to catch Sophie before she headed out on yet another business trip. She gave me a big hug and a smooch on my cheek. She was more affectionate toward me right now than she was toward my dad.
 

They were going through a rough patch. Arguing about how much time Sophie was out of town for work. Dad was a chiropractor and his business, like many small businesses, was a little slow right now. Sophie took every gig that would pay overtime.
 

I felt awful, completely wiped out from today’s events. “I’m not hungry. Can I go? Can we do this tomorrow night?” I asked.
 

“You will eat some pizza, absorb whatever nutrition can be garnered from that slop and be happy about it.” Dad kneeled on the floor, his head all the way under an antique desk. “Besides I am retrieving your present. And it’s a big one.”

“I can stay ten more minutes.”
 

“You’ll stay until I hand you your present.”
 

I gnawed on a slice of pizza and looked around the room. It was pretty small, dusty and from what I remembered, used to be magical. That was when it was Mama’s office.
 

As a kid I’d sit on the floor with a puzzle or a coloring book while she hunched over her desk, eyeglasses perched halfway down her nose squinting at her computer, shuffling through papers on her desk and writing on them. She’d get up and draw lines in different colors on huge white boards that leaned against the walls. Then she’d lean in and scribble words next to the lines.
 

The last time I hung out in her office was when I was six. She was working away while I sprawled on a little throw carpet on the floor reading a new book.
 

Dad hollered from down the hall, “Rebecca! Need some help for a second, please?”
 

Mama looked up from the papers she was working on and headed toward the door. I hated for our time together to be over. “Are the lines for a new puzzle, Mama?”

“Good question.” She hugged me. That felt so great I decided to ask good questions more often.
 

“Rebecca!” Dad yelled.
 

“Coming, Ray!” Mama smiled at me while I pouted. “I’m hoping all the lines I’m drawing will help me solve a very big puzzle. And soon, my gifted daughter Madeline, I will teach you what
your
piece of that puzzle is.” She caressed my hair, leaned in and kissed me on my forehead. Then she walked out of the room.

“I’m a puzzle piece, Mama?” I yelled. “For real?” But she was gone.
 

Ten years later, I picked on a piece of pizza in her former office. It was lined with bookshelves packed with books, papers, notebooks, boxes and a few framed photos covered in dust. Unlike the rest of our free-for-all aging hippie house, the door to this room was always locked. Being invited in here meant that it was a special occasion or a scary one. I was hoping for the former but after today, couldn’t rule out the latter.

Dad knelt on the floor next to Mama’s old wooden desk that had too many drawers to count. A Joey’s pizza box rested next to it on a cheap card table specially set up for this event. A greasy pizza box would not be allowed to lie on Mama’s antique desk.
 

I heard scrapes and scratches and a few cuss words as Dad fiddled with something. “Darn! It’s been so long since we last unlocked this thing. Sorry. It’s just not opening,” he said and jammed something that sounded metallic into the desk’s underbelly.

“I think you need pizza. Sustenance.” I tore off a piece from the pie, put it on a paper towel and waved it around near the bottom of the desk.
 

He twisted half his body around, poked his arm out and handed me an ancient, worn skeleton key. “Put that in the front desk drawer next to the paperclips.” He took the pizza and munched. “Thanks for the dreck. I’m starving.”
 

He pulled a Swiss Army Knife out from his rear jeans pocket, flipped open one of those weird attachments and finagled it into the lock that lay underneath the desk.
 

“Hello,” Dad said in a deep voice. “My name’s Dr Raymond Blackford, Chiropractor. Just like you, I bought every gadget imaginable. When I could have skipped all those useless tools and purchased the amazing Swiss Army Knife.”

“We’ll Google Swiss Army Knives tomorrow and see if they’re looking for a new spokesman. I need to go work on my history assignment.” I bit my lip. “Stanley Preston’s threatening me.”