“Please don’t get your hopes up, Kaye,” Sam said quickly. “I don’t think this is a wise idea, at all. Honestly, I believe any legitimate answers we’re given will only lead to heartbreak. But I’m willing to listen to what people have to say.”
My arms came around his middle, now completely willing. “Thank you so much. I love you, Samuel Caulfield Cabral. You are the most selfless man I’ve ever known.”
Samuel sighed. “I love you, Aspen Kaye. Too much for reason.”
Later, as the intense glow of happiness gave way to reflection, I realized this wasn’t the first time he’d declared he loved me ‘too much for reason.’
Chapter 11
Free Climb
When a climber chooses to summit a mountain without the aid of manmade devices.
The evening Tom Trilby showed up on our doorstep, duffel bag in one hand and hookah in the other, was the night I knew my marriage was being put through some sort of trial by fire.
“Audrey found out about Gail and kicked me out.”
“Wow Dad, that’s rough.” Now was not the time to say, ‘I told you so.’
“She also fired me.”
“Understandable. So you don’t have a job or a place to live?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Come on in.” I pushed the door open for him to enter and cringed as a week’s worth of body odor filled my foyer. He dropped his duffel bag and stretched out on my couch. His Prius was absent from the parking lot. Had he hitchhiked from Lyons? Mom’s farm would have been closer.
“Dad, can I ask why you didn’t go to Mom?”
He flung a tanned arm over his face. “Aspen baby, that is one can of worms I don’t ever want to open.”
“Are you going to tell Mom what happened, though?”
“She’ll hear about it soon enough.”
“She’d let you stay at the farm, you know. Maybe even give you work until you found something more permanent. There’s loads to do right now, getting ready to plant.”
“Flower, believe me, I know there’s loads to do. Which is precisely why I’m staying out from under Gail’s handkerchiefs. Her tomatoes were the death of us before and they’d kill us again.”
I delved through the hall closet for travel-sized shampoos, soaps, toothpaste. “You don’t know that. It’s been twenty-five years.”
“Oh, I know. Besides, things are rocky between us just now.”
He wrapped up his filthy body in my favorite chenille throw blanket and I stiffened with repressed fury. “Because cheating’s not as fun, now that Audrey knows?” Not so repressed after all.
“Watch your tongue. I may be a good-for-nothing, but I’m still your father.”
“I’ll get the guest room ready.” I stormed down the hall before I said anything regretful, such as ‘DNA doesn’t merit respect.’
As dad rummaged through our refrigerator, Samuel helped me stretch a fitted sheet over the guest bed.
“How long is he staying?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he knows. Do you mind?”
Samuel rubbed his neck. “The timing isn’t ideal.”
“What did you want me to do? Turn him out?”
“No, but I wish you would have discussed it with me first.”
I started to argue but squelched the fiery words. “You’re right. I should have run it by you before I let his drama through our door. Goodness knows we have enough of our own. But he’s my dad.”
Samuel grabbed a spare pillow from the closet and tossed it on the bed. “I know. I also know you’ve spent a lot of your life chasing his affection. How about we set some boundaries here?”
“What do you suggest?”
He leaned in and whispered. “Two weeks, then he needs to find a place of his own.”
“A month,” I countered, “and we help him financially if he still hasn’t gotten a job.”
“Three weeks, and if he hasn’t found work, we talk about a loan.”
That night, I sat on my sofa, tucked between the two most influential men in my life. A bowl of popcorn rested on my lap and three sets of eyes were glued to the inane comedy airing on our TV.
My dad, showered and as fresh-smelling as a summer garden thanks to a stockpile of rose-scented hotel shampoo, rubbed my neck like he used to when I was single digits and couldn’t sleep. Just like that, tension melted away, leaving only resigned exasperation.
“How do you do it, Dad? Ensure no woman will ever stay mad at you?”
“I shouldn’t really be telling my daughter this, but—”
“Never mind.” I placed his hand back on my neck.
“I was only going to say that I’m not above admitting I’m a huge screw-up and I need the women in my life to make me a better man. I need you, too, flower. You’re the only family I can count on.”
Next to me, Samuel’s fuming was so palpable I felt the heat. But I was too overwhelmed by the blissful hope my dad’s words had cracked open.
That night, as I listened to the choking snores of my father in the room next to ours, I couldn’t stifle my giddiness. My father needed me. When he was in trouble, he turned to me before he turned to anyone else. This meant something, didn’t it? After all these years, was it possible this was the beginning of my dad’s journey into adulthood? I could swing by over my lunch hour and take him to Fischer’s Deli. He’d tell me about his job leads, we could hunt apartments together, or maybe a little bungalow out by Jamestown. We’d have meaningful talks about what he wanted from life or if he still loved my mom. He’d tell me he regretted missing out on stuff when I was young. I’d tell him I forgave him, because I had, long ago.
I fell asleep anticipating morning, when I would place a steaming cup of coffee in front of my dad and a bowl of our favorite generic cereal. I’d hug his shoulders and he’d pat my hand, and I’d tell him how glad I was to have him with me.
But when I stumbled into the kitchen just after dawn, bleary-eyed and wrapping a tattered bathrobe around my body, my father was not there. I peeked into the guest room, the balcony. Nothing. Samuel was out on his early morning run, and I briefly wondered if Dad had joined him, but dismissed the idea. When I returned to the kitchen, I spotted it—a small, square paper from my sticky pad, fluttering on the countertop with each pass of the rotating fan:
Flower—my guy who sells incense (wink) knows a guy who might have a job as a property manager up near Cheyenne. Can’t beat working outside with your hands. My buddy’s putting me up, so no need to restock the fridge. –Dad
I crumpled the note in my fist, changed my mind and smoothed it across the cold granite. Then I grabbed a dispenser of clear packing tape and flattened several pieces over the top, sealing it to counter. It would remain there in case I got big, ridiculous ideas about my dad. I was a grown woman. Yet, now and again, those girlish wishes wouldn’t stop humming in my ear.
Samuel came into the kitchen, scrubbing his wet hair with a towel. I hadn’t even noticed he’d returned from his run. He read the note over my shoulder and chuffed.
“Let’s hope the job pans out.”
Pure anger streaked through me and I slammed my palm on the counter, over the note.
“Since when is being kind to my father an imposition?”
Samuel’s face immediately tightened. “Did I so much as suggest he was imposing?”
“You did, last night.”
“I simply want to see him get back on his feet and for once, keep the promises he’s made to the women in his life.”
“He worked at the Garden Market for fifteen years. He was with Audrey for fifteen years! How is that not commitment?”
“Again I ask, did I so much as suggest he’s flaking out by going to Cheyenne?”
“It was implied.”
He wrenched open the dishwasher, grabbed a cup from the rack, and set about making one of his disgusting kale smoothies. “Look Kaye, whatever wrongdoings you have floating around in your head, don’t pin them on me. There was nothing
subversive in my tone, no reason to read into sentiments that simply aren’t there.”
I promptly burst into tears. Samuel cursed and leaned against the counter, arms crossed as he waited for me to scoop up my spilled emotions. “I know. I’m sorry I tried to pick a fight. It’s just...” I searched for words to express my deep disappointment. “I got my hopes up, you know? Despite the spectacularly unfair way he treated Audrey. Despite his messing around with my mother. I thought maybe I was different.”
“You are different. You’re his daughter and he loves you.”
“But not enough to have anything beyond a superficial relationship.”
Samuel crammed kale and blueberries into a blender. “I’m not defending his past actions or the haphazard way he has darted in and out of your life. The thing about Tom Trilby is, he’s like Cassady. He gets restless because there’s this emptiness inside of him and he thinks it can only be filled by the next job, the next new age practice, the next woman. But what he wants can’t be filled up by any person, any profession, anything external he finds on this earth.”
“Are you talking about God?”
“I think so. Yeah, I am.” Samuel reflected. “He’s the only thing I’ve found that tempers the restlessness. Everyone hungers for peace, but not everyone knows where to find it.”
“I don’t have much experience with that kind of peace, long-term, anyway. I mean, I’ve sat in a pew, I’ve felt peace, but it goes away when the next crisis hits.”
“I suppose it comes down to believing this kind of peace is uninterrupted by crisis. That it persists, in spite of the next crisis.”
I remembered peering into Samuel’s hospital room after the terrible episode in Boston to find him praying with the priest. At the time, I’d been resentful that he’d allowed God into that hospital room before he’d allowed me. But I now knew I couldn’t give the kind of peace that calmed a haunted mind. In fact, wasn’t it terribly unfair to expect another person to be responsible for providing inner peace?
So was it fair for me, a thirty-year-old woman, to blame my father for not sticking around my apartment to make me happy?
I put away the empty bowl and cereal box I’d laid out for my dad. “Your comparison to Hippie hit the nail on the head. The way he squirms when his life becomes too settled, or the way he keeps Molly at a distance when she just wants him to lean on her.” I put a glass under the faucet, not blinking as it flooded and water spilled over the rim. “We can wish they would change, we can try to make them change, but in the end, it’s like asking the Rockies to pack up and move to Iowa. The only way it’ll happen is if the mountains sprout legs.”
“Or if someone gives them a push.”
At some point, I’d closed the gap between us and rested my cheek on his chest. He rubbed my back. “It’s time for my dad to move on,” I whispered. “He stuck around Lyons for me. Not for Audrey or Mom, or the Garden Market. He waited until he knew I’d be okay, and then he moved on. This has to be enough.”
“Whatever faults Tom has, he loves you, very much. I know it’s hard to understand, especially as a child—leaving someone because you love them. But for those of us who have been toxic to the people we love, we thought we could give the people we love a better life if we weren’t in their lives...”
“Sam, goodness knows I don’t say this enough, but the way you’ve changed, the things you’ve overcome? It’s a miracle.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t see the struggle. I tried, over and over, to change for you, for my family...”
“But in the end, you changed for yourself.”
He nodded. “I couldn’t bear to lose my soul.”
Later that week, we sat side-by-side on a couch as comfortable as granite, grim faced as we listened to the resource worker at Bright Hope Adoption Services.
“After you complete your evaluations, the next step in the application process is an extensive background check. Anyone with a felony offense on record is going to face a long, hard road. We can’t even allow convicted felons to adopt internationally, per U.S. regulation.” I internally cringed. Samuel wasn’t a felon, but he’d come pretty darned close and only escaped jail because of Caroline Ortega’s connections. Court-mandated drug rehab and AA meetings, community service, involuntary hospitalization…The way the worker eyed Samuel, I think she knew it, too. One couldn’t live in Boulder without having heard, seen, or read about his infamy.
“If your background check’s clear, then we’ll conduct in-depth interviews where we focus on the stability of your relationships, conflict management, how you were raised. Please understand it’s necessary to scrutinize everything about you in order to protect our kids. They deserve stable homes.” We’d both have to lay ourselves bare as strangers combed through the most painful, intimate facets of our lives.
“Lastly, you must be absolutely certain this is what you both want. If one of you is on the fence, then my recommendation is not to pursue adoption. Trust me, if you’re not all in, it will rip your marriage apart and only lead to heartbreak for your adopted children. I’ve seen it happen one too many times.”
I closed my eyes, not wanting to hear the truth in her words. But I knew. Deep in my heart, I heard. Samuel didn’t want kids. Out of his love for me and commitment to our marriage, he had tried to set his trepidations aside. What was it he’d said? I love you, too much for reason…
Now, because I loved him, I couldn’t force this upon him.
I threaded my fingers through his, squeezed, and let go. Stony-faced, I gathered up my coat, purse, and reached across the table to shake the worker’s hand.
“I appreciate your candor and willingness to meet with us. But I don’t think adoption is an avenue we’ll pursue, after all.”
That night, I dreamed Samuel left. It was an old ghost from our college days, when I’d walked into our apartment to find him sprawled across our bed, despair exuding from weary limbs punished in a morning run. I jerked awake. He was still beside me. I wrapped myself around his warm body.
“Trouble sleeping?” he asked groggily.
“Nightmare. Sorry I woke you.”
‘S’okay, it’s been a rough day.” He cupped my cheek and, only then, I realized tears streamed down my face. “Lemme help.” He fumbled around in the dark room until he found his Spanish guitar. Mellow chords twanged and he sang quiet lyrics about beds of lemon balm and fragrant jasmine. The lullaby echoed through my head and I remembered, just before sleep reclaimed me, that I’d heard Sofia sing it when we were children.
Friday lunch at Paddlers, Luca brought a tiny guest. “Whoa Kaye, what did you do to your hair?”
I waggled ‘gimme’ hands for his new little one. “I joined the Blue Rinse Brigade. My knitting bag is in the car. Come here, sweet baby, Auntie Kaye wants to kiss you.”
“You look like that crazy pop star, but without…” Luca clammed up and his face went red. I chuckled.
“Without the rack? That sounds about right.” I peered down at the tiny tot rooting around for lunch and the even tinier chest beneath her. “Nothing to eat there, babe. But we’ve got plenty of pizza, nom nom nom.” I cradled the infant and sighed as painful knots eased and loosened.
“What does Samuel think about the hair? Hey, where is he, anyway?”
“Conference call. And surprisingly, he loves it.”
The door jingled and a young woman entered. She was Latina—strong jaw, high cheekbones, wide mouth. Her wavy black hair was pulled back in a mess of a ponytail, her clothing was rumpled and worn, cheap but sturdy, like something one would wear to hike through mountains. I nearly wrote her off as a tourist, but something about her…
She was striking, or would have been, if not for an air of uncertainty displayed in the hunch of her shoulders, her downcast gaze, crossed arms. Shatterable…that’s how she seemed, as if she were desperate for a smile, and at the same time, fearful. It was clear she hadn’t been in Paddlers before, but she was familiar. Had I met her in the Mexican ne
ighborhood out by Steamboat? No, I’d definitely know her, the entire community turned out for backyard fiestas at the Cabrals.’
Her eyes swept the aisles, the displays, as if searching for someone. She called out to Santiago in Spanish with a lilt so recognizable, I knew at once she was from Tamaulipas.
Santiago pointed to me. I stepped forward, curious.
The woman stared at me with wide eyes as she took me in, from my blue hair to the infant gumming my sternum.
“You are Aspen Cabral?” she asked in broken English.
“Yes, but most people call me ‘Kaye.’ What can I do for you?” I replied in Spanish, and her shoulders eased.
“I am sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for your husband—Samuel Cabral?” I narrowed my eyes. Certainly she wasn’t a Nixie? But she was from Tamaulipas…
“How do you know him?” I asked, suspicious.
“I…I don’t mean any harm,” she said quickly, her eyes darting between me and the baby in my arms. I snuggled the child closer. “And I promise not to bother you. Only…would you mind terribly if you carried a message for me?”
Surely passing along a message was harmless. I relented and held out my hand (the one that wasn’t holding a baby). The woman’s face flushed, embarrassed. She slid her frayed backpack from her shoulders and crouched to rifle through it, her skin reddening by the second as she came up empty.
I took pity on her. “Santiago, toss me those sticky notes and a pen, will you?” Santiago, deep in conversation with Luca about The Colorado Rockies’ minor league prospects (this shy young woman had lost his interest), chucked the requested items at my feet. I rolled my eyes and scooped them up.
The woman laughed nervously as I handed her the paper and pen. “Men are not much different here than they are back home, ay?”
Fourteeners Page 18
