"How?"
"You'll see. Put Mom on the phone."
"Hello?" Falyn said. I was sure the conversation with the school about both kids hadn't been easy.
"I'll be there in less than an hour," I said.
"Really?" she said, already sounding perkier.
I smiled. "Yes, really. I told you I'd be there, didn't I?"
"Yes, but ... I saw on the news about the fire. I assumed you'd be there."
I thought about telling her there would be no more fires but decided it wasn't the right time. "I was. I left."
"Before it was controlled?"
"Close enough." I could practically hear Falyn smiling, and warmth ran through my body. I'd won big points for putting her first, even though I thought I always had by working hard and making a good living. She'd clearly needed me to prove it.
"I ... thank you, Taylor. That really ... means a lot."
I frowned, wondering why she was trying so hard not to love me. The things she'd said while I was being arrested cut me so deep I wasn't sure I could recover, when just her leaving was agony enough. She could have tied me to the bed and lit the house on fire, and I would have loved her still. I didn't understand the point of pretending, but maybe she wasn't. Maybe she didn't love me anymore. I cleared the emotion from my voice before I spoke. "Are you packing yet?"
"What I can without the kids noticing. I didn't want to give away the surprise before you got here."
"Good. I'll be there soon, ba--Falyn," I said, correcting myself.
"See you then," she said. No emotion in her voice, no disdain or sentiment. Nothing.
I wasn't sure what I would do if we couldn't work things out. She was it for me. Falyn had been my life since we were practically kids. She was the only life I wanted. When she left, I was miserable, but there was still hope. That hope motivated me. The dashboard lights switched on just after the last bit of daylight slipped behind the mountains. A sign on my right read Welcome to Colorado Springs, and I shifted nervously in my seat. I still held on to the hope that this weekend was going to be our point of turnaround instead of the point of no return.
CHAPTER FOUR
TRENTON
I WAITED OUTSIDE THE DOOR, listening to Camille trying not to cry. Every month was an endless cycle of hope and devastation, and almost eight years into our marriage, she was getting desperate.
The lights were dim. She liked it dark when her soul felt black, so I'd pulled the curtains when the three minutes was up, and she didn't say anything. Now, nothing was left to do but wait, listen, and hold her.
We lived in a small two-bedroom, just six blocks from Dad and Olive. The bedroom, like the rest of the house, was bright and minimally decorated with interesting art or my drawings. We'd repainted and laid new carpet, but the house was older than we were. Even though at the time of purchase it was a steal, the fixer-upper had turned into a money pit. The central heat and air and much of the plumbing system were new. At one point, we had to peel back the new--but wet--carpet to jackhammer the foundation to get to the pipes and replace them. The last ten years had been a long haul, but now we lived in a like-new home, even if we did have to deplete our savings four times to do it. We were in a good place, finally, and neither of us knew what to do with it but move to the next step. Infertility wasn't something we could fix, and that made Camille feel broken.
"Baby," I said, tapping on the door with my knuckles. "Let me come in."
"Just ... just give me a second," she said, sniffing.
I leaned my forehead against the door. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. I think maybe it's ..."
"I'm not giving up!" she snapped.
"No. Maybe try a different avenue."
"We can't afford a different avenue," she said. Her voice was even quieter than it had been. She didn't want to make me feel worse than I already did.
"I'll figure something out."
After a few moments of silence, the door clicked, and Camille opened the door. Her red-rimmed eyes were glossed over, and red blotches dotted her face. She was never more beautiful, and all I wanted to do was hold her, but she wouldn't let me. She would pretend her heart wasn't broken to keep me from hurting as she always did--no matter how many times I'd told her it was okay to cry.
I touched her cheek, but she pulled away, her painted smile fading just long enough to kiss my palm. "I know you will. I just needed to grieve."
"You can grieve out here, baby doll."
She shook her head. "No, I can't. I needed to take a moment for myself."
"Because otherwise, you're worried about me," I scolded.
She shrugged, her feigned smile turning into a real one. "I've tried to change. I can't."
I brought her into my chest, holding her tight. "I wouldn't want you to. I love my wife just the way she is."
"Camille?" Olive said, holding one side of the of the doorjamb. Her waist-length, platinum blond hair cascaded in waves from her center part down each side of her face, making her sadness seem to weigh her down even more. Her round, green eyes glistened, feeling every disappointment, every setback as deeply as we did because she was family, too. By chance and by blood, whether she knew it or not.
As I watched her lean the delicate features of her oval face against the wooden trim, I remembered being blown away by the truth: Olive, my neighbor and little buddy since she could walk, was adopted, and somehow, her biological mother had fallen in love with my older brother Taylor almost a thousand miles away in Colorado Springs. By chance, I'd helped raise my niece--involved in her life even more than my brother or sister-in-law.
Camille looked at Olive and breathed out a small laugh, pulling away from me while simultaneously licking her thumbs and then wiping away the smudged mascara from beneath her eyes. Her hair was longer than it had been since she was a girl, grazing the middle of her back and the same hue as Olive's, with a shaved patch just above her ear to keep it 'edgy.' I'd just redone the tat on her fingers--the first tattoo I'd ever done for her, and her first tattoo ever. It read Baby Doll, the nickname I'd given her early in our relationship, and it had somehow stuck. As hard as she tried not to fit in, Camille was a classic beauty. The name fit her then just as it did now.
"I'm okay," Camille said, following with a cleansing sigh. "We're okay."
She walked over to the doorway to give Olive a quick hug and then tightened the folded navy blue handkerchief she was using as a headband. She sniffed, the pain visibly fading away and disappearing. My wife was a badass.
"Cami," I began.
"I'm good. We'll try again next month. How's Dad?"
"He's good. Talking my ear off. It's getting harder to get him to come out with me. Tommy and Liis are bringing the new baby ..." I trailed off, waiting for the inevitable hurt in Camille's eyes.
She walked over, cupped my cheeks, and then kissed me. "Why are you looking at me like that? Do you really think it bothers me?"
"Maybe ... maybe if you'd married him ... you'd have one of your own by now."
"I don't want one of my own. I want our baby. Yours and mine. If not that, then nothing."
I smiled, feeling a lump rise in my throat. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She smiled, her voice sounding relaxed and happy. She still had hope.
I touched the small scar at her hairline, the one that never let me forget just how close I was to losing her. She closed her eyes, and I kissed the jagged white line.
My phone rang, so I left her long enough to grab my cell phone from the nightstand. "Hey, Dad."
"Did you hear?" he asked, his voice a bit hoarse.
"What? That you sound like hell? Did you get sick within the last two hours?"
He cleared his throat a few times then chuckled. "No, no ... every inch of me is just older than dirt. How's Cami? Pregnant?"
"No," I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Yet. It'll happen. Why don't you two come over for dinner? Bring Olive."
I looked at my girls, and they were alrea
dy nodding their heads. "Yeah. We'd love to, Dad. Thanks."
"Fried chicken tonight."
"Tell him not to start without me," Camille said.
"Dad--"
"I heard her. I'll just get 'em battered and seasoned and get the potatoes in the oven."
Camille made a face.
"Okay. We'll be over in a bit."
Camille rushed around, trying to get out the door to beat Dad to the oven. He'd left the stove on more than once, fallen more than once, and didn't seem fazed when he did. Camille spent nearly all of her spare time trying to help him avoid accidents.
"Can I drive?" Olive asked.
I cringed.
She smiled mischievously. I groaned, already knowing what she was about to say.
"Pwease, Twent?" she whined.
I winced. I'd promised Olive when she first got her license that I'd let her drive me when she turned eighteen, and her birthday was months ago. It was second nature to say no. I'd never had an accident, even as a teen. The two I'd been involved in were horrific, and both were with women I deeply cared about behind the wheel.
"Goddammit, fine," I swore.
Camille held out her fist, and Olive bumped it with hers.
"Did you bring your license?" Camille asked.
Olive answered by holding up a small brown leather wristlet. "My new Eastern State student ID is in there, too."
"Yay!" Camille said, clapping. "How exciting!" She looked at me with a fake apology in her eyes. "You promised."
"Don't say I didn't warn you," I grumbled, tossing Olive the keys.
Olive clasped the metal in both hands and then giggled, running for the door and out to the driveway where Camille's truck sat. As I walked down the flagstone walkway, I noticed Olive hop in and pull the seatbelt across her chest, buckling in and grabbing the wheel with both hands.
"Oh, stop. You're not bad luck." Camille opened the passenger door of her Toyota Tacoma quad cab and then pulled open the backward-facing rear door. She clicked her seat belt as I sat next to Olive. She immediately connected the Bluetooth on her phone to the truck, carefully choosing a song. Once the music began to play, Olive twisted the ignition and backed up. A new energy settled all around us. Camille rubbed my shoulders for a second to the beat thumping through the speakers.
"Maybe we should turn off the noise and let Olive concentrate," I said.
Camille's massage turned into a playful karate chop. "Noise?"
If I hadn't experienced it, I would have never known she was crying in our bathroom ten minutes before. She was recovering quicker each time, but part of me wondered if it was real, or if she was just getting better at hiding it.
Just as we pulled into Dad's drive, I noticed thunderheads building in the sky just west of town. Thomas and Liis were flying in with their new baby sometime soon, so I checked my phone for the seven-day forecast--something that wouldn't have occurred to me to do ten years ago. Funny how time and experience completely rewired your brain to think about something other than yourself.
Dad wasn't waiting on the porch as he usually was, prompting Camille to curse.
"Damn it, Jim Maddox!" she said, gesturing that she was in a rush for me to open the door. She scrambled out onto the grass, ran all the way to the porch, jumped the stairs, and yanked open the rickety screen door.
Olive parked and tossed me the keys, waving. "Going next door to tell Mom I'm having dinner with Papa!"
I nodded, feeling a small lump in my throat. All the grandkids called Dad Papa, and I loved that Olive did, too, even though she didn't know how right she was.
I followed Camille into the house, wondering what we would find. The paint on the porch was peeling, and I made a mental note to bring over my sander. The screen door was barely hanging on, so I added that to the list, too. Mom and Dad bought the house when they first married, and it was nearly impossible to get him to let us make changes or updates. The furniture and carpet were the same, even the paint. Mom had decorated, and he wasn't about to let anyone go against her wishes, even if she'd been gone for almost thirty years. Like Dad, the house was getting so old that it was becoming unhealthy and, in some cases, dangerous, so in the last few months, Camille and I had decided to start fixing things without asking.
Just as the hallway opened up into the kitchen, I saw Camille running toward Dad, her hands held out in front of her.
He was bent over, just putting the aluminum-covered potatoes into the oven.
"Dad!" Camille shrieked. "Let me do that!"
He slipped them in and closed the door, standing and turning to face us with a smile.
Camille pulled a pair of oven mitts out of the drawer, shoving them at him. "Why don't you use the mitts that I bought you?" She walked over, inspecting his bandaged hands.
He kissed her knuckles. "I'm fine, kiddo."
"You burned them so badly last time," she said, wiggling out of his grip to further inspect the wounds under his bandages. "Please use the mitts."
"Okay," he said, patting her hand. "Okay, sis. I'll use the mitts."
Camille began opening cabinet doors to find the oil, seeing that the drumsticks had already been dipped in Dad's special flour mixture and were sitting on paper towels next to the pan on the stove.
She waved us away. "Go on. I've got this. Yes, Dad, I'm sure," she said, just as Dad opened his mouth to ask.
He chuckled. "All right, then. Dominoes, it is."
"Aren't you sick of losing? We played dominoes for two hours this afternoon."
"Did we?" he asked. He shook his head. "I can't remember to wipe my own ass most days."
I blinked, surprised he didn't remember, but he didn't seem concerned.
"Cards, then?" he asked.
"No, we can play dominoes. I owe you a rematch, anyway."
Thunder rolled in the distance as we sat down at the table. The front door opened and closed, and then Olive appeared at the end of the hall, holding her hands out to each side, dripping wet. "Oh. My. God."
I burst into laughter. "Ever heard of an umbrella, Ew?"
She rolled her eyes, stomping over to sit on the dining chair next to me. "Will you ever stop calling me that? No one gets it."
"You get it," I said. "How hard can it be? Your initials are O.O. Together, they make the sound ew. Like moo. And too." My gaze drifted up to the ceiling. "Shoo. Boo. Coo. Goo. Poo. I could go on."
"Please don't," she said, grabbing a domino and turning it over in her thin fingers. It was getting harder and harder to impress her. She used to think I was god.
"Oh! Damn!" Camille yelped from the kitchen.
I pushed out my chair, standing halfway. "You okay, baby?"
"Yeah!" she called back, appearing with her jacket and her keys in hand. "Out of oil."
"But I just bought him some last Friday," I said, looking at Dad.
"Oh. That's right. I knocked it over Sunday."
I frowned. "We had sandwiches for lunch and pizza for dinner Sunday. You didn't make chicken."
He mirrored my expression. "Well, damn it, one of those days."
"I'm going to run to the store. You need anything else?" Camille asked.
"Cami, it's pouring," I said, unhappy.
"I'm aware," she said, kissing at me before heading out the door.
Dad brought down the dominoes from the shelf, and we made small talk. He asked me a few of the same questions he'd asked me earlier, and I began to wonder if he'd been forgetful all along and I was just noticing it, or if his memory was getting worse. He had a doctor's appointment that Friday. I'd bring it up then.
My cell phone buzzed. I pressed the receiver against my ear. "Hey, cunt puddle!"
"They just keep getting better," Thomas said on the other end of the line, unimpressed.
"Christ on a bicycle, Trenton," Dad fumed, nodding toward Olive.
I winked at him. Shocking him with my insults had become a sport.
"How are Mom and baby?" I asked.
"We're headed home,"
Thomas replied. "I think ... I think we're going to head that way earlier than expected."
"Everything okay?" I asked, noting that Dad's interest was piqued. I waved him away, assuring him nothing was wrong.
"Yeah ... yeah. Have you heard from Trav?" Thomas asked.
"No. Why?"
Thomas had been an enigma since I could remember, and the questions only multiplied when he became an adult.
Dad was staring at me, both patiently and impatiently waiting for an explanation. I held up my finger.
"Just curious."
"You're going to put a newborn on a plane? I knew you were brave, big brother, but hell."
"We thought Dad might like to meet her."
"He would. Dad would love to meet ..." My mind drew a blank.
"Stella," Olive whispered.
"Stella!" I repeated. "Dad would love to meet Stella." Dad popped me on the back of my head. "Ow! What'd I say?"
"So we'll be in tomorrow," Thomas said, ignoring the circus on the other end of the line.
"Tomorrow?" I said, looking at Dad. "That quick, huh?"
"Yeah. Tell Dad not to worry. We'll get the room ready when we get there."
"Cami has been keeping the guest room ready. She knew you'd be over some time with the baby. She even got a pack 'n whatever."
"She purchased a Pack 'n Play for Stella? Really?" Thomas asked. "That was nice of her. How is sh ... that was nice of her."
"Yeah," I said, suddenly feeling awkward. "We'll see you tomorrow, I guess."
"Tell Dad I love him," Thomas said.
"Will do, shit pouch."
Thomas hung up, and I shot Dad a wide grin. The two lines between his eyes deepened.
"I should have spanked you more," Dad said.
"Yes, you should have." I looked down at the dominoes. "Well? They're not going to shuffle themselves."
I settled on a dining chair, the golden brown leather making fart noises under my jeans. Even though I'd moved out, Camille and I visited Dad at least once a day, usually more. Travis visited when he wasn't traveling for work. I glanced up at the shelf that ran just below the ceiling, filled with dusty poker memorabilia and signed pictures of our favorite players. A few cobwebs had formed. I need to get up there and dust. Don't want the old man falling and breaking a hip.
"Cami didn't say anything about the test today," Dad said, moving the dominoes around in a circle on the table.
"Yeah," I said, staring at the white rectangular tiles as they slowly circulated around, under Dad's hands, moving in and out of the pack. "It's a monthly thing now. I think she's tired of talking about it."
A Beautiful Funeral Page 4
