All of Me

by Emily Duvall

  “Going well. She’s determined to make her situation work.” He sets the bottle on the counter and mindlessly picks at the label. “Maren told us she came over.”

  We look each other in the eye. Father to father.

  I take a slow sip, eyeing him the whole time. “What about it?”

  “Ellen and I are concerned that your hanging out—running or otherwise—isn’t necessary. We appreciate you checking on her the other night, we just don’t want her to be confused or put in a bad position.”

  “And you think I’ve what? Hurt her? Been mean? If you’re worried about her ability to make decisions, then you don’t know her.”

  Ryan scowls. “I know my own daughter. She’s vulnerable in a way you and I will never be. People have—and will take advantage.”

  “That’s everyone.”

  He passes an uncomfortable laugh. “We surround her with people we can trust.”

  “I can drop everything at work and go to her apartment, but if I invite her here you’re suddenly suspicious of my intentions?” Soon as I say the words, I believe them with a fresh surge of conviction.

  Ryan’s not convinced. “We don’t know you.”

  “But you know Maren.”

  He sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “There’s the problem. We’re her parents and we want to protect her from having a broken heart or feeling disappointment, things you and I can recover from.”

  “Who’s to say she wouldn’t be able to do that?” I grab another beer, not in the mood to get in an argument. “Because the woman I’ve been hanging out with isn’t this weak, sensitive woman you describe. I know I wasn’t around earlier in her life, but this is the woman I’m getting to know now.”

  His gaze shifts to his beer. “We knew early on. Ellen and I. We were both in denial, we tried special diets, we justified her behavior. Maren was two and not speaking. At three, she spoke few words. The lack of speaking wasn’t the only thing. She moved different, didn’t interact with us in a way that came natural to Libby.” Tiredness exists in his eyes, in his entire face. For a moment I think he might cry. “We had enrolled her in a preschool. The experience confirmed our suspicions. The teacher informed us that Maren played by herself constantly, she wouldn’t move on with the other kids to different activities. She would scream and thrash when the teacher tried to move her to the next task, and eventually, the students moved on without her. The kids would do the next activity and Maren would be left on the carpet, playing with whatever toy had held her interest. That was the start of doctors’ visits, speech and behavior therapists. It was a huge shift to our social world and mostly to Ellen, who had to navigate the stay-at-home mom scene.”

  I think of Maren as an adult. She’s nothing like that girl he described. “And now?”

  “Those days get further away. She’s not that girl anymore, but I’m afraid I’ll always be the dad watching from the preschool door, seeing his little girl alone on the carpet, unaware of the other kids painting a project at the center table.”

  “Separated.”

  “Different.” Ryan wipes his eyes, concealing his emotion. “The things is, I want her to have the same things as Libby, opportunities and chances to be with someone. I don’t want her always to be the one on the sidelines or for her life to pass by. One day you’ll have a child and you’ll understand.”

  I’m close to telling him about Darcy. I don’t know why, maybe because my own father isn’t interested. Maybe my sister’s too busy raising her own children or my mother wants to pray away my pain. Maybe I haven’t had anyone to tell in so long that I need to talk.

  “At times, I know Maren seems fine. You see this amazing woman, like if there had never been a diagnosis. Those segments can be misleading and heartbreaking. The reality is, she needs people around her who love her for who she is. Not how she should be.” His gaze is critical and protective. “She doesn’t need a white knight.”

  “I’m not trying to be her hero.”

  His face is stern and his eyes, intent. “Then what are you doing?”

  “I can’t give you an answer. What I do know is Maren has more independence than you give her credit for. She has ready-made meals in the fridge. Libby thinks she needs babysitters. Your wife called me to check in on her. But when Maren and I hang out, she’s like any other woman I know, except a tad more set in her ways. And I do care about her happiness. I care that she has a say.”

  Ryan’s eyes are glossy. His voice is gravely. “Ellen made a mistake, she shouldn’t have reached out.”

  “I told her Ellen had called me. But did you? Did you even bother to tell her that was your idea?”

  “We did.”

  Fury rises in my chest and pounds up to my throat. This feels like a lie. I should know, I’m around liars every day. “Bullshit.”

  “That’s the difference between me and you. You think she looks at you and feels something. She feels nothing. Her heart is like a blank, gray, slate. It always will be.”

  “How can you believe that?” My hand clenches around the bottle. “Your daughter feels more in every breath than you or me.”

  Ryan slams down his drink and stands. “You’re confusing her!”

  “And you won’t let her grow up.” I regret saying the words, to speaking to her father this way.

  “Stay away. Make this easy for her.”

  I give him a hard look. “You mean for your sake.”

  “For all of us.” Ryan pauses with his hands on his hips and his neck is strained. Sighing, he sets the beer on the counter. “I’ll see myself out.”

  The visit leaves me restless. I get out my iPad and I search. I search everything about her condition, until my eyes are dry, red, and overloaded on blue light. I need to know she’ll be okay. The deeper I wade through the text, the more lost I feel.

  I close my laptop and stretch out on the couch with my hands linked behind my head. After Darcy got sick, I swore I’d never Google again when it came to medical conditions. Little good that rule does me now. I want to tell the Coles they’re making a mistake. They need to stop involving themselves so much. That’s the selfish part of my heart talking. Deep down, Ryan’s words stick to my ribs. What if I never win all of her? I close my eyes and swear. I try to sleep and fail.

  A bigger mess awaits me the next morning. I glance at Sara, entering my office with two to-go cups of coffee.

  “Good morning,” she says, placing one of the cups on my desk.

  There’s a cheerfulness about her that sours my mood. Not even the scent of caffeine helps. I give a flippant, “Thanks,” without giving a second glance.

  “Are you okay? You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “I’m fine. What do you have?”

  “I identified two people in the bar from the night of the accident. They were seated next to Beth, Amanda, and Ellie.”

  My head snaps up at the same time Julie walks into my office. Her face is dire and extra white. Not good. I’ve worked for her long enough to know when it’s going to be bad. “Good, you’re both here,” she says, closing the door and approaching my desk. “Something’s happened.”

  “What?” Sara says, giving herself a chance for one more sip of coffee.

  “Amanda Thorne is expected to pass away soon. The doctors don’t think she’ll make it through the night.” Julie rubs her hands together, causing all the rings on her fingers to swivel. “We can’t have the felony charge become a homicide one, which the Thorne family will pursue, if this happens. Pierce contacted me, he’s highly concerned, of course. The trial is so soon, he wants to get in there before the charges change. You’ll need to file a motion with the judge to see the case sooner.”

  “We’re still sifting through evidence. Making our case,” I say.

  Sara bristles her shoulders and in a confident voice remarks, “I had been about to tell Caleb I found something that will help us.”

  “Out with it,” I say urgently.r />
  “The girls went to the bar to order drinks. All three of them show the bartender their IDs. Paul is behind the bar, he checks Beth’s ID, just as he told us and there are two women seated next to the girls,” she repeats for Julie’s benefit.

  I’m leaning forward, head cocked, hanging on her every word. “Who was there?”

  “Libby and Maren Cole.”

  I’m dumbfounded. I blink hard. “You’re sure?”

  “Didn’t you review the transcripts?” Sara says with a big fat smirk.

  Realizing that I haven’t puts me in a bad light. I’ve made an error and Julie catches every second of it.

  “The video clip is in the email I sent last night,” Sara adds accusingly.

  “Let’s see it.” Julie comes around my desk as I switch to email. The message is in the inbox and I click the link.

  Unbelievable. Libby and Maren are sitting at the bar. A drink in front of each of them. Men and woman are everywhere around them and there they are, right next to the girls. Sara’s right. I should have read their testimony. If I hadn’t been so distracted…

  “Libby knew we might take on the case,” Julie says, torn between anger and incredulity. “She never said a word that she’d been there.”

  “With her sister,” Sara adds the tidbit.

  Julie’s perceptive eyes narrow. “Why would she do that? Why would she not say anything?”

  Sara clears her throat. “She didn’t want to jeopardize the promotion.”

  I stick up for Libby. “She was providing confidential testimony. She wouldn’t break rules, not even for the sake of the firm, but none of that matters, we took the case on after the fact.”

  Julie glances again at the image on the computer screen. “Talk to Libby, Caleb. Find the sister too.”

  Sara’s gloating gaze meets mine.

  I wait until they leave, and I pick up the phone. I make the call.

  My fist curls and my teeth are on edge at my obvious misstep. The call goes straight to Libby’s voicemail.

  Chapter 15

  Maren

  I have a boyfriend. The assertion is real, true, and straight from my heart. I look around the room, a church basement with gray stone walls and small windows, and I know I’m going to have trouble sitting through my weekly support group. The official name is Friends with Autism and the meetings are designed to be interactive and to boost communication skills. There’s twelve of us each week sitting in a semicircle of metal chairs. Jenny, one of the members, brings a bucket of stress balls to maintain her emotions. Another guy, Darren, sits on his hands to avoid flicking them—we all have our own something.

  “Good evening,” Doctor K addresses the group, and takes a new seat each week to mix up the seating order, which no one likes. “Tonight, we’re going to start with an icebreaker. We talk a lot about rapid conversation, how people speak and switch subjects. For some of us, we struggle to know when to end a discussion or to know how many details to give about an experience. In my hand I have a piece of paper.”

  “What’s on the paper?” Brandon interrupts.

  “Please, not Pictionary,” Darren grumbles, rocking forwards and back repeatedly.

  My fellow group members erupt with questions, raising the noise level. I want to know why no one brought donuts this week. Isn’t anyone else concerned? Is this the end of the donuts?

  Doctor K holds up a commanding hand, waiting for us to become quiet. Someone makes a snorting sound. “This activity is cooperative,” she finally says.

  I roll my eyes. I hate this game already. Whoever invented these activities must have lost every game they ever played. I mean, just what is the point? Team-building for fun? And without the donuts this week, what’s my motivation for participating?

  “In each corner,” Doctor K continues, “I have numbers one through four written on a piece of paper and taped to the wall.”

  Our gazes move to the closest corner. At least there are numbers, a far improvement than the ice breaker from last week, detangling the human knot.

  “We’re going to learn something about each other by exploring conversation starters. Here’s how this works: I’ll ask a question and you go to the corner that best represents your answer. We’ll try a practice round.”

  I raise my hand.

  “Maren?”

  “What does the winner get?”

  “There’s no winner.”

  My shoulders slump. Why even play?

  “Can we put a point value on the corners?” Jenny asks.

  “No points,” Doctor K says. “Just practice. There’s no right answer. You tell other people in the corner why you like the color. Make eye contact. Maintain control of your body. First question. Which one of these is your favorite color? Corner 1-blue, corner 2-red, corner 3-green, corner 4-orange.”

  “What about yellow?” Marissa says.

  Doctor K’s even-keel expression never wavers. “Use the colors I listed. Let’s go. Everyone up.”

  We play the corner game for another five rounds, at the end of which, we talk about our experience and if we learned anything new about each other. I still think someone should have brought donuts.

  I also think about Caleb, since we’re dating now, maybe I’ve had this all backwards. The insignificant details of my daily existence might be worth telling him about. Perhaps there is more to getting to know a person. I should know his favorite color. He should know mine. The answer tells us something about the other.

  I’m wrapped up in my thoughts and miss paying attention to the last half of the group. The Metro is across the street and I walk there with some group members. We part at the entrance and go on with our evenings. I find a bench to sit on across from the tracks and I think about how long I’ve waited to have a real boyfriend. I don’t want to ruin this, so I’ll ask him every unimportant question I know.

  My train is five minutes delayed and I look over my phone. No messages and no calls. I glance up and freeze. There he is. Paul Pierce, the man from the bar with the mean face and the pencil behind his ear, though there’s not one now. He’s watching me, too. We acknowledge each other without saying a word, just like that day at the crosswalk, the first night I met Caleb. Mr. Pierce walks in my direction. He’s coming closer…

  I scoot to the end of the bench, near the end, and I fall off flat on my butt. The phone launches and lands out of reach.

  I look up to find him looking down at me. The same dark eyes as that night. “You been keeping your mouth shut?” he snaps, picking up my phone and holding it in front of my face.

  I nod fiercely and grab at the phone. “I haven’t told anyone.”

  He makes a chewing motion and spits to the side of me. “Good. Because I know your name Maren Cole. I know where you live, and I’ll come find you.” He tosses the phone at my chest.

  My arm flies up to my face and I squeeze my eyes close. When I open them and drop my arm, he’s on the train. He’s watching me through the pale, dated glass. The doors close.

  My fingers automatically tuck beneath my legs to control the shaking. Thoughts of the police interviewing me and asking questions are fresh on my mind. I have never lied in my life. I pick myself up and straighten my back, and I wait for the next train.

  When I get home, I get out my maps of Washington D.C. and Virginia. I find Pierce’s bar and I use a color pen. I circle over the marks that are already over the location. I do this until the paper rips. Using the edge of the map, I write down the make of the car. The time of the incident. I put it in order like I’ve done so many nights before.

  ***

  I can’t tell my parents. They’ll flip out and smother me with questions. They are still in town and I realize how much I’ve missed their company. My mother shows up before breakfast and makes my lunch and they keep busy while I’m at work. We spend the week together in our tried-and-true routine of family dinners and my apartment getting stocked up on whatever my parents deem I’m missing. Between meals, shopping, and the busyness
of having family in town, I check my phone. I check my messages with my anxious heart, waiting for him to call. Waiting for Caleb.

  By Saturday morning I haven’t heard from him. No returned texts either.

  Why hasn’t he texted? This thought gnaws at me. I’m like a rat just chewing on a wire. I know it’s because of Paul Pierce and the fact that I haven’t heard from Caleb that I’m all wound up. Ugh! I don’t know the protocol for finding out why he’s not reaching out. I grab my phone and send Charlotte a message.

  Me: Caleb hasn’t texted.

  Charlotte: Don’t text him.

  Me: But I want to know why he’s not calling.

  Charlotte: Go do something else. Stay busy. You’ll hear from him when you do.

  Me: What if I don’t hear from him?

  Charlotte: Think of it as playing a game. If you move too fast, you’ll lose.

  A game? I consider her words. It’s not like there’s chess pieces. That’s absurd.

  What’s really crazy though? How I just keep checking my phone. I get out my maps and I start highlighting the longest and shortest routes. I do this until I can’t see straight.

  In case I’ve missed him, I go to the park and wait for him on the bench. My brain lapses into a loop. Caleb’s not here. Caleb…Caleb…Caleb…no show. Didn’t show. The cycle is a powerful current and the only way I know to break it is to put my feet to the pavement and move. I run and think and listen to my breath. Shouldn’t a boyfriend call back? Shouldn’t he be here? I move fast and my attention changes. I’m doing this by myself, I’m feeling out the city without Mom hovering. Without Libby waiting for me. Without Doctor K expecting to know how I feel. Without the members of group, making me see my differences clearly. I’m mad at Caleb and happy at the rush of adrenaline. He’ll call. Right?

  The run does me a lot of good. My nervous energy, expelled. At home I waste no time opening my computer and typing, ‘What if a guy hasn’t called’ into the search engine. How brilliant. I’m not alone asking this question. The comment threads are endless, the message clear. If a man doesn’t call, he’s not interested.

  Huh.