Getting It Right

by Karen E. Osborne

  "A nice chunk to the church. Fix this place up. Maybe take a trip to see my granddaughter."

  Mrs. E. had never mentioned she had children, much less grandchildren. Kara had inquired about the photos in the living room, and Mrs. E. said they were her parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins. She had never mentioned a husband or any children. "Where does she live?"

  "In South Africa. Can't imagine how long it would take to get there."

  "You'd have to get on an airplane." Danny laughed, his even, white teeth flashing. "And we know how you feel about that."

  Mrs. E. shushed him.

  "What does she do?"

  "She's a volunteer, and she's studying to be a doctor." Mrs. E. smiled. "I haven't seen her in two years. She used to live here, in your rooms, Kara."

  "What happened to her parents?"

  "My Lucy is an orphan. She's my sister's granddaughter, but ever since her parents died, she's been mine." Mrs. E. shook her head as if disagreeing with her inner dialogue. "Enough about that. Can I get anyone else some more tea?"

  This time the silence was more comfortable. In one corner, Marty cleaned himself, the bowl of cream now empty. Mrs. E. hummed under her breath. From a distance, despite the late hour, Kara could hear muffled street sounds of cars, teens, and rap music. She finally began to feel better. Her head barely hurt; she didn't think about the nightmares, or Zach's sudden departure, or the man in the raincoat.

  After several minutes, Kara felt Danny's gaze on her again. She looked up as if to ask, What?

  "How are things going with that old white dude you're seeing? Isn't he married?"

  His tone was kinder than his words, but it was still a mean way to ask.

  Zach and Danny had met a few months earlier, when Zach had come to pick her up and Kara hadn't gotten to the door fast enough. She found the two of them in the narrow hallway. Danny, dressed in his civilian clothes, his arms crossed, his full lips curled under, stared Zach down. For his part, Zach seemed more amused than intimidated, if that was what Danny wanted to achieve. She introduced them, but that was it. How did Danny know Zach was married?

  "Great." She squared her shoulders. "Why are you both so down on him? Do I comment on your girlfriends? Speaking of which—"

  "Yes, you do comment, as a matter of fact."

  "What happened between you and Willa—I mean Willow?"

  Danny's laugh was low and warm. "Didn't work out." He arched one eyebrow into a steep V shape. "It happens. Some things are just meant to be," he shrugged, "some aren't."

  Kara wasn't sure whether he was referring to her relationship or his.

  "Anyway, I gotta get some sleep." He rose, kissed Mrs. E. on the cheek, grabbed another brownie, and with a backhanded wave strode toward the hardwood steps. He had the practiced gait of an urban black man, smooth and gliding with a hint of attitude.

  "What's the matter with him?" Kara asked.

  "You need to tend to your own garden and not peek into the neighbor's, much less scramble over her fence."

  Kara rolled her eyes in a classic Tuesday move. Suds sloshed in the sink as she began washing their dishes.

  Mrs. E. wouldn't let it go. "You know, honey, sometimes we want something so bad, we fool ourselves into thinking we already have it."

  It was time to say good night. From experience, Kara knew there was no end to Mrs. E.'s aphorisms. Besides—she wasn't fooling herself. She knew the likelihood of Zach leaving his wife and marrying her was slim, though maybe marriage wasn't what she wanted anyway. Who did she know who was happily married? No one. And Zach loved his young children, as he should. Kara finished wiping the table and placed the daffodil-filled vase at its center. The grandfather clock chimed midnight.

  "I just want you to be happy. Danny's a nice boy, single, and your own kind."

  What kind would that be? "Thanks for the tea, Mrs. E., but I'm pooped."

  "Don't you know he's crazy about you? I'm not so old I can't tell when a man has that spark."

  This conversation was going in the wrong direction. "Like I said before, Danny and I are just friends."

  "Humph."

  Kara leaned over and kissed the top of Mrs. E.'s head. "Good night."

  "He's got nobody, you know, just like you."

  Kara let that sink in, and then said, "See you in the morning." She walked to the stairs and, mimicking Danny's move, gave Mrs. E. a final backhanded wave. Was Danny like her? He never spoke about his people. When she asked an occasional question, he abruptly changed the subject. That sounded like Kara. Marty hobble-hurried past her, his missing leg only slowing him down a bit. "At least we've got each other, fella."

  * * *

  Her three rooms were just as she had left them, keys on the whatnot, front room dark, and bedroom lamp still on. Kara appreciated her part of the house. Her bedroom had a queen-sized bed, nightstand, small desk, bookshelves, and Marty's litter box—the bathroom was too small for it. Her exercise bike took up a corner. The room had a window overlooking Mrs. E.'s backyard, which was lying in wait for spring. An air conditioner rested under the window, topped with a cushion, creating an unattractive but useful winter seat and Marty's sleeping space of choice. The hall, its polished parquet floors softened with scattered rugs, had two closets, one for clothes and one for linens. She always kept one closet door cracked open for Marty. The best part was the little sitting room at the front of the house, with a nonworking fireplace crowned with a cherrywood mantle. A bay window, framed with a gauzy curtain and decorated with a plush pillow, faced the street, bringing in light and the sounds of neighborhood activity. Marty spent most days sitting there.

  The day Kara had moved in, she came with nothing—having left her furniture, stereo, and most of her clothes in the apartment she and Winston had shared for six months. She was too embarrassed and miserable to go back and claim them. Necessity, however, overcame pride. Danny had helped her retrieve her items and move them into her new rooms. Now a beloved ottoman, love seat, and stereo helped make the front room her favorite.

  That's where she went now. She lowered one hip onto the pillow, pulled up the blinds, and peered out the window. All was quiet, no man in a raincoat. Relieved, she brushed her teeth again and got into bed. She desperately needed sleep. The alarm clock was set for 6:30 a.m. and it was already after midnight.

  Marty circled several times on her coverlet, then curled into a ball, tucked his head, and closed his eyes.

  Starting at one hundred, Kara counted backward, willing herself to sleep. Eventually, she drifted off. But after only an hour or so of calm sleep, the nightmare began again.

  The wave of mud grew bigger, closer, and once again crashed down on her, burying her alive.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Vanessa finally arrived. Dressed in a navy-blue and white–striped power suit, she glided into the waiting room on polished black pumps. With a sharp look, she took in Alex's unkempt appearance and demanded a "concise status report." Vanessa had an amazing aptitude for making others do her bidding, and Alex was no exception. Alex dragged her fingers through her tangles, straightened her back, and tucked her scuffed boot–clad feet under her chair before providing Vanessa with the requested information.

  "The next twenty-four hours are critical," Alex concluded.

  Vanessa knitted her brow and drummed her fingers in a familiar Lawrence-family gesture. For the next hour, Vanessa went into action. She spoke with all the nurses and aides, who listened respectfully. The conversations resulted in a cot for their mother in the hospital room—something Alex had asked for hours before—and an overdue sponge bath for their father—another thing Alex had requested several times. Within less than thirty minutes of receiving the cot and the bath, their parents both fell asleep.

  For a few minutes the two sisters stood at the doorway of their father's room and watched: their mother was curled in a tight ball, hugging her pillow the way Pigeon used to snuggle her teddy bear; their father, mouth agape, hair disheveled, looked de
athly pale. Alex thought about how much she loved them. She knew firsthand how difficult her mother made her father's life—so many histrionics and so little warmth. In fairness, it must have been hard for her mother to be last in her husband's affections. In her heart, Alex knew she was first, followed by her sisters, and then who—his other women? Alex studied her sleeping father. No, he loved her mother more than he loved those other women, more than his dead mistress and Kara. Did Vanessa know he loved Alex best?

  She draped her arm around her sister's shoulders and squeezed. "Thanks for all of your help. It's been a hell of a day."

  "I can see that," Vanessa said, pushing Alex's hair out of her face.

  The sisters returned to the lounge to pack up an exhausted Aunt Peggy. After many reassurances that they would call if anything changed, they took her to the lobby, wrapped her ancient mink over her shoulders, and bundled her into a taxi.

  On the elevator back up to the CCU, Alex filled Vanessa in on Pigeon's escape to LA. "I'm worried she'll do something stupid and get married before she even knows him. Or worse, he'll dump her in LA, and she'll be too proud to come home."

  "Maybe she needs to grow up." Vanessa pointed to a string of empty chairs in the waiting room. "Maybe you need to let her."

  The sisters sat side by side. Vanessa picked up an old copy of Vogue.

  Alex tried to figure out how best to tell Vanessa about Kara—she needed her sister's moral support but had no idea how she would react.

  "Stop jiggling your foot."

  Alex stopped. She tugged on her lower lip.

  Vanessa thumbed through the magazine, one of her high-heeled pumps loose and hanging from her toes.

  A male physician walked by the glass-encased waiting room, hungrily taking in Vanessa, who didn't appear to notice. This always happened, at least whenever Alex was around. It wasn't that her sister had movie-star looks. Vanessa was the same height as Alex and had Aunt Peggy's honey-blond hair, smallish gray-green eyes, a pug nose like their mother's, and her best feature—full, pouty lips. What Vanessa also had, at least according to Sean, was movie-star attitude: great legs, short skirts, high heels, and an I-couldn't-care-less-about-you demeanor. When Alex declared Vanessa skinny, Sean had smirked and said, Skinny with great boobs.

  "What are you sighing about?"

  "There's one other thing I need to tell you."

  "Shoot."

  Alex explained about their father's illegitimate daughter and his sickbed request for Alex to find her.

  "How's Judy taking all this?" Vanessa had started calling their parents by their first names on her sixteenth birthday. I'm too old to have a mommy and daddy, she'd declared.

  "I don't know. She must have made peace with it."

  "Ha." Vanessa laid her magazine down on the chair next to her. "More like stored it away for future torture."

  "How did she not tell us?"

  "You mean how come she didn't tell you, her Miss Fix-it confidante."

  Alex let that pass. "Dad's heart attack has thrown her off."

  "How can you tell?" Vanessa rose and faced Alex. "Everything is a firestorm and nothing is ever in proportion to the situation." She took a deep breath. "Who cares?" She sat back down.

  "I don't know if he told her, you know, about asking me to find his . . ." Alex couldn't call her his daughter or by her name.

  "You know he didn't; thus the covert operation."

  "I'm thinking I'll Google her, go on Facebook."

  "Do you know her adopted name, date of birth, Social Security number?"

  "Right." Alex bit her lip. "Dad said to call Martin Dawes; he had the grandmother's address, but the information is about twenty years old."

  "Maybe the national adoption registry?"

  "What's that?"

  "I read about it in some article. Adoptees register and hope the parents who deserted them might find them."

  Alex ripped the corner off the back page of a magazine and made a quick note.

  "If he'd asked me, which of course he never would, I'd hire a private detective."

  It was true: her parents never asked Vanessa to help them. In many ways she was smarter and more successful than Alex and the more logical choice. The difference, however, was that Alex always said yes.

  "He wants her to be receptive to being found, and he thinks I can smooth the way."

  "Tell him you tried and couldn't find her."

  "I can't do that."

  "Why on earth do we want to find another—probably neurotic—sister? Really, Alex, you don't have to do everything he asks."

  Of course, they both knew that wasn't true.

  They settled on Alex calling Mr. Dawes in the morning and the two of them making a trip to the last known address of Kara's grandmother in the Bronx on Saturday.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kara came downstairs Friday morning to see Danny ripping open a packet of instant oatmeal with his teeth and dumping the flakes into a bowl.

  "Want some? I make a mean breakfast." He added milk and placed the bowl in the microwave.

  "I'm not hungry, but thanks."

  The microwave beeped. He pulled out the bowl, straddled the chair, and sat. "You okay?"

  "Sure, how about you?"

  He laughed. "Well enough, for a man who gave you such a hard time last night."

  She gave him a no-teeth smile. "I guess I gave as good as I got," she said and grabbed a banana.

  He had returned from his night detail just as Kara had come down to feed Marty. At first it was a bit awkward, but Danny had a way of making her feel comfortable and putting her on edge at the same time.

  They ate in silence and once again Kara considered telling Danny about the man who'd followed her. Danny watched, leaning on his elbows over his now-empty bowl, as if he could tell she was debating with herself. Her private self won, and it was time to get going. Kara rose from the table at the exact same moment as Danny. She reached for his bowl to put it in the sink and their hands touched.

  "I'll wash." He took the bowl and spoon from her, his eyes still on her face.

  They stood close; she could smell brown sugar on his breath. The thought that he might kiss her sped through her mind, and she scrambled for a conversation topic. "How's your studying going?"

  "The sergeant's exam?"

  "Are you studying for something else?"

  He watched her for a few beats. "Fine."

  Kara decided she'd imagined the almost kiss.

  In a decidedly casual tone, Danny said, "If you're leaving now, I'll walk you to the subway. I need to grab some decent coffee."

  She had definitely imagined it.

  * * *

  Icy rain stung their faces, and Kara lowered her umbrella. Her breath fogged her glasses as they passed Asian grocers, coffee shops, and a dimly lit laundromat. Her temples throbbed. Last night, after the horrific dream woke her up in a cold sweat, she'd sat in bed and watched movies. This morning she felt hungover.

  Danny's voice cut into her thoughts: "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

  "Just tired, or maybe it's the weather."

  He nodded. "It's supposed to get better this weekend. Maybe you and . . ." He trailed off without finishing his sentence.

  "I just remembered I have to run an errand before work." She quickened her pace. "Thanks for asking how I'm doing." She moved ahead of him. "See you."

  Kara ran down the littered steps of the 135th Street station, jostled by people closing wet umbrellas, her own leaving a trail of drops behind her. An approaching train clanged into the station, so she quickly swiped her MetroCard, pushed through, and made it just as the doors began to close. She should have said something nice to Danny, but he flustered her. Why was that? She made a sound in her throat. Mrs. E. had an answer, something about sparks. Well, Kara's life was complicated enough.

  The train rattled into another station and more people squeezed on. Kara tucked her tote in close and pressed her back into a corner, protecting as much of her body as possible
. She hated having strangers so close to her. Danny popped back into her mind. Maybe tonight she'd make a point to thank him again for his concern.

  After taking the shuttle from Times Square to Grand Central, she emerged at 42nd Street and Lexington Avenue and walked east. The slushy rain had turned into wet snow and the wind sliced through her. Try as she might, Kara couldn't shake her heavy mood. She steadied the umbrella. Just as she reached her destination, she saw him in the doorway. Workers were pushing through the adjacent revolving doors, but in spite of the hat pulled low, there was no mistaking him.

  Kara didn't know what to do or where to hide. She took two steps back, spun around, and ran across the street just as the yellow light counted down to zero. A coffee shop on the corner appeared crowded and safe. She ducked inside, looking over her shoulder, but tilted umbrellas and the avenue packed with cars, trucks, and yellow cabs obscured her view of the building's entrance across the street. A man pushed past her in the doorway she blocked. "Do you mind, lady?"

  Undeterred, Kara watched the street scene steadily. There he was. He crossed against the light and darted around the slow-moving traffic.

  She moved farther into the doorway. The umbrella was wet against her side as she made her way to the back of the café. This was as terrifying as her nightmares, except it was real, here and now, while the dreams were about things from long ago. A yellowed paper sign told her she was near the women's bathroom—a place to hide where he couldn't follow. As she tried to decide what to do, an elderly woman in a plastic raincoat slipped around her and went inside the one-person lavatory. The door clicked shut.

  Kara dug her cell phone out of her bag; she needed help. She punched in Zach's number, her dull headache becoming a sharp pain.