“Fine job, Colin,” the doctor said, shaking his hand in earnest. “Give me a call next week. I'd like to talk to you more about this.” Colin returned the handshake with equal enthusiasm.
“They're just ideas for the moment,” Colin said.
“Every great change starts with a great idea, Colin,” the doctor reminded him.
The remaining attendees all seemed to share in the sentiment, and when Colin was alone in the room, he smiled. He walked to the table where he'd left his laptop, and looked around the room. It was nondescript. It could have been any board room, any conference room, in any hotel, in any city. It wasn't anything special, but Colin knew he'd never forget it. He'd never forget the place where he'd taken a chance. He'd deviated from the mainstream of medicine, and instead of speaking from his head, from the depths of the scientific knowledge in his mind, he'd spoken from his heart. He hadn't admitted to a room full of colleagues that he was adopting one of his patients. Instead, he had spoken about treating patients by including their families. When the end neared, patients didn't need medical jargon. They needed compassion, and people who loved them. They needed help with planning, and someone to listen to their fears. He wasn't sure how to implement his ideas, but by speaking before his colleagues he'd put himself on the hook.
He felt good, and again, he wanted to call Caitlin, but he had no idea how to reach her. He wasn't going to call her cell phone. It seemed too familiar, reserved for friends and loved ones who hadn't abandoned her as he had. He had no right to call her there. He'd have to hope wherever her “leave” had taken her, eventually it would lead her back home, and she'd get the message he had left there.
***
The truth of the matter was that Caitlin did not get Colin's message. Sometimes the universe works in mysterious ways, and this mystery was facilitated by Nathan Parker.
When Nathan Parker, “Noonie”, to his family, much to his forty-year-old dismay, was certain his beloved Aunt Ella was holding her own, he'd agreed to collect one ancient Persian cat from Caitlin's apartment, and all the baby implements he could carry.
The apartment was quiet when he entered, and he looked around for several seconds before his eyes met the cat's. Georgie hissed loudly and scurried as fast as his aging legs would allow.
“Fucking cat!” Nathan muttered.
He was a dog lover, and had never had much tolerance for a feline companion. He found them annoyingly aloof and didn't have much use for them. But Nathan was a kind man, and as such, he'd have never lifted his hand nor any weapon to hurt a cat, no matter how much he disliked them.
“Georgie........, kitty, kitty,” he said softly, grateful to be alone. For a moment he felt like an idiot.
The cat carrier was exactly where Caitlin said it would be, and he took it from the closet, opened its metal door, and set out in search of the frightened animal.
“Georgie........., here kitty.......,” Nathan repeated, and suddenly he spotted the cat lumbering from its master's bedroom. The cat moved slowly, and Nathan felt confident this would work in his favor.
Caitlin had mentioned the cat might be reluctant, and he supposed he was about to find out.
Finding no reason to delay the inevitable, Nathan tiptoed up behind the cat, grabbed him with both hands, and spun around toward the cat carrier. The cat hissed and growled, and maneuvered in his hands in a manner unlike anything Nathan had seen. The cat seemed to be without a spine, nor any other bone structure, and twisted and turned in his grip.
“Dear God,” he said, holding tightly to the squirming animal.
Nathan took one step toward the cat carrier, stumbled only slightly, but just enough to kick the plastic traveling crate halfway down the hall. Still the cat struggled.
“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” he whispered.
Holding tightly to the cat, who was growing angrier by the minute, Nathan scurried quickly to the carrier, and pushed the cat inside, but not before taking a nasty hit, compliments of a fistful of claws, to his right hand.
“Holy Mary Mother of God!” he shouted, and the cat hissed at him from inside the crate. “Look, you little bastard, I don't have to do this,” Nathan said to the cat, as the blood began to drip from his hand. He flipped the cat off, suddenly braver now that a metal grate separated him from the deadly beast, and then, despite the pain in his hand, he chuckled.
The chuckle grew, and suddenly he was laughing so hard he could hardly catch his breath.
“You know, buddy, I should thank you. I really needed that,” he said to the cat, who eyed him from inside the crate. Suddenly the cat hissed again, and Nathan jumped.
“Yeah, I feel the same way about you,” he said, setting out toward the bathroom in search of something he could wrap his wounded hand in.
Nathan found the bathroom and flipped on the light. The hand was worse than he expected. He muttered a string of obscenities as he began running the hand under cold water. A pink pool gathered at the drain, and his stomach lurched at the sight of it. He found a box of gauze in the cabinet, and some antiseptic cream. Somehow he managed to bandage his right hand with his left, and he switched the light off and left the bathroom. His right hand looked like a gauzy white boxing glove, and he raised it above his head to alleviate the throbbing. Momentarily dizzy, he leaned against the wall to steady himself, and glanced down the hall toward the carrier. He silently thanked God the cat was where he'd left it. There wasn't enough money, or family commitment in the world to make him attempt that feat again.
“Hey, buddy,” he said to the cat, who cowered in the back of the carrier. The cat made a guttural sound. “I oughta pitch you out the window for what you did to me, you little shit, but I love Caitlin, and she loves you, although I cannot for the life of me imagine why, so I'll leave you there. Wait there, okay, buddy?” Nathan said, and the cat growled at him.
He gathered the baby seats, and something called a, “Sleep-Away”, which must have been new, since he was pretty sure no such thing existed when his Erica was a baby. He packed the baby clothes, as Caitlin had asked, took two pair of shoes from the closet, as Rita demanded, and when he had everything in a neat pile, he headed back toward the cat. “All right, you little asshole, let's go,” Nathan said, picking up the cat carrier with his left hand. The twisting and turning started again, and the carrier seemed to take on a life of its own.
“If you'd sit still, this would be a lot easier for both of us,” he said, setting the cat carrier on the floor beside him. He suddenly remembered one last thing Caitlin had asked him to bring. He switched the light on in the corner of the living room and the high tech phone was exactly where she said it would be, on a table near the window. His hand was throbbing again, and he pulled the white cord from the back of the phone, and the power cord from the wall. Just as he did, he remembered something Caitlin had said. He was supposed to have taken the tape out first to preserve any messages. Oh well. He was practically an invalid, compliments of the cat, and Caitlin would have to forgive him.
He carefully put the phone in a bag by the door, and once again picked up the cat carrier. The cat was blissfully quiet, and he bent down to make sure the animal was still alive. He knew the cat was older than dirt, and he silently prayed it hadn't died of a heart attack from the stress of its temporary confinement.
His eyes met the cat's, and Georgie let out another good hiss.
“Oh good, you're okay,” Nathan said. He opened the door, and headed down the stairs, with the carrier jerking at his side.
Eighteen
Colin Thomas sipped his third cup of coffee, and stared out the window closest to the table where he sat. The conference had gone incredibly well, and any doubts he'd had vanished with the first handshake, that first “attaboy”. Part of him wanted to cry for the years he'd lost, years he could have been treating more than just a disease, but this was life, and like everyone, he couldn't get the time back, no matter how much he tortured himself. He was sad, but he felt more alive than he had in
years, and suddenly he wanted to celebrate. Why couldn't he celebrate? He didn't often give himself a day off, and he was excited about the prospect of one. He left the coffee on the table and walked with purpose to the concierge's desk and inquired about a car rental. As he expected, the concierge offered his services and politely asked the doctor what type of car he'd like, and for how long he'd need it.
“I only need the car for today, and I'd like something fast with a convertible top.”
“A man who knows what he likes,” the concierge said, already reaching for the phone.
An hour later, Colin sat behind the wheel of a Mustang convertible. He slid his sunglasses onto his face, and glanced only briefly at the passenger seat, just long enough to picture Caitlin there. Driving up the coast of California, in a convertible, was something they'd talked about doing. Now he was doing it alone, but he felt oddly at peace about it. He needed the time to himself, to think about his immediate future. The air was warm, but not balmy, and the sky was cloudless. It was a beautiful day, and he smiled as the car moved almost soundlessly along the highway.
He needed a dose of the ocean. He went there from time to time, and like many, he could stand for hours just staring into the water, amazed by the infinity of it. The drive to Zuma beach took longer than he'd expected, but he didn't mind. He had his choice of many beaches, but Zuma was the first place he'd seen the ocean and it seemed fitting for him to return there.
He'd grown up the child of privilege in Spokane, Washington, and his only family, his Aunt Sadie, his mother's sister, still lived there. He was eight years old the summer his father had loaded him, his mother, and an assortment of luggage into the station wagon, and announced they were taking off on an adventure to California. He smiled at the memory – it had been years since he'd thought of that trip. His father had pulled into the parking lot, and Colin had pressed his eight-year-old face to the back window and stared in amazement at the body of water that stretched endlessly before him. He'd flung open the door of the car, and ran as fast as his short legs would carry him. His sneakers had immediately filled with sand, but he hadn't cared. He'd needed to get as close to the water as he could. Suddenly he heard his mother's voice, and it was so real, so vivid, that he wouldn't have been surprised to find her in the seat beside him.
“The boy's happy, Maynard,” she had said to his father.
All three of them had stood in the afternoon sun, their shoes filled with sand, their hearts filled with peace. A family at the ocean, sharing each other's company, and the wonder of the world. It had been the trip of a small boy's life, and suddenly, he was grateful he'd had it, more grateful than he'd ever been. He missed his parents. They had been good to him. They had loved him more than they could have ever said, and suddenly he realized by blocking them out to avoid facing the pain of their deaths, he had also blocked out the good things. His eyes misted behind the designer sunglasses, and although his eyes were moist, the corners of his mouth turned involuntarily into a smile. He was ready for this new chapter in his life, and suddenly all that came before was simply part of the journey, the events a preparation for where life was taking him. It was fitting to be at the ocean. He felt as though the tide of his life was shifting, that he was being carried along by the waves of change. He felt only slightly insecure, and he saw it as more of an adventure, no matter how much he might have hated why it was happening.
He saw the expanse of the ocean as it lay before him, and as it always did, for a moment it stole his breath. He maneuvered the car expertly into a parking space, and hit the small button to restore the roof to its rightful place. He opened the door, and stepped out of the car. His eyes took in the ocean, his nose took in the smell, and he felt himself calm as all his senses embraced his surroundings. It was beautiful and for a moment he just stared at it.
“Cate,” he whispered, wishing she were at his side.
He kicked off the flip-flops he'd bought in the hotel gift shop, and held them in his left hand, dropped the keys to the Mustang into the right pocket of his shorts, and headed toward the water. The beach was relatively deserted on this Monday morning, and he felt a peace settle over him.
He was right to come. He remembered the picnic lunch he'd shared with his parents so many years before. He walked to the very spot where they had dined on hot dogs, and salads carefully prepared by his mother in the kitchen in Spokane. The picnic tables were still scattered about, but had probably been replaced at some point over the thirty odd years since they'd sat there. He ran his hands over the cool wood on the bench, and sat facing the water. He closed his eyes and remembered the day, the memories coming back in waves. He remembered his mother's laughter, and his father's smile. He could almost smell the hot dogs cooking over the charcoal, and although he'd dined at the best restaurants all over the country, he wondered if he'd ever had a meal finer than the one he'd shared with his parents on that beautiful July day. As the memories came, he remembered something else, something he'd forgotten. He left the flip-flops on the ground next to the picnic table, and set out in search of the tree. It was impossible, he knew, but still he had to check.
He'd been a curious boy in his youth, and he'd been a collector. He'd collected things, and as a boy, he'd carried the treasures in his pocket. He found the tree, and thirty years later, it still stood strong and proud. It was taller, as was he, but the way he felt when he stared into its outstretched branches, was the same. He knelt at its base, and pushed his hand into the crevice time had made there. His fingers reached into the farthest back corner of the mossy opening and suddenly they made contact with the treasure he sought. He wrapped his fingers around the object, and pulled it free. The little pewter horse was exactly where he'd left it more than thirty years before, and although he looked down at the hand of a man, it was the fingers of a small boy he saw there. His past and present collided in perfect harmony, and he wrapped his fingers around the horse and pulled his fist to his chest. “Amazing,” he whispered, as tears slid down his cheeks. Colin stood and fished in the pockets of his shorts. He had to make an exchange. He was taking something from his past, and would leave something from his present in its place.
The cargo shorts had numerous pockets, but still he found nothing he could leave, nothing of any great meaning. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and opened it. The leather was smooth and worn, and he carried it back to the table. He had something, something he couldn't have imagined parting with, but something appropriate. The photo had been forgotten over the years, and he reached into the tiny pocket of the wallet and pulled it free.
The photo was yellowed with age, and more dear to him than he'd ever admit, and although he couldn't imagine leaving it, he knew it was right. A stranger had taken the picture, but the people who looked back at him were familiar. It was taken more than thirty years ago, and his mother and father stood one on each side of him and smiled at the photographer, as the ocean lay behind them. It had been taken here, at this place, on that memorable day in the life of an eight year old boy. The corners of the photo were curled, but time had aged him too, and his tears continued to fall as he vividly remembered the carefully preserved moment. It wasn't what he had in mind, this item from his past, but still he knew it was right. He no longer needed the photo, the memory would be with him forever. He stood and turned back toward the tree, his offering held tightly in his right hand. He knelt as he had before, and pushed the photo into the corner of the crevice. Time would not be kind to it, he knew, and it would no longer be protected from the elements, as it had been in the old, weathered wallet.
“It's okay,” he whispered to himself, as he stood and wiped his eyes.
He walked with purpose back toward the picnic table, taking his cell phone from his left hand pocket. He dialed the number to the hotel, and his call was answered on the first ring by the concierge. There was one more thing Colin needed to do before he returned home.
“Good afternoon, it's Doctor Thomas again,” Colin said softly.
“What can I do for you, Doctor?” the man asked.
“I was hoping you could book a flight for me.”
“Where would you like to go, sir?”
“Spokane, Washington.”
Nineteen
At 4:00 on Monday afternoon, Caitlin Goodrich was wheeled through the front doors of New York-Presbyterian Hospital with a baby in each arm. So this is it, she thought, as the cool autumn air tickled her cheeks. Once her eyes had adjusted to the bright sun, she saw Rita maneuvering a Nissan Murano around the circle.
“Dear God,” Caitlin said, her words coming out in a large sigh.
“Did you say something, dear?” the nurse asked, as she parked the brakes on the wheelchair.
“Nope, not really,” Caitlin replied.
She watched as Rita pulled up in front of her, and hopped out of the vehicle, her movements that of someone twenty years her junior. Glad someone feels that way, Caitlin thought.
“Can I help you, Cate?” Rita offered.
“Can you put them in their car seats?” Caitlin asked.
“Of course. Come to Grandma, sweet girl,” Rita said, as she took Hannah.
“Can I help you, dear?” the nurse said, and Caitlin nodded. The nurse reached for Rogan, and handed him to his grandmother.
Caitlin stood fairly easily, feeling better than she had just that morning. She was surprised by and grateful for her body's resiliency, and she sighed with disgust at the idea of being dependent on anyone.
The House of Roses Page 10
