Chapter 9
"Do you want a cup of coffee or a beer? We can sit in the kitchen. I guess there are things we should talk about, things to figure out." She was so businesslike, so in-charge of their situation, he followed her without question. Even in the shapeless overalls, he could see the curve of her nice round behind.
"A beer would be good, if you don't mind."
The kitchen had a cloth-covered table against the back window, overlooking the back yard and a wooden deck that looked new in the glow of the porch light. The lot was deep and there were trees. He looked forward to seeing it in daylight.
Brian sat at the table while Carrie pulled two microbrews from the refrigerator, popped the caps with an opener attached to the side of the cupboard by the sink, and delivered them to the table. They simultaneously lifted their bottles and automatically clinked them together, which felt like an unexpected gift of solidarity. He smiled, but then he frowned a question, and pointed to her belly, a subject they hadn't yet touched on.
"Should you . . . ?"
She didn't seem to resent the intrusion. "Doctor approved," she said, "as long as I limit it. She's past the danger point. And you have to admit this is an unusual occasion."
"She?" At least he had some time to get used to the idea of a daughter.
"Well, I don't really know that. I asked them not to tell me. But that's how I think of her." She rubbed her hand over her middle and gave it a friendly pat, like it was a puppy on her lap.
"This is the strangest situation. It's like being in a movie," Carrie said. "I don't think I believe it yet." She shook her head. "There's so much you don't know!"
"Pretty much everything, actually. You're being very calm. I appreciate it." He held the bottle up in sort of salute. "And hospitable too, to a stranger." He took a long draught from it and set it on the table.
"You mentioned my mother."
"Sandra. Yes." She took the time before going on to pull off her boots and clunk them to the floor in the corner behind her chair. Her socks were orange and purple plaid with green lines in them. He wanted to laugh but her face had gone serious.
"I feel like I'm breaking the news all over again." She paused for a minute and took a breath. "Your father died two months ago. He'd been in hospice for months, with metastasized lung cancer. I'm sorry."
It felt like a story belonging to someone else, but still it jolted him. He couldn't put in words what it meant to him, but it was something final. The end of something that would never be again, whether or not his memory returned.
She went on. "Your mother had a hard time visiting him in hospice. It's my opinion that it was because she still smokes. He desperately wanted her to quit. She would only stay a few minutes at a time. She knew she was leaving before he wanted her to, but I don't think she could help it. She said she didn't want to cry in front of him. She's been crying a lot, and I think she's drinking more than usual."
"Does she live near here?"
"Out in the county. She and your dad sold us this house and built a retirement cabin the other side of Eagle. About three years ago, before he got sick." He looked blank, and she pointed to the northeast. "It's about forty-five miles."
He didn't feel ready to cope with an emotional mother who was also a stranger to him. The idea overwhelmed him. Carrie was different. Even though it felt like something between them had a bitter edge to it, she seemed focused on the practical challenges of care-taking a damaged husband. He was grateful, and for the moment he was comfortable in her hands -- to the extent that he was comfortable.
But the task seemed so large. A whole life to be reconstructed! And what he had learned so far felt as though it was about someone else, a theoretical character that was only his shadow.
"You know," he said to Carrie, "Sitting here with you, I don't feel quite real. I know this is my house, my kitchen, but I don't know it. You're sort of like my tour guide in a country I've never been to. I know you didn't sign up for this."
She sipped at her beer and looked at him with that same piercing, questioning look she'd been wearing from the beginning. He'd made her laugh once. He wished he knew how to make her do it again. How to make this even fun for her, since she was stuck with him. They could play Twenty Questions, the way they had about his car. It was a silly idea. Maybe he was a silly person, but he didn't think she had much silliness in her. She seemed purposeful, composed, responsible.
"There's more beer if you want another one." She inclined her head towards his empty bottle and then towards the refrigerator. He must have finished that one fast. Or maybe he hadn't. Time was a little out of whack. He took her invitation and went to the refrigerator. He paused to see what else was in there. It wasn't that he was hungry; it was more like research. A big container of Greek yogurt. That must be hers, because it didn't call to him. A bag of apples. Several jars of organic sauces: pasta sauce, something Indian, something Thai. Lots of vegetables in the crisper, greens on the left, broccoli and root vegetables on the right. Organic eggs, organic milk, and what was probably organic cheese. And a plastic bag of salami. What were the odds that it was his?
He popped his beer open and returned to the table.
"Maybe we need a system for this." She chewed on her lip. "There are things you'll need to know right away. Like your job, especially. You'll have to do something about work. Let them know what's happened. Do you want to listen to your messages? I saved them."
He knew he wanted to put that off. His job. He scrabbled around in his mind looking for a clue. She'd found his dress shirt waiting for him on his bed, so he was probably a businessman, or a professional. Unless he was a computer or copier repairman. But he had a fancy car, and she had said he missed some meetings today.
"Oh boy, I don't know if I'm ready for that. Where do I work? What do I do? I don't have a clue."
"You're a lawyer, Brian. You work for Halstrom-Pierce. They're importers. You negotiate contracts and handle lawsuits. Or prevent lawsuits. You're very good at it."
"I'm not going to be much good to them this way, am I? Do you know them, the people I work with?"
"I know Andrea and Lou, slightly. You took me to a couple of parties. I was introduced to other people too, but I don't remember much about them. I didn't exactly fit in." She acted like she didn't mind that, maybe that it was her preference in fact. Like she didn't have much interest in his work, and she'd done her duty by showing up at an office party at all. "And I sort of know your secretary, Jenna, but just on the phone." He found that he was attending closely to her words and expressions, looking for clues about her opinion of him, wanting to keep it on the positive side of the ledger if he could. Maybe that was one of his negotiating skills, observing people, looking for leverage, managing relationships.
A question popped into his head. "Did you put me through law school?"
She gave him a curious look. "How did you know that?"
"It just seemed like the sort of thing you'd do. I don't know why. I've only known you for . . ." He looked up at the clock over the refrigerator, "Less than two hours."
"Yes, I did. And now you're putting me through grad school. I work part-time too."
"Grad school for what?"
"Comparative literature. I'm working on my dissertation. And I'm a teaching assistant."
"What did you do to support us when I was in school?"
"Stripper," she said, straight-faced.
He rocked back in his chair and stared at her. "What?"
She laughed. That was the second time he'd seen that mouth fully curved up.
"Just kidding. Sorry. I couldn't help it. You're a pretty easy mark right now, do you realize that? I could tell you anything, couldn't I?"
He was embarrassed by his reaction, but he smiled. Her amusement made him happy. He didn't mind at all that it was at his expense. "So what did you do, really?"
"I was an administrative assistant in the UW English department. A clerk with a fancy title. It paid the bills. You had a scholars
hip too, and a student loan."
"Is that your school up the hill?"
"That's where I teach, but I'm getting the Ph.D. from UW. I've finished the course work. Just the dissertation left, and I'm closing in on that."
He'd already been sure she was brainy. Brainy and beautiful. And funny too. Why didn't he feel one hundred percent lucky?
Clean Slate Page 9
