Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  “I’ll call when I’m ready,” she said before disappearing behind the dusty old door.

  I was dying to know what it was like in there. While Georgia had spent most of her young childhood in a modest house she shared with both parents, when her mother left, she and her father moved up here—he couldn’t afford the house and the bar. But, while I wanted to satisfy my own curiosity and hold the hand of my wife as she undertook such an emotional overhaul, I was practicing treating her like the adult she was, rather than a figurine destined to break at any second.

  She could do this.

  I thought about reaching for my phone to pass time, but decided against it. I wanted to be as present in this moment as I could—ready for Georgia if she needed me, and just comfortable in the discomfort that sometimes comes with life. A lot of the breakdown that occurred between me and Georgia had to do with reluctance on both our parts to be present—to face reality. Sure, sitting there on a narrow staircase in the back of a bar might not seem like a huge deal to anyone from the outside, but I needed to be patient here. For Georgia. I could sit here and wait for my wife.

  Not more than a few minutes had passed before the door creaked open behind me. I stood to face Georgia. Her eyes were red, fighting tears. Her jaw was relaxed, though, and it seemed she was just letting the emotions work their way through her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked quietly, climbing the two stairs that separated us.

  She nodded, blinking slowly once. “Want to see? There’s a bunch of boxes around but, honestly, not a lot’s changed.”

  My pulse raced at the thought of being in the space that hosted some of the worst damage that Georgia faced. She stepped back, holding the door open.

  While I’d planned to take a slow look around, giving attention to one space before moving on, the place kind of swallowed me all at once. It looked like the fisherman apartments I’d seen in movies like The Perfect Storm. Wide open spaces, a galley kitchen with a broad window overlooking the ocean, and a tattered couch and recliner facing an old tube television.

  Sliding my hands in my pockets, I paced carefully through the place while Georgia stood by the door. The floors creaked beneath each step, and muffled, thunderous noise bellowed up from below.

  “Was it always this loud?” I ask, facing her, checking on her. She seemed okay.

  Georgia shrugged. “I guess it had to be, but I don’t remember it like this. I was probably just used to it.”

  I pointed to a small framed-out room near the back, which looked like it hung right above the bar itself. “Bedroom?”

  She nodded, taking a slow step toward me, her arms crossed over her chest. “I haven’t gone in there yet. It was mine. He mostly slept on the couch if he slept at all. I think he felt all kinds of bad for making me move out of our house—served him right,” she added under her breath.

  “Can I?”

  “I’ll go with you,” she answered nervously. “I just didn’t think I could bear it alone. I mean, it’s just four walls, right? I don’t know if I even left anything, and whatever I did is probably—”

  Georgia’s words ceased with the flicker of the light illuminating the room. The walls were painted a pale blue, and in one corner was a twin bed, unmade. The walls were bare, save for old pieces of tape that looked like they used to hold posters, given their squared-off arrangement.

  But, on the table next to the bed was the reason for my wife’s sudden speechlessness. A picture. Three-by-five, in a tarnished silver frame.

  “I have this … at home … right?” she questioned to herself in a whisper.

  Sitting on the bed next to her, I held one edge of the frame as she held the other. “Yeah,” I agreed. “We have this.”

  It was a picture of Georgia and her parents on the day they brought her home from the hospital—all hopes, dreams, and smiles.

  Georgia swallowed hard, bringing a hand to her mouth as tears spilled from her eyes. “He must have … he must have moved in here when I left and just … put this up. I—I didn’t know he had one.”

  I put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in to kiss her temple. “He loved you.”

  She nodded, swallowing through a rush of tears. “He tried. I really believe he did. He just … it wasn’t enough.”

  “I know,” I whispered, pulling her as close as she’d go. “Sometimes …”

  I trailed off, not knowing what else to say. In truth, Georgia had some great memories from her dad, and half of who she is—challenging and wonderful—came from him and the time she lived with him here in this emotional anchor of an apartment.

  We sat in silence for a long time while Georgia ran her thumb over a picture we saw every day in our own apartment three thousand miles away. Because this one was different in every emotionally possible way.

  “Let’s go,” she finally said, rising to her feet with the picture still in her hands.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded and a faint smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I can come back here any time I want—I’ve had enough for today.”

  I stood, kissing her once before leading the way out of the room. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you for coming in here with me.” She paid little attention to the rest of the apartment before turning off the light and shutting the door behind us.

  Once back on the staircase, Georgia locked the door and dropped the key back into the watering can. With a deep cleansing breath, she looked me in the eyes. Looking back at her, I saw a storm of resolve, along with a calm wisdom I swear hadn’t been there before.

  “It didn’t kill me,” she said, almost to herself. “I faced the big ugly thing, and it didn’t kill me.”

  “No,” I grinned, “it didn’t. What are you gonna do with that?” I gestured to the picture still in her hands.

  She descended the stairs ahead of me, answering over her shoulder. “I don’t know yet. But are you heading over to the stage?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, checking the time on my phone. “It’s about that time.”

  “K. I’ll meet you there. I’m going to go put this with my stuff at your parents’ house so I don’t forget it. Leave me here, though,” she said as we prepared to enter the cacophony of the bar. “I need to talk to Creature.”

  “You sure?” I leaned forward, searching her eyes for hesitation. I found strength there instead.

  Georgia rose up on her toes, kissing my nose. “I am. I really am. Up there? That was really four walls. But this?” She held the picture between us. “This is … more than I could have imagined.” Her eyes welled with tears and I lifted her chin with my index finger.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She smiled through the tears. “You know, I don’t think I ever told you this, but I didn’t cry when my dad died.”

  I swallowed, unsurprised given all I knew about their relationship—and Georgia’s reluctance to tears—but I was floored by her honesty. “You never told me that.”

  “Because I couldn’t grieve the man I lost—a shell of the father I knew.” She held up the picture again. “But this man? This is the father I lost and … I think I’m going to need some time—to cry a lot.”

  I pulled her into a tight hug. “I’ll be here. Whatever you need.”

  As quick as the emotion came on, she pulled out of it, backing away and drying under her eyes. “Gah,” she mumbled to herself. “Stop making me cry, I’ve got a business transaction to attend to,” she said, pulling the deed to the building out of her back pocket.

  I laughed, kissing her once more before facing the maze of sweat that lay before us. “See you at the show?”

  She smiled up at me with raw openness. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Thirty-Four

  Regan

  A couple of weeks later, we were playing the closing number of our afternoon set at the P-Town festival, and I was on cloud nine. Yardley had arranged a banjo to play “Dueling Banjos” with me. For the rest
of the tour, Nessa and I were scheduled to do this piece together, but she’d been absent since I rejoined the tour—her brother had major surgery and she flew home to be with her family. She was scheduled to return after our break was over.

  I’d originally feared that playing with Nessa again would be awkward—for me and her and, of course, Georgia. But those fears were lessening as time went on. Georgia and I had a long talk about it before I returned to the show—both alone and in the company of our therapist—and Georgia agreed that it was a part of my job, and I agreed that if it became a problem for me emotionally that I would pull back.

  I’d been working on rehearsing boundaries that I hadn’t realized had been so messy before. Nessa and I would practice and perform together, and socialize in the company of other musicians, but that was it. I did not intend to socialize one-on-one with her anymore. I was one hundred percent committed to my wife, but I didn’t need to go looking for trouble.

  I was soaked with sweat while Ben from The Brewers scratched away on his banjo in the blazing heat. We were in the zone. Near the end of our song, members from the tour came on stage in kind of an impromptu jam session. We were joined by guitars, tambourines, a keyboard, and several drummers. CJ had seemed distracted earlier in the day. Over what I had no idea, but he was able to leave that all behind—like the rest of us—and kill it on stage.

  My eyes scanned the crowd until I found my gorgeous, loud wife, front and center in a group that would have swallowed her if she weren’t so damn scrappy. Holding her own on a two-by-two section of trampled grass, Georgia jumped and shook her hips and cheered along to every song. I did all I could to stop myself from leaping off the stage toward her, but as the energy of the crowd surged, I couldn’t hold back any longer.

  With a quick wink in her direction, and a nod to Ben, which had come to mean “keep playing,” I leapt from the stage with my violin in my hands, earning a chorus of cheers. Georgia stared at me with a seductively wicked grin as I played my way toward her. I couldn’t grab her and pull her to me while I played, but I could lean in with some skill to kiss her on the round apple of her cheek. With a small circle encasing us, Georgia danced around me, clapping her hands to the rapid beat, and encouraging the crowd to do the same as sweat dripped from my forehead.

  God, it was just like it was when we first met at that tiny bar in San Diego. She’d liked the music right away, but it took her longer to get on board with me—well, a relationship with me, anyway. As the nights wound down, Georgia would spend more time on or around the stage, dancing to our beat, and sometimes her own. She had also been known to hop up and dance with me on stage between waiting on tables. It annoyed her manager at first, until he saw how the customers loved it.

  There on the grass in Provincetown that day … that was us. Lost in the music and each other. And, even though it had been two weeks since she’d set foot in Sweet Forty-two, I swear she still smelled like butter and brown sugar.

  “I love you!” I shouted over the music, meeting her eyes, and her eyes alone.

  Her smile broadened and she yelled back, “And I love you!”

  At the conclusion of the song, the crowd erupted into cheers and I was greeted with high-fives and backslapping, but I had only one focus—Georgia.

  I picked her up, swinging her around in a tight hug. “You’re hot,” I whispered.

  “You’re sweaty,” she teased back, planting a heavy kiss on my lips.

  I quickly made my way back to the stage, hopping up with a helpful hand from CJ while the rest of the members from the tour, including Yardley, joined us on stage for a final bow. We’d have to do this all again at sunset, and even though I was more than ready for our two-week break to start, this crowd was particularly invigorating.

  Georgia leaned up on her tiptoes toward the stage as I crouched down to meet her.

  “I’m going to go check out all the vendors.” She hitched her thumb back toward the tents and tables scattered through the boundaries of the festival.

  I nodded, kissing the tip of her nose. “I’ll catch up with you once we’re all cleaned up here.

  She shot me a quick wink before strutting off in her platform sandals.

  “Well … look who it is!” a scratchy old voice hollered.

  I whipped around, disbelieving my ears. But, in a second, I spotted the man who made my whole life possible.

  “Ernie?!” My mouth swung open at the sight of my first violin instructor, and it stayed there as he made his way slowly up the stairs to the stage.

  I shot a glance into the crowd for Georgia, but she was long gone.

  Ernie had lost some of his height in the seven or eight years it had been since I’d seen him, and now walked with a long, knotted and twisted cane that made him look like a wizard—but it was him. His long hair was pulled back with an elastic, and what was once salt-and-pepper was now snow-white. His long beard seemed even more over the top now that it was as white as his hair and blew in the ocean breeze.

  I walked over to him, grabbing his hand to help him up the last step. “You’re here?” I asked, feeling like I was in a bit of a twilight zone.

  “Damn right. You think I’d miss this?” Despite the cane and the slow pace, he wasn’t out of breath or otherwise elderly sounding when he reached me. And he still had the twinkle in his greying eyes. The twinkle that taught me music was magic.

  He stuck out his hand, and when I shook it he tugged me in for a hug. He stood just a few inches shorter than me, and had far more strength than it looked like he should.

  “I’m proud of you, kid. Real proud of you.”

  Backing away, I grinned and gestured my hands to my sides as if presenting the stage to him. “Because of you, sir.”

  He lightly whacked the back of my calf with his cane. “Because of you. And, no need for that sir nonsense.”

  I set my hands on my hips as the last of the crew disappeared, and the two of us were left alone on the suddenly grand-feeling stage. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked at me like I’d sprouted another head. “I’ve got a booth, fool. Or have you forgotten?”

  I blushed, laughing at the same time. “I could never forget. I just didn’t realize you still did this.”

  He shrugged. “Not dead yet.”

  “Fair enough. I really want you to meet my wife, Georgia.”

  He grinned. “Was she the little firecracker dancing around you in that last song?”

  I only blushed deeper. Ernie met me when I was five. It was weird talking about my wife with him now. “That was her.”

  “Good on you, Kane. And that cousin of yours with the wild streak—seems he’s got himself together a little bit. All he needed was a little organization to really be something with those sticks.”

  I moved my head side-to-side, considering. “He can be organized,” I chuckled. “Or a damn mess.”

  “Drummers,” Ernie mumbled, shaking his head. “Anyway, I gotta get back to the booth. The kids’ corner thing is starting in a few. Care to swing by and share some of yourself?”

  My chest burst with excitement. “Yes. Absolutely. I’ll bring Georgia by, too. Are you free for dinner tonight? My mom’s cooking.”

  Without hesitation Ernie answered, “I wouldn’t miss that woman’s food for the world. See you in a few.” He turned and made his way for the stairs.

  “Need some help?” I jogged behind him, cupping his elbow.

  Once again, Ernie hit me with his cane. “I’ve got help. Go get your wife and come impart some wisdom to the youth who can barely tell a fiddle from an iPhone.”

  He made his way down the stairs, mumbling about technology and the death of the arts.

  While I shared his angst on the subject, I needed to track down Georgia. I hopped off the stage and weaved through the thick crowd, nearly obtaining a contact high while I searched for a short, sexy blonde.

  “Regan!” Georgia’s urgent voice called to me through the noise, then two more times.

&nb
sp; Finally, I spotted her and walked over to the white tent she was in front of. Massachusetts Adoption Resource Exchange was printed across a blue banner with white lettering. It was an information tent—as many local and regional organizations used the festival to promote their causes—and a long white table was filled with brochures, charts, and stuffed envelopes of some sort.

  “What’s up? Ernie’s here! You’ll finally get to meet him, and—what’s wrong?” I tapered the end of my excited speech as my wife’s eyes shined glassy as if she was holding back tears.

  “Look at this. Did you know this existed?” She gestured to the table, pointing to a couple of trifold poster boards that held the faces and information of at least a dozen children aged six months to sixteen.

  … Would do well in a home by herself or with other children.

  … Needs one-on-one attention. Best with a single mother.

  … Sibling group. Looking for someone who can take all four children.

  I swallowed the rocky lump forming in my throat.

  “What …” I looked at Georgia, clearing my throat. “What is this?”

  Her voice lowered to just above a whisper. “None of those kids have homes. There are more than six hundred kids just in this state that are waiting to be adopted. They—they don’t have anyone, Regan.” Her panicked eyes met mine and she was breathing heavy.

  I put my hand on her shoulder and pulled her close to me as we looked at the boards in front of us. I stayed quiet for a long time, an unfamiliar and overwhelming emotion surging through my chest.

  I thought of Ernie, working with young musicians throughout his whole life, filling the need for positive adult role models that all children have. This was deeper. These were children who had no stable home, no consistent caregiver. Based on the information in front of us, most of the children came from abusive or neglectful situations. Many of them had some sort of developmental and/or social delays.

  My vision blurred behind powerless tears. I looked at my wife, and she looked back up at me.

  “Do you think they have something like this in California?” she asked, sounding broken and resolved at the same time.