by Judy Duarte
It might have been fifteen years since Chuck had last seen his lanky teenage son, but he would have known Brandon anywhere. At least, he liked to think that he would.
Brandon still favored his mother in a lot of ways, which had been both a blessing and a curse after her death.
Try as he might, Chuck had never been able to spot so much as a drop of the Masterson blood in the boy. But then again, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Did it?
Still, Chuck blinked a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t seeing the chemo-cocktail version of a pink elephant.
“Hey,” Brandon said as he made his way toward the hospital bed, walking with a bit of a limp, as if his shoes were a couple of sizes too small.
Chuck struggled to come up with something clever or welcoming to say. A couple of lame thoughts came to mind, such as, “Look what the cat dragged in,” or “How ’bout them Padres.” But he knew better than to let something like that roll off his tongue. Jabbering about the first thing that came to mind wasn’t going to do him any good.
What did a man say to the son he hadn’t seen since he’d gone off to college and never looked back? I love you? I’ve missed you something fierce? I’m sorry for failing you time after time?
No, that wasn’t any way to break the ice after ten lousy years together and another fifteen apart.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Chuck finally said. And it was true. Brandon had filled out, matured. “You look good. Real good.”
“So do you.”
Chuck didn’t buy that, but he suspected Brandon was also at a loss when it came to knowing what to say.
They remained like that—sheepish and awkward—for a couple of beats. Then Chuck forced himself to say, “Thanks for coming, Brandon. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy.”
“I’m sure you have. And things didn’t end very well between us, so I understand—really.” Chuck tried to manage a breezy smile, but he suspected it fell short. “I have an apology to make. Quite a few of them, actually.”
“That was a long time ago,” Brandon said, as if time had eased the pain and made apologies unnecessary.
A very human side of Chuck wanted to take the easy way out, but he was a new man these days. A dying one, but new just the same, and it was important for him to come clean, to admit his mistakes, to make amends with the people he’d hurt or disappointed.
“I’m sorry for the crappy childhood you had, at least, after your mom died. I should have made life easier for you. Instead, I made things worse. I’m also sorry for not being the kind of dad you deserved. And for all the drinking I did, all the embarrassment I caused you. I also regret that I didn’t enjoy the time we had together in a healthy, wholesome way. If I had it all to do over again, and, of course, I don’t, I’d take you to ball games and movies, and we’d go to the park and fly kites. All the things we’ll never get a chance to do again.”
Brandon seemed to ponder Chuck’s speech, although he didn’t actually respond. But Chuck couldn’t very well expect the kid to roll over and say, “I forgive you, Dad.”
No way. A man couldn’t make up for ten bad years with a couple of heartfelt sentences.
“So,” Chuck said, steering away from all the touchy stuff, “tell me about you, about your life. You’ve obviously got a job. A good one, from the looks of that suit.”
Brandon nodded. “I’m an attorney for a law firm in San Diego.”
Chuck wanted to tell him that he was proud of him, but somehow, it seemed as though he’d lost that right, especially when he hadn’t had a hand in any of it. He stole a glance at the nice-looking, successful man the boy had become, saw him looking at his feet as if he felt guilty about being here. Or maybe he was just uneasy.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Chuck asked, thinking that a casual visit was too good to be true. “It seems like you got something weighing awfully heavy on your mind. And if you’d like to give me a piece of it, I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I…uh…” Brandon inhaled deeply, then blew it out. He seemed to be struggling with something, which didn’t make sense. But then, he’d been pretty pensive and introspective when he was growing up, just like Marianne had been.
In fact, they’d been so much alike that each time Chuck had looked at Brandon, he’d been reminded of Marianne, of her deathbed confession, the air she’d wanted to clear.
“I guess this might sound weird,” Brandon finally said, “but I was told that I’m having marital trouble because I’ve never dealt with my relationship with you.”
“That’s a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Here I was prepared to take the blame for a lot of things, but I can’t quite see how our relationship—what we have of one—has affected your marriage. Who told you that?”
“Some homeless guy named Jesse.”
Chuck leaned back, and his head sank into his pillow. “Oh, yeah? Then I guess we’d better work on patching things up. I’ve come to believe that Jesse’s able to leap tall buildings with a single bound.”
“Personally, I think he’s been living on the street too long.” Brandon chuffed. “But my marriage is falling apart, and I’m getting desperate to save it.”
Chuck supposed he had to be if he’d been willing to seek out the father who’d been one major disappointment for most of his growing-up years. But then again, maybe Jesse had given him a little nudge. Either way, Chuck was glad he’d come.
“Family’s important,” he said. “I’m afraid that I failed to grasp that in time to do you any good. I’m not trying to excuse my behavior by any means, but I sank so deep into depression, self-pity, and the bottle that I failed to value what I had—and that was a son any man would have been proud to have.”
Brandon seemed to think on that some, but Chuck was uneasy with the silence, with the memories of a time in his life he’d just as soon forget. So he asked, “Do you and your wife have kids?”
“Yes. I’ve got a five-year-old daughter. Her name is Callie.”
“Does she look like you?” Chuck asked, realizing that he might be projecting his own baggage onto Brandon. Or maybe he was just trying to see if the Masterson genes had come into play with the next generation.
“I think she looks like her mother.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. Then he withdrew a picture and handed it over. “My wife gave me that last spring and insisted that all dads carry pictures of their kids.”
Not all of them, Chuck supposed. But the good ones did.
Chuck took the photo and studied it carefully. A smile stretched across his face as he looked at the little girl. She was a cutie, that was for sure. And he could see Brandon in her, although she was blond and fair.
“She’s beautiful,” Chuck said, reluctant to return the photo to Brandon.
“Yes, she is, especially in person.”
As Chuck handed him the picture anyway, Brandon shook his head. “No, you can keep it. I can get another one. Maybe I’ll take her to a photographer the next time I have her.”
“Do you see her often?”
He shrugged. “Actually, it seems as though I see her more now that her mom and I have split.” He chuffed and frowned. “Sad, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But at least you have time on your hands, time to correct things. I let it get away from me.”
Brandon again glanced down at the floor, and Chuck could see the wheels turning. He just wished he could do something, say something to help, to make things right again.
When Brandon finally glanced up, he said, “Maybe that’s what I needed to hear.”
What? That Chuck had made a lot of mistakes? That he was sorry, and that he couldn’t correct a single one of them?
“Amy wanted more of my time,” Brandon said. “She complained about all the hours I worked. That I had no idea what a real family was like.”
“But you do,” Chuck said. “Just
try and think back to the time before your mom died. Things were normal then.”
“All I can remember is how sick she was those last few weeks.”
That was true. Marianne had really suffered once the diagnosis was made. Chuck supposed he had the same thing to look forward to.
“Cancer is nasty stuff,” he said.
They pondered the awful truth until Brandon said, “I heard you’ve got it, too.”
Chuck nodded. “Yep. That’s what they tell me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay with it. I mean, I’d rather not have it, but I figure my days are numbered anyway. Besides, I’ve got a lot of faith now, and I’m certain that my future’s secure.”
Brandon arched a brow, thick and dark, like Marianne’s father’s had been before he turned gray. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Dad.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get all lofty on you. It’s just that I’ve given my life to God, and I’m a lot happier now than ever before.”
Too bad telling Brandon about how good things were now only served to remind Chuck of how bad they’d once been. And now all his old failures, which he’d tried to stack in a far corner of his mind, tumbled front and center.
He suspected that the same had happened to Brandon, although if they had, he didn’t comment. Instead he took a seat beside the bed—a good sign, Chuck decided.
“I’m glad things are going well for you,” Brandon finally said, “other than the cancer. That’s tough. What’s the prognosis? What treatment options have they given you?”
“They say I need a bone marrow transplant, but my health isn’t all that good anyway. I guess you could say that I’m paying the consequences of my alcoholism.”
“Have them test me,” Brandon said. “I’m willing to help out.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Chuck pondered coming out and telling him what he feared most. Would it help their relationship? Would it make it worse?
Yet he realized that if he was going to have any kind of meaningful relationship with his son, even for whatever time he had left, it ought to be based upon honesty.
“There’s a chance you might not be a match,” he said.
“I know that. It’s never a sure thing.”
“Yeah, but there’s a possibility you won’t even come close.”
Brandon furrowed his brow. “What do you mean by that?”
“I started dating your mom before her divorce was final. And right before she died, she told me that her ex-husband might have been your father. Apparently, she was still seeing him sometimes. And while she’d always hoped that I was your father, she wasn’t sure.”
Brandon drew back his chest, as though slammed by the news. “Wow.”
That’s what Chuck had thought, although coming from Marianne at a time like that had packed a more brutal punch—like a wallop to the gut.
“That revelation might have made your mom feel better before she died, but it really messed me up. I loved you. Still do, of course. But I let her words drive me crazy. I never told you before, but I used to have a serious drinking problem when your mom and I met. With her love and support, I kept it under control. But after she died…Well, I let it consume me—not just the guilt from having caused that accident, by your mother’s loss and her suffering. That had a monstrous effect, too. But I was crushed to think that you might not be my son.”
Brandon bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t deal very well with the news myself. But for whatever it’s worth, even though I felt betrayed, I considered you my son. Still do, that is, if you don’t mind me claiming you.”
Brandon seemed to think about that for a long time before he looked up and their gazes locked.
“I’m still willing to donate bone marrow,” he said, “if we’re a match. So I’ll tell your doctor that I’d like to be tested.”
Chuck didn’t know what to say, what to do. He’d convinced himself that an offer like that would never come, and the fact that it did shot him full of holes. So he offered the kid an easy way out. “Thanks. I appreciate that. But the procedure can be painful. It’ll probably prevent you from working for a while, and it sounds as if your job is important.”
“It isn’t as important as family,” Brandon said. “I think that’s what I was supposed to come away with from all of this. I just hope I didn’t come to that conclusion too late.”
So did Chuck—for Brandon’s sake, more than his own.
When Barbara first arrived at Maria’s house, there hadn’t been any lights on inside, which she’d thought was a little odd. But before she could ponder the situation, Maria’s minivan pulled into the driveway with a man Barbara didn’t recognize behind the wheel.
While they all piled out of the car, Barbara remained in her Jag, thinking that she’d allow them time to go into the house and get settled before she knocked at the door. Yet when she realized her mother wasn’t with them, that the house was dark, a shudder of apprehension shivered through her. She reached for the door handle, ready to rush to the minivan and quiz Maria, when she saw that they were all heading toward Amy’s house.
Was that where her mother was?
She watched until minutes later, when they returned with her mom, who walked between the man and Maria, her gray head bent, her shoulders slumped, her steps shuffled.
An agonizing ache spread through Barbara’s chest as she realized her mother was failing more and more each day, and nothing, not even Joey’s condition, took the edge off that heartbreaking fact.
Barbara wasn’t entirely sure why she’d come here tonight, especially since a meaningful conversation with her mother was impossible. But at least she could bare her heart and apologize.
Her mom, of course, wouldn’t be able to respond to any of it, but going through the motions might ease some of Barbra’s guilt, some of her pain.
Why hadn’t she done it sooner?
Pride and stubbornness, she supposed. But where had that gotten her?
Maria’s front door opened and the lights went on. Everyone went inside, yet Barbara remained in her car.
It was getting late. Maybe she should go home and come back tomorrow. At that time, she could also pick up her mother’s belongings and take them to storage. Ron Paige had left a voice-mail message earlier, telling her that Amy had everything boxed and ready to go.
She hadn’t returned his call, but she could tell Amy she would send someone for the stuff tomorrow. So she climbed from the car and headed toward the house in which she’d grown up.
It was weird, yet she still felt as though she was coming home, even if someone else lived here now. But she rang the bell.
Amy, the tenant, answered, holding her purse. Her daughter stood beside her, a pink backpack dangling from her hand. Obviously, they were preparing to leave.
“I’m sorry,” Barbara said. “I should have called first.”
“That’s okay. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Not really. I was in the neighborhood and thought we could set up a convenient time for me to send someone to pick up my mother’s things.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Amy pointed to the boxes that had been stacked in the living room. “You’ll probably need a truck, unless you want to make several trips.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Their gazes locked for a moment, and while Barbara wanted to break eye contact, she couldn’t bring herself to be the first to look away. Something about the young woman caught her interest, although she couldn’t put her finger on just what it was.
Maybe it was seeing her at this house, knowing she’d touched her mother’s things. Or maybe it was just some crazy need to talk to a real human being tonight, when the people who’d always been her family were unavailable and might never be there for her again.
“Thank you for helping me out,” Barbara finally said. “My son’s been ill, and
…” Her voice caught, and she feared she would start crying in front of a virtual stranger.
Amy placed a sympathetic hand on Barbara’s upper arm, an intimate gesture that had caught her off guard, yet was comforting. “I’m sorry your son has been so ill. Isn’t he doing any better?”
“No, and I’ve…” She blew out a wobbly sigh. For some reason, she felt like venting, like sharing private thoughts with her tenant, and she wouldn’t do that; she couldn’t do that. “Actually, what I’d really like to do is sit in my mother’s kitchen with her and have a cup of tea, like we used to when Joey was little. But those days are gone. I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to do that again, and it’s bothering me more than I care to admit.” She straightened, swiped at tears in her eyes, and forced a smile. “I’m sorry for being so weepy. I’ll be okay. Really.”
“Please come in and have a cup of tea with me.”
“Oh, no.” Barbara shook her head and took a step back, suddenly wishing she hadn’t come to Fairbrook at all that evening, that she’d fought the compulsion to see her mother and had stayed home where she belonged. “I didn’t mean to imply…”
“Please come inside, Barbara. There’s something I need to talk to you about, something you need to know.” Amy stepped aside to allow her into the house, and she found herself complying.
“Callie,” Amy said to her daughter, a cute little girl about the age of five, “turn on the television. We’re not leaving yet.”
The child clucked her tongue, but she removed her backpack and made her way to the TV.
As Amy led Barbara to the kitchen, she said, “I had an interesting conversation with your mother tonight.”
Barbara tried to tamp down a rising tide of jealousy. “You had an actual two-way conversation with her?”
“Yes, and your name came up.”
She stiffened as she pondered how that happened, why they’d talked about her. “I don’t understand.”
Amy pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, indicating that Barbara should take it.
