Waiting For Ethan

by Diane Barnes

  MEETING ETHAN

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ethan.”

  In all the ways I have fantasized about meeting Ethan, it was never like this. I thought I would recognize him instantly. I imagined him shorter. I pictured his hair darker, his features more chiseled, his teeth white, straight, and evenly spaced. We’d both be dressed elegantly, certainly not wearing old sweatshirts and baseball caps. I never imagined we’d be breathing in the greasy fumes of bacon or the sugary scent of syrup. I assumed I’d be sipping Chianti or champagne, not slurping hot chocolate. Sometimes I even envisioned fireworks in the distance exploding in a star-filled sky, not sand trucks whizzing by a diner window on a dismal gray day.

  I never figured out exactly what I would say, but I knew it would be something corny like “I knew you would come” or “You were worth the wait.” And he wouldn’t think it was weird. He’d know exactly what I was talking about.

  Here in the actual moment, though, I just stare across the table and try to repeat his name, but it gets stuck in my throat.

  “Let me guess. Your ex-boyfriend’s name is Ethan?”

  Not my ex-boyfriend. My future husband. For just a moment, I consider saying it aloud, telling him about Ajee and her prediction, but then I imagine him sprinting for the exit before I can get all the words out.

  “It’s my favorite name,” I finally say.

  Waiting for Ethan

  Diane Barnes

  LYRICAL SHINE

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  MEETING ETHAN

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter 1 - 2012

  Chapter 2 - 1987

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4 - 2012

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Copyright Page

  To Steve: Surely if I had known someone like Ajee, she would have said, “Steven with a V.”

  To Mom and Dad: I love you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book began as a challenge to participate in National Novel Writing Month and has since gone through several iterations. I might not have started it if Julie Peterson hadn’t encouraged me to participate. Thank you, Julie, and thanks to everyone who has read part of any version.

  I must express special gratitude to Alan Hurvitz, who offered constant support through every draft. Heartfelt thanks also to my writing group at the Hudson library, especially Tiana, Neville, Martha, Amanda and Steve. You helped me maintain my confidence throughout the entire process.

  My instructors at Grub Street, Lisa Borders, Michelle Hoover and Stuart Horwitz, as well as fellow workshop participants asked key questions early on that helped me work out the story. A huge thank you to Laurel King and my classmates at the Worcester Art Museum who were ambitious enough to read an entire draft and provide valuable feedback.

  As I was writing this novel, I had the great fortune to attend a writing workshop taught by Elizabeth Berg. In addition to meeting my literary idol Elizabeth, I met seven other extraordinary women who made me feel like a rock star every time they critiqued my work. Thank you Ann, Barb, Celia, Carol, Lynda, Molly and Vicki.

  Susan Timmerman, thanks for letting me run ideas by you on our walks and for your never-wavering interest in my characters and story. Tricia Brown, thanks for lending your keen eye.

  To my agent Liza Fleissig, THANK YOU for helping make my dream come true, but more than that, I really appreciate how responsive and kind you’ve been through the entire process, even before you read my manuscript and decided to represent me. To the readers at Liza Royce Agency, thank you for liking my manuscript enough to bring it to Liza’s attention.

  Finally, thanks to my family, the one I was lucky enough to be born into and the one I was smart enough to marry into. I am grateful for your support throughout the process and your understanding every time I said, “I can’t today. I’m writing.”

  Chapter 1

  2012

  “Neesha Patel’s grandmother ruined your life.” That’s what my mother says when I point out the obituary. She mutters to herself in Italian, glances at the picture in the newspaper, and then goes right back to making the list of things she wants me to check on when she and my father make their annual exodus to Florida later that day. I slide closer to her on the couch and begin reading the article out loud:

  Satya E. Patel (known as Ajee), 92, of San Antonio, TX, formerly of Westham, MA, died Wednesday. She is survived by her son, Dr. Kumar Patel of San Antonio, TX, her grandson, Dr. Sanjit Patel of San Antonio, TX, her granddaughter, Neesha Davidian of Canyon Lake, TX, and five great-grandchildren . . .

  At the mention of the great-grandchildren, my mother looks up from her notepad and frowns. Finally, I think, she’s going to show some sympathy for the Patels. I even think I see tears in her eyes. “It sounds like both Sanjit and Neesha have children.” I nod, trying to picture my old friend with kids, but all I can see is a lanky fourteen-year-old girl with a long dark ponytail and a mouthful of wires. “Their grandmother is the reason I’ll never have grandchildren of my own.” Although her words sting, they don’t shock me. I am thirty-six and single. My mother long ago abandoned all hope of me ever getting married and having a family, and for this she blames the deceased, a woman I haven’t seen since I was fourteen.

  “What’s going on in here? You’re supposed to be packing.” My father appears at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a golf shirt and holding the driver I gave him for Christmas two weeks before. He can’t get to Florida fast enough to start playing again.

  “Neesha Patel’s grandmother died.”

  My father raises his eyebrows. “Recently?”

  “Last week.”

  “She must have been well over a hundred. She was ancient when she lived here.”

  “The paper says she was ninety-two.”

  My father rubs his chin. “That means she was only sixty-nine or seventy when they moved to Texas?”

  “Right, Dad. Your age. Ancient.”

  “I’m only sixty-seven, Gina, and I feel like I’m twenty.” He steps away from the stairs and takes a halfhearted swing with his golf club. “It’s being active that keeps me so young.” He winks. “May I?” He points at the paper, so I hand it to him.

  My mother sighs. “Why did they even bother to publish her obituary in the Westham paper? They haven’t lived here for almost twenty-five years. People don’t remember her.”

  I glare at my mother. “Mom, everyone remembers Ajee. She was a hero in this town.”

  My mother rolls her eyes. “She was a nosy old woman, Gina. That’s all.”

  I stand and walk to the living room
window. The Patels’ old house is directly across the street. The Murphys live there now, but someday Neesha will be back. Her grandmother said so. She said it the same day she told me I would marry a man named Ethan.

  As we load the last of the suitcases into my parents’ car, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy make their way across the street. My father mutters something incomprehensible under his breath. Mr. Murphy makes a beeline up the driveway and heads straight to me. “Gina.” He hugs me tightly as if he hasn’t seen me in ages. “Are you still on the market?” I nod. “What’s wrong with young men today? If I were just a few years younger ... But don’t you worry. Every pot has a lid.” He passes on similar pearls of wisdom every time I see him, which is about once a week when I visit my parents.

  Mrs. Murphy follows about four steps behind her husband and zeroes in on my mother. She waves a picture in the air above her head. “I just have to show you my grandson before you leave, Angela.” She reaches the passenger door where my mother is standing and hands her a snapshot of a newborn baby. “Born yesterday. Isn’t he beautiful?”

  My mother looks at me pointedly, and I feel my stomach begin a gymnastic act. How is it possible that Kelli Murphy, the seven-year-old sniveler I babysat for, is a wife and parent, while I’m not only single but haven’t had a meaningful date in the last three years?

  My mother turns her attention to the photo and then smiles at Mrs. Murphy. My father looks at his watch. He wants to be in Virginia in bed by 10 p.m. because he has a 7:30 tee time tomorrow morning.

  “He’s a big boy,” Mrs. Murphy says. “Nine pounds, six ounces.”

  “He’s beautiful,” my mother says.

  “He looks like me,” Mr. Murphy adds. “Spitting image.”

  My mother laughs. My father opens the driver’s side door.

  “They named him Ethan.” By the look on my mother’s face, you would think Mr. Murphy just said his grandson was named after Bin Laden.

  “That’s a great name,” I say. My mother won’t make eye contact with me.

  “It’s an old name that’s come back around,” Mrs. Murphy says.

  My father leans into the car, puts the keys into the ignition, and starts the engine.

  “We have to get going,” my mother says. “Congratulations on your grandson.”

  The Murphys wobble back down the driveway, and my dad jumps into the driver’s seat. My mother hugs me. “Strange we should hear that name on the same day we learn of Ajee’s death,” she says. But I don’t think it’s strange at all. It’s a sign from Ajee. Don’t worry, she’s saying. Your Ethan will be here soon.

  As the car starts to pull out of the driveway, my mother opens her window. “Gina, if some nice man asks you out this winter, promise me you’ll say yes, no matter what his name is.”

  Chapter 2

  1987

  The news vans were parked up and down both sides of Towering Heights Lane. Television cameras pointed toward the top of the stairs leading to the Patels’ front door. A mob of reporters holding microphones stood on the lawn at the bottom of the steps calling Ajee’s name. From the bushes where Neesha and I crouched, I saw the Patels’ front door swing open and watched Ajee step outside and wave. She was wearing a purple and gold silk sari and a matching headband to keep her salt-and-pepper hair off her well-lined face. The clothes were a stark contrast to the Levi’s, Izod shirt, and tennis sneakers she had been wearing an hour earlier. I was pretty sure my mother was watching the commotion from our living room window, and I could imagine her snickering when she saw Ajee’s outfit. “That woman is such a fraud,” she would say to my father. Since the day Ajee arrived in Westham and predicted Neesha and Sanjit’s mother would not return from the hospital, my mother had no tolerance for Ajee and her so-called gift. It didn’t matter that Ajee had been right and Mrs. Patel died in the hospital. In fact, that only seemed to make my mother’s resentment worse.

  The media had been stationed in our neighborhood all week. Before today, though, their attention was focused on the Colbys, my next-door neighbors. On Tuesday afternoon, six-year-old Matthew was playing in the sprinkler with his mother and three-year-old sister, Lisa. Mrs. Colby took Lisa inside to use the bathroom, and when she returned five minutes later, Matthew was gone.

  The police investigated around the clock for five days and had no leads. On the sixth day, the Patels returned from their vacation. Within minutes of finding out what had happened to Matthew, Ajee was sitting on the Colbys’ front lawn cradling the sprinkler. My mother and I watched fascinated from our driveway. Dr. Patel came racing out of the Patels’ house. “What are you doing?” he shouted at his mother. “Get up now.”

  The Colbys’ front door opened, and a police officer stepped outside. Ajee stood. “The boy was taken by a woman in a gray Oldsmobile. She lives in Rhode Island and is a friend of the father.”

  Dr. Patel buried his head in his hands. “She thinks she has psychic abilities.”

  Mr. Colby appeared at the door. “Tell him about your friend in Rhode Island,” Ajee hissed.

  Dr. Patel grabbed Ajee’s arm. “I sincerely apologize,” he said as he led his mother back to their house.

  Later that day, though, Matthew was found unharmed at the home of a woman who lived in Rhode Island and drove a gray Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Until three months before the abduction, she worked with Matthew’s father.

  The police credited Ajee with the tip that brought Matthew home safely, and the media that had been staking out the Colbys’ house turned their attention to the Patels. Ajee basked in it. She stood at the top of the Patels’ landing with her hands clasped together in front of her stomach, explaining the origins of her gift. “I began experiencing visionary images at a very young age. I can’t explain why or how it happens; it just does.” She paused. “When I touched the sprinkler, I saw the woman and the car. Who knows why these things are so?” She shrugged.

  A redheaded reporter whom I had seen on Channel 5 for years raised her hand. I struggled to recall her name. Cindy maybe? “So you need to touch something for your power to work?”

  Ajee nodded. “Usually.” She descended to the bottom of the stairs and extended her arm to the reporter. “Give me your pen.”

  Shelly Lange? No, that wasn’t her name.

  The reporter handed her the pen. Ajee closed her eyes and rolled the writing instrument between her hands. The only sound was the clanking the pen made as it crossed over her rings.

  Terri Vance. That was the reporter’s name.

  After what seemed like several minutes, Ajee opened her eyes and gave the pen back to Terri. “You will quite enjoy the West Coast.”

  Terri’s expression was blank. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Ajee smiled, turned her back to the reporter, and climbed to the top of the landing. She spun to face the crowd again and looked directly at Terri. “Soon. You will understand soon.” She scanned the crowd with her eyes. “If the rest of you want readings, you will need to make appointments.”

  A few weeks later, the redheaded reporter, Terri Vance, announced on the air that she had been offered and accepted a job with the ABC affiliate in San Francisco. “You may remember,” she said. “The psychic of Westham predicted I would enjoy the West Coast. At the time I had no idea what she was talking about.” The name stuck. Ajee became known as the psychic of Westham, and her business took off.

  Before all the media attention, she gave one or two readings a week. Now she was conducting four or five a day. One afternoon Neesha and I decided we wanted to see what went on during these readings. Before Ajee’s two o’clock appointment, we snuck downstairs to the Patels’ basement and hid in the large closet directly across from Ajee’s “reading parlor.” That’s what Ajee called the area. In reality, it was a section of the cellar partitioned off with a curtain.

  When we first entered the closet, Neesha froze, noticing her mother’s clothes still hanging from the racks. She reached for a green wool sweater that I remembered Mrs. Patel
wearing often and put it on even though beads of sweat were running down her forehead. We were thirteen. Neesha’s mother had been dead for six years, and I still hadn’t figured out what I could do or say to make her feel better at times like this, so I said nothing.

  As we took our positions on the floor, we heard footsteps on the stairs and a voice we didn’t recognize followed by Ajee’s. Soon Ajee was sitting at her reading table with a client, a blond woman named Mary who was the teller at my parents’ bank. Mary sat erect in the chair with her arms folded across her chest. Ajee, dressed in the sari she wore at her press conference and the only sari she owned as far as I knew, leaned forward with both elbows on the table and her chin resting on the backs of her clasped hands watching Mary.

  The smell of cedar in the closet was overpowering, so I pushed the door open a crack more to bring in fresh air. The sound of the squeaking hinges reverberated throughout the basement. Ajee’s head turned toward the closet. Neesha and I both leaned away from the door. After several seconds, Ajee refocused her attention on Mary.

  “Let me have your watch,” Ajee instructed.

  I watched Mary unclasp the watch and hand it to Ajee. She cradled it in her hands and held it in front of her heart. She closed her eyes and didn’t move for several seconds. Behind me, I heard Neesha take a deep breath. When I turned to look, I saw she was holding her breath. She looked so ridiculous with her puffed-out cheeks trying not to laugh, that I laughed, causing Neesha to snort.

  “What was that?” Mary asked.

  I pulled the closet door shut. Neesha and I slid back into the row of clothing. A moment later we heard the flip-flop sound of Ajee’s sandals slapping the cement floor approaching the closet. The door flew open, and Ajee jerked her head inside. She looked at us with a half smile and then suddenly yelled, “Scram!” Giggling, Neesha and I ran upstairs. Later, when Ajee emerged from the basement, she fanned three ten-dollar bills in front of us. “Laugh all you want, girls, but that woman paid thirty dollars for my information.”