He uncrosses his arms and points to the envelope on the table. “Be smart. Take that money and go back to Louisiana. Or wherever. Leave Adam alone. I’ll see that you get the rest of your money. Like I said, Mr. Sinclair is a man of his word.”
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Devine?”
His eyes narrow as his hands clasp just in front of the lowest button of his suit jacket. I’d bet the ten grand sitting on my coffee table he’s former military.
He doesn’t answer, but I ask my question anyway. “Have you seen anything that would lead you to believe I don’t love Adam?”
There’s not a single breath of time between my question and his answer. “Love has nothing to do with this. But that ten grand over there sure has a lot to say about it.”
“Mr. Sinclair didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“He’s like that sometimes.” He shrugs his shoulders coyly.
We stand in my living room for a few silent moments, neither of us moving or opening our mouths. Thoughts of Adam’s light skin against my dark sneak into my thoughts, introducing both a sharp blast of love and a slip of fear.
I’m suddenly second-guessing the risk I’ve taken, regretting nothing and everything all at the same time.
But, it’s true…I don’t have a choice. I have to follow through and hope Mr. Sinclair’s eyes held the truth.
And I have to pray to Louise McGee’s god that Adam doesn’t find out about it.
Perry Devine takes a deep breath before unclasping his hands and walking over to me. He stops in front of me, my forehead level with his chest. Looking down, he says, “Find yourself someone else to love.” He walks around me and opens the door, a trail of expensive cologne following his footsteps. Just as he steps out into the hallway he adds, “You’ll be better off. Trust me.”
A hundred questions slam into me with the click of the knob, every one of them casting a shadow. Every one of them generating a dozen more.
Wednesday cannot come fast enough.
AT DINNER, Adam tells me Gram had a pretty bad day. She fell again this afternoon, in the bathroom, but he caught her just before she hit the floor. After he helped Ms. Sinclair back onto her feet, she told him she’d have to report him to Principal Sykes for his unacceptable behavior. She scolded him for touching her in an inappropriate manner. He said he apologized profusely, and by the time she finished using the bathroom, she’d already forgotten the whole thing and was talking about the lack of chalk for the school chalkboards.
We talk a little more about his grandmother and about the conversation he had with Dr. Kopsey concerning her upcoming dental appointment. But, what Adam doesn’t mention is his father. From the sound of it, this morning’s omelet tactic worked.
I TAKE a gamble and make a phone call Tuesday morning, just after Adam leaves to visit his gram. Since I no longer need to be up and out the door by 7:30, we spent last night at his place. We watched a movie on his cushy couch, had sex in his big bed, and ate breakfast at his granite countertop—each moment perfect and amazing. And probably under the watchful eye of Perry Devine.
I’m not sure if it’s the right number, but I dial it anyway, hoping for the best. A man answers after four rings. I’ve obviously woken him. It’s 10:30 here; 9:30 Louisiana time. I don’t feel bad for waking the what’s-his-face. His lazy ass should be working anyway.
“What’d you want?”
I steady my voice to steady my nerves. “May I please speak to Charlie?”
“Who is this?”
“Her sister. Is she there?”
“Hell no. Is that why you woke me up? Jesus. I haven’t seen that bitch in a week. I’m done with her ass. Ain’t got no use for her no more. She prolly livin’ over at Tasha’s place.” Good. “Don’t call me again, you hear?”
“I hear.” I turn on the syrupy sweetness. “Thank you. You’ve been a big help. Enjoy your day.”
“Fuck you.” Click.
Tasha Pearson was my sister’s roommate before my father got sick. They lived with another girl in a flat in a high rise on Gravelston Street. It wasn’t a big place, but it was theirs. I used to love going over there when I was a junior in high school; they’d give me cigarettes and let me watch The Vampire Diaries with them every Thursday night. Tasha and Charlie were supposed to go to Blue Cliff cosmetology school together, but just before my father died, Charlie withdrew her application. Tasha went without her.
I use my iPhone to Google Tasha’s number. It rings twice before a woman answers. I can hear a baby babbling in the background.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Tasha?”
“No. She’s at work right now. Can I take a message?” It’s Charlie. I recognize her voice immediately. This time, though, it doesn’t sound panicked. It sounds like Charlie. Maybe my eight hundred dollars actually meant something.
“Hey. It’s me.”
“K’acy?”
“Yep.”
“I was gonna call you tomorrow, I swear.”
“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re all right. The what’s-his-face told me you’re living with Tasha now. So, it’s true?” Inside, I’m bursting with hope. Hope that she’s finally found her way. Hope that my daddy and I have a reason to be proud.
“Yeah. It’s just temporary. I’m watching her kid in exchange for a place to stay so she can save a little on daycare. You won’t believe it, but she still lives in the place on Gravelston. Looks the same. Only now she’s got a little kid. A baby named Elijah. She still works at the salon, too.”
“That’s great, Charlie. I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’m looking for a real job. So I can pay you back. For real this time. I swear.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. In fact, I have something else I’d like to send you—no strings attached. I didn’t know your address, but now I do.”
“You don’t have to send me anything.”
“I know I don’t have to. But I want to. I just…I picked up some extra work.”
A small sniffle eventually breaks the long silence on the other end of the line. “I won’t waste it,” she says.
My heart swells with the knowledge that she’s telling me the truth again. I can feel it. “I know.”
Soon after we hang up, I call a taxi. First, it takes me to my place. Then, it takes me to the bank. I get a cashier’s check for $9,500 made out to Charlie McGee. The taxi driver’s last stop is the post office. As I slide the envelope into the slot, I think about what it’s going to mean to Charlie, and how she’s going to feel when she tears the envelope open and sees what’s inside.
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi driver pulls up to the curb in front of my apartment. I pay the driver with some of the remaining Sinclair cash and wave to the dark sedan now parked across the street. I can’t see him through the shaded windows, but I’m pretty sure Perry Devine does not wave back.
I WAIT for sleep to arrive on Tuesday night with Adam wrapped around me, his warm body holding me snug. Trepidation over the day to come has burned a small, smoldering hole in my heart, sending a flutter of notes—atonal and harsh—out into my bloodstream. They settle against my nerves and cause nausea to simmer in my stomach. I want to warn him about tomorrow. I want to tell him what’s to come. But I can’t, because he’ll feel the same fear and horror my father felt when he looked at me after Ronald Chapman’s daughter died. When he realized what I said had come true.
I never want someone to look at me like that again.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but a small part of me actually hopes I’m wrong. Maybe tomorrow will not be the night. Maybe the date on the bank sign wasn’t right. Maybe Winston Sinclair is an anomaly in my fate, and for the first time ever, I’ll be wrong. I think this not because I care about what happens to Winston Sinclair, but because of his son. The possibility of Adam somehow suffering is what’s ignited the smoldering hole in my heart because I can’t see what he will feel. I can only see the torturous end of his father’s l
ife.
My eyes do not close for a long time, even as Adam’s breath falls into the soft, rhythmic pattern of sleep. As I stare at my hand resting on his chest, tracing the perfect alternating Vs of light and dark with my stare, I think about the gift I’ve been given. About what I can see and do. And, even in moments like this, moments where some might consider it a curse, I know what a miracle it is. I know how lucky I am.
Still…not for the first time, I wish I couldn’t see death. I wish I couldn’t see human loss, right down to the very last detail, if I care to look hard enough. It only happens when their time is close. A few months at most.
But, right now…I wish it didn’t happen at all.
CHAPTER 28
Robert McGee—2008
I’m in a wheelchair and hooked up to an IV, but I’m here.
I made it.
It’s 7:14 on the evening of May 21st, and I’m watching my baby girl walk down the center aisle of the Terrebonne Civic Center. She left the house two hours ago, looking like a million bucks in the white dress Charlie picked out for her at the Goodwill Store, her dark skin freshly dusted with some kind of shimmery powder and her neck graced by a set of pearls that once belonged to my mother. All of it’s covered up now, though, by a long, white robe and a gold honors stole.
My little girl is graduating.
K’acy looks at me and Charlie from across the aisle, and it takes my breath away. She’s wearing a smile, but there are tears running down her cheeks. I don’t know if the tears are happy or sad, but they sure are quiet. For a sharp second, I feel bad for Louise. I feel bad she’s missing such an important moment. But the pity passes quickly because I don’t think too much about Louise anymore. I don’t like to waste my time. Especially since I don’t have much of it left.
When the school superintendent calls K’acy to the stage and hands her the diploma, my chest fills with pride. But, it’s not the same kind of pride all the other daddies in the room are feeling. It’s not because she passed AP English with flying colors, or even because she won the County Jazz Band’s “Musician of the Year” award. I’m so damn proud of her because she already knows exactly who she is. Not many freshly minted eighteen-year-olds have a clue how to be authentic to themselves. They’re too busy putting on a show for everyone else to pay attention to who they really are on the inside. But K’acy…she shines with light and self-love. She knows precisely who she is, and she’s not afraid to show it to the world. And, of all the things I love about my girls, that’s the one that fills me with the most pride.
But, even knowing all that—even knowing how real she is—I also know there’s more to her than what the world can see. I never could put my finger on it, but there’s something profound about K’acy’s kind of special. It’s like she’s meant for something bigger than the rest of us. I don’t know what it is, but I know she’s gonna do big things. I’ve been telling my girls their whole lives that you always gotta do the right thing, even when it hurts, and I truly believe K’acy heard my message loud and clear. She gets it. Now if I could only live long enough to see where it takes her.
After the ceremony ends, Charlie takes me home. K’acy’s supposed to go out to celebrate with her friends, but no sooner does Charlie get me back in the rented hospital bed in our living room, when K’acy comes traipsing in the door carrying her cap and gown like they’re nothing that matters. When Charlie asks her how she got home, K’acy says her friend Jessica’s father dropped her off. She says she doesn’t much feel like celebrating, and she’d rather be home with us. She smiles at me when she says the last part, and I can see on her face she’s telling the God’s honest truth. It makes me feel good and bad at the same time. She wants to be with me, but I know why.
While K’acy tosses her cap and gown into the hall closet, Charlie runs upstairs to get something. She comes back down holding a shoebox-sized package wrapped in colorful paper and topped with a bow. I’m instantly glad she thought enough to get her sister a graduation gift, especially since I couldn’t leave the house to get one of my own. Charlie moved back home a few weeks ago, saying she wanted to save money on rent. I’m happy to have her here again, even if she lied about the reason. Having my two girls together is real, real nice.
K’acy thanks her sister for the gift and opens the box. Inside is a pile of hair-care products from the salon where Charlie works. As her sister is explaining how to use them all one-by-one, K’acy looks over at me with a devilish twinkle in her eye. We both know she finds the gift ridiculous, but at the same time, she doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. Charlie loves working at the salon with Tasha, and she’s forever talking about the day she gets to do more than answer the phone and wash people’s hair. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen when I tell her I can’t pay for her schooling anymore. She’s going to have to do it on her own now because the hospital bills are overwhelming. There’s one right after another, and it’ll only get worse. Hell, it’ll be a miracle if the house is still in my name on the day I die. That’s the worst thing about this disease; cancer doesn’t just take your body and your spirit, it takes your wallet, too.
When Charlie finishes her hair care lesson, K’acy gives her a hug and says a genuine “thank you.” There’s real love there; I can see it.
A little while later, just after Charlie heads upstairs to get my pajamas, K’acy comes into the room with her Music Man StingRay bass. The one I got her for Christmas when she was thirteen. I remember the day I went to pick it out. I chose the one with the Vintage Sunburst body and the white pearloid pickguard because it reminded me of her—all shiny and eager to fill the world with song. Turns out it was a good choice. She loves that thing more than life itself. It’s become a veritable “third arm” for her these past five years. After she slings the shoulder strap over her head, she plugs the cord into a small amp and starts playing for me. For us.
I don’t know when she learned to play it, or how long she’s practiced, but she’s got “That’s How Strong My Love Is” down pat. She’s not playing the bass line; she’s playing the melody. I listen to every note, singing silently in my head, the lyrics sitting heavy on my heart. As the words roll through my mind, I push down the valves of an imaginary trumpet right along with her, note for note. We’re making beautiful music together, my baby and I. And it nearly makes me cry.
When she finishes the song, I ask her to hand me the guitar. Then, I send her out to the shed to get my paint box, the one I used to use to touch things up around the house every now and then. In the box I find a small bottle of black acrylic lacquer.
I dip a slender-tipped brush into the bottle and start painting on the pickguard. I paint a cobweb there; a delicate and complex series of lines, woven together with love. With every stroke of my brush, I create a miniature safety net that will forever be attached to her hip. One that will remind her of me long after I’m gone. One she can rely on to see her through life without a father.
As I paint, K’acy sits down on the bed next to me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her watching the brush as the picture takes shape. When I finish and put the brush down on the living-room table, she asks me what it means. I tell her it means I love her, and I’ll always be there to catch her, even after I’m gone. I tell her every time she touches it, it’s gonna remind her of how I’m watching over her, making sure she doesn’t fall.
K’acy doesn’t say a word. She just closes her eyes, puts her arms around me, and cries.
CHAPTER 29
A shot of fear flashes through my sleeping mind like a lightning bolt, causing me to sit straight up in the bed and gasp for breath. My nervous heart knocks against my ribcage, waking me with its urgency. It takes me a moment to remember what this feeling is for.
Adam is lying next to me, staring at me in startled confusion. I don’t say anything. I only try to catch my breath. And remind myself it was just a dream.
Adam lifts his arm and touches me on the shoulder. His hand is warm and dry. It makes me feel safe. It
’s like a new version of home.
“Hey,” he says, his voice full of sleep. “Are you okay?”
I nod.
“Bad dream?”
I nod again, still unsure of myself.
“You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry,” I say, not taking my eyes off of his.
“Must have been a pretty brutal dream. You wanna talk about it?” There’s nothing I’d like to do more. But I can’t. Because I’m pretty sure having your secretly clairvoyant girlfriend tell you she dreamed about your father’s death is a definite deal breaker.
“Not really.”
“Come on,” he says, tugging on my arm and coaxing me back down next to him, “let’s just try to go back to sleep for a little while. It’s early.”
“I don’t think I can.” Nor do I want to.
“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I’m sure.”
He turns onto his side and lifts his hand to my face. His thumb skims the crest of my cheek as his palm rests on the side of my jaw. It’s such a little thing, but full of meaning. Masculine and caring. As the corners of his mouth lift with a small, understanding smile, the dream melts away and takes a sliver of fear along with it. There’s a morsel of comfort there now. Calm.
“When I was a kid, Gram used to tell me bad dreams were a sign of a charmed life. She said it was your brain’s way of balancing things out. If life was full of good things during the day, the bad stuff would have to come out at night.” Sadness seeps into his sleepy voice. He tries to stuff it back down as he talks, but it’s undeniable. “I’d call for her whenever I’d have a nightmare, and she’d always come running. She’d sit on the side of my bed and rub my back until I fell asleep again.” He stares off at the pillow behind me, lost in a memory. “I remember the moment I realized my life was no longer charmed. I had a nightmare one night in Seattle and no one came running when I called.”
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