Tell Me When It Hurts

by Christine Whitehead

  “Godspeed, Connor,” she whispered, turning away. “Have a good life.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Despite Archer’s personal gloom, March blew in, blooming, blustering, and lovely. The weather was warmer than normal, and trees were already budding, nature’s contrast with her mood feeling somehow almost mocking. Archer went to her job on her committed days, and the work was a saving grace.

  I lived before him, she thought, and I’ll live after him. She continued to go to the movies on Wednesdays, but the enjoyment was spare. The first week, when she approached the ticket booth, the cashier asked, “Oh, just one today?”

  From now through eternity, just one, Archer thought, but aloud she said, “Yes, just one, thank you.”

  Several days after Connor left, Archer resumed her morning runs. For a few weeks she consciously avoided the route by his campsite, but it was the best and prettiest trail, so she began to use it again. The first day she ran by, she was stunned to see the daffodils he had planted greeting her in their bright yellow finery.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” was all Archer could say as she stopped to take it in. “Connor’s garden.”

  She wanted to call him and tell him, but he wouldn’t want to hear from her. When something isn’t working, it’s “on to the next play,” he used to say. She was something that wasn’t working.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Archer went into town to pick up her mail from her post office box. For weeks now, she had hoped for a letter from Connor. She doubted he would call, but he might send a note at least, maybe renew his invitation to join him.

  But after a month of disappointments, she discarded that dream as well. Love did not conquer all, and fate would not make it all come out happy. Fate also could make things come out ugly and mean. She, of all people, should know that by now. At most, shards of happiness were what she must gather and cherish—mere shards to pick over in her dotage.

  Archer waved to the postmaster, slid the little key into the slot, and pulled the door open. Inside, she saw a big manila envelope. Pulling it out, she saw Connor’s name and address neatly handwritten in the upper left corner. Archer’s address was written in the same neat block print, and along one side was written, “Do not fold—Photographs.”

  After slamming her mailbox shut, Archer sprinted for her car. Hadley greeted her with a snuffle. Archer pulled the door open, got in, and grabbed her reading glasses from an inner compartment of her pocketbook; her hands shook as she put them on. Her mouth was dry. She swallowed hard, slit the sealed flap, and lifted the edge of the envelope.

  Please, please let there be a letter, she entreated silently, eyes closed, slipping her hand into the envelope. There were three five-by-eight photographs and two four-by-sixes. She stared at each one for a long time.

  The five-by-eights were in color. They were unposed, at the restaurant in Boston. In two of them, Archer and Connor were looking toward the camera, smiling, both radiant. In the third, Archer was still smiling at the couple, but Connor was smiling at her, his eyes soft, keen, in love. How could she have missed it for so long? It pained her to look, but neither could she look away.

  Finally, she turned her attention to the other set. The four-by-sixes were black and white. Had the photographer changed cameras? She hadn’t noticed. Both showed Connor and Archer raising their glasses in a toast to the elderly couple at the other table. Archer caressed each photo lovingly. Connor. Do I drive away everyone I love?

  She peered eagerly inside the manila envelope again. There had to be a note. There had to be. She shook it out, holding it upside down, and finally a mockingly small note fell out, a two-by-two square of bright yellow paper that said, “Ye of little faith! C.”

  “That’s it?” she cried, staring into the envelope to make sure. “That’s it? You’ve got to be kidding!”

  But still, she had the pictures. She held all five close to her, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply. Then she put them back carefully into the envelope and laid it on the seat next to her. She sat quietly for a few moments, then started the engine and headed home.

  When she got home, Archer found an old, empty photograph frame in one of the boxes in the basement, dusted it off, and meticulously cleaned the glass. Then she polished the wooden frame with lemon oil and fitted one of the pictures of her and Connor into the mahogany frame. She placed it on the kitchen counter, fussing with its position until she had it right—visible from her reading chair as well as from everywhere in the kitchen.

  As for the black-and-whites, she went to her bedroom and got out her sewing box, where she kept a pair of sharp little scissors. She took them out, and with utmost care, she cut herself out of the photo, salvaging only a smiling Connor, which she cut into a smooth oval.

  Archer then pulled the sterling locket that Connor had given her from inside her T-shirt, where it rested against her heart. Lifting the chain up and over her head, she opened the locket’s tiny clasp and placed the trimmed photo in the empty spot, across from the picture of Annie. The two photos smiled at each other. Archer gazed at them for a long time—regrets enough to go around here, too. Then, with a firm snap, she shut the locket and tucked it back inside her shirt.

  * * *

  It was April 30. Archer sat on the front porch of the cabin, feeling the warm sun on her face and sipping her first cup of coffee of the day Hadley lay sleeping beside her. In two weeks, it would have been Annie’s eighteenth birthday. That should be recognized, at least by me, Archer thought—and by Adam. At least by the two of them—her parents.

  God, how had life gotten so complicated and screwed up? When she and Adam got married, the year of their graduation from Columbia Law School, life had been so simple. Adam was her soul mate. He was maple syrup, green grass just cut, Labrador puppies, vintage Springsteen. Now he lived across the country in Colorado, with two little boys and a wife who wasn’t her, and Archer had become a mountain woman with no one. Still, it would be Annie’s eighteenth birthday.

  After her morning run, Archer walked into the kitchen and picked up her cell phone. She then opened the little drawer where she kept her PDA. It was now nine thirty in the morning—seven thirty in Colorado. Archer still kept Adam under the heading “Family.” She tapped out the number, hoping Allison wouldn’t answer.

  “Hello, hello, MacKenzie wesidence,” squawked a child’s voice.

  “Uh, hi,” said Archer. “Uh, is your daddy there?”

  “Yes, who are you?” asked the child.

  “I’m an old friend of your father’s,” Archer struggled. What could she say? I’m the crazy ex-wife? You know, the one that pushed your dad into moving to Denver, marrying your mother, and having you.

  “Daddy, it’s an old fend!” the child shouted.

  “What, honey?”

  “An old feeend!” he shrieked.

  “Timmy, pipe down. I think you left out your ‘r.’ Could it be an old friend?”

  Archer could hear Adam’s voice getting closer, laughing. She had a strong urge to hang up, but he probably had caller ID. She would feel like an idiot and a stalker if he saw she had called and then hung up.

  “Hello, Adam MacKenzie.”

  Adam sounded friendly, slightly hurried, as if he were putting on his tie as he talked, getting ready for work. She could see him now: tousled brown hair, hazel eyes lined from laughing and squinting at the sun, blue shirt, gray flannel suit, club tie, all crisp, stooping to take the phone from his little son . . . his son.

  “Adam, it’s Archer.”

  Silence.

  “Adam? Are you there?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I just was sort of stunned. Are you okay, Arch? How are you?” he said, slightly recovered.

  “I’m okay. Better. And you?”

  “Fine, thanks. I was sorry to hear about your mother. I’m sorry I couldn’t make the funeral.”

  Archer noted that he didn’t make any excuses. “It’s okay.”

  There was an awkward silence.

&nbs
p; “Well, uh, Adam, I’m calling just to say . . . uh, to say I’m having a memorial service for Annie—on her birthday—at Asylum Congregational.” She was making this up as she went along. She didn’t even know if the church hall was available. “I hope you can come.”

  “Oh, Archer, I don’t know. I just . . . you know, I have the boys, Allison . . . work is busy. I can’t promise. I . . . I just can’t promise.” Now he was struggling.

  “Well, it’s okay,” Archer said quickly. “I just wanted you to know. I mean, I would hate for you to hear about the service and think that I didn’t let you know.”

  “Oh, sure, right . . .” He trailed off.

  More silence.

  “Well, anyway, it will be at four. You know the date, of course.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. . . . Archer, I’m so sorry. I . . . I wish it had all turned out differently,” he stammered.

  “I know. Me, too,” Archer said. And she quietly hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER 28

  Lauren Giordano moved briskly around the kitchen, getting breakfast for herself and her little brother, Joey. Cereal, milk, orange juice. It was an ordinary Saturday in late winter—except that it was anything but ordinary. She was to meet her father today—her real father—and she was scared.

  At nine years old, Lauren was thoughtful, serene, intelligent, and kind. She knew all about her “real” father—well, at least, as much as her mother knew. She loved Donald Giordano, and he was her daddy. But whenever a Christmas package or birthday card arrived from New York or London or Tokyo, or Jackson Hole, Wyoming, with that square, clear printing, her heart speeded up as she opened the envelope or undid the wrappings and tape. She tried to pretend she wasn’t thrilled with whatever Connor had sent—the last thing she wanted was to hurt Daddy’s feelings.

  “That’s nice, Lauren, isn’t it?” her mother would say as Lauren held up a book, a DVD, or a sweater. Daddy would frown and make grumbling noises.

  “It’s okay,” she would say to her mother, but inside, her heart was singing. She stifled her glee so Dad wouldn’t decide the packages had to stop.

  “Look at that,” Donald would grouse, gesturing loosely. “It’s enormous. Does he even remember how old she is?” Or “My God, look at that. It’s so small. Does he think she’s still a baby? Send it back.”

  Lauren never sent anything back. She cherished everything Connor sent, even the smallest, reserving her bottom dresser drawer to house them all. She kept the silver whistle from London, the colored map of Tokyo, the funny-looking bumper sticker in Greek lettering with no to clue what it said, and the Twin Towers snow globe from New York City, so poignant now that the real towers were gone. He never called on the phone, and he never sent any pictures. Neither did she. She had heard her daddy say once, “He doesn’t deserve pictures of her if he’s too damn lazy to get out here and see her himself.”

  The only picture she had of him was taken when Connor and her mother worked together at General Technology in Chicago. Both were pictured in the company manual: Sarah smiling broadly at the camera, Connor unsmiling, handsome, intense. Lauren had carefully cut the page from the book in her mother’s bookcase and put it in the bottom of her desk drawer. Had they been in love then? Did he think about her much? Did he ever want to get to know her? His notes with the money were nice, but they didn’t say much, and she had never heard his voice.

  Her daddy hoped he would never visit—he never said it, but she knew. She’d heard him and her mom argue sometimes about Connor. Daddy said he was useless and they didn’t need his money. Mom said there was no reason to cut Connor out, since he was doing a fine job of staying on the outside all by himself. Mom said Lauren needed to have that gap in her family history filled, and she needed at least to know that her natural father was out there and had an interest. Daddy snorted, then turned back to his newspaper.

  Lauren knew that her mother had won by attrition. Daddy had just stopped talking at that point. She liked the way Connor looked in the one photo she had. She liked the way he wrote his notes to her—not like a father exactly, but like someone who, while busy in the world, still was interested in her.

  But now, with him coming, would he be disappointed? Would he want a prettier or smarter daughter? Or one with dark hair instead of dirty blond? She was pretty ordinary, she thought, pretty average. She hoped he would like her and would want to come back. She thought she would like him. She wanted to like him.

  * * *

  Connor stopped at a Holiday Inn about an hour east of Chicago to shower and change. The desk clerk nodded knowingly when he said he only needed the room for a few hours. Connor had tried to take a nap but slept little. He calmed his hair, which was longer than usual, by running his hands through it with some water. He tried his hat on, then off, then back on, scowled at his reflection in the mirror, and then closed the motel door behind him, leaving the key on the bedroom side table.

  He parked the truck and trailer at the saltbox home in a pretty development outside Chicago at two on a Saturday afternoon. He peered at the number on the house and, satisfied that this was it, got out. He had considered bailing out more than once. Then he’d thought of Archer and of Annie.

  Connor had no idea what a nine-year-old girl liked, but he did know what a horsewoman liked. He had brought the latest issue of Practical Horseman, some apple treats for Lauren’s favorite pony, whoever that might be, and a bright pink halter.

  Trying not to betray his nervousness, he walked up the path to the house and knocked on the door. He waited. Maybe he got the date wrong and they were out. As he turned to look at the adjacent homes, the door behind him opened. Connor turned quickly. His heart jumped, and he smiled.

  He was facing a small but elegant girl: long blond hair pulled back in a braid, pierced ears with a small pearl in each, almond-shaped, wide-set blue eyes, and a warm smile. She’s beautiful, he thought as he stepped into the front hall. She’s wonderful.

  “Hi. I’m Lauren.” She held out her small hand. Connor took it in his, still reeling from the thrill of it all, and shook it. A nine-year-old who knows how to shake hands? Well done, Sarah. He wanted to stoop down and hug her. Instead he said, “Hi, I’m Connor.”

  From behind Lauren, a woman hurried up, smiling broadly.

  “Connor! You look wonderful! How have you been? Come on in.” Sarah looked motherly in a long black corduroy jumper and gray waffled cotton shirt. A little boy peeked out from behind her leg.

  “Hello, Sarah! And, Joey, look at you—a big boy already!” Connor exclaimed, giving Sarah a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You look great, Sarah, really great, and happy.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess I am,” she said, laughing and smoothing her bouncy hair. “And you, you look the same except no gray pinstripe suit. The jeans and boots suit you, Connor. I mean it.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  Lauren stood shyly on Sarah’s other side, curious.

  “Well, Connor, I’ve told Lauren all about you over the years,” Sarah said. “Lauren, why don’t you show Connor your room, and then we can talk a while down here.”

  “Okay,” said Lauren, smiling and motioning for him to follow her.

  The stairway was lined with pictures of Sarah and Donald; Sarah, Donald, and Lauren; Lauren and her little brother, Joey; just Joey; just Lauren. At the top of the stairs, Lauren led him to a small, tidy, lilac-colored bedroom.

  “This is it. Not much to it, actually.”

  “I think it’s great,” said Connor. “I see you have some blue ribbons of your own already.”

  “Yeah, well, they weren’t really big horse shows or anything, but Mom said I could lease a horse next year, and Dad said . . .” Lauren stopped.

  “Lauren, it’s okay. Donald is your dad. I . . . I just want to be something. I don’t know where I can fit in or if you even want me to fit in anywhere. But let’s see, okay?”

  “Okay,” Lauren said solemnly, “but what should I call you?”

  “Connor. C
onnor is fine.”

  They walked downstairs together, talking about horses and shows. The front door was still open.

  “What’s in your trailer, Connor?” Lauren asked, spying it curiously.

  “Millie, my ranch horse.”

  “You mean you took her all the way to Massachusetts with you?” she asked in amazement.

  “Sure did. And my dog’s out there, too—right there in the front seat.”

  As if on cue, Alice sat up in the front seat and turned her woolly head toward the house.

  “What’s that?” asked Lauren.

  “That’s Alice, my dog, although she’s more than that. I think she takes great offense when I call her my dog instead of my best friend.”

  Lauren laughed. “Mommy! Connor has a horse and a dog out there. They came east all the way from Wyoming, and now they’re going back. Can I go out and see them?”

  “Why not?” said Sarah, smiling.

  Connor noted that Donald was nowhere to be seen, but he didn’t have time to worry about it, for Lauren was already out the door and heading for the trailer, with Joey trying to keep up.

  Connor headed out, laughing to himself. He was sure Millie would become the talk of the street for a week or so after this little circus. He hoisted Lauren up on Millie’s bare back, but not before putting a serious bit in her mouth in case Millie got the idea to head into Chicago for a little shopping. Millie was a great horse, but even she knew when she could play a little joke.

  A crowd of kids gathered around Lauren and the sturdy mare. Joey followed Alice, who was just about his height, sometimes grabbing her collar and being pulled along by her heft. This parade went up and down the block. Other kids got to ride after Lauren, and the children seemed to be multiplying, Connor noticed. Millie became the center of attention, taking over the entire visit. Connor breathed a sigh of relief as he led another youngster up the street. It made for a simple, easy way for him to get to know this girl. He’d been right—she was a horsewoman. The afternoon ended gaily with promises of future visits.