by Dan Kolbet
Had she been able to, she would have coached or taught each of these activities to ensure some volunteer didn't ruin her child's chance at getting into an Ivy League school. Because as everyone knows, a baseball playing piano protégé, who can do a pirouette in pointe shoes is a lock for Yale.
Trevor and I resisted the pressure put on us by Mom and rose above, for the most part. It drove Trevor to the top of his field and had made me modestly successful at one time, yet it had ground April into dust. What's good for the goose wasn't always good for the gander. It was contrite, but true.
Mom was rough, but as the oldest, I'd also been entrusted with more responsibility and thus, more independence than either Trevor or April. If my mother needed me to be somewhere—like the reading of the will—I'd be there.
My presence at the reception on the other hand was not entirely my choice. Kendall had asked for a ride, noting that I'd scared off her boyfriend and her only means of transport, which was not entirely true.
* * *
The reception, which followed immediately after the funeral and graveside service was orchestrated by my little sister April, which gave it a much more depressing and cheap feel than you would normally expect from the funeral of a prominent doctor and his lovely wife. The home of the late Trevor and Jennifer Redmond served as an awkward backdrop for the event, but realistically there wasn't another family home large enough to house it. The elder Redmonds—my parents—were in a retirement home and April lived . . . well, nobody knew for sure. And of course, I wasn't expected to be around either. Credit to April for stepping up, or at least making an attempt.
Trevor and Jennifer always called the place the Cedar House, because it was on Cedar Road. Naming it gave the house a much more mansion-like feel than it really deserved. Sure, it was a nice place, but Donald Trump wasn't bidding to buy it.
So here I sit in my late brother's large home on Spokane's Five-Mile Prairie overlooking the city. I'd done my best to keep my distance from my mother, in a foolhardy effort to avoid a public discussion of my whereabouts for the past 12 years. Those questions would come, but this wasn't the place for them.
I find myself standing near the dining room holding a paper plate containing a peanut butter and cheese sandwich sliced into thirds, macaroni salad from a grocery store and half a banana. It was April's doing, no doubt. Cooking, on a budget or otherwise, was not her forte.
"She's sort of moved in," Kendall says, nodding toward April.
Kendall is still in her black-and-white rebel costume. She takes my plate and replaces it with an open bottle of beer. It's non-alcoholic.
"Sorry, this is the only beer we have," she tells me. "Not sure why April bought that kind."
"I'm not sure why they even make this stuff," I say, happy to replace the food, which I wasn't planning to eat anyway. Who would want to eat peanut butter and cheese? Not me. I wanted to ask Kendall why a 16-year-old—or was it 17-year-old—thinks it's OK to carry around an open beer, even a non-alcoholic one, but decided to let it go. I already know what the answer would be.
"What do you mean she moved in?" I ask.
"Mom and Dad asked her to stay over to watch me and Gracie while they took their vacation and she just never left," Kendall says. "Apparently they didn't trust me to watch Gracie alone. April's staying in the guest room downstairs."
April had a thing for guest rooms. And couches. And random sex partners. I was in college when April dropped out of high school to pursue "other interests." These interests included stocking shelves at a video rental store and smoking pot—not exactly the career path Mom envisioned for her youngest child. Somewhere along the way April rounded up a GED and worked part-time at a bead store that doubled as an illegal marijuana dispensary.
I note as April walks past, that she looks terribly frail. She unloads another batch of peanut butter and cheese sandwiches on the kitchen counter. Her skin is pale—almost translucent. Her sandy blonde hair is thin and stringy. It hangs loosely around her face. She was using something stronger than pot. That was clear. I'd been in enough bars in rural Montana to recognize a tweaker. The sniffing, shakes and incessant scratching. She isn't exceptionally skinny, which is a good sign. At least she's eating.
Our eyes meet but she doesn't come over, nor do I make the effort to do the same.
For years Trevor had forked over handsome fees to rehab clinics in an effort to set our little sister on the straight and narrow. He had kept a credit at a local rehab center, just in case April decided to enroll herself. I assumed the credit remained on that account—untouched. She did her best to hide her addiction, which presumably meant she was aware of it and dealing with it. Not that awareness made it any better.
April flitted about the house refilling glasses and offering food to people she barely knew. Her boundless energy had to have come from a pipe or vial. She'd crash at some point unless she got another high. Soon April is off to another room, being busy and avoiding conversations. Avoiding me too.
I recognize a few of the doctors who had worked with Trevor. But for the most part, absent the family, the assembled collection of mourners is a mystery. Which means they don't know me either. This is a plus. I don't intend to stay long.
Kendall is still at my side.
"How are you holding up?" I ask her.
"Fine, I guess," she says.
Her sweet voice doesn't match her rough, black and white, fishnet-stocking exterior. She is putting on a front. I could tell. What more did I expect her to say though? I was practically a stranger.
"If you need something, let me know," I say—a line taken directly from Funeral Mourning 101. What exactly could I do for her? I wasn't expecting to bond with devil-worshiping, Goth-wearing Kendall—or even little Gracie for that matter. Which is better for all of them anyway. I'm not good for my family.
My hotel is only booked through the night. I'll respect my mother's wishes, appear at the reading of the will, and make my way back to the cabin. No harm done.
The sooner I can get back home and out of their lives the better.
* * *
Gracie is playing on the deck that overlooks the north side of Spokane. The railing is toughened glass, so the view is completely unobstructed to the neighborhoods below. On a clear day like today, you can see all the way downtown. A troop of dolls is gathered in a circle around Gracie and she is handing out pine needles to each one and talking to herself. She is alone, but animated as if with playmates. Gracie brakes the pine needles in half and serves them to her dolls. A snack from nature. She continues to talk and gesture with her hands, the warm spring sun beating down on her long blonde hair and her small back.
She is so small.
She looks so similar to my late daughter, Aspen, that she is almost painful to watch, even after all this time. The years haven't changed my feelings for Aspen, especially the guilt for what happened to her. What I let happen. When I see Gracie, I see Aspen and the crippling boulder on my chest doubles in size.
"She's been sleeping with me in my bed the last few nights," Kendall says of Gracie. I hadn't realized Kendall was still at my side.
I don't know if sleeping in your sister's bed is normal or not. I suspect so, but have no reference point.
"Ever since they told us about Mom and Dad she won't sleep alone," she says. "I tuck her in and she stays up in her room reading or looking at pictures in books until I go to sleep. Then she comes to my room and just climbs in."
"You put her to bed?" I ask.
"I always have."
Always have? What about Trevor or Jennifer? Why is a teenager doing the work of a parent?
Maybe she is exaggerating.
Jane, my late wife, had always been the one to tuck in Aspen. I would do it if I was home by then, but that wasn't very often. I worked ungodly hours away from home or locked in a room so I could write in peace. Jane was insistent that I at least go through the motions of being a parent, even if I was completely clueless as to what needed to be done
for Aspen.
I remember being instructed to play the Tooth Fairy one night after Aspen had lost one of her front teeth. Jane had to attend some neighborhood meeting and so it was up to me.
The gig was simple. Swipe the tooth and replace it with some pocket change for her to find in the morning. Unfortunately Aspen had chosen that night to pull all of her storage boxes out of the closet and pile them in the middle of her bedroom floor and not tell me. For what reason, I'll never know. After taking the tooth I realized that I'd forgotten to grab some quarters as payment. In my haste, I tripped over one of the storage boxes and landed in a heap among all the toys in her room. Aspen awoke to me grunting out muffled profanities at her stuffed animals. The tooth was now missing and there was no payment from the Tooth Fairy. Shattered dreams all around.
The lecture I received that night from Jane about ruining Aspen's imagination and wonder, was long and profound. Aspen stopped asking to leave her baby teeth out for the Tooth Fairy, claiming that she didn't want her to hurt Daddy again. A tragic story of imagination gone sour.
So if nothing else, I knew the importance of bedtime and tuck-ins. Asking Kendall why she was in charge of that task might bring up feelings I wasn't exactly equipped to discuss.
"How did you find out—about what happened to your parents, I mean?" I ask Kendall.
"They called me into the counselor's office at school," she recalls. "The principal and my grade's counselor were there. They told me."
"I'm sorry you had to find out that way."
"Didn't matter. News is news," she says, shrugging her shoulders. "They drove me to Gracie's school, so I'd be there when she found out."
"Your grandma wasn't there?"
"No, we don't see them much."
"Right," I say.
A chirping noise burst out of Kendall's pocket as she received a text message and wandered off, leaving me alone to watch Gracie.
Gracie doesn't even know who I am and has not glanced my way once.
There was so much that I'd missed over the years. A new wave of guilt and remorse washed over me. I don't know anything about these people—my family—and they certainly don't know me.
When I left Spokane 12 years ago, I had no intention of coming back, ever. The more distance the better. It's better for all of them if I just leave now. They'd know Uncle Billy was still kicking around somewhere and that would be the end of it. Assuming they even cared. They needed to move on too, right? Start the healing process. That's what all the experts say.
The pile of projects waiting for me back in Montana is huge. The outbuilding needs repainting. There is a set of woodworking tools that I've been meaning to learn how to use. There is some writing to do too, but that is always the case. The writing never ends. It never leaves the cabin either.
I'm feeling a strong draw to just go home.
I set my beer down on the kitchen table and leave the house through the side door. I catch a glimpse of Kendall sitting alone on a swing in the backyard. Her back is to me. I don't say goodbye. As far as I know, nobody notices me leave and nobody cares either.
Chapter 3
When I first met my late wife Jane Redmond—or Jane Holland, as she went by then—I thought she was the most beautiful creature God had ever created. I was completely speechless. Literally. Most people say literally, when they really mean figuratively, but in this case, it was true—literally. When I first met Jane she stuck her fingers in my mouth. That sounds creepy out of context, I know. Jane was a dental hygienist and I was in the chair for a sore tooth.
I came back the next day for a cleaning and then the next day when I almost mustered up the courage to ask her out.
She had this jet-black hair that framed her face perfectly and wore those light blue scrubs that only look flattering on people who they should look flattering on. She was very fit. She came in the room wearing a mask and all I could see where those eyes. Green eyes and black hair. And then fingers, but they didn't exactly have the same lasting emotional connection on me as did her sparkling eyes. But her fingers were nice too.
There was something about her—this nameless dental worker who put me at ease. I'd never been a great dental patient in the first place, so I was a little on edge going in there anyway. But it was this woman who made me feel like I was the only person in the world. She moved quietly and seemed to float around me. I later figured out that the floating was more of a reaction to the gas they gave me than her ability to actually float anywhere.
Ironically she never said a word to me. Not while she was doing the pre-check work on my pesky toothache for the dentist. And not while she scraped and scrubbed every little crevice in my mouth. I yearned for her to speak but she didn't. She smiled though and she knew I was watching her.
So it was a bit of a surprise to me—on day three of my sojourn into the office—that she actually addressed me by name.
"Mr. Redmond," she said. I'll never forget that's what she called me. "If you don't ask me out now, the window will be closed forever."
So there I was, standing in front of the receptionist's counter, pretending to make yet another appointment—for some reason a teeth whitening treatment seemed like a good way to get inside the office again. Every female in the place, including those who didn't look so great in those light blue scrubs, was staring at me. The keyboards stopped clicking and, I swear to you, so did the drills and hydraulic chair lifts that make you feel like you're levitating—especially when you're loopy. It was deadly quiet and all I could see was her.
"I, uh…"
Yep, that's what I said. I'm surprised she didn't jump me right then and there. So smooth.
Just as she turned to walk away—ostensibly ending any chance that I would have at finding a woman and a love like no other—I managed to croak out a few words.
"I don't even know your name," I said while the world stopped spinning.
"I've had my hands inside your mouth for the last two days," she said. "Does it matter?"
"Well, I guess not."
And that's how it started.
I haven't been back to the dentist since that day 20 years ago. The thought now—12 years after Jane's death—of going back to a dental office scares the hell out of me. When I see a woman in blue scrubs I practically freeze in place. A few years back I actually walked into a garbage can while a woman in blue scrubs walked toward me from the other side of the street. She had blonde hair though. And of course, it wasn't Jane. Just my imagination screwing with me.
* * *
There's this thing that older people say when they find love for a second time. They say it's better—regardless of how their previous relationship ended. It's just better. You know more. You know you and what you want and expect from a person. You aren't dealing with whatever it was that made your last relationship go off track. It's just better. Or so they say.
With Jane it was better even if I didn't have a past "something" to compare it too. Sure, I'd dated before, but it was mostly when I was in high school or college when I wasn't seriously in the market for a long-term relationship. When I didn't really know who I was as a person either. The women were great, but they all faded away. Not with Jane, though. We moved fast. Lightning fast, but at the same time at just the right speed.
Our first date—if you don't count that floating dental chair—was to the Fourth of July parade at this tiny lake resort at Deer Lake. I was so taken aback when Jane called me out in the office that I hadn't actually planned on what I was going to ask her to do. Yet, I'd planned to go up to the resort the next day anyway to fulfill an obligation to a friend to help install the outboard motor on his fishing boat. Bringing along this beautiful woman with me was just a bonus.
From the moment I picked her up—through the 30 minute drive up to the lake, throughout lunch, outboard-motor tinkering, a spat of fishing, some sunbathing, dinner, drinks and walking in this goofy little parade around the resort holding American flags—we never stopped talking. She loved fireworks, so w
e watched them together, holding hands on the beach. Never was there that uncomfortable lull in the conversation that made you wonder about your list of chores at home or when you needed to leave to get back and watch the ball game.
It was natural. And awesome.
I think saying that you fell in love at first sight is stupid. Stupid because how can you possibly know that this person has everything you need to make you happy? How can you know that she will be there for you when you are down or that she won't be afraid to put you in your place when you're a jerk? How can anyone know that the person they just met—despite those green eyes and jet-black hair—will be anything more than just a desire? How can you fall in love at first sight?
Beats the hell out of me. It defies all logic. But we did. And it was great for years until I torpedoed it. And it all started when I finally wrote something worthwhile.
* * *
Fourteen years ago my novel Isolated Highway reached number one on the New York Times Best Seller list and stayed at or near the top for 16 weeks. I earned-out on the small advance payment I received from the publisher in the first six months; meaning that I started making money on the sales right away. This isn't typical of unknown authors. Sure, every author has to start somewhere in order to make a name for themselves, but my friends and family didn't even know I was writing or even that I had the mental capacity to craft a story somewhere in the depths of my brain. Jane knew, of course, but assumed that it was just a hobby—something that would go away at some point.
When I decided to major in history in college, my father told me I was in trouble. "People won't pay you to talk about old stuff," he had said. Indeed that was true. My career selling real estate and insurance, then a stint as a financial planner hadn't exactly set me on the path to riches. My history degree sat in a file somewhere. Useless, until I decided to start writing.
