by Dan Kolbet
"Maybe you can convince him to get one of his books published," Kendall says. "He's got like a hundred sitting in boxes."
"Yeah, how about that, Billy?" Michelle asks. It's an honest question, but she's being playful.
"Someday," I say.
"Well that's a day I'd like to see," Mom interjects. "I'd like to read another one of your books before I'm through with this life."
This comment stops the conversation cold and we all stop chewing and look at my mother.
"What? I'm old. This is news to all of you?" She smiles, trying to lighten the mood. "Anything to encourage my boy."
"Thanks, Mom, I'll get right on that," I lie.
After dinner we exchange presents. Kendall is especially impressed with the new laptop. So much so that I actually get a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which was definitely worth every penny of the $1,200 I paid for it. Michelle and I agreed to a $50 gift limit. I got her a pack of accessories for a cross-stitch project she's working on, while she gives me a set of three leather-bound journals for writing. They each came with a different shade of blue cover.
"Just in case you want to write anything down," she says. "Besides, you need to upgrade from those ratty old notebooks you carry around. An accomplished author should look the part."
"Thank you, honey," I say.
When we're alone in the kitchen later I ask Michelle about Mom's comment about dying.
"She's obviously thinking about it and I think that's fair and perfectly normal," Michelle says. "She lost her son and daughter-in-law just a few months ago. Now her husband goes. Time's not on her side."
"Well, it's not really on the side of any of us," I say.
"Yes, but she's on the downhill side of life. We're not. We're supposed to be thinking about the future—what we can do in this life. She's looking at what she's already done. Accomplished. It's a different perspective."
"And you think that's OK?"
She leans in and kisses me, pushing me up against the kitchen counter.
"Yes, it's OK. In fact I'd be surprised if she wasn't thinking about those things."
"I just don't want to lose her too," I admit.
"I know. That's why we build families."
"Build families?"
"By having a baby," she says.
My eyes go wide and I lean back to inspect her face, smacking the back of my head against the kitchen cabinet in the process. We're having a baby? Really? Diapers and wipes? Smiles. Guiding a life. Seeing a piece of me and a piece of her become something unique and special. A baby!?
She laughs and takes a step back.
"Gotcha," she says, and walks out of the kitchen as if that wasn't a big deal at all.
My heart is racing, but not because I'm scared. It's because what she said didn't scare me at all.
Chapter 30
When you look back on your life, there are probably one or two moments that really changed everything. Maybe it was the day you decided to go on that blind date and met the person of your dreams. Or it could have been the day you found out you had cancer and found the strength to fight it. It all started somewhere. A conversation with a friend. A routine doctor's appointment. Things so innocuous you wouldn't have given them a second thought until one day you look back and say that was the day that everything changed.
That's today for me.
* * *
It's just a week after the funeral and I'm sound asleep. Unaware of how groggy my head is and how my eyes feel like sandpaper scratching the underside of my eyelids with every blink. I say unaware because no reasonable person would decide to crawl out of bed and answer their cell phone in this condition. But for some reason I do after two rounds of ringing. I am responsible for more than just myself now. Maybe that's why. Gracie, Kendall, Mom—heck, even Michelle. Just because I stayed awake until 3:45 in the morning writing in my new leather-bound journals, doesn't give me the excuse to not answer the phone on this cold January morning.
So, I drag myself out of bed and answer.
"Hello?" I mumble after slapping the phone to my cheek.
"Is this Billy Redmond?" The voice on the other end of the line says. He's nervous. The voice of someone trying to sell you a warranty for a product that should never need one.
"Yes," I answer, hoping to end the call with a simple no thanks, I'm not buying line.
"I've got something to tell you, but are you OK? You sound like hell warmed over," the man says.
"It's just early," I say.
"It's 11:30 a.m., Billy."
"Oh."
I rub the sandpaper out of my eyes and glance outside. It's snowing, but sure enough, it's nearly mid-day.
"Did I wake you?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, you did," I say. "And I'm not buying what you're selling."
"I'm not selling anything, Billy. I just need to talk to you."
"About what?" I ask.
"That's the thing. It's not real easy to talk about," he says.
"Well, then I think we're done here. Have a good—"
"Wait, Billy. Don't hang up. I won't be able to make this call again."
"What?"
"It's about your wife, Billy," he says.
"You almost had me there, pal," I say. "But I'm not married."
"No. Jane. That's not what I meant. It's about Jane."
"What about her?" I ask, now as awake as I could possibly be.
"Can you meet me?" he asks.
Chapter 31
I pull on a pair of jeans, splash some cold water on my face and drive to a diner downtown. The whole way there I keep asking myself what in the hell I am doing. Why does the mention of my late wife—by a stranger, no less—make me bolt to a meeting with this caller? I guess that's the draw. An unknown. Something he wouldn't say over the phone. I didn't even ask his name. He said he'd know me when I got there. Why would that be? It doesn't make sense. But I have to go. Regardless of why. You can't ignore or even forget calls like that.
I park in the lot at Molly's Diner on Second Avenue. The restaurant is old and has a weird cat, dog or skunk on its marquee out front. I've been here before and the food is fantastic, which is not what you'd expect considering the skunk on the sign. When I walk inside I see the familiar booths lined up around the place past a counter with stools. I scan the counter—looking for who, I don't know. Then a man stands up in a corner booth and looks me dead on. It's the same man in the plaid shirt who stood at the back of my father's funeral. The guy I thought I recognized, but didn't know why.
He nods and I start walking toward him. If there is another person in that entire restaurant, I don't see them. I am focused so intently on him that everything else is blocked out. The clattering of plates. The cracking of eggs on the cook top. I hear nothing. See nothing.
I slide into the booth across from the man. He has weathered, cracked hands that have obviously seen a lifetime worth of work. His face is round, which fits his stocky build. I'd guess his age to be 40 or so. His receding hairline is speckled with gray, which matches the goatee that surrounds his mouth. He's lost the plaid shirt for a red cotton Henley with all three buttons closed to the top. He is not fit by any means, but not quite rotund either.
"Coffee?" he asks.
"Um, yes," I say, forgetting that we're someplace that might just serve such things.
He waves over a waitress who dumps the brew into a cup on the table. I decline ordering any food. I also don't drink the coffee, which is fortunate, because I don't need caffeine to rattle me even more. I wrap my hands around the sides of the mug and let the burn of the cup distract me.
"Why did you call me?" I ask. "What do you want to know about Jane? Who are you?"
"Hold on there a minute," he says. "I've got some ground rules and if you don't like them, fine, but I can walk anytime I want. And I think you've got it wrong. I don't want to know anything about her. It's you who's in the dark."
"I don't follow," I say.
"Ground rules first," he says. "T
oday will be the last time you see me. I don't want to be here and I won't leave you my contact info to find me. And don't come looking. Got it? I'm finishing this and then I'm done."
"Why would I agree to that?" I say, already annoyed. "You haven't told me why I'm here."
"Trust me, you're going to want to hear this," he says, looking a little more smug than I'm comfortable with. "Do you agree to my terms?"
"Sure. Yes. Whatever."
"OK, then. Call me Frank."
"Is that your name?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says, with a half smile.
"Fantastic."
He places a blurry 3x5 photograph on the booth table and spins it around so I can see it. It's an image of two people leaning out the driver's side of a semi-truck cab. It's Frank, but in the picture he has on a hat and no goatee.
Frank's arm is around a woman with light blonde hair, which falls just below her ears. It doesn't matter how blurry the photo is or that the hair color is different, I'd recognize Jane anywhere.
"When was this taken?" I ask.
"Three years ago."
"Fuck off," I say.
"Hey, I get it. This is a lot to process."
"Fuck off. What do you want?" I demand.
I grip the cup of coffee in my hand, imagining how much it might hurt Frank for me to hurl it at his fat face at this very instant. My heart pounds like I've just run around the block. Almost instantly a sheen of cold sweat covers my forehead.
"I'm not here because I want something," he says. "I'm here to fulfill a promise that I made to someone."
"Who?" I ask.
"Her name was Lisa. You knew her as Jane."
* * *
I can feel the eyes of the diner patrons on us but I don't care.
"Fuck off," I tell him.
"You need to stop saying that," he says. "It's not polite and I could walk out of this place right now and you'll never know why I was here."
"You're a liar."
"I couldn't give a crap if you believe me. I'm only doing what I promised to do. Hear me out."
I say nothing, but given that I don't stand up or toss a cup of scalding hot coffee in his face, he continues.
"I'm a long-haul truck driver stationed out of Port Orchard. You know where that is?
"The other side of the state near the Puget Sound."
"Right. I haul loads from Seattle to just about anywhere in the country. Get to see the U S of A that way. Meet a lot of people—like this woman named Lisa. Sweetest thing you'll ever meet. But you know that."
"Watch it, jackass. I don't believe you anyway," I say, trying to believe my own words.
"OK, I get it. Anyway, I meet this girl who sort of appeared out of nowhere. Nobody really knows her. She's working at this bar. One thing led to another and we start dating. She tells me that she's from back east and came out west to get away from her troubles."
"She was alone?" I ask, thinking of Aspen.
"No."
"Fuck off."
"Stop saying that."
"My Aspen?" I ask.
He nods. And that's when it all changed.
* * *
Maybe it's a sixth sense or just plain old gut instinct, but I can read people pretty well. He's not lying. Damn it. He's not lying.
"Aspen's in trouble Billy. That's why I'm here."
"She's . . . she's alive?" I stutter out.
"Yes, but she needs her dad. I can't help her anymore."
"Is she here? Where is she? I want to see her immediately. Take me to her now!"
"You can't see her right now. She's in Seattle," he says.
"Why?"
"That's where they are keeping her."
"Who?"
"The court. She broke into a house and got arrested."
My head is spinning. Jane and Aspen are alive? Aspen's a criminal in jail? This can't be real. I stare at the photograph. Looking at my wife's face, searching for an answer that isn't going to come.
"Do you have a picture of Aspen too?"
"No, I'm sorry. I didn't bring one," he says, sheepishly.
"Where's Jane?"
"You've got to promise me you're not going to lose it," he says, but doesn't wait for me to promise anything. "This is what I've been worried about telling you. Lisa—sorry, your Jane is . . . well, she passed a little over a year ago. She drowned. She's gone."
"That's got to be a lie. Why would you come here, show me that picture and tell me she's been alive all this time and now she's dead again. Screw you pal. What proof do you have? I don't even know why I'm entertaining this conversation."
I'm fighting two sides of my brain. This is a lie and chubby Frank here is a con man. Or this is true and the worst thing that could possibly happen—except Aspen. Alive? So maybe the best thing? I don't know.
"You're listening to me because you know I'm telling you the truth, Billy," he says. "Do you really want to go there? For me to prove it? Because I can prove it to you and it's not going to be comfortable for either of us."
"Yes, Frank—that's exactly what I want you to do. You're a fucking liar."
"Jane had a scar on her lower abdomen from when her appendix burst when she was a kid. She had a yin-yang tattoo on her right ankle. She liked her grilled cheese sandwiches burnt to a crisp. She would always read the last chapter of a book first to see if she should read it. She would become quiet and distant for long periods-"
"Enough. Just stop," I say.
That's my Jane. No doubt. My head is spinning and it seems like the diner walls are closing in on me.
"I want you to know that I can't answer the one question you haven't asked me yet," he says.
"And that question is what exactly?" I ask.
"If there was one thing you could ask me right now, what would it be?"
This is not obvious. I have so many questions racing through my mind that I'm not sure where to even start.
I want to ask if this is real. Why did she fake her death? Is that really what she did? Why did this happen? What happened to my daughter? Is she OK? Who the hell are you really, Frank? One question? Yeah, right.
"Why did she leave?" I ask.
I guess that's the one that would help me understand everything.
"That's the question," he says. "I don't know. She never told me. We'd been together awhile. She told me one night. She was pretty wasted at that point. It was a long night out. Sorry, man. She said that if anything happened to her that I needed to take care of someone named Aspen. I asked who that was and she said it was her daughter's real name. The girl living with us went by the name of Libby, not Aspen. I didn't know anything about that and she never mentioned it again. She told me if Aspen ever needed something and she couldn't do it, to find a guy named Billy Redmond. She made me promise to find you. That's why I'm here. I didn't think much of it at the time because everything was going fine with us. She was drunk and I thought she might have been messing with me. I thought that maybe it was just something that she made up. Then after she died, it came back to me. I tried to find you—honestly, but until I saw your name on your father's obituary in the paper, I didn't know where you were."
"When did she tell you her real name was Jane?"
"She never did," he says. "I found you and did some digging. I just Googled it. Saw that you had a wife and a daughter who died in a fire. I did the math on the years and it all lined up. I couldn't believe it. She was living some other life. I searched Facebook and found an old scanned picture of you and her at a holiday party on some lady's page. I figured you guys were friends from before. You weren't tagged in the photo, but seeing you today, I know it was you."
"I'm not on Facebook."
"Good for you," he says.
"And you came to my father's funeral?"
"I needed to know that the Billy Redmond I was looking for was the kind of man who could actually help Libby, well, Aspen. She's not on the right path, Billy. She needs her father back."
Chapter 32
I
waited the rest of the afternoon for Michelle to get off work. I couldn't go home, so I sat on her couch and waited alone. No phone. No web searches. I needed to talk this out before I did anything. I was frozen, unsure of what to do next. I knew I didn't want to share this news with my mother, not before I had anything concrete to tell her.
I texted Michelle that I needed her the second she could leave school. I'd been holding it together as best I could for a few hours now, but the moment she walked into the house, I lost it. I couldn't talk. My sobs were deep and uncontrollable. Both terrified and excited—a battle raging in my head.
"What is it?" She asks, sitting beside me. "What's wrong?
After I long while, I finally answer.
"This is going to sound like the craziest thing anyone has ever told you," I say.
And I begin telling her everything. I tell her about Frank and every word he said about Aspen and Jane. I tell her about the photo he showed me. And I curse myself for not taking it with me. Retelling the story makes it feel real, like it actually happened.
"So where is Aspen now?" she asks.
"In a jail in Seattle, King County."
"That's only 5 hours from here. Let's go. Now."
"So you believe him?" I ask.
"I believe you. I don't think that you'd just buy any story. You have doubts?"
"Yes. I have to have doubts. Until a few hours ago my daughter was dead. Now she's alive?" I say.
"You're not going to get answers to any of this if you don't start looking," she says.
I don't want to tell her that I'm terrified. I'm scared like a little baby afraid of the dark. If this is real, I can figure it out. But what if it's a game? Some sick joke? I don't think I could handle it. I want this to be real and a lie at the same time.
"I can't imagine what you're going through," she says. "I know you buried this a long time ago. You said before that you hid from the reality of it all. And now to have it come back like this . . . I understand you're going to be put through the wringer. But this is your daughter we're talking about. And she needs you."
"I know, but how is this supposed to play out? Let's assume that it's real. Jane hid Aspen from me for years. Started a new life. Who am I to her now?"
