You Only Get So Much

by Dan Kolbet

  I don't laugh, but just follow her up the stairs and into the small apartment. Inside is a twin bed, ratty dresser, a futon and several cardboard boxes.

  "Welcome to my palace," she says. "The chandeliers are being delivered next week with the gold-plated toilet and the wall-to-wall tapestries."

  Now that's funny. I laugh and we share a smile.

  "It's all I can afford," she says. "We were splitting the rent at the other place, which actually wasn't much of a step up from this dump."

  "It's nice," I offer.

  "No. It's ghetto and only temporary. I signed a six-month lease so I could have a place that wasn't with Dillon.

  "Dillon is your boyfriend who you were staying with before?"

  "Was my boyfriend," she says.

  "Right, sorry."

  This conversation is awkward. This whole situation is awkward. Two strangers who should know each other, but don't.

  She plops down on the futon and pulls a pillow across her lap. This seemingly meaningless movement is identical to what Jane would do every time she sat on the sofa at home. She holds the pillow close to her chest. I wonder if she knows that's exactly what her mother used to do too.

  "So what do you want to know?" she asks.

  "How did I die?" I ask.

  It's like the Twilight Zone, asking that question.

  "We were in all in New York, like you said. Mom and I left the hotel. I'm not sure why. I was young and only remember bits and pieces. I remember the explosion though. Mom was holding my hand as we stood under the big awning in front of the hotel. I think we were waiting for a cab, but that's a guess. The ground shook and I fell down, scraping my knee and elbow. Mom was crying, but that was even before the explosion. She picked me up and ran down the street."

  "She told you I was inside?"

  "Later, yes, but I don't remember when," she says. "I've always known that's how you died, so I never questioned it."

  "Incredible," I say shaking my head. It's the only thing I can think to say.

  "So that was all a lie, then?" She asks.

  "Yeah," I say, quietly. I'm calling her mother a liar and ripping apart everything she has ever known. "I'm real and I'm sitting right next to you, so yes, it was a lie and I wish I could tell you why, but I can't."

  I have so many questions, so I continue.

  "Do you remember me?" I ask.

  She takes a moment before answering.

  "You mean, did I recognize you at the jail? Yes . . . there was obviously something familiar about you, but I couldn't wrap my head around what because it's insane."

  "How about now, do you remember anything about us from before?"

  "Yes and no," she says. "You know how when you look at pictures of yourself when you were a little kid, you can picture the day and what happened?" she asks.

  "Like a visual clue. You form a memory based on that image," I answer.

  "Right. Well, I can't do that with you. Mom only kept one picture of you. It was always in the top drawer of her nightstand."

  Libby gets up and crosses the room to a box next to her mattress. She returns and hands me the picture.

  "I took it from the drawer after she died," she says.

  I examine the photo.

  "This was the day you were born," I say.

  Jane is in a hospital bed, the strain of childbirth still visible on her face. Beautiful nonetheless. Little hours-old Aspen is on her chest. And then there's me, leaning in with a big goofy smile.

  "You have always been a shadow in the back of my mind and that guy next to my mom in that picture. But that's it. I don't really remember you any other way. Just flashes. I'm sorry."

  "You don't have anything to be sorry about. You didn't choose this. She did."

  "I don't understand why she did this," she says. "What was so bad that she felt she needed to create her own life and leave you?"

  "I don't know, honey," I say. "I wasn't perfect, but I'm telling you the honest truth that there was no reason why this needed to happen. I know you don't know me, but I want us to be a family again. I know that it will take time, but you're my daughter. I'm your father. It's not too late."

  She stands up, visibly shaken, and walks to the window with her back toward me. Her arms are crossed tightly across her chest.

  "I can't do all this. This is too much," she chokes out through tears. "You're dead. You've been dead since I was a little girl."

  I stand next to her at the window and put my arm around her shoulder. She shudders when I do this.

  "We can't go back and change what happened before, but we can make it better now and for the rest of our lives," I coax gently. "I'm not the only one who wants to know you. Your grandmother. Your cousins. Wait, did you know your mother's family?"

  I ask because Jane never introduced me to her family. Said she left when she was a kid and never looked back. It occurred to me that maybe Libby knew them.

  "No. It was just me and Mom," she says. "I have a grandmother?"

  "My mother, yes. She's as crazy as a one-eyed bat, but she's yours," I say to lighten the mood. "Whenever you're ready you can meet her."

  "I'm not sure about that. I don't know her."

  "You don't know me either," I counter.

  "I know," she admits.

  "I will tell you anything you want to know, even if it takes all night," I volunteer.

  "Did you love my mom?" she asks with a vulnerability that tells me only one answer will do. Thankfully it's the truth.

  "With every last fiber of my being. Yes. I wasn't the perfect husband, but I loved her and she knew that. I have no doubt."

  "Then why? Why did this happen?"

  I let the question fall between us. I don't have the answer.

  * * *

  The sun has set outside and the dim street light peeking in the window is the only thing illuminating the room. Libby is sound asleep on the bed. The exhaustion of the last few days, and in particular the last few hours, finally got to her and she needed sleep.

  I, on the other hand, have no thoughts of falling asleep. I'm as wide awake as a person could possibly be. And I can't contain the smile on my face.

  I have my daughter back.

  Chapter 36

  I'm up at the crack of dawn. I blame Aspen's lumpy futon as much as my impatient excitement for spending time with her. I'm still having trouble calling her Libby. She doesn't know who this Aspen person was, so what's point? Part of me is resisting because I know it was Jane who changed her name to Libby. I don't like going along with anything she decided. Maybe that's cruel and unfair, but my feelings of loss and remorse haven't faded. I still love Jane. But I'm having a hard time reconciling these feelings inside me. Part of me hates her actions, but the person? That's harder to deal with even after all this time. Maybe it's because there is so much that I don't or can't know.

  I decide to take a walk by that shoreline I saw yesterday as we drove in. I'm careful not to wake Libby as I get dressed in the living room. I leave her a note on the futon. "Took a walk. Be back shortly," it reads. I can imagine what might go through her head if she wakes to find me gone with no explanation. I was ripped from her life once and it won't happen again. It's probably being overly cautious, but I'd rather not upset her if I can avoid it.

  I step outside and smell the salty air. A mixture of moss and wet pine fills my nose. The apartment building isn't in great shape. The pounding from the nearby Puget Sound has left it stripped of paint and bowing in places from moisture. I see this repeatedly as I walk block after block of this town, which all seems to slope toward the water. Soggy houses surrounded by clumps of overgrown grasses. No sidewalks. I see only one other soul during my walk. It's a kid delivering newspapers. It's only 5 a.m. No cars pulling out of driveways with workers making their daily trek to the office. No one seems to be going anywhere.

  Why did Jane pick this town? Why bring our daughter here of all places? Frank said that he met Lisa—as he called her—when she was working at a
bar. I didn't ask any additional questions. I just assumed the bar was here. I never should have let that guy leave without giving me every possible detail he knew. But I was too shocked to think straight. I probably wouldn't have gotten anywhere with him anyway. Maybe I could find him again. If he really was a long-haul trucker, there has to be records of where to find him. Libby would know how to find him. I make a mental note to ask her.

  The troubling piece for me in this whole mess is how close by Jane and Libby lived to me, even after I moved to Montana. I was in Seattle several times between then and now. I was less than a hundred miles from where they lived and had no idea.

  There's so much I don't know.

  Before I realize it, I've strolled miles away from Libby's apartment with no memory of what path I used to get here. I left my phone charging back at the apartment, so I have to rely on my not-so-great navigation skills to get back. I turn back to the path by the water, knowing it's probably longer, but I'm assured to get where need to go by following the shoreline road. On the way back I see some actual signs of life. Cars line up for the ferry and joggers pass me on their morning runs. Maybe this town isn't totally dead.

  The return route takes much longer, but that also means that Aspen gets more time to rest before I get back and pepper her with questions about her mother. I want her to come stay with me in Spokane. She's older than the other girls and will probably want a place of her own, but we're her family and it only makes sense to stay close to the people who love you. I think of Gracie, Kendall and even Mom. She's holding down the fort at home. I feel terrible about not telling her the truth about why I came to Seattle, but she's been through so much lately that one more thing might be too much for her. The same goes for the girls. My girls now. I want to be there for them, helping Gracie with her reading each night and talking with Kendall about her goals for the future. They are a part of me now and I miss them. I want them to meet their cousin too—Libby. I decide right there that I will call her Libby from now on. For her sake, not mine.

  Libby can have the office or April's room until she gets her own place. I'm organizing her move in my head as I mount the creaky stairs to the third floor of the apartment building.

  I stop to catch my breath at the top of the stairs, which face the exterior of the apartment building. I'm way more out of shape than I let myself believe. As I wait I hear raised voices. It must be two of her neighbors going at it. But as I walk down the hallway, the voices get louder, even though I can't make out what they are saying. Then I do.

  "Come on Lib!" comes the shout from a deep male voice. "You can't do this to me!"

  * * *

  I burst through the door, which was left unlocked. Inside I find a hulking man in black jeans and an oversize white tee-shirt. His skin is dark and his hair is black. Distinct Native American features. His biceps, which are covered in tattoos, bulge from under the sleeves of the shirt.

  He's standing above Libby who is sprawled out on the floor. I don't know why she's there. Did she fall? Was she pushed? On instinct I rush toward her to comfort her, but I'm knocked off my feet when I get close. One firm wave of his arm connecting to my chest, sends me to the ground.

  "No!" she says.

  "Is this why?!" he shouts at her. "Is this the guy?"

  I scramble to my feet, ready to confront the brute head on. The Papa Bear instinct that I didn't know I had inside me surges through my body. I could stop a runaway truck with one finger at this point. I march toward him.

  "Dad, no!" Libby says. "He'll hurt you."

  I'm momentarily tripped up by the use of the word "Dad." This word stops him too.

  "You call him Dad?" he says, then turns toward me. "That's sick. You're a sick bastard."

  I move past him and lift Libby off the ground, walking her toward the back of the futon, putting distance between her and this man who I assume is Dillon, the felon ex-boyfriend.

  "I think you should leave," I say, standing between the two of them.

  "Who the hell are you?" he says.

  "I'm the guy who is telling you it's time to go, now!" the words burst from my lungs with a ferocity I've not felt in a long time. Strong. Commanding. "Dillon, right? I've already called the police and I don't think you want to be here when I explain how you assaulted me and my daughter. How many strikes do you have? Time to go now. They'll be here any minute."

  Of course this is a complete lie, but he's got no reason to believe I'm not telling the truth. He doesn't know that it's my cell phone plugged into the wall in the kitchen and there is absolutely no chance I've called 911.

  "This is none of your business, old man," he spits at me.

  "I've made it my business and now we're in it together. Time to go," I say.

  I don't know if it was divine intervention or just a coincidence, but in the distance I hear an emergency siren. Could be a police car, ambulance or fire truck. It has no connection to us whatsoever; but he doesn't know that.

  "I'm not gonna forget this, old man," he says. "It didn't have to be like this, you know?"

  "Yeah, I know," I say with a smirk. "Now, out."

  I point at the door.

  He bolts from the room and I hear his heavy footsteps as he races down the hall, running from authorities who aren't chasing him.

  As soon as he's gone Libby starts to cry. Her shoulders quiver and she covers her face with her hands.

  "Honey, it's OK," I say.

  I take her in my arms and hold her close. A protective hug from a virtual stranger. Her tears run down the front of my jacket. After a while she pulls back and wipes her eyes with her shirt sleeves.

  "That," she says, "was Dillon."

  "Quite the fella," I say.

  "He wasn't always that way."

  "Well, it usually doesn't start out like that," I say. "What did he want?"

  "First he said he wanted to apologize for me getting arrested, but that's not why he came."

  "Why did he come?" I ask.

  "He said there was money missing from the house and wanted to know where it was."

  "And when you said you didn't know, he got upset?"

  "Not exactly," she said. "I took the money. $750. He hadn't paid the rent in months and he was keeping this stash in a shoebox in the closet. We were going to get evicted. So I took the money and paid the rent with it."

  "I assume he didn't see it that way."

  "No, he didn't. I'm not a thief, " she says, exasperated. She takes a breath before continuing. "You find me in jail and then this. I'm a mess. Not the daughter you were hoping for. Not by a mile. I'm sure your opinion of me couldn't go any lower."

  She's embarrassed.

  "Libby I don't know you and you don't know me," I say, looking directly into her eyes. "Who am I to judge your past? I haven't walked in your shoes or seen what you've seen. I want to know every detail of your life, but I'm not about to judge you for it. That's not fair to you or me. We are starting over. Clean slate."

  "I'd like that," she says.

  We sit on the futon and she pulls a pillow onto her lap.

  "You're exactly the daughter I wanted and don't you try to think otherwise," I say. "I'm just so happy to have found you."

  "Me too," she says, then pauses before adding, "I've never had that happen before," she says.

  "I should hope not, Dillon was—"

  "No, not that," she interrupts. "I've never had someone stand up for me like you just did. Ever. Not Mom. Nobody. I didn't know what that felt like. I don't know how to thank you."

  "You don't have to," I say. "This is how it's supposed to be."

  Chapter 37

  Libby didn't take much convincing to come to Spokane with me.

  "What have I got here that I need to stay for?" she asked when I broached the idea of leaving Port Orchard. "I lost my job at the beauty supply store when I got arrested and have no idea how I'm going to pay the rent here in two weeks. So, sure. When do we leave?"

  We left the next morning. We packed he
r belongings into the back of the truck, which only filled it about halfway full. She locked the door and left the key with the building manager who agreed to wave her lease agreement, "just this once," like she had any intention of returning to the dreary building.

  "There's one more place I need to go before we leave," she said. "I want to get Mom's stuff."

  Mom's stuff? Images of our wedding photo album pop into my head. The movie stubs we used to save. The parking ticket we got on our second date. But I have all those things tucked away inside a box at the cabin. I don't know what things she might have. Things from her life without me I guess. Maybe, hidden in these things are the answers I seek or maybe it's just a bunch of old junk. I try to keep my expectations low, just in case.

  * * *

  "We were living with Frank when Mom drowned two summers ago," she says as we drive and she guides me to Frank's house. "When she died I lived there for another couple months. Frank was a trucker and he was gone a lot. I was lonely. I was only 17. I moved in with Dillon right before I turned 18. It was stupid, but I don't think Frank really wanted me there anyway."

  "Why do you say that?" I ask.

  "I don't know. I just kind of felt out of place there. Like it wasn't really home."

  Her home was with me, but I won't say that now. I hope she knows it.

  "What place felt like home?" I ask.

  "Before we lived here. When we lived in St. Cloud."

  "Minnesota? You lived there?" I ask.

  "Until I was in eighth grade and we moved to Port Orchard," she says.

  I try to think of any connection Jane had with Minnesota or any reason why she would have picked that place to move to, but for the life of me I can't. We never visited there or had any friends who moved there. It's probably the last place in the country that I would have chosen to live. I want to ask her more about it, but we've already arrived at Frank's house.

  "Turn here," she says, and I navigate the truck down a long dirt driveway. A semi-truck trailer and a long flatbed trailer are parked to the side of a weathered brown, ranch-style house. The driveway turns to gravel as we near the front. There's no yard. Just dirt and gravel. The area is surrounded by tall, dense pine trees that cast long shadows over the place. A stray cat darts between the rusted-out hulls of several vehicles which litter the yard. A large red barn is behind the house.