by K. A. Tucker
He has seemed happier, lighter, these past months. “I don’t know what to say,” I finally manage. “I guess I thought you’d stick around to see the Waterway through.”
“I don’t plan on dying anytime soon,” he mutters wryly. “But that project is years from completion. And I know you can handle it.”
Can I, though? Doubt creeps into my thoughts.
“If you think I’ve been especially harsh on you this year, it’s because I was trying to make sure you’d be ready to fill my role.” Dad’s hard profile softens with his smile. “But I realized, the night of the gala, that you’re ready. Or, as ready as anyone could be at this stage in the game. You’ll figure the rest of it out with the help of your team.”
My team. David, my ex-fiancé who I’ve come to value more now than ever before, and Mark, my proficient assistant, and the rest of the highly qualified people CG employs, short one lumpy, bitter body as of Tripp’s forced resignation today. I’ve already been reviewing Serge’s work history with us. He might be a suitable replacement and more-than-deserving of the promotion.
I may be failing in my personal life, but at least the professional side is on the rise.
And hearing that Dad has confidence in me makes my own confidence soar. Kyle was right—whether I’ll admit to it or not, I will always look for my father’s approval.
I guess the real question is, can I thrive without it?
“So, this thing with Mom is really serious, then.” I can’t hide the doubt from my voice. I’ve witnessed their hatred for each other for too many years to believe a reconciliation is possible.
“This thing with your mother has always been serious.” He peers at me, curiously. “From the very first day I saw her.”
Like it was for me with Kyle.
A lump swells in my throat.
Dad checks his watch. “I should be off now. I’m already late to meet your mother and Rhett for dinner.”
Oh. In all the chaos of the past twenty-four hours, I forgot about my brother. “Does he know about you two yet?”
“They might be discussing it over cocktails at this very moment.” Dad sighs heavily. “I’m not sure how he’ll respond to this news.”
I’m a huge stoner, remember? Stoners don’t judge. I smother my smile over my brother’s words. “You can start by telling him you’re using his spoon phone holder.”
“That ridiculous thing . . .” he mutters, his lips twisting in thought. “I guess it’s not the dumbest product I’ve ever seen.”
“Maybe leave that part out.”
Dad makes a sound that might be agreement as he wanders back to collect his suit jacket. He and Elton share a look of mutual displeasure. “I know you may not agree with how I handled things in the past, but you will understand it one day, when you’ve seen the kind of power our money yields, the ugliness and greed it brings out; when you have your own children and find yourself willing to do anything to protect them against the downfalls of our privilege. Maybe you’ll even find it in your heart to forgive me.” He moves for the patio door.
“But you married Mom, who had no money. And Rhett married Lawan, who really had no money,” I remind him. “And look how happy you all are.”
“Yes, but you’re my daughter.” He clears his suddenly hoarse voice as he pauses at the French door. “Your friend Kyle gave about half of that fifty thousand to the Vetters, before he reached out to me to help them. I plan on informing him that his debt to me is paid.”
I remember Kyle mentioning something about that last night. “Why would you do that?”
“Like I said . . . some might call it a respectable act.” With that he’s gone.
Leaving me to my heavy thoughts.
Chapter 26
NOW
The Vetter house is a simple brown brick two-story structure on a quiet country road outside of Erie, settled on about an acre of land. A separate garage sits off to the side, a riding lawn mower parked in front of it. Someone must have just used it on the front lawn—the air carries the smell of fresh-cut grass.
Ashley and I both inhale sharply as we take in the wooden wheelchair-accessible ramp that leads from the driveway to the wide front door. In the driveway is a gray van—the kind you use to transport people in wheelchairs.
“I guess that answers that question.” Christa is the only one who seems calm as she pulls up beside the van in our rental car.
When I called and spoke to Eric’s mom, Cindy, last night, to ask her if we could visit him, I didn’t push for details about Eric’s condition. I didn’t want to admit that we’d been kept in the dark by my father and Kyle. Ashley and I agreed that we’d find out when we got here and make sure our smiles stay firmly on our faces through it all, so as not to show him pity. Eric wasn’t the type of guy to look for pity.
But now that we’re standing in the Vetter driveway, I’m not sure that was the smart move. Maybe we should have come better prepared.
A tall, thin woman with curly gray hair steps out to greet us. “Piper Calloway?” she calls out, absently rubbing her hands against her cotton shorts.
“Yes. That’s me.” I step forward, making my way up the ramp.
She meets me halfway, with a smile. One that transports me back to Camp Wawa thirteen years ago and makes my chest ache. Eric has his mother’s smile.
After a round of greetings, she leads us inside the modestly decorated home, which smells of freshly brewed coffee and homemade fruit pie and, faintly, antiseptic. To the right of us is what I’m guessing used to be their dining room, but which now houses a hospital bed and a flat-screen TV, along with various medical equipment and a dresser covered in pill bottles.
My dread flares.
“I told him that you ladies were coming and he’s been busy all morning, preparing. He’s in the kitchen, waiting for you,” Cindy says in an upbeat voice, leading us toward the back of the house.
Ashley and I share a glance and I know we’re thinking the same thing—what exactly does “preparing” mean?
We step into the kitchen—a bright, sun-filled room of golden oak and yellow walls and clean white appliances—just as a man approaches us from the left, his hand toggling the small joystick that controls his motorized wheelchair.
Ashley does a poor job stifling her gasp.
I struggle to keep my smile firmly in place, as my eyes burn with the threat of tears.
And Christa . . . she can’t help but avert her gaze a moment, as we take in Eric, his once tall, fit body now gaunt and huddled within the confines of his chair, his neck supported by a padded attachment, his face drawn, the muscles sagging. His face has changed shape entirely. He doesn’t look like our Eric anymore. The only thing I do recognize is his blond curls, and even they are cut short.
One side of Eric’s face pulls up and his lips struggle to take shape. Finally, he manages to get out a single word.
“Freckles.”
Ashley bursts into tears.
“Eric was always my wild child. Getting into trouble, doing crazy things.” Cindy slowly stirs her sugar, the metal spoon clanging against the delicate porcelain. I suspect she pulled out her best dishes for today’s visit. It’s far too hot to be drinking coffee out on the back deck, but when she suggested that Christa and I step outside and give Ashley and Eric some time to reconnect privately, we were more than happy for the escape.
“He was one of the campers’ favorite counselors,” Christa offers in response. And it’s the truth. They all loved Eric and Kyle. The two of them together were unstoppable when it came to mischief, and kids love mischief.
“He loved that camp so much.” She smiles. “His father went there when he was young, before his family moved to Erie. We decided to send him there on a whim, when he was, oh, eight or nine? He insisted on going back every year after that.”
I don’t know how to approach the topic, but I need to ask. “Kyle Miller told me that this happened because of a brain swell?”
Cindy nods and takes a d
eep breath, as if preparing to fall into a speech that she’s told a thousand times already. “We were cautiously optimistic. He had no spinal injuries; his back wasn’t broken. He was responsive . . . There was a bit of swelling in his brain, but nothing the doctors didn’t think they couldn’t manage. And then the swelling got worse. And worse, and they couldn’t get a handle on it. For weeks, we weren’t sure if he’d survive. He did, but he suffered extensive damage to his motor and speech skills. He has some memory loss, too.” She smiles sadly. “And yet he remembers his time at camp like it was just yesterday. And all of you. Especially Ashley. He made me spritz him with cologne this morning and I’m pretty sure it was for her.” Her laugh is soft and motherly, and it puts me at ease, even with the tense reunion. “He communicates mainly through his little keyboard and iPad screen. He’s gotten pretty good at typing out words using his good hand. Ironically, that’s the arm that was shattered in the fall.”
Christa, who has been mostly quiet since seeing Eric, now asks, “What have the doctors said about his recovery?”
“With a lot of therapy and hard work on his part, we could still see some more progress. You know . . . movement in his arm, slightly clearer speech, that sort of thing. Small things.” She smiles, but it seems forced. “My son is still with us, even if his body doesn’t want to fully cooperate. That, I have to be thankful for. That and your father, Piper. He has been . . .” Cindy squeezes her eyes shut and when they open, they’re glistening, “a lifesaver for us. Eric would not be nearly as comfortable as he is today. We wouldn’t even be in this house. I don’t know how we would have managed. I try my best to not take advantage of his generosity. I’ve already told him time and time again that we know who our son was, and that this was not anyone’s fault. Still, he has insisted on more than one occasion, and your father can be, shall I dare say, a difficult man?”
I laugh; meanwhile my chest swells with pride. “For once, it’s for a good cause.”
“Yes, well.” Cindy dabs at the corners of her eyes. “I’m not going to lie—there are dark days, when Eric’s spirits are especially low, when he gets frustrated and gives up on the work needed to improve. But we do our best to bring him out of it.”
Could having Ashley and me around have helped keep Eric’s spirits up, had we been given the opportunity?
My various feelings for my father are at such opposite ends of a spectrum—a pendulum swinging furiously between eternal anger and overwhelming gratitude.
The patio sliding door opens and Ashley steps out, her emerald-green eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Piper, Eric wants to talk to you.”
I take a deep breath, steeling my nerve as I stand. “Have my seat,” I offer her with an affectionate pat on her back. While Ashley may never have admitted how much she cared for Eric, there was never any doubt in my mind that she wanted more than just friendship. I can’t imagine how hard this is for her now.
I step inside. The cool, air-conditioned temperature is soothing against my sticky skin.
“Piper . . .” Eric attempts to say as I close the door behind me and take the seat next to his chair, still warm from Ashley occupying it.
It’s hard for me to meet his eyes without succumbing to tears, but I grit my teeth and fight the urge to break down.
He drags his right arm in his lap to tap the iPad screen, which is sitting in a holder.
A page entitled “Piper” on the top appears, with lines that he’s obviously prepared ahead of time.
Been streaking lately? Is the first one.
It’s so unexpected, so Eric, I burst out in laughter, even as a few tears slip out. “No. Not since that night.” I pause. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been here to see you. I didn’t know this had happened. I thought you were fine. I thought you had healed and moved on with your life—”
He makes a low, guttural sound, then scrolls down the list, his finger moving slowly to highlight line twenty-one.
I know that you didn’t know. Kyle told me. He told me your dad didn’t want you finding out. He told me about the money. He told me everything. I get it.
“Well, I still don’t, and I’m so pissed at both of them.”
He shifts his hand to a small keyboard and with painfully slow movements, types out, Don’t be mad at Kyle for asking your dad to help me.
I frown. “That’s not why I’m mad at Kyle. I would have demanded that my dad help you, and if he didn’t, I would have. I’m mad at Kyle because . . . I don’t even know why anymore. Because he didn’t tell me all this, I guess.” He had plenty of time. Plenty of chances, while tangled in my bedsheets with me, while pressing kisses against the back of my palm, while pretending everything was okay.
I wait patiently as Eric’s fingers move over the keyboard once again.
He was afraid to, because he thought your dad would cut me off of more help if he went against him.
“Eric, Kyle took a job in my building! Did he really not think that I was going to find out about all this eventually?” My dad’s right about one thing—Kyle is not stupid.
A strange half-moaning, half-grunting sound escapes Eric’s mouth, and I realize that he’s laughing.
I know. I dared him to, he types out.
My mouth drops. “What?”
I knew he was still in love with you, so I dared him.
My stomach tightens seeing that word. “But that’s . . . He wouldn’t risk pissing my dad off over a dare.”
Wanna bet? Again, that strange half-moan, half-grunt. I told him that if he didn’t do it, I would email you myself and tell you everything. This way at least he might get a happy ending out of it.
“There was definitely an ending,” I mutter, and, when I catch Eric’s curious eyes on me, I have to look away. I don’t want him to feel guilty or responsible for that mess. He has enough going on.
Eric scrolls through his list, to highlight an item that makes me pause.
I want to go to Camp Wawa. You, Ashley, me, and Kyle.
A conflicting wave of eagerness and dread washes over me. “They shut it down. I don’t know if they’re going to sell it or what.”
He taps on his screen harder.
I sigh. How can I say no? “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” It means driving Eric six hours there, in his van, which means I had better make sure we can get on the property. Whatever . . . this is a challenge I can handle. Being there with Kyle, though, with all the emotions that are bound to rise up . . . I frown. “Why do you want to go back there so bad?”
He slowly types out, I guess cliff-jumping is out? and laughs.
“Kyle texted from town. They should be here by now,” Ashley announces, smoothing her frizzy hair off her forehead.
My palms are sweating as I pull my mom’s Z3—her latest car, which I had no idea she’d even purchased—past the open gate and into the familiar driveway. I’m not sure what I’m more nervous about: visiting Wawa again for the first time in thirteen years.
Or facing Kyle again.
We’ve arranged this trip mainly through email—Ashley and I emailing Eric, and him in turn emailing Kyle. I know Ashley and Eric have been messaging a lot over the past week, outside of planning for this trip. But Kyle and I haven’t exchanged a single word. I figured whatever needed to get out in the open would happen today, here.
I’m just not sure I’m ready for it.
My eyes veer in every direction as the car crawls along the long, winding road, unsure of where to settle first. This feels like coming home after being away from it for . . . thirteen years.
“This is surreal,” Ashley murmurs, plucking the words out of my head.
“Look.” I nod toward the pavilion. The vibrantly colored picnic tables are all there, sitting empty, the scribbles from last year’s campers still visible. The worn Camp Wawa paddles hang from the facing, though one has lost its anchor and dangles haphazardly. The grass around the property is long and unkempt; it likely hasn’t been cut all summer.
That familiar buzz I remem
ber—of life and laughter and excitement—is long gone, leaving nothing but an eerie silence.
“There they are.” Ashley points toward Eric’s gray van, parked in the lot. The back is open, and Eric is easing his chair down the ramp as his hired nurse for their twelve-hour round trip looks on. I know they were leaving before daylight broke this morning in order to get here by noon. They must be exhausted.
Kyle steps out from around the other side. My chest pangs at the sight of him, in a pair of black jeans and a pullover, to combat the unseasonably cool weather that blew in over the weekend.
I pull my car up next to them and ease out, avoiding Kyle’s gaze for the moment to focus on Eric, leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek. “Ready to go cliff-diving?” I whisper.
He laughs in response, and gives me a thumbs-up with his good hand.
“So when does the real estate agent get here?” Ashley asks.
“I told them we’d be here at one and it’s,” I check my phone, “noon now, so we have about an hour before we have to come back and pretend I’m interested in buying.” It didn’t take much digging to find out that the property is for sale, and it took even less time for them to agree to show it to me once I gave them my credentials.
Eric’s nurse takes that as her sign to climb into the van and shut the door behind her.
“Let’s go,” Eric says in his garbled speech, then shifts his joystick to round the curb and hop up onto the grass. He speeds away, Ashley jogging beside him, laughing. The oversized wheels on his motorized chair handle the uneven ground with ease.
“Who needs golf carts, right?” Kyle murmurs, coming up to stand beside me as I pull on my sweater.
His gaze is on our friends, allowing me to study his beautiful profile a moment.
I’m not angry with him, I realize.
I’m hurt. So hurt that he hid this from me.
But I miss him terribly, too.
