Seven Wakings Page 2

  His very presence affects my cells; it’s loathe at first sight. “You don’t know anything about my father.”

  He reacts like I sucker-punched him. “Jesus. I’m just tryin’ to make polite conversation.”

  I huff. “Don’t strain yourself.” The whiskey has definitely kicked in.

  He looks at me sideways. “Are you mistakin’ me for an ex-boyfriend or somethin’?”

  I almost smile. At least he knows how to hang tough. “Sorry. I’m just a little wrecked right now. Maybe I’m seeing you wrong.”

  He leans in and whispers. “My mother used to say I was an angel sent from heaven.”

  I wasn’t expecting him to be charming. “You shouldn’t get too close. Your lady-friend might think you’re sweet on me.”

  He glances at my figure. “Nah. You ain’t my type.”

  I look over at Kim, who’s fondling the fringe of her sweater the way a baby does when they suckle. “Why… aren’t you attracted to women with a spine?”

  “It’s not that.” He leans in close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath mingle with my hair. “I just got a taste for the Chinks.”

  His charm bubble just popped. “I don’t think Kim is Chinese, Mike.”

  He looks at her and shrugs. “Them Asians all look the same to me. I got what you might call ‘yellow fever’.” Mike winks, then clenches the muscles of his chiseled jaw and looks around. He lowers his voice. “Hey… I overheard you talkin’ to the Chief about the runaways. What’s the deal?”

  “There’s no deal. Something just seems off about it. I can feel it in my gut.”

  He furrows his brow. “What do you mean, like that ‘lady intuition’ thing?”

  I shake my empty glass. “Something like that… only stronger.”

  “Oh yeah…” He points his finger at me. “You’re into all that ‘woo-woo’ stuff.”

  I laugh. “Woo-woo?” Seems funny to hear such a macho guy use such a flowery term.

  “You know,” he shakes his hands by his head, “that psychic bullshit stuff.” A tattoo peeks out from the bottom of his buttoned sleeve.

  “Ah… another skeptic. Why should you believe in something that’s existed throughout history?” Most of my ice is melted. I drink the water tinged with whiskey, and start to walk away.

  Apparently Mike’s not done with the conversation. He stops me by the wrist. “You should get your facts straight. Psychics have only been around since the 1800’s. You’re thinkin’ of prophets. Now they knew what they were talkin’ about.”

  His intellect surprises me. I had him pegged as a guy who only reads comic books. “I’ll bite. How were prophets better than psychics?”

  “Three reasons.” Mike puts up a finger with each point. “God spoke to them directly, they were 100% accurate with their predictions, and their prophecies were usually about major societal change. Not personal forecasts. And frankly… most prophets were men.”

  I can’t put my finger on Mike. It’s like he’s two different people: charming/well-read vs. angry/narrow-minded. “So my intuition is bullshit?”

  “Claiming to be psychic is like saying you’re the descendant of a prophet and a retard.” He laughs at himself.

  I guess he skipped all the PC classes. “Did you really just call me partially retarded?” I need a drink.

  He shrugs. “Maybe not retarded. Just a little crazy.” He sucks his incisor; seems to be ramping up for a doozie of a comment. “Wait… wasn’t your mom crazy too?” He laughs. “I guess it is inherited.”

  I don’t question why he knows my personal history; I’m blinded by rage.

  Every cell in my body roars up. It’s like his comment pulled the ring off of a grenade in my mind. Fury explodes. I lunge at him before I can stop myself, have him backed against the wall. “You ever talk about my mother again… I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

  Mike shoves me off, looks me straight in the eye. “They put you in charge of kids? You’re just as mental as every other CPS.”

  I get in his face. “You wanna see crazy? I’ll show you all kinds of crazy.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The Chief separates us. “Settle down. Both of you.”

  Mike straightens his shirt and glares at me. “You’re way outta line.” He turns to Kim. “Come on. Let’s get outta here. I can tell we’re not welcome.”

  Maybe Mike was right about my gift. A prophet would have known that he’s playing two sides in the runaway game: one as a dedicated cop, and another he doesn’t want me— or anyone in the police department— to know about.

  I reach for my empty glass. “Kim’s welcome anytime.”

  The Chief turns to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I feel like a kid who’s been pulled aside by the coach. Apparently I need a talking-to.

  He looks down at me. The only thing that softens his appearance are freckles atop cream-in-your-coffee skin. “I know Mike is a little rough around the edges, but he’s been through a lot in his life. We owe it to him to… ”

  “I don’t owe him anything.”

  The Chief puts his hands in his pockets. “Then play nice for me. His father was a comrade of mine, back in-the-day.”

  I’d forgotten that the Chief started out as an officer in Jersey. My father’s advice comes to mind: you mess with one police officer, and you mess with them all. “Fine. But it isn’t going to be easy.”

  He pats my shoulder. “If you need a couple of days, I’ll make a call to CPS…”

  I shrug. “I’ll think about it.”

  As they leave, I head to the kitchen, don’t care that everyone is staring at me… except for the kids. They’ve never seen me this way. I’ve never seen me this way.

  Lynette meets me at the counter. “You okay?”

  I fill my glass with ice. “He had the nerve to call me crazy on a day like this. What kind of guy does that?”

  “Clearly he’s an ass.” Lynette pats my hand.

  “Is that your professional diagnosis?” I pour whiskey over the ice, watch it pool at the bottom of the glass until it reaches two fingers. Then I pour a little more.

  “My professional diagnosis would probably be more along the lines of: sociopathic tendencies and blatant misogyny.” She slices a thin piece of orange for my glass, spears it— and a maraschino cherry— with a sword-shaped toothpick.

  “I prefer your first diagnoses, makes him easier to despise.”

  After mixing my drink, I settle back into Dad’s chair and try eavesdropping on the crowd.

  I hear a large woman speaking to her friend, neither of whom I know. She says, “It really isn’t a funeral without a body, now is it?” After both women laugh sufficiently she follows with, “But, my Lord, these lemon bars are delicious.”

  Sound drifts in and out, like I’m drowning in an ocean of cotton. I’m pulled to the surface when an older woman touches my arm. “I tended to your father in the service… after the plane crash. He was such a gracious man. He’ll be sorely missed.”

  I stand to thank her, hold both of her hands. But that will be the last time I interact with anyone until the crowd clears.

  By 8:30 only Lynette, her husband Lou, and my kids are still at my father’s house.

  They’re all cleaning.

  I walk toward the kitchen and sit on a bar stool at the counter. Mac slides closer and puts his arm around my shoulder. He senses when I’m far away and brings me back to earth with a touch. I know the affection will cease when his first chin hair sprouts, so I soak up every minute.

  “Looks like I have some catching up to do.” Lynette nods toward my empty glass.

  “That was my third…” I shake the ice. “…and I’m not nearly numb enough.”

  “We’ll have to work on that.” She calls to Lou. “Honey…will you take the kids tonight? Em and I have some mourning to do.”

  He walks over to us and gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. I’ve considered Lou the closest of family, since he married Lynette eighteen years ago. Because the
y couldn’t have kids of their own, they consider mine, theirs. Now, without Dad, they’re the only people I trust completely with my children.

  “How are you holding up, kid?” He rubs my back, tugs loose his grey tie.

  “I’ve been better.” I lick the inside of my glass, looking for a stray drop of alcohol.

  “Whatever you need, we’re here for you— day or night.” He kisses Lynette on the cheek, grabs his keys, and motions to the kids. “We’ve been kicked out. These lovely ladies need to drown their sorrows.”

  Kate gives me a big hug, tells me that she loves me, and she’ll see me in the morning. I whisper to her, “I love you more than you could ever possibly know”— my usual farewell. She gives me a Bonne Bell kiss on the cheek and gathers her things.

  “Mexican food tomorrow night?” Mac slips into Nikes.

  “Ole!” I snap my fingers like a salsa dancer.

  He laughs just enough.

  I give him a hug and say the same goodbye as I did to Kate “…more than you could ever possibly know.”

  Lou and the kids will probably play board games— which Mac will win— until they beg Lou to sing them to sleep. His voice, trained operatically, resonates on a level that makes people weep.

  Later, Lou will fall asleep on the couch after hearing the puppy snores of my children in their twin beds. They share an upstairs room across the short hall from mine. Lou is as fierce a protector as me— a trait that continues to win me over.

  Once they’re gone, I feel like Atlas after setting down the world. With children comes the great burden of pretending that everything’s okay… when most days, it’s not. I wonder for a second if I could ever leave my children, as my mother did. My answer is immediate. No. Not under any circumstances.

  As if Lynette hears my internal banter, she says, “Good parents don’t have the luxury of going insane. You’ll get through this, Em. You have to.”

  “Yeah… with a little help from my friend.” I shake my empty glass and fantasize about downing a bottle of sleeping pills with it. If it weren’t for the kids, I’d consider it. Sometimes just being alive feels like an accomplishment.

  I drift off to a memory of my father tucking me in: “Oh to sleep, perchance to dream,” he said every night, as he pulled the blankets up under my chin. He would kiss the tip of my nose, and just before shutting the door, tug on my toes and say, “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

  “Make me one too.” Lynette prepares an appetizer tray for us, and heads to the porch while I get our drinks.

  Alone in the kitchen, I’m struck by the silence. It occurs to me that I will never hear my father’s voice again. I look around. Nothing’s been updated since the 70’s: brown, white and gold linoleum, dark wood cabinets, and a laminate countertop— that’s supposed to resemble mauve marble, but looks more like what’s under our skin— beg to be updated, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I pull my father’s ashes to my waist like a clutch purse, pick up our drinks, and head for the porch.

  “I’m going to look inside.” I tip my head toward the box.

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” Lynette takes her drink.

  “Why not? Aren’t I aiming for ‘closure,’ Doctor?” I sit in one of the two rocking chairs and set my father and my drink on the table between us.

  “Closure is down the road a bit. Right now you should be eating, and I should be drinking.” She picks up her cocktail.

  I remove the lid anyway and open the plastic bag inside. “He looks like sand.”

  “Ashes to ashes.” She touches my wrist. “It’s too soon.”

  I run fingertips through his remains. He feels like ground teeth.

  Lynette indulges me with extended silence. We rock until a parade of old memories surface and march onto the screen in my mind.

  “Do you remember how bad Miss Anne’s house smelled?” I close the bag and box.

  “Well, she had all those cats.” Lynette smiles, rocking.

  “And her son…what was his name… used to wet his pants?” Snapping fingers by my temple, I try to recall.

  “Tommy, Tommy Martin,” she says and smacks the arm of her rocking chair, as if she could win a prize with quick response. Settling back in, “Isn’t it ironic that Miss Anne painted the inside and outside of her house yellow?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, eating the maraschino cherry from my glass.

  “You know, yellow… the color of urine.”

  I howl, like I haven’t laughed in years. The feeling reminds me of Truvy’s line in Steel Magnolias, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.”

  After a million stories and countless cocktails, Lynette and I end the night.

  “Are you going home?” she asks, knowing I live right next to Dad.

  “No, I’m too tired. How about you?” I stumble and hop sideways to take off a shoe.

  “If you’re staying, I’m staying.” She lives to the left of Dad’s house.

  Before I can offer her my old room, Lynette flops on the couch and closes her eyes. I cover her with a blanket and turn out the lights. Heading toward the hall, I opt to sleep in my father’s bed. Maybe it’ll be easier for him to visit my dreams in there.

  Lying down I turn on my side and look toward his closet. Shoes, lined up like soldiers, wait to be selected. It occurs to me that my father will never wear them again because he’s not a person anymore. And neither is Cal.

  I quietly weep until sleep overtakes me.

  Chapter Two - Toxic Women

  I wake to hot breath on my face. Rico, my German shepherd, sits on the floor next to my father’s bed, trying to rouse me. Pawing at the faded, block-quilt, he seems frustrated by my unconsciousness. Rico is an old K-9, given to me by officers of the Baltimore Police Station. It’s time for my run. Even though he’s too old to go with me, Rico takes routine very seriously. I am to run at 6:00 a.m., no matter the circumstance. He doesn’t care about the weather, my mood, or in this case, if I’m hung over. It’s my job to work out and his job to rouse me. Most days, Lynette joins me. I doubt she wants to be awakened today.

  Tip-toeing into the living room, I see Lynette is a torrent of red hair and drool. Her arm dangles sideways off the couch. She never did drink much, a trait Lou— who runs a non-profit treatment center— appreciates. I, on the other hand, have been accused of having a hollow leg. Rico and I head out the back, he through the dog flap Dad made for him, and me the screen door. Pushing the gate between our yards further open, the metal screeches. Dad was going to fix that.

  The kids are in our kitchen next door. I bought the place after my Cal died, to be near Dad and among the people where I grew up. None of the neighbors are perfect, but I’ve grown used to their demons— none of which include child abuse.

  Combing fingers through shaggy hair, I try to look less run over. The back door opens before I reach the concrete stairs.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Kate wipes her hands on an apron she made in a sewing class she was “forced to take.” It’s covered in graffiti style letters that spell out the names of her favorite Blink 182 songs.

  “Actually, the dog dragged me in.” Rico barks, making my spine stiffen. “Why are you guys up so early?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. We’re just getting some breakfast.” She inherited the cooking bug from me. “Want some?” Kate holds the kitchen door.

  “Rico’s making me run. I’ll just get some juice for now.”

  Kate reaches into the cabinet for a glass and pours me O.J. from a pitcher on the counter.

  Mac’s perched on a red barstool on the far side of the kitchen island, reading The Catcher in the Rye. A band of warm sun pours through the front bay window, courses through our open living room, and drapes him in light. Kate is on the inside of the island, her delicate figure framed by double ovens. Sunlight hits her hands, mixing biscuits. They have no idea how beautiful they are to me. I take a mental snapshot, hoping to capture the simple elegance of the moment, wanting to sto
p time and live here forever.

  Silence floats. They seem to know that I need to absorb them periodically. That’s what happens to some people who lose loved ones; they soak up every minute of every day, thinking those closest to them could disappear just as abruptly.

  But, I don’t want them to be drenched in my abandonment.

  “Where’s Lou?” I ask them and drink my juice.

  “He went home about fifteen minutes ago, said he was going to prepare a hangover breakfast for his ‘lovely bride.’ Something about raw eggs and tomato juice,” Kate says.

  “He’d better cover himself in plastic.” I finish my glass of juice.

  Mac laughs. “That’s what I said.” He lays down his book.

  I hesitate. “Hey… I just wanted to apologize to you guys for my behavior last night. I think losing your grandpa made me a little crazy. You’re going through enough without having to wonder whether or not I’m losing my mind.”

  “It’s okay,” Mac says. “You’re wrestling with abandonment issues that were exacerbated by Mike’s blatant disregard for your personal struggle.”

  Clearly Lynette talked to them. I know Mac’s quoting her verbatim.

  I kiss him on blond Medusa hair. “While that may be true, I shouldn’t have embarrassed you guys in front of everybody. It was a very bad parenting moment.”

  “Very bad.” Kate refills my glass. “I may never recover.” She smiles.

  “Very funny.” I touch the rounded silk of Mac’s prepubescent cheek—then head upstairs to change.

  Tying on running shoes, I look out the window and drift off to one of my earliest memories… before my mother left. I must have been no more than seven years old. It was Valentine’s Day. Feeling called, I walked to the dormer window of my upstairs room, opened it and looked down. Mother was outside, dressed like Jackie Kennedy: cream-colored pillbox hat, a three-quarter length coat, and matching opera length gloves. She held a bucket of paint in her left hand and a wide sable brush in her right.

  Mom was cautious at first; only dipping the tip of the brush and wiping all excess before she painted small swaths of crimson on our front stoop. Standing back she nodded to herself. She pushed the brush deeper into color and carefully eliminated every inch of grey concrete on our front step; creating a four-foot square of bright red.