Now That You Mention It
Page 77
“Right.”
“I did find two notices of the deaths of men named William Stuart, however. Both with your father’s date of birth, both born in New York City.”
Panic flashed across me, finding every injury I’d ever had—my clavicle, my knee, my shin from where I’d whacked it so hard in college on the steps of the library, every place Voldemort had hurt me. Don’t be dead, Daddy. Don’t be dead.
“One is from seventeen years ago. Cause of death was a car accident, El Paso, Texas.” There was a pause. “The other, I’m sorry to say, was a suicide. Buffalo, New York, eleven years ago.”
A chickadee lit on the branch next to me. So pretty, those little birds, so industrious and smart. I felt a little faint suddenly, gray spots hiding the bird, and sucked in a breath.
“Dr. Stuart?”
“Still here,” I said. My voice was odd. Another breath. The gray spots faded.
“Neither had obituaries, and there were no next of kin or spouses listed. No Social Security numbers available, either.” He coughed. “Would either of those locations have made sense?”
“Um...no. Not really. I mean, he could’ve gone anywhere.”
“If you had his Social Security number...”
“Right.”
“It would be on your parents’ marriage certificate, if you have access to that. Without it, I’m afraid I’m at the end of the road.”
“Thanks, Mr. Gillespie. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.” I hung up and got back on my bike.
I didn’t realize I was crying till the wind blew its breath against my tears.
* * *
Rather than go home, I went to my mother’s, propping my bike near the back door, a leftover habit from childhood. Poe was at work and so was Mom, which meant I could snoop all the way up till dinnertime.
If my father was dead, I wanted to know. I couldn’t imagine my mother throwing away a document like her marriage certificate—or divorce papers.
God. I didn’t even know if my parents were legally divorced.
I hadn’t thought about snooping when I first got here, and given my injuries, it would’ve been tough. Man, that seemed like an age ago, when I had the crutch and the sling.
The house smelled like meat loaf. Mom made hers in the Crock-Pot, one of her few not-horrible dinners. At least I wouldn’t have to contend with Tweety, I thought, then felt immediately guilty.
Boomer lay down in front of the woodstove, panting happily. I got him some water and took a breath. The den would be the place to start, I guessed.
Unsurprisingly, my mom’s desk was tidy and organized. Feeling another kick of guilt (twinge just wouldn’t cover it), I opened her file drawers. Neatly labeled files of bills, receipts, the local businesses who hired her as a bookkeeper. Health—God, did I even dare? I did. It contained a copy of her lab work, all perfectly normal, and a prescription for glasses.
There was one for Poe—school records from Seattle, a report from the Greater Seattle Department of Children and Families. “No evidence of abuse or neglect,” it said. Seemed like my sister had been investigated after her run-ins with the law.
Oh, Lily.
There was nothing here about my father.
I went upstairs into Mom’s room, just across the little hall from mine. A memory drifted down—me, scared of something at night, coming across the way in a nightgown, wanting my parents but not wanting to wake them up. My father’s hand on my head, getting a glass of water, waiting for the water to be cold, then tucking me back in bed, telling me Mr. Bowie, my teddy bear, would protect me.
No. That had been Mom. I remember her talking in a growling voice, pretending to be Mr. Bowie. “No one will get past me!” And we’d laughed there in the moonlight, Lily fast asleep in the other twin bed.
Her bedroom hadn’t changed much.
I opened the night table drawer and closed it fast. Okay, then. Mom still had womanly needs. Good for her. I’d get some eye bleach and erase that memory, stat.
The other night table drawer had a Stephen King novel in it. Funny. I didn’t know my mother liked him. She didn’t used to—she’d ask me why on earth I’d read something scary before bed. Guess she’d fallen into the trap.
Her bureau contained the normal things—socks, underwear, turtlenecks, jeans. In her closet, not much of interest. Winter coat, boots, sweaters, her one dress.
Hang on a second.
There, behind her bulky winter coat, was a box. I pulled it out.
It contained pictures. Pictures of my dad. Of us. Our family.
Seeing his face after all these years hit me square in the chest.
He was so young! How had so much time passed without him? How had we survived the loss of him?
Here he was, laughing in the canoe, his hair black, face young. Maybe when they were dating? The two of them on a hiking trail, both wearing jackets and hats, the foliage brilliant around them.
Dad holding me in the hospital after I was born. I knew, because my mother had written on the back—Bill with Nora, 2 days old.
There were dozens. Some were in frames, and I remembered them sitting on the shelf over the couch in the living room. Some had faded, some were better quality, but all a treasure chest of memories. Lily, about three, sitting on a pony, Dad holding the halter. Daddy and me sitting in his chair, reading a book. The four of us squinting into the sun. Mom and Dad eating cotton candy. When the heck had that happened? Dad flipping burgers on the little round grill we’d had as kids. Lily sitting on his shoulders, reaching out for snowflakes.
The pictures were mostly from our golden years—the first seven or eight years of my life. They tapered off after that.
Why had Mom kept these from us?
When was she supposed to give them to you, Nora? said a voice in my head. You’ve been away from home for half your life.
And so had Lily.
Boomer nudged my head, and I turned. He licked my cheeks—I was crying again, for the second time this day.
The love my father had for us—for all three us—radiated out of these pictures like sunshine.
How could he have borne life without us?
I leaned against my dog’s solid neck and let the tears seep into his fur.
25
I was so lost in memories and sadness, I didn’t hear my mother’s car. I had no idea how long she’d been home when I heard laughter. Boomer whined to see his grandmother, but I held his collar.
Mom wasn’t alone. Was Poe home? No, this was her sleepover with Audrey. Or maybe it was Poe, home to grab some things.
Nope. That definitely wasn’t Poe’s voice. And Mom didn’t laugh very often...at least, not when I was around.
I stood up, my knee crackling. My legs were stiff—I’d been on the closet floor awhile.
I wanted to talk to my mother about this box. About Dad. She had to have some answers. She had to. Maybe that was the point of this dinner, why she’d been so insistent that I come over.
I went to the top of the stairs. Boomer, wrongly thinking it was nap time, went into my old room and climbed onto Poe’s bed.
“All right, I’ll get out of your hair,” came a woman’s voice. “Good luck tonight.”
“Yeah, I’ll need it,” answered my mother. “Call you later.”
“You better.” There was another laugh. Donna Krazinski, that’s who it was. I wondered why she’d wish my mother luck.
I went down the stairs, turned into the kitchen, and saw my mother and Donna kissing.
“I did find two notices of the deaths of men named William Stuart, however. Both with your father’s date of birth, both born in New York City.”
Panic flashed across me, finding every injury I’d ever had—my clavicle, my knee, my shin from where I’d whacked it so hard in college on the steps of the library, every place Voldemort had hurt me. Don’t be dead, Daddy. Don’t be dead.
“One is from seventeen years ago. Cause of death was a car accident, El Paso, Texas.” There was a pause. “The other, I’m sorry to say, was a suicide. Buffalo, New York, eleven years ago.”
A chickadee lit on the branch next to me. So pretty, those little birds, so industrious and smart. I felt a little faint suddenly, gray spots hiding the bird, and sucked in a breath.
“Dr. Stuart?”
“Still here,” I said. My voice was odd. Another breath. The gray spots faded.
“Neither had obituaries, and there were no next of kin or spouses listed. No Social Security numbers available, either.” He coughed. “Would either of those locations have made sense?”
“Um...no. Not really. I mean, he could’ve gone anywhere.”
“If you had his Social Security number...”
“Right.”
“It would be on your parents’ marriage certificate, if you have access to that. Without it, I’m afraid I’m at the end of the road.”
“Thanks, Mr. Gillespie. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.” I hung up and got back on my bike.
I didn’t realize I was crying till the wind blew its breath against my tears.
* * *
Rather than go home, I went to my mother’s, propping my bike near the back door, a leftover habit from childhood. Poe was at work and so was Mom, which meant I could snoop all the way up till dinnertime.
If my father was dead, I wanted to know. I couldn’t imagine my mother throwing away a document like her marriage certificate—or divorce papers.
God. I didn’t even know if my parents were legally divorced.
I hadn’t thought about snooping when I first got here, and given my injuries, it would’ve been tough. Man, that seemed like an age ago, when I had the crutch and the sling.
The house smelled like meat loaf. Mom made hers in the Crock-Pot, one of her few not-horrible dinners. At least I wouldn’t have to contend with Tweety, I thought, then felt immediately guilty.
Boomer lay down in front of the woodstove, panting happily. I got him some water and took a breath. The den would be the place to start, I guessed.
Unsurprisingly, my mom’s desk was tidy and organized. Feeling another kick of guilt (twinge just wouldn’t cover it), I opened her file drawers. Neatly labeled files of bills, receipts, the local businesses who hired her as a bookkeeper. Health—God, did I even dare? I did. It contained a copy of her lab work, all perfectly normal, and a prescription for glasses.
There was one for Poe—school records from Seattle, a report from the Greater Seattle Department of Children and Families. “No evidence of abuse or neglect,” it said. Seemed like my sister had been investigated after her run-ins with the law.
Oh, Lily.
There was nothing here about my father.
I went upstairs into Mom’s room, just across the little hall from mine. A memory drifted down—me, scared of something at night, coming across the way in a nightgown, wanting my parents but not wanting to wake them up. My father’s hand on my head, getting a glass of water, waiting for the water to be cold, then tucking me back in bed, telling me Mr. Bowie, my teddy bear, would protect me.
No. That had been Mom. I remember her talking in a growling voice, pretending to be Mr. Bowie. “No one will get past me!” And we’d laughed there in the moonlight, Lily fast asleep in the other twin bed.
Her bedroom hadn’t changed much.
I opened the night table drawer and closed it fast. Okay, then. Mom still had womanly needs. Good for her. I’d get some eye bleach and erase that memory, stat.
The other night table drawer had a Stephen King novel in it. Funny. I didn’t know my mother liked him. She didn’t used to—she’d ask me why on earth I’d read something scary before bed. Guess she’d fallen into the trap.
Her bureau contained the normal things—socks, underwear, turtlenecks, jeans. In her closet, not much of interest. Winter coat, boots, sweaters, her one dress.
Hang on a second.
There, behind her bulky winter coat, was a box. I pulled it out.
It contained pictures. Pictures of my dad. Of us. Our family.
Seeing his face after all these years hit me square in the chest.
He was so young! How had so much time passed without him? How had we survived the loss of him?
Here he was, laughing in the canoe, his hair black, face young. Maybe when they were dating? The two of them on a hiking trail, both wearing jackets and hats, the foliage brilliant around them.
Dad holding me in the hospital after I was born. I knew, because my mother had written on the back—Bill with Nora, 2 days old.
There were dozens. Some were in frames, and I remembered them sitting on the shelf over the couch in the living room. Some had faded, some were better quality, but all a treasure chest of memories. Lily, about three, sitting on a pony, Dad holding the halter. Daddy and me sitting in his chair, reading a book. The four of us squinting into the sun. Mom and Dad eating cotton candy. When the heck had that happened? Dad flipping burgers on the little round grill we’d had as kids. Lily sitting on his shoulders, reaching out for snowflakes.
The pictures were mostly from our golden years—the first seven or eight years of my life. They tapered off after that.
Why had Mom kept these from us?
When was she supposed to give them to you, Nora? said a voice in my head. You’ve been away from home for half your life.
And so had Lily.
Boomer nudged my head, and I turned. He licked my cheeks—I was crying again, for the second time this day.
The love my father had for us—for all three us—radiated out of these pictures like sunshine.
How could he have borne life without us?
I leaned against my dog’s solid neck and let the tears seep into his fur.
25
I was so lost in memories and sadness, I didn’t hear my mother’s car. I had no idea how long she’d been home when I heard laughter. Boomer whined to see his grandmother, but I held his collar.
Mom wasn’t alone. Was Poe home? No, this was her sleepover with Audrey. Or maybe it was Poe, home to grab some things.
Nope. That definitely wasn’t Poe’s voice. And Mom didn’t laugh very often...at least, not when I was around.
I stood up, my knee crackling. My legs were stiff—I’d been on the closet floor awhile.
I wanted to talk to my mother about this box. About Dad. She had to have some answers. She had to. Maybe that was the point of this dinner, why she’d been so insistent that I come over.
I went to the top of the stairs. Boomer, wrongly thinking it was nap time, went into my old room and climbed onto Poe’s bed.
“All right, I’ll get out of your hair,” came a woman’s voice. “Good luck tonight.”
“Yeah, I’ll need it,” answered my mother. “Call you later.”
“You better.” There was another laugh. Donna Krazinski, that’s who it was. I wondered why she’d wish my mother luck.
I went down the stairs, turned into the kitchen, and saw my mother and Donna kissing.
