Authors: Kristy Daniels
Slowly, she let go of her father’s hand and Josh led her away from the bed. She looked up to see Stephen Hillman standing nearby. Time continued to play its tricks. While Josh Hillman had aged terribly, his son still looked the same. He came forward to greet her with a soft kiss on the cheek.
“Stephen, why don’t you take Kellen to her room,” Josh said. When she started to protest, he added, “I’ll call you if there’s any change.”
Kellen glanced at the bed. “How long does he have, Josh?”
“Ho
urs, a day maybe. When it started to get really bad last week he said he wanted no artificial means. No tubes, no water, no food. Just the morphine.” Josh glanced toward the bed. “I don’t know what’s keeping him alive.”
Kellen looked back at Josh. “He’s stubborn, Josh. You know that. He’ll do it his way.”
Josh nodded and went over to talk to the doctor. Stephen led Kellen out of the bedroom and down the hall. Outside the door to her room, they paused. Kellen leaned against the open door, staring into the room. It was exactly the same as she had left it.
“I feel like I never left,” she whispered.
“You’ve been gone a long time. Too long,” Stephen said. “I’m glad you’re home, Kellen.”
She realized now that his face had changed a little, becoming leaner, more handsome than she remembered it. The unruly brown hair and serious hazel eyes, however, still belonged to the boy who had once fashioned a bowling alley for her in the hallway
with silver candle holders. The memory made her smile slightly.
“I missed you, Stephen,” she said. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.
The gesture surprised him so much it was a moment before he returned her embrace. They pulled apart awkwardly.
“I’ll come and get you for dinner,” Stephen said. He turned and disappeared down the hall.
She closed the door, went to the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. It was blue, dotted with little painted clouds. Her father had it done for her tenth birthday. “Always blue skies for my Lil’bit,” he had said.
Strange that she should remember
her old nickname now. She hadn’t heard it since she was ten. It was a mispronunciation of her middle name, Elizabeth, which she had never been able to say when she was little. Her father had called her that for all her childhood.
Lil’bit...Lil’bit.
She curled her legs to her chest and cried.
Kellen woke after nine, washed her face and changed clothes. Downstairs, she heard the murmur of voices coming from behind the closed doors of the dining room and went toward them.
The door opened suddenly and Ian stood there. He smiled slightly, shutting the door behind him.
“We missed you at dinner,” he said. “It was good, fresh trout. I had them make it just for you.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted you to feel welcome,” he said. “A shame you missed it. Stephen said you were asleep.”
When
Ian put his arms around her she stiffened. “It’s so good to have you home again,” he whispered. “I’m sorry our reunion couldn’t happen under happier circumstances.”
“You should have gotten in touch with me sooner,” Kellen said, pulling away. “I would have come if I had known.”
“I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with any of us. Besides, at first Father didn’t want anyone to know he had cancer.”
“You should have told me.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ian. If Josh hadn’t finally called, I never would have known.”
“Well, if you care so much why’d you leave in the first place?” Ian said. “That really hurt him.” He paused, offering a small smile. “Listen to us, Kellen,” he said. “He’s lying up there dying and here we are fighting again.”
Like the house,
Ian had remained eerily unchanged. At thirty-five, he still carried his tall, slender body with insolent grace. His face was still handsome almost to the point of beauty. And his brown eyes, so dark they seemed black, could still switch from soft to hard with any mood swing.
“Ian, it’s been a long time,” she said. “Don’t expect too much from me.”
“I understand.” He kissed her cheek again. “Good night, little sister.” He turned and went up the staircase.
She stood for a moment listening to the voices in the dining room but did not really want to face anyone. She glanced toward the study and went to the door. The study had a humility that the rest of the eccentrically grand rooms lacked. It was the only room in the house that Adam Bryant had decorated himself. It was his retreat.
The room was dark and stale smelling. She turned on the light. It looked the same. The overstuffed furniture in slightly mismatched shades of blue. The old oak desk, a homely monster standing amid the antiques. The photographs covering every inch of wall and tabletop. It was all there, exactly as it had stayed in her memory.
She went to the nearest shelf and slowly scanned the titles.
There was no logic to the shelves’ contents. The collection was simply a testament to one man's voracious appetite for belated self-education. Guy de Maupassant. Thurber. Voltaire. Biographies of Lincoln and Einstein. A copy of
The San Francisco Giants
by Joe King, a local sportswriter. A scientific tome about the demise of the dinosaur. And next to a first edition of
Leaves of Grass
were several tattered paperbacks, mostly Old West novels.
She walked slowly around the room, examining the plaques and awards, given by the countless charities that had come to depend
on Adam Bryant’s largess. Then there were the framed photographs, all variations on the same theme: her father, smiling with some celebrity. Governor Culbert Olsen in 1939, Madame Chiang Kai-shek during her visit to Chinatown. Harry Truman. Soprano Renata Tebaldi backstage after her debut at the San Francisco Opera House. A young Joe DiMaggio, when he was with the minor-league San Francisco Seals.
The tour brought her full circle back to the desk. On it were other photographs. A formal prep school portrait of Ian. Tyler, when he was a gap-toothed sev
en-year-old. And Kellen at fourteen in riding clothes, caught in a pensive moment.
Kellen sat down in the leather chair behind the desk and withdrew a cigar from the humidor. H. Upmann’s No. 4, always in plentiful surreptitious supply from Havana. She brought the cigar up to her nose and inhaled, closing her eyes. The cigar, now stale, crumpled between her fingers.
“Kellen?”
Josh was standing at the door. “I saw the light on,” he said. "I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“It’s all right. Come in. Josh.” She tossed the cigar in a waste basket.
Josh took a chair across from her. He looked slowly around the room. “Funny,” he said. “I haven’t been in this room for months. No one has, I think.”
“Something’s missing. Didn’t you notice?”
Josh looked around again, frowning slightly.
“Newspapers,” Kellen said. “Not one newspaper in this entire room. There used to be stacks and stacks of them. Papers from all over the world. And every day, every edition of the
Times.
"
“The maid must have cleared them all out,” Josh said.
“All these things in here from his life. No one touched a thing. But the most important thing is missing. The thing he poured his life into is gone.”
Josh
cleared his throat. “Kellen, about the newspapers,” he began. “Maybe this isn’t the time to talk about it, but...”
She looked at him vacantly.
“Well, I think someone should know,” Josh said, sitting forward in the chair. “I can’t seem to get through to Ian, and Tyler’s too young.” Josh closed his eyes wearily.
“Josh, what is it?”
“I feel like I have no right to impose on you at a time like this. But you should know what’s happening.” He drew in a slow breath. “There are some problems with the paper, Kellen.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ian has made some bad moves while your father’s been sick.”
“What do you
mean? Josh? Is it losing money?”
“Not exactly. But I’m afraid about the direction Ian is leading
things. He doesn’t care about it the way your father did. He hasn’t the heart to run it the way Adam did.”
“Why are you telling me, Josh?”
“I thought someone...” He sighed. “I don’t know, Kellen. I just think if Adam were able, he would ask you to step in and help somehow.” He stopped when he saw the sudden glacial expression on her face.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
He dropped his eyes to his hands. “I’m sorry, Kellen,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He rose. “Good night.” He went to the door, closing it behind him.
She sat rigid, staring at her hands now clasped tightly before her on the desk. She noticed a photograph in a sil
ver frame sitting off to one corner on the desk and picked it up. It was a sepia-toned remnant from another era, a picture of her father and mother. A tall, handsome man with a wicked smile and a beautiful young woman in an ivory-colored dress with sparkling eyes. Adam Bryant and his bride, Elizabeth Ingram. The woman he had pursued with relentless passion, the woman he had waited for through both their first marriages, the woman he finally married against all odds. The woman who died in a drug-induced delirium when Kellen was thirteen.
Kellen stared at her mother’s face, trying to connect the image to the memories in her head. Finally, she put the frame back in its place. She rose slowly, rubbing her neck, and walked to the door. Pausing, she looked around the room one more time then left the study, locking the door behind her.
Early the next morning, Kellen was awakened by a knock at her bedroom door. She opened it, blinking in the hallway light.
“Get dressed,” Josh said. “Hurry.”
The urgency in his voice was like a splash of ice water in her face. She threw on a robe and went quickly to her father’s room. Stephen and the doctor were bending over the bed. Adam’s breathing was labored, his eyes screwed shut with pain. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly.
“Kellen...”
His eyes fluttered open but did not focus on her face.
Kellen was aware of other people closing in around the bed, but she didn’t look up.
“I’m sorry...so sorry
,” he said.
“So am I, Daddy...I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I hurt you —-”
“Daddy, don’t
-—”
H
e closed his eyes. The room was quiet for a moment, except for the sound of muffled crying. She looked up. It was Tyler in his pajamas, leaning against a far wall. She saw Ian standing at the end of the bed, his face stony and pale.
“Kellen...”
She looked back at her father.
“Take care of
it,” he whispered. “Take care of the newspapers.” He paused. “And Tyler...take care of your brother. Take care of it for me. Kellen? Promise me...”
“I will, Daddy. I promise.”
For several minutes, the room was quiet except for the sound of Adam’s labored breathing. Then, suddenly, he gripped Kellen’s hand, and his eyes opened wide.
“My wife,” he said.
Kellen felt someone press forward. "I’m here, Adam,” Lilith said.
He glanced up at her then slowly turned his head away on the pillow. “No,” he
said, closing his eyes. “Elizabeth. Where’s Elizabeth?”
Lilith
retreated to Ian’s side. When Kellen looked back at her father, she realized he had stopped breathing. His eyes were closed, but his face was still creased with pain.
Dry-eyed, Kellen stared at her father’s face then gently released his hand. She reached up and stroked his brow.
“It’s over, Daddy,” she whispered. “You’re all right now. It’s over.”
The funeral was held two days later. Grace Cathedral was filled with the rich, the powerful, and the curious. In the front pew was
the vice president of the United States and in the back was a sixteen-year-old San Francisco Times copyboy. Neither had known Adam Bryant well, but each had come out of a sense of allegiance. Adam Bryant had helped both of them get their jobs.
The house on Divisadero Street was filled with cables, letters, flowers, and the constant ringing of the phone. In grief, everyone reverted to their usual behavior patterns. Josh, with
his usual calm efficiency, took up the burden of dealing with the funeral aftermath. Tyler retreated to his room. Ian disappeared after the funeral, returning two days later with no explanation. Stephen sequestered himself at the newspaper office, his job as managing editor providing his solace. Kellen retrieved her Audi from the garage and took drives at all hours.
Josh finally called them all together for the reading of Adam’s will. Ian, Tyler, and Kellen took their seats in the study silently and in wary distances from one another. Josh sat in a chair at the side of the oak desk and glanced at each of the children. Ian, now thirty-five, sitting erect in a chair, calmly smoking a cigarette. Tyler, at eleven, fair-haired and thin, his blue eyes cautious. And Kellen, now a beautiful woman of twenty-five. Her face, always a mirror of her emotions, was drawn with despondency and fatigue.