All That's True (24 page)

On Saturday I go back to Sunny Meadows. Joe is sitting in Katherine’s room when I arrive. He gets out of the chair he’s been resting in and gives me a big smile.

“Well, here she is,” he says, “our very own angel.”

Joe is holding Katherine’s hand. And it is the sweetest thing, because she is letting him and her cheeks are flushed, which makes it look like she’s blushing or something. Joe asks me about the bandage on my forehead and I give him the short version.

“Did they take X-rays?”

I nod my head that they certainly did. “They even kept me overnight,” I say.

“That’s good. Can’t have anything happen to our girl,” he says, and winks.

I take
The Last of the Mohicans
out of my satchel and start reading from where I left off. Joe takes Katherine’s hand again. Ten minutes later he lets go and places his hand over his chest and leans inward against it. “Guess my lunch isn’t agreeing with me,” he says, but I decide at his age any ache or pain should be looked into and run to the nurses’ station.

“Joe, I mean Mr. Stewart, is having a pain in his chest!”

Gabby runs down the hall and I’m amazed that she can move so fast. She’s sort of fat and her legs aren’t very long.

When we get back to the room, Joe is on the floor. There’s a nasty bruise bubbling up on his forehead, so he must have fallen head first out of the chair. Katherine is down on the floor next to him and is cradling his head in her lap. Joe is just smiling up at her. For a minute I’m sure Katherine knows who he is! It makes my heart jump. Two orderlies arrive and place him on Katherine’s bed. Gabby takes Katherine’s hand and gently pulls her to her feet. She escorts her out of the room. Joe stretches out his hand toward her.

“Don’t go, Katherine,” he says. “Come back to me.”

And that just does it. I start crying. I can hear an ambulance. It seems like hours before it pulls out in front. They dash Joe to the hospital. Katherine is standing in the hall and there are tears running down her face and she has her palms pressed against her cheeks. I knew it! She remembers.

And maybe Joe knew. Maybe he could tell by the way she held his hand and looked into his eyes. Maybe that is what is sustaining him now. On Sunday morning before Mass, I call the nursing home and ask to speak to Gabby. I want to know how Joe is doing.

“I’m sorry, Andi,” she says. “Mr. Stewart never regained consciousness. He died this morning.”

Now I’ll never know if Joe really knew that Katherine remembered him. If in fact she did. But she must have. She was crying real tears when they wheeled him away.

***

My first session with Mrs. Temple goes like this. She motions for me to sit down. “Wherever you feel comfortable,” she says.

My choices are a small burgundy recliner, a chair right next to her desk, but not too close, and a loveseat that looks like it has seen better days. That’s another thing people say that doesn’t make sense. How can a loveseat see anything, let alone better days? I choose the sofa.

“Where would you like to start?” she says. She has the kindest face. It’s going to be easy to talk with her. I knew it. Sometimes you can just tell that about a person. There’s something in their eyes or in their smile that makes you feel warm in the part of your stomach that could just as easily have butterflies.

I go back to the beginning when me and Bridget found out about my father and Donna in the pool house, but I leave out the part that we watched them over and over. I make it sound like we were just fiddling around and stumbled on them in the pool house when we walked by the window. I don’t want her to think I’m a snoop before she even gets to know me, which probably I am, because we spied on them all sorts of times. Still.

I tell her the rest, about the divorce and my father getting married and having a new baby.

“Mostly, I hate myself,” I say. “And I hate my father and I no longer see him, and that pretty much upsets my mother.”

Mrs. Temple listens carefully to everything I say, without once interrupting. That’s another reason why talking to a counselor can sometimes be better than trying to talk to your parents. Parents are always interrupting. They can’t help it. It’s part of their parenting routine. You try to tell them one thing and they are already onto the next. And they always want to know why. Mrs. Temple doesn’t ask me why I’m feeling the way I do. She just nods her head and waits until I’m finished.

“I don’t want to be this way,” I add, “but I can’t help myself. I’ve turned into a completely ugly, hateful person.” That’s when I tell her about the emergency ward and my father coming down and trying very hard to let me know he was very worried, but even so it didn’t change my mind about him—that I don’t trust him, he might be faking his concern. And I’m so scared that he is faking it.

“Well, Andi,” she says, and puts down her pencil. She has been taking notes. I wonder what she’s written. I hope that it’s not that I’m a bad person. I want to think that maybe I’m still okay.

“You’ve had a lot on your plate this past year,” she says. “Lots of changes.” She leans over and picks some lint off her sweater by her elbow, then pats the sweater back into place. “And change is sort of like a death. There are many emotions we must deal with in any kind of death. What you’re feeling isn’t hate, Andi. It’s anger. You’re angry with your father for changing everything.”

That’s exactly what my mother said.

Mrs. Temple continues. “And you’ve had no say-so in the matter. You’ve lost all control. It makes you feel very vulnerable and that makes you angry. And that’s perfectly understandable. What we have to do is to help you get past the anger and move towards acceptance.”

“But how do I do that?” She is making it sound so easy. How can I just sit up and say,
I’m okay with all of this
. It’s not that simple.

“To begin with let’s take a look at why anger is such a normal reaction to what you’re going through. We can’t control what people do, and that leaves us feeling frustrated, and the frustration leads to the anger, which leads to more frustration, and so forth.”

“Kind of like a gerbil on his wheel.”

“Exactly, Andi. And the thing to do is stop the frustration and eventually come to grips with the anger. The best way to do that is to understand that you can’t change your father’s choices, but you are free to make choices of your own. And those choices will determine what happens in your life.”

I nod my head, like I understand, but mostly I don’t.

“You’ve chosen not to see your father. You want to punish him. He’s changed the game plan. You decide not to see him, not to spend time with him. But he’s not the only one you’re punishing,” she says.

“Well, there’s my mother—”

I notice she is nodding her head. “Well, yes, there is that, but there’s someone else you’re punishing, too, Andi.”

She takes her glasses off. “What if you choose to see your father and look forward to a new relationship. Perhaps one that’s even closer than the one you had before. You did say he rarely came home when your parents were married. And now, look at all the times he’s called or stopped by to try and see you. You’re actually getting much more of his attention than you ever did before. And what about the emergency room? You shouldn’t forget about that. Granted, all of his actions may be partially motivated by guilt. But that’s another topic altogether. The important thing right now is he wants to see you! And you can make a choice of whether to see him or not. And that puts you back in control, Andi. And with some control, you’ll feel much less frustration, which will lead to less anger. Basically, acceptance follows from there. It’s just a matter of time. Make sense?”

I nod my head and think about Joe and his decision to wait for Katherine, even though she was already married by the time he came back from the war. He didn’t put his life on hold. He didn’t choose to pine away. He chose to have a good life. He flew airplanes, and took up sailing and climbed mountains. “Anything to feel free,” he said. “I just didn’t get married. On that long march to Bataan, I thought only of Katherine. I’d already married her in my heart by the time I returned to the States. Why marry someone else? I chose to keep loving her, if only from afar.”

That is so sweet. But most important, he chose not to marry, to wait for her. It didn’t turn out like he planned, no it did not, but still, it was his decision. And his last days were very happy. It was written all over his face. He was where he wanted to be. He was in Katherine’s arms. And his choices had led him to her arms. There’s that word again, choices.

Mrs. Temples clears her throat and folds her hands. She rests them gently on her desk. Then she turns toward the sofa where I am sitting and places her hands on her knees. Her fingernails are nicely manicured. She has pale pink polish on them. I like her hands. They are delicate hands, yet there is something about them; you can tell they are strong. They remind me of my mother’s.

“Andi,” she says, “you can choose to be happy, just as easily as you can decide to be sad. It’s up to you.”

Choose to be happy; decide to be sad. I never looked at it that way, but it seems reasonable.

“Just remember, your choices map your future.” She is smiling at me now. “So choose carefully.” She gets up and opens the door to her office and I realize my time is up.

“But don’t be so hard on yourself once you choose, Andi,” she says. “You can always change your mind.”

Bridget’s Aunt Ellen is on the phone talking to my mother. It’s the second call she’s made tonight. The first one was to let us know that Bridget never came home from school today and there is clothing missing from her closet along with her overnight bag. The second call is so Bridget’s aunt can talk to me. She thinks I know something and I’m keeping it from her. Bridget’s aunt’s full name is Ellen Buice, which rhymes with rice. Mrs. Buice is not pleasant to talk to. Her voice is very shrill. It sounds like a fingernail being dragged across a chalkboard. I can picture Bridget running away just to get away from that. But maybe she sounds that way because she is so upset.

“Mrs. Buice,” I say. “I got a letter from Bridget last week, but she didn’t say anything about leaving. Not one word. And I haven’t heard from her since, honest to goodness, I haven’t.”

Wherever Bridget is, I hope she isn’t hitchhiking. It’s not safe. There are probably hundreds of serial killers out there roaming around just waiting for a victim like Bridget. Now I’m getting upset. Where could she be?

“If you hear anything at all,” Mrs. Buice says, “anything, call us immediately. We’re worried sick.”

I assure her I will and hand the phone back to my mother.

“Alright then, yes, of course,” she says and puts the handset back on the receiver.

My mother starts clearing the supper dishes from the table, while I start chewing my nails. The reason my mother is doing kitchen duty is because Rosa is still in Mexico and we are cooking for ourselves. That is, we’re trying. I made macaroni and cheese out of a box and my mother mixed together a meatloaf that tasted okay, other than the dried ketchup sitting on top. That part was nasty.

“Try to stay off the telephone, tonight, Andi,” my mother says, and fills the sink with dishwashing detergent. “I’m sure Bridget is going to try and get ahold of you.”

I was going to dry, but decide I need to sit right next to the phone, just in case Bridget chickens out and only rings once. You know, maybe she thinks the police have tapped our phone or something. For three hours I sit there thinking scary thoughts about what could have happened to her. At ten o’clock I’m ready to give up when the phone rings. I yank the receiver off the hook.

“Hello? Hello?” I’m breathing so hard I sound like I’ve been running a marathon.

“Andi? What are you doing up so late?”

It’s my father. I don’t answer. I hand the phone to my mother who came running the minute the phone rang.

“We’re trying to keep the line free,” she says. “Can this wait until morning? I’m afraid Bridget’s missing.”

There’s a slight pause. My mother is fidgeting with the cord. “Bridget Harman, the little girl that use to live next door, Andi’s best friend. For Pete’s sake, Arthur, Rodger Harman’s daughter.” My mother is totally exasperated. She hangs up the phone on him, but it rings again immediately.

“Arthur, goodness, we’re trying to keep this line open—Bridget? Oh, Bridget, honey, everyone has been worried sick. Where are you, dear?”

I’m jumping up and down. “Is it Bridget? Is it?”

My mother motions for me to be quiet. I lean my ear against the handset. Yes! It’s Bridget. I do a little dance right in the entrance hall. No serial killer got her!

“Oh, dear,” my mother is saying. “Well, stay right there. We’re on our way.”

She places the handset back on the receiver and moves quickly to the guest closet and gets her coat. “Hurry,” she says. “She’s at the bus station. It’s not safe. There are all sorts of people there who—who, well they prey on young girls getting off the buses. They sell them into prostitution.” My mother shudders and hands me my jacket. “They get them hooked on drugs. All sorts of things.” She grabs the car keys and buttons up her coat. “Goodness, why ever did she go there?”

Duh, probably because she had no car, and even if she had one, she doesn’t know how to drive. So, a bus is a very good choice. How else would she get to Atlanta? Sometimes parents ask really dumb questions. I keep my answer to myself. Besides it wasn’t a real question. It’s what Alex used to refer to as a rhetorical question. It doesn’t require an answer. I’m excited that we’ve found Bridget and gladly climb into my mother’s Mercedes. Maybe she’ll realize now how important it is that we adopt her. I mean it’s not like her father wants her. He left her in North Carolina with a family that drove her crazy.

***

When we get to the bus station, Bridget is nowhere in sight. We panic and find a police officer and pour out our story.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “We picked up a kid that looked to be twelve years old. They took her to juvenile.”

“Did you get her name?” my mother asks.

“I’m sure it’s on the report.”

“Well, can you radio the station and find out if she’s there. Her name is Bridget Harman and I don’t want to leave here, only to find out later it was not her they took to—to—”

“Juvenile Hall,” the officer prompts.

My mother puts her hand on her chest. For a minute I’m afraid she’s going to have a heart attack or something.

“Please, it’s important,” she says.

“Alright, already,” the officer says. He has a potbelly that is bigger than China and three chins to go with it. Somehow he manages to lean his head to the side and starts talking into a gadget clipped to his shoulder. “Roger,” he says, and turns back to us.

“They got her there—Juvenile Detention Center over on Pryor Street. It’s less than a mile.”

My mother has no idea where it is, but she’s a very determined woman and somehow I know she will find it. She thanks the cop and runs outside to the front of the bus terminal. There’s a cab driver standing outside his cab. She has no problem enlisting his help. He knows exactly where it is.

“It ain’t far, lady,” he says. He takes his cap off and scratches the top of his head. He uses his hat as a pointer and says, “Take Forsyth Street here, go two blocks ahead and turn right on Trinity, then take a left on Central, then another left on Martin Luther King Drive. You’ll go one block and you’ll see Pryor. Take a left. You can’t miss it.”

My mother is frantically writing down his directions on an envelope she’s pulled from her purse.

“Thank you, thank you,” she says. She takes my shoulder and says, “Let’s hurry before they take her someplace else.”

“Have they arrested her?” I ask. I’m worried that they won’t let her go.

“More like they’ve taken her into protective custody,” my mother says. “It’ll be all right. We’ll call her aunt. She’ll tell them to release her to us. Don’t worry.”

But I am worried. I can’t help it. What if her aunt isn’t home, or decides she wants to come and get Bridget herself? Or maybe she’s calling Bridget’s father and wants to wait until he gets here from London so he can pick her up. Always, always so many maybes.