Read Promise Me A Rainbow Online
Authors: Cheryl Reavi
“That’s it? Maybe it’s
for the best
? I’m trying to talk to you here, Michael. I’m trying to tell you it’s not
for the best
. I’m trying to tell you I love Della—and maybe I love Catherine, too. She makes me happy. Being with her makes me happy, Michael. I’m trying to tell you that I think I’m going to have to choose between my daughter and a chance at having a new life with somebody I really care about—and it scares me to death. I’m trying to tell you that maybe I won’t even get the chance to choose, because Catherine won’t come between me and my kid. I’d like a little something more from you than that maybe-it’s-for-the-best crap!”
“Joey, hey,” Michael said. “Take it easy. It’ll work out—”
“Sure. Catherine won’t see me anymore, and Della won’t come home. So we’re all going to live happily ever after, right?”
Michael grinned and poked him on the arm with his fist. “Hey, did I say it was going to be easy?”
Joe smiled in spite of himself, but the smile faded.
Not easy
was one thing;
impossible
was something else again.
Catherine sat in the empty classroom for a long time after Pat and the others had gone. She could hear the sounds associated with the end of the day throughout the building—the rattle of the radiators because the heat had been cut back, the secretarial staff slamming doors as they left for home, the cleaning crew chatting as they moved from room to room, emptying the trash.
She sat at her desk and stared at a stack of papers that needed grading, but she saw nothing else. She felt so empty. It had been hard for her to go to Joe today, but she knew she’d done the right thing in ending their relationship. They were both doing the right thing, but, perversely, she still wished he’d protested more. Even knowing there was no alternative, she wished he’d come up with some other solution for the problem with Della. She understood that he loved his children very much—she’d always known that—but some part of her still would have liked to hear him say that they would continue being together no matter what, that Della would just have to learn to adjust.
She gave a long sigh, and she realized that she wasn’t alone.
“Come in,” Catherine said to the girl who stood tentatively in the outer hallway. She remained seated at her desk, not knowing at first who the girl was or if she was going to comply.
“I’m . . . glad you came,” she said after a moment. She was used to frightened students who thought they might be pregnant seeking her out here, and she wanted to put the girl at ease.
This one, Catherine suddenly realized, was not frightened.
“Do you remember me?” the girl asked, her features determined and a bit self-righteous.
“I remember you, Della,” Catherine said easily. “As I said, I’m glad you came.”
“Why would you be glad?”
“So we can talk. We don’t know each other very well. Or is this meeting just for you and I don’t get to say anything?”
“I want you to leave my father alone.”
Catherine looked at her steadily, and it struck her again what a pretty young woman Della D’Amaro was, and how fashionably correct she was in her choice of hairstyle and clothes. Everything was just right—on the outside, at least. The inside was perhaps something else again. She seemed unlike the others in the D’Amaro family, and Catherine was faced with the fact that, as much as she cared about Joe, she really didn’t like this daughter of his very much. Whether she was prejudging or not, she thought Della had none of Fritz’s gentleness, none of her father’s caring nature, nor Charlie’s insouciance. Della seemed an entity unto herself, her concerns both selfish and finite. She knew exactly what she wanted and didn’t want, what she liked, and what she wouldn’t tolerate under any circumstances.
“I see,” Catherine said. “Why do you want me to do that?”
“You know, why,” Della answered obscurely. She came farther into the room, casting glances around her, as if she wanted to make sure they were alone.
“Not really. Suppose you tell me.”
“Well, that’s easy. I don’t want you to be my mother. My mother’s dead. She was beautiful, and my father loved her so much, he wanted to die, too. Somebody like you can’t take her place.”
Somebody like me
, Catherine thought. Apparently she wasn’t the only one adept at prejudging; Della was quite good at it herself. She wondered how Della would respond if she told her that she had no intention of taking her mother’s place—because she’d wanted a place of her own.
“You’re right, Della. No one can take Lisa’s place. She was beautiful—you look very much like her. And I already know she was your father’s life. He told me how difficult it was for him after she died—how difficult it still is. But, Della, since we’re being blunt here, let me tell you this. This is only the third time we’ve met. The first time was at the Cotton Exchange. You were having a tantrum because your father didn’t want you to work in a bar. The second time was at the barbecue, where I was your
sister’s
guest. Both times you were more than a little rude. Now, given these two occasions, why on earth do you think
I
would want to be a mother of
yours
?”
Della flushed. “I know what you’re up to. You lied before. You’re after my father—”
“I didn’t lie. I believed what I said to you at the barbecue. But you’re right. Now that I know Joe better, I like him very much. If by ‘after him’ you mean that I want to be with him all I can, then the answer is yes, I’m after him. We enjoy each other’s company, and I can understand why that scares you. But my being with your father now doesn’t mean that he loves Lisa less or—”
“You won’t win,” Della said, interrupting.
“Neither will you,” Catherine said quietly.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I assume you care about your father . . .”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Well, when you care about somebody, sometimes you make sacrifices—do things you may not want to do just because it will make that person happy. You understand what I mean?”
“No,” she said rudely.
“No? Well, it’s this, Della. If
I
cared about Joe, then I might be willing to do something that would make life easier for him, even if I hated doing it—like not seeing him because it upsets you, and you, in turn, make life hell for him and for everybody he cares about. Or if
you
cared about him you might be willing to get to know
me
better—just because you knew that I made him happy when he’s been sad for such a long time. And that, all by itself, would be reason enough for you to make the effort. You see?”
“Oh, I
see
. I know what you’re doing, and I’m
not
going to make the effort.”
“No, I didn’t think for a moment that you would. You’re too young to understand the subtleties here. And you’re too concerned about what
you
want. So I’ve already told Joe that I don’t think we should see each other. But I didn’t do it for you—I really don’t care how many tantrums you have or how many times you cut school or pretend to run away. I’m doing this for Joe, and for Fritz and Charlie, because I can’t stand seeing any of them worried and upset. You do win, Della, so now you can move back home and enjoy you victory—such as it is.”
Della stood there, seemingly uncertain as to what to do next. Apparently she’d expected to execute some kind of dramatic confrontation, complete with tearful exit, and Catherine was determined not to give it to her. She had no intention of handling an irate Della any differently than she would anyone else.
“I don’t have to like you,” Della said, “just because he does!”
“Exactly,” Catherine answered. “And that goes both ways. You don’t have to like me—and I don’t have to like you. I’ve certainly seen no reason to. But who knows? If we’d worked at it, we might have become friends. Not good friends, perhaps, but friends. We certainly have one major thing in common—we both love Joe.
“So, good-bye, Della. I’d ask you to say good-bye to Fritz and Charlie for me, but I’d rather handle that myself. Is there anything else?” she added because Della was standing with her fists clenched.
“You just stay away from my father,” she said in her determination to have the last word.
Catherine made no comment, and Della turned abruptly and left. Catherine could hear her footsteps echoing down the long length of the hallway, picking up speed as she neared the end, then the banging of the outside door. She got up from the desk and walked to the window so she could see the parking lot. There was only one car there, something new and expensive. Margaret D’Amaro sat in the driver’s seat.
Catherine made it through
the rest of the week. And the next, her life reverting to the previously comforting and now relentlessly dull routine she’d known before she met Joe D’Amaro. Once or twice she thought she caught a glimpse of his truck passing the school, but it had been too far away for her to be sure. He didn’t call—not that she expected him to, unless it was about Fritz coming to see the gnomes, but it seemed that she’d lost even that. It was as if the D’Amaros never existed, except for the great emptiness she was feeling. She missed them. She missed Joe more than she’d dreamed possible. It was incredible how tame the “right thing” could seem in theory and how painful it was in actuality. Joe was on her mind all the time, no matter what she was doing, no matter how busy she kept.
She was finding it difficult not to be short-tempered with both Pat and her class—particularly Maria, who still had something on her mind but who wouldn’t say what it was. She was annoyed with herself for going into debt. Impulsively she took out a bank loan and bought a used car, one she drove early some mornings to Johnnie Mercer’s pier at Wrightsville Beach where she was well away from the D’Amaro Brothers construction site and where she could walk along the beach for a while in some degree of solitude and think. Occasionally she went to the Cotton Exchange, and she was appalled at how seeing the repaired stained-glass transom back in its place came so close to making her cry.
She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. But the harder she tried, the worse she felt. She visited Sasha and Grandmamma, accepting the root charm wrapped in brown paper and tied with string Grandmamma insisted she have and keep so the sun would shine on her back door. Technically she didn’t even
have
a back door, so there wasn’t much chance of that happening.
She worked late at school one afternoon the second week in December and, when she started to get up from her desk, her legs wouldn’t hold her.
She’d been sitting too long, or she had some kind of virus, she thought. Beatrice and Cherry had been sick briefly with one, and Pat had been dragging the last few days as well.
She sat back down. She felt so peculiar, and she rested her head in her hands. In a moment the weakness and queasiness passed, and she was able to pack up her things and leave for home.
But by the time she arrived at the apartment house, the sick feeling had returned, growing worse as she climbed the smoke-filled Mayfair stairwell. She let herself into her apartment and lay down on the couch immediately, trying to think of something that might make her feel better. Nothing came to mind.
The telephone rang, and she jumped.
“Oh, damn,” she muttered, making her way into the kitchen to answer it.
A woman on the phone identified herself as Dr. Vrie’s nurse. “I’m calling for Pat Bauer,” she said. “We’ve had to admit her to the hospital and she’s worried about her car. She wants us to bring it to you, if that’s all right.”
“Yes, of course,” Catherine said. “Do you know the address?”
“The Mayfair, right? I’ll just park it out front—somebody from here is going to pick me up. I’ve got Pat’s house keys, too, so if you could just watch for me, I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
“Yes, fine,” Catherine said. But it was the spirit that was fine, she realized; the flesh was definitely weak. She felt terrible. She drank some water—and lost it immediately—then spent the next ten minutes bathing her face with a cold cloth and trying to feel well enough to get downstairs to get Pat’s keys.
She managed not to leave the nurse standing on the street, but just barely. She looked at Catherine curiously as she approached.
“Are you all right?” she asked as she handed over the keys.
“Just a virus,” Catherine said, pulling her jacket around her more tightly. She was cold suddenly, and it wasn’t just from the brisk December wind.
“Better not go see Pat, then,” the woman advised, and Catherine nodded. She really didn’t feel able to make it to the hospital to see her, the fact that she shouldn’t expose Pat to anything notwithstanding.