Authors: Kimberly Belle
26
From Eagle Rock, I drive straight to my father.
Gabe might not trust Dad, but I’ve had the past four hours to think through what I know, and the only thing I know for sure is I don’t share in Gabe’s suspicions. Anger? Sure. I still have plenty of that. Dad still penned that awful memo, and he still tried to bully me away from the Armstrongs instead of giving me a reasonable explanation. But there’s no way he’s the one who snuck me the illicit transcript, not when he was so adamantly warning me away.
But also, I have guilt. Lots and lots of guilt. I tell myself I can unravel the damage I’ve done to his reputation. I tell myself I can make him forgive me. Because if I’ve learned anything from last night, it’s that whatever issues I may have with my own father pale in comparison to the Armstrong tragedy.
Mom greets me at the door with a kiss and a fierce hug, and though she certainly looks annoyed, she doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see me. “Your father and I have been worried to death.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. Did you get my text?”
“One text. One, and all it told me was that you were alive. Not how you were doing.” She pushes the hair off my shoulder, tucks it behind an ear. “You look exhausted. Are you hungry?”
I could tell her I inhaled a Double Whopper and large fries on the way into town, but I don’t. If Mom likes to express her love with food and hugs, who am I to complain? I nod and tell her I’m starving.
“But first I need to talk to Dad, okay?”
“Better scoot.” She turns me around by the shoulders and nudges me in the direction of the hallway leading to the far end of the house. “He’s been waiting, and not very patiently.”
The general looks up when I come into his office, and I brace myself for fury and blame I don’t find. Dad’s long arms stay folded and relaxed on the polished cherry surface, his eyes soft and kind behind the tortoiseshell reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
“Hi, Dad,” I begin, then come up short.
The thing is, I know how to apologize for Jean and Ricky. I even know how to apologize for Victoria. But what I can’t seem to come up with, what I can’t seem to think of one single, miserable word for, is how to express my shame at believing Dad could be one of the bad guys.
I’m sorry
just isn’t going to cut it. I open my mouth to say...what, I don’t know, when he holds up a palm.
“Hold that thought, Abigail. I need to say something to you first.” He motions to one of the cracked leather club chairs behind me, and I sink into it. “Do you remember that girl you used to ride the bus to school with?”
It takes me a beat or two to switch gears, and then another few to come up with her name; the last time I rode the school bus on a regular basis was middle school. “Katie Richardson,” I tell him after a moment.
“That’s her. I ran into her a few weeks ago at the grocery store. You wouldn’t recognize her. She’s grown into a beautiful woman. Tall, long legs, great smile. Quite the looker.”
A smile sneaks up my face at his old-man description, as well as the knowledge that the laws of karma really do apply in Katie’s case. Back when I knew her, she was, to put it politely, extremely unfortunate-looking. Pudgy and short, thick glasses, the world’s worst fashion sense. But she was sweet, despite the torture the girls at school inflicted on her, and she had a wicked sense of humor. I liked her. She moved away the summer before seventh grade, and despite our tearful goodbye and the best of intentions, the two of us lost touch. I always wondered what became of her.
“She told me to tell you hi. She also told me to tell you she still owes you one, said you would know why.” He pauses to regard me. “Do you?”
Uh, yeah. Dad’s talking about the time in sixth grade Katie and I got caught playing hooky. We were both grounded for a month, even though our reason was, to us at least, perfectly valid.
A couple of girls at school who were just as evil as they were popular concocted a plan to fill her locker with a thousand pink, scented tampons. I got wind of it the afternoon before, when I overheard them giggling about how purple her face would turn when the avalanche of feminine products she did not yet need came tumbling to the ground. Too bad they forgot to check the stalls for anyone who might put a dent in their scheming.
I warned Katie the very next morning. When the bus dropped us off at school, the herd of kids turned right and Katie and I veered left, hoofing it a mile and a half to the mall. We spent the day having perfume fights, trying on the biggest bras we could find and eating ice cream for lunch. We timed it just right, too, arriving at our homes at exactly the time the bus would have returned us there. And we would have gotten away with it, were it not for a nosy school nurse who called our mothers to see how we were feeling.
So, yes. Of course I remember.
“I couldn’t understand at the time why you got so worked up about it. You were in sixth grade, for Pete’s sake. How bad could it possibly be?”
“Pretty bad.” I make a face. “Especially for Katie.”
“Yes, well, my point is, knowledge is a powerful thing. You used your knowledge that day to do good, and for someone who needed a hand. Do you remember what you said when your mother and I sat you down that night?”
I try to shake loose the memory, but the only thing I can come up with is the injustice I felt at being punished for helping a friend. “Please, don’t ground me?”
He smiles, just a whisper of a curve to his mouth, but not enough to detract from the point he’s trying to drive home. “No, and we grounded you, all right. But I’ll never forget the words you said to me that night. You said we could punish you all we wanted, but in your heart you knew what you did for that girl was the right thing.”
If this were the movies, now would be the moment when the music swells, when the cameras pan out, when the heroine turns to one of them and busts through the third wall. That’s what my father’s words just did, busted through my internal third wall. I am still for a long moment, slowing my thoughts and listening to my own inner heroine tell the audience she gets it. She understands. Her father was punished for doing the right thing, too.
“You leaked the memo, didn’t you?”
Dad’s brows rise up his forehead, but he doesn’t deny it.
“Of course you did. You had to. Gabe and I were getting too close. You were trying to distract us from Ricky.”
Dad sighs and takes off his glasses, pinching at the two pink footprints they leave on the bridge of his nose. “It was more than that, sugar. Maybe one day I’ll be able to talk more freely about it, but for now my reasons are still classified.”
And that’s when the full extent of my father’s fall hits home. Dad knew exactly what he was doing all along. When he leaked that memo, he knew it would go public. In fact, he probably even predicted Victoria and I would be the ones to do it. Whether out of guilt or morality or for penance, my father sacrificed his reputation for Zach Armstrong’s family.
I look across the desk at my father, at the familiarity of the lines fanning out from his hazel eyes, the dark stubble that hugs his jaw, the salt-and-pepper hair that never seems to need a cut. The sight of it breaks my heart just a little, but it also opens it up a little, too.
“Oh, Daddy...” I whisper. My tears mount without warning, as they’ve been doing ever since Portsmouth. “I’m so sorry. For everything. If I could go back and do it all over again, I’d do pretty much everything different.”
“I appreciate that, darlin’.” He smiles, and I can read the absolution all over his face. “I’m sorry, too. I should have been...I don’t know, a little more specific in my warnings. I shouldn’t have treated you like one of my subordinates. The only thing I won’t apologize for is having you tailed. I hope you know it was for your own protection.”
I grow an inch or two on the club chair. “Wait a minute. So Members Only guy
was
yours?”
“That son of a bitch who came after you and Rose?” Anger flickers over his expression, followed closely by something else, something I can’t quite read. “Hell, no. You won’t be seeing him anytime soon, I can guarantee you that much. Mine was a she, and she took out your tail long before you took off running.”
“So who chased me, then?”
“Her name’s Helen, and she says you could beat a Kenyan in a marathon. Even with Rose hanging around your neck, Helen could barely keep up. And by the way, should you ever feel the need to confess anything about that night to your brother, I will deny every word.”
“What night?”
Dad smiles. “That’s my girl.” He leans back in his chair and regards me over the rim of his glasses. “Now, do you want to tell me what happened with Gabe?”
“It’s a really long story.”
“Then you better get comfortable.”
I kick off my shoes, swing my feet under me on the chair and start at the very beginning, with running into Gabe that sunny Tuesday afternoon at Handyman, now coming up on two months ago. I tell him about the mysterious package a few days later on my doorstep, about my cocktails with Victoria, about my discovery of Ricky on the contractor casualty website and the awful story Gabe and I spun for his sister, Graciela. I tell him about the IHOP and the hotel, the hole Gabe punched in the wall, the long, silent drive to Eagle Rock, about Nick’s cabin, the paintings, the hallucinations and flashbacks.
When I get to the part where Nick pointed a gun first at Gabe’s chest, then up his own chin, Dad picks up the phone. He uses his general’s voice, and the poor sucker on the other end is clearly someone trained to take orders, because he doesn’t talk much and Dad’s instructions don’t take longer than a minute or two. Even from the half I hear, the gist is clear. There’s a spot for Nick at Salem VA Medical Center, one of the best facilities around for veterans with PTSD.
And then Dad looks back at me, and his eyes go kind. “Now I need you to get Gabe on the line for me, darlin’.”
I wriggle my phone from my pocket and dial the number. Gabe’s voice, when he picks up two rings later, is flat and emotionless, and it brushes against my bruised, battered heart.
“Hey,” he says and nothing else. Just
hey
.
I keep my words just as short and to the point.
“My father wants to talk to you,” I say, then pass him the phone.
* * *
Mom’s pulling a pan of pumpkin bread from the oven when I walk back into the kitchen. She holds it up with a grin, tilting it so I can see its perfectly browned top. “Pull up a chair, dear.”
The bread’s scent curls around me like a warm blanket, assaulting me with a heady mixture of nostalgia and regret. The visual of Gabe reaching across Starbucks cups and wrappers and taking my hand in his flashes behind my eyeballs, and the spicy-sweet smell of Mom’s bread turns sour in my stomach. Suddenly, all I want is a long, hard cry in the privacy of my own bed.
“Actually, can we do this another time? I haven’t showered or slept in what feels like a week, and I’m—”
“Sit down, Abigail,” she says in that don’t-argue-with-me voice I remember from my high school days.
I pull out a bar stool and sit down.
Once she’s satisfied I’m settled in to stay, she takes her time removing the bread from the pan, humming as she lays it on a rectangular platter and dusts it with powdered sugar. Finally, when everything is just so, she plates two generous slices and passes one to me. And then she rounds the island and climbs onto the bar stool next to me.
“Now that you’ve mended fences with your father, I thought you and I could have a little chat of our own.”
“Okay.” The word comes out like silly putty, long and stretched thin. The best thing to do when Mom’s on one of her missions is hold on and hope for the best. I break a corner off my bread, pop it in my mouth and grab on to the counter with both hands. “What about?”
“Well, why don’t we start with why you look so pitiful and lovesick, and then I’ll fill you in on all the things your father couldn’t say.”
Her words zap me like a taser, sticking my breath in my lungs and melting my backside to the stool. Not so much that she knows about me and Gabe; Mom always could read my emotions as she did one of her cookbooks—easily and with practiced skill. I’m more surprised she knows what Dad and I had to discuss. What happened to top secret and need-to-know? To duty, honor, country? Why would he tell his wife and not his daughter, when I was the one peeling back the lid of the box, spilling out the secrets, releasing all the evils?
“Were you listening at the door or something?”
Mom laughs as if I told a joke, even though I’m beginning to suspect the joke’s on me. “Thirty-seven years I’ve been married to that man, and I’ve been finishing his sentences for longer than that. I don’t have to listen at the door to know what he’s in there telling you, and what he’s holding back. Now tell me about Gabe, dear.”
“It’s a pretty depressing story, actually.” I inch my plate toward the center of the counter, try to staunch my tears by looking up at the ceiling. When it doesn’t work, Mom passes me a paper napkin. “A classic tragedy.”
She rests a hand on my arm and regards me. “Gabe has a lot going on. A lot of pressures.”
I nod, catching her meaning immediately. Gabe is the strongest man I know, yet he carries the heaviest imaginable burden to bear. And I’m the one who led him to it.
I think of all the things I should have done in that hotel room. Slip the blog entry under the covers, bury it under the pillows, flush it down the toilet and sweep it into oblivion. Anything but allow him to take it from my hands. Now, thanks to me, Gabe is guarding a secret no brother should
ever
have to keep. I did that to him.
“Oh, sweetie...” she says, wrapping her palm around mine, looking at me as if she understands, and if so, she’s the only one. I’m still trying to wrap my head around how Gabe can say such beautiful words to me one moment, then make such horrible accusations the next.
“Maybe it’s better this way,” I say, the tears flowing freely now. “I mean, I know what I want of Gabe, but I’m not sure it’s anywhere near the neighborhood of what he’s able to give me.” I lift a shoulder, trying not to look completely pitiful. “Too much has happened for him this past year.”