The Someday Jar (15 page)

Dad has.

I reach the far end of the asphalt and sit on the curb, slipping my aching feet out of my too-small shoes.

He did call. Many times.

What does that mean to me
now
? For years I’ve stuffed the pain from feeling abandoned and forgotten in the depths of my heart. Spent nearly as many years without Dad in my life as I have with him. Am I all of a sudden supposed to erase the heartbreak? Forget the missed birthdays, skipped track meets, and empty seat at my graduations? Wipe the slate clean and reach out to him? Call him and say, “Hey, remember me? It’s been a while.”

Truth is, it isn’t
all
Mom’s fault. Dad didn’t need to agree to Mom’s restrictions. He could’ve fought. He could’ve surmounted any obstacle she threw at him. He tackled challenges in all other aspects of his life, the highest mountain, the wildest river, why not claw and climb to get to me? Wasn’t I his greatest adventure?

Damn you, Dad. Why didn’t you try harder?

Regardless of the obstacles Mom put up when I was a minor,
he hasn’t contacted me as an adult. What Mom did or didn’t do doesn’t matter. I close my eyes and accept the fact that if Dad wanted to be in my life, he would be. It’s that simple.

And yet, playing over and over in my head like a scratched record album, I hear Mom say,
He did call. Many times.

I gaze at the cloudless sky with hopes a shooting star will sail across the night. “Wish for tomorrow,” my dad used to say fireside during our Labor Day camping trips. But because of the city smog and overhead streetlights, the stars are obscured. With a heavy heart, I let my eyes drift toward the strip mall across the street.

It’s then I see it.

I step toward the street’s edge, vying for a better view. My pulse pounds in sync with the flickering letter
G
on the weather-beaten sign. I hadn’t realized we were so close. I hadn’t realized I’m a stone’s throw away from my childhood. A stone’s throw away from some of the best moments of my life. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I stand across the street from the Golden Lantern restaurant.

I slip into my shoes and hurry across the road toward the building, swinging open the heavy glass door and inhaling wafts of warm air laced with fried rice, sweet spices, and stir-fried veggies. I breathe in the memories.

Beyond the hostess stand, where a teenage girl sets her math book aside and gathers a few menus from a tray behind her, are several tables bordering along the windows. I spot the worn booth Dad and I shared.

“How many?” the hostess asks, and then we both glance at her cell phone, which lights up with a message beside her book.

“No, I’m not here to eat. I just wanted to take a minute and look around. Is that okay?”

“Whatever.” She reaches for her phone.

A man, presumably her father, for they share the same crook in their nose, joins her at the lectern and chastises her in Chinese with excessive enthusiasm; the teenager drops her phone into her purse, then returns to her studies.

He smiles at me before heading to the dimly lit dining room. I recognize him. He’s the owner. His hair has thinned and his belly grown, but I recall him pulling up a chair beside our booth and talking with my dad every time we came. I glance at the girl. Her mother was the hostess and this girl was just a baby at the time. She bounced in a play saucer with a giraffe-colored rattle. She’s all grown up. Funny, how time flies.

I step toward the wall on my left. The wall I came to see. Painted a lighter hue of pink than previously, as the uneven ceiling edge reveals a darker shade, the wall is coated with fortune slips, pinned with tiny tacks. Just like I remember. Just like so many years ago. All the tacks are snug against the wall, except for one, which threatens to fall onto the ground. I push the pin and the fortune catches my eye.
Happiness is truth.

I glance at the girl, surreptitiously texting on her cell phone. I snag the fortune and, with a clear head, make my way toward the Ivy.

In the parking lot, I find Evan waiting for me. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

I point across the street. “That’s where Dad and I went for my birthdays.”

“Really?”

I can tell he’s not impressed.

“Yes.” I hide the fortune in my palm and wrap my arms around myself. “Where’s Mom?”

“She left in a cab. She’s truly upset.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Listen.” Evan faces me. “I’ve been preoccupied with Orchid Lane, the wedding, and work. I’ve failed to appreciate the importance of this jar and the longing you obviously feel for your father. All the same, I think you’ll agree that I’ve been patient and more than understanding with your behavior lately. Chasing adventure before the wedding, I get that. I honestly do. Hell, the other day I passed the Porsche dealership and nearly pulled in for a test drive. But, in light of everything that’s happened, especially seeing how upset your mom is, don’t you think it’s time to put the jar away?”

“Did you not hear what she said? She chased my dad away.”

“I heard her say she was protecting you. Just like I’m trying to do now. Let this go before it inflicts more pain on you or anyone else.”

I step back. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“I don’t get it. You haven’t approved of this jar since day one.”

“Can you blame me? Look at the havoc it’s caused.”

“Jesus, Evan. It’s not a tsunami. It’s a jar of wishes.”

“I’m aware of what it is.”

Wes clears his throat, standing underneath a nearby streetlamp. “Sorry to bother you, but the valet’s pulled the car around. It’s blocking other cars. We should probably . . .”

“Thanks, we’re on our way.” Evan rests his hand on the small of my back and says, “C’mon, babe. Enough of this. Let’s go home.”

We reach Evan’s car and before separating toward our respective seats, he squeezes my hand as if to say,
So glad we worked this out
.

I glance at the Golden Lantern one last time and feel the fortune paper crisp in my palm, then climb inside his Mercedes. “I won’t do it.”

“Won’t do what?”

“Give up on the jar. If anything, I’m determined more than ever to see it through.” I click my seat belt. “Just thought you should know.”

“Lanie, it’s best—”

“I’m going to finish it, Evan. Not you, Mom, or any other naysayer can talk me out of it. Now, let’s go home.” I flick down the visor and wipe the mascara from under my eyes.

It’s then I see Wes sitting in the backseat, staring at me. This time his eyes give everything away. Approval.

It’s several hours later, long after midnight, and I lie in bed, listening to Evan snore. I blink away tears into the darkness, my skin crawling with all sorts of emotions. Anger. Resentment. Hope.

He did call. Many times.

Twenty minutes later, I tiptoe downstairs with hopes that a cup of hot tea will ease my nerves.

Moonlight slips through the shutter slats, lighting my way into the kitchen. Already I feel better with the cool tile against my feet, preferring the calm, constant hum of the refrigerator to Evan’s snoring.

A shadow sneaks toward me.

Oh, God. Oh, God.
A chill snakes up my spine. There’s an intruder in the house. An intruder!

It’s getting closer.

In a knee-jerk reaction, I dart toward the silhouette and thrust my punch into the darkness, smacking my fist hard into the flesh with a loud thump.
Ouch! That felt like concrete.

He groans.

I raise my fists again, wishing our largest kitchen knife wasn’t buried in the dishwasher.

The man grabs my wrists.

I start to scream.

“Shhh, Lanie. It’s me,” Wes says.

“Wes? You scared me.”

He releases me.

I bend over and catch my breath while he flips on the stove’s night light.

The dim glow does nothing to conceal the fact that he’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans.

“You’ve got a hell of a punch.” He rubs his chin.

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze and release my hand, growing stiff with pain, convinced that should my broker career not pan out, becoming a fighter is not a viable second choice. Cool air blasts my face as I open the freezer and fill a Ziploc bag full of ice cubes. “Here.” I offer him the bag.

“Thanks.” He nods toward my clenched fist. “Why don’t you put it on your hand?”

“It hurts like hell.”

“I bet.” He rests the bag on my knuckles. Ice slides around my fingers and the coolness is instant relief.

“Do you always punch your houseguests?”

“Only those who prowl around at night.”

He laughs. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither. Want a cup of tea?”

“Sure, but I’ll get it. Keep that ice on and go sit.”

“Thanks.” On my way to the couch, I peek toward the stairs, wondering if Evan woke from the commotion, but I neither see nor hear any sign of him.

A couple minutes later, Wes silences the kettle at the hint of its whistle. “Here you go.” He hands me a mug.

Shirtless. Did I say that already?

“Thanks.”

“You okay?” I sense he doesn’t mean my hand.

“Yeah.” I set the ice on the table and blow on my tea. After a few moments, I say, “Not really.”

“You know, your whole face lights up like a Christmas tree when you talk about the jar. I can tell it’s really important to you.”

“It is,” I say, grateful for his objectiveness.

“Tell me the story.”

“What story?”

“There’s always a story. Tell me more about the jar.”

“Well, it’s the typical poor-me scenario of my dad leaving when I was fifteen, causing all sorts of abandonment and self-worth issues. Blah. Blah. Blah. Before he left, Dad bought the jar while visiting Cabo San Lucas, said it reminded him of me when he saw it.

“Long skinny neck, fat bottom?”

“Funny.”

“Fine. No more jokes.” There’s a playful tone in his words.

I tuck my legs under myself and rub warmth onto my calves.

“Hold this.” He hands me his tea. Wes retrieves the blanket from the love seat across the room and drapes it over my legs.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “So . . . um, my dad had a wanderlust, spent his time traveling the world, hiking, parasailing, river rafting, you name it. Anything fun, he did it.”

“A wealthy man,” Wes says.

“He was a freelance journalist. I suppose he made enough money to chase his dreams and—”

“No, I meant wealthy with life.”

“Oh, good. I was afraid you might ask to see his tax returns.”

“W-2s are fine.”

I giggle, but talking about my dad heavies my mood. I stare at my tea.

“I gather you don’t see him much?”

I shake my head. Tears form in my eyes. “At first, I didn’t want to. I was hurt. Hurt that he could leave Mom and me. Then weeks turned into months, months into years. After so long not hearing from him, I was too stubborn and proud to call. Figured if he didn’t care, then neither did I. Until tonight, I didn’t even know he tried to contact me.”

So at ease with Wes, I allow the pain and thoughts of Dad that I buried for so long to flood my mind. “The night he left, I wrote a couple of wishes and tucked them in my Someday Jar. My plan was to fill it with all sorts of adventures. Goals that would impress him. Certain that once he saw how much fun I could be, he’d come home. Guess I was young and naïve.”

Wes says nothing.

“All these years I thought he didn’t care, but now I wonder if he did. If he still does. Maybe he . . .” My voice trails off.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” I fiddle with the blanket string. “One thing I don’t get is why do Mom and Evan make such a big deal out of me having a little fun? I know scuba and kickboxing lessons sound silly, but that isn’t the point. The jar is my connection to my dad. It’s all I have. It’s for me. Just me. Does that make sense?”

“It does. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but I think your mom’s afraid you’ll risk all that you have going for you and wind up alone. She doesn’t want to see you struggle. That’s a
powerful sentiment. And for Evan, maybe he doesn’t like your independence. I’ve noticed a building confidence in you the past couple of weeks.”

“Really?” I sit taller. “Accomplishing these tasks, foolish or not, makes me feel great.” I glance out the window into the darkness. “I don’t need their approval, but I would love their support.”

“I get that.”

I blink to clear my damp eyes. “Anyway, what about you? What would your Someday Jar slips say?”

“Start a bobblehead collection.”

“Oh. You think it’s silly, too.”

“No, I don’t. I really don’t. Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry your dad—” He pauses as if thinking what to say. “Finish the jar, Lanie.”

I nod, then reach for the bag of ice. “Enough of my pity party. What’s your sad story?”

“Me?”

“Sure. You said there’s always a story. What’s yours?”

Wes stares at the window. “You don’t want to hear it.”

“Spill it.”

“All right.” He shrugs. “After graduation, I landed a job at an architecture firm. I was stoked. Not only because I worked in this huge, glass-walled building that overlooked downtown Los Angeles, but because at the desk next to mine was this sharp-tongued brunette. She had a smile that made me stutter like a twelve-year-old boy.” His shoulders give way to a slight laugh. “We compared ARE scores.”

“How much higher was hers?”

“Whatever.” He sips his tea. “She may have scored higher, but she was a compulsive thief, always stealing my highlighter.”

“A highlighter? Big deal.”

“It was a big deal. I loved that highlighter. It had a resounding click when you put the cap back on, nice angle to the felt tip, too.”

“Right.”

“Well, after a dozen times of finding it carelessly left on her desk, hidden in her drawer, or nestled between her lips, which made it impossible to concentrate, I told her she could keep the damn thing if she went out with me.”

“Nice technique.”

“We married the following October at the same place her parents did, a Spanish-style chapel not far from here. A year later she was pregnant.”

“That’s no sad story. It sounds perfect.”

His focus fixes on the window.

In the shadows I see his jaw clench.

Oh.

He says with a crisp voice, “At first she thought her achy back and nausea was morning sickness. I told her to get it checked out, but she brushed it off, saying they were common symptoms and didn’t mind the discomfort, she was happy to be pregnant. It’d pass soon enough.”

My stomach tightens, fearing what he’s about to say.

“A couple days later, we sat at her doctor’s office and she choked back tears, doubled over in pain. We feared a miscarriage, but the heartbeat was steady in the ultrasound. They ordered a CT scan and found a kidney stone. She was relieved. Stubborn as she was, she refused any pain medication because of the baby, said she was feeling better. They sent her home, telling her she’d pass the stone soon.” He swallows, nodding. “Like an idiot, I went to work. When I came home, I found
her shivering underneath a mound of blankets, a bucket of vomit by the bed, and a purple bruiselike rash covering her lower back. She was unconscious.”

“Oh, God.”

“There were more scans, drain tubes, I lost track of how many times they pricked her veins with needles.” He is trying to hold back tears. “Twelve hours later she was gone. Septic shock, they called it.” He gazes out the window again. “It happened so fast. We never found out if she carried a boy or a girl.”

“Wes, I . . .” I don’t know what to say. I long to reach out to him, pull him close, take away his pain. I can’t imagine the hurt and guilt he feels. The loss. Finally, I manage, “I bet she would’ve been a wonderful mother.”

He clears his throat and sits taller. “Since that day I’ve poured myself into work, focusing on commercial or industrial projects. Still can’t bear to draw a residential home for a young family, nurseries, that sort of thing.” He nods. “Work’s been good to me. I opened my own firm eighteen months ago and I’ve been full-throttle ever since. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. Proud of the City Core.”

“You should be. It seems you’ve come a long way.”

It’s then I think of Julie and how his voice softens when she calls. Stripped from love before, it sounds like he’s found it now. I can’t help but wonder what their life is like, especially in the quietness of night once Trevor’s in bed and the two of them are alone. Do they share a glass of wine while cuddled on the couch and talk with soft, relaxed voices about their day? Does she massage his back and shoulders, tight from a long afternoon drawing plans? Does she aimlessly trace her fingertip along his chest, or nuzzle skin on skin, in the crook of Wes’s arm while
they sleep? Does she appreciate him? Appreciate his tenderness, his honesty, and his quiet resilience?

Most of all, I wonder if she trembles when he’s close. If his touch prickles then steeps deep inside her skin and weaves through every bit of her body long, slow, and reckless, winding toward each nerve like a drawn-out vine.

Or is that just me?

Dammit. Why do I keep thinking of him this way? Why can’t I shake these thoughts? Is it truly wedding jitters? Is it something more? Something real.

“By the way, the microwaved-water plant is dead.”

“Seriously? I’m never going to use a microwave again. Tell Trevor I learned something from him today.”

“I will, thanks.”

We sit in the quiet before I muster enough courage to ask, “And Julie? What’s she like?”

“She’s the best. I swear that woman gets more centered every day of her life. She—”

“Babe?”

I jump as Evan calls me from the top of the stairs.

“You coming to bed? We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah, coming.” Guilt clutters my conscience. I shouldn’t be this casual with Wes. I shouldn’t be sitting in the dark, inches from his skin, whispering sad stories of our past. I shouldn’t have these thoughts. “Yes, I’m coming.”

“Bring me a glass of water, will you?”

“Of course.”

Evan’s footsteps reverberate toward our bathroom.

“Time for bed.” Wes pats my knee.

I start to get up and the blanket slips toward the floor. We both reach for it. Our forearms brush one another and warmth
threads through my skin like a flame burning away its wick. I tell myself it’s from the tea, but I know that isn’t true.

Wes grabs our mugs and sets them in the kitchen sink.

I follow behind.

He turns toward me, clutching his jaw. “Thanks for slugging me in the face.”

“Anytime.”

He doesn’t move.

Nor do I.

We stand close, close enough that his breath tickles my neck. Close enough that I could place my palm against his bare chest, feel the beat of his heart. We hold our gaze for several moments and I find myself more comfortable than I’ve felt in a long time. More comfortable than I’ve ever felt in Evan’s condo. Or with any man. Looking at Wes, I find myself home.

I force my gaze toward the floor, afraid of what I’ll see in his stare. Afraid of what I won’t. And mostly, afraid of what I want.