You Only Get So Much (18 page)

Chapter 37

Libby didn't take much
convincing to come to Spokane with me.

"What have I got here
that I need to stay for?" she asked when I broached the idea of leaving
Port Orchard. "I lost my job at the beauty supply store when I got
arrested and have no idea how I'm going to pay the rent here in two weeks. So,
sure. When do we leave?"

We left the next
morning. We packed her belongings into the back of the truck, which only filled
it about halfway full. She locked the door and left the key with the building
manager who agreed to wave her lease agreement, "just this once,"
like she had any intention of returning to the dreary building.
 

"There's one more
place I need to go before we leave," she said. "I want to get Mom's
stuff."

Mom's stuff? Images of
our wedding photo album pop into my head. The movie stubs we used to save. The
parking ticket we got on our second date. But I have all those things tucked
away inside a box at the cabin. I don't know what things she might have. Things
from her life without me I guess. Maybe, hidden in these things are the answers
I seek or maybe it's just a bunch of old junk. I try to keep my expectations
low, just in case.

*
* *

"We were living
with Frank when Mom drowned two summers ago," she says as we drive and she
guides me to Frank's house. "When she died I lived there for another
couple months. Frank was a trucker and he was gone a lot. I was lonely. I was
only 17. I moved in with Dillon right before I turned 18. It was stupid, but I
don't think Frank really wanted me there anyway."

"Why do you say
that?" I ask.

"I don't know. I
just kind of felt out of place there. Like it wasn't really home."

Her home was with me,
but I won't say that now. I hope she knows it.

"What place felt
like home?" I ask.

"Before we lived
here. When we lived in St. Cloud."

"Minnesota? You
lived there?" I ask.

"Until I was in
eighth grade and we moved to Port Orchard," she says.

I try to think of any
connection Jane had with Minnesota or any reason why she would have picked that
place to move to, but for the life of me I can't. We never visited there or had
any friends who moved there. It's probably the last place in the country that I
would have chosen to live. I want to ask her more about it, but we've already
arrived at Frank's house.

"Turn here,"
she says, and I navigate the truck down a long dirt driveway. A semi-truck
trailer and a long flatbed trailer are parked to the side of a weathered brown,
ranch-style house. The driveway turns to gravel as we near the front. There's
no yard. Just dirt and gravel. The area is surrounded by tall, dense pine trees
that cast long shadows over the place. A stray cat darts between the rusted-out
hulls of several vehicles which litter the yard. A large red barn is behind the
house.

"Why did you not
like this place?" I ask with a hint of sarcasm. It doesn't look like a
very nice place to live. Very isolated—not that I have much room to talk
about isolation, given my cabin experience, but at least I had a view of the
outside world.

"When Mom met Frank
she spent all of her time with him," she said. "I never saw her. They
were always out doing something at the bar or she would go with him on the road
for weeks at a time. Or even when she'd go into one of her fits, she'd be out
of it. I was just baggage."

"I'm sorry," I
say.

"It's
nothing," she claims. "It's what I'm used to."

"That doesn't mean it's
right," I say, stating the obvious. "What sort of fits did she
have?"

"She'd stay in her
room for a couple days," she says. "Or leave without saying where she
was going and be gone for the whole day. Stuff like that. We'd try to talk to
her and she'd just ignore us. It drove Frank nuts. But every time she'd just
come out of it and we'd pretend it didn't happen. Did she do that before with
you?"

I hesitate before I
answer, knowing how consumed I was with work or writing, often locking myself
away for days or weeks at a time in the attic of our house. Did she have
"fits" then? It's entirely possible and I was just an idiot not to
notice.

"Maybe a little,
but not to the extreme you described," I say. "I never put much
thought into it, really. She just needed her space sometimes, like everyone
else I guess. We got together when we were both very young. When you don't know
anything different, it just becomes your reality.
 
Maybe I just don't have anything to compare it to."

"I think you'd
remember this. It was pretty hard to miss."

"You're probably
right," I say, then add, "You're not baggage. You know that, right?
You should never feel that way. I promise I will never allow that to happen
again. Not if I can help it."

She smiles at me as I
park the truck. She wants to trust me, but there's a distance there. She's
fighting off accepting me into her life. I know exactly where she's coming from
too, because just a few months back I was in the same place trying to form a
relationship with Gracie and Kendall. And I'm still trying. The feelings of
guilt wash over me again for being away from them—even though it's only
been a few days. Leaving them with Mom was my only choice and I'm not certain
any of them would choose it if given an alternative.

I'm ready to go home
too. I realize for the first time that I think of the Cedar House as home. For
so long home was the solitary cabin in White Fish, Montana. So much has
changed.

"Frank's
gone," Libby says, as we walk around the side of the house and past an old
hot tub with a hole in the side. "His truck's not here, but I know where
he hides the key to the barn where Mom's stuff is."

She unlatches the
padlock that holds the two large barn doors shut. There's no electricity inside
the barn, so we have to prop the doors open wide to see inside.
 
The barn is filled with all kinds of
rusted relics. Old gas station pumps and Coke signs are strewn about the place.
Antique bicycles and farming implements poke out from piles of old cans and
trash. A dumpster-diver's paradise if there ever was one.

Only one corner of the
barn managed to avoid the jumbled mess. Behind an old orange Texaco sign is a
small patch of open space. Sitting atop several planks of wood, likely meant to
keep the above contents dry, were a half-dozen cardboard boxes neatly labeled
"Lisa."

"Will these fit in
the truck?" she asks.

"What's in
them?"

"Just her stuff
from the house, I guess. Frank boxed it all up and told me that I could take it
whenever I found time. He didn't need it or want it anymore."

She wiggles her finger
under the packing tape of the top box and peals back the tape. A large dust
plume sprays in my face and I sneeze.

"Sorry about
that," she says.

She reaches in to the
box and pulls out a shoe box and a stack of New York Times newspapers from well
over a decade ago.

"I wonder what
these are for?" she asks.

I examine the headlines
thinking that maybe the papers were saved from some significant event in
history, but nothing jumps out at me after scanning the stories. A Congressman
was embroiled in a scandal. The stock market hit a record high. A new Batman
movie was opening up. I can't imagine why she kept these newspapers.

Libby opens up the lid
of the shoebox. Inside are several Canadian coins, an old leather shaving kit
and a gold watch with an elastic band.
 
I recognize the watch instantly and how could I not? It's my watch.

"Does the
inscription say, 'For My Lobster'?" I ask.

She turns the watch over
and holds it up to the light.

"How did you know
that?"

"Because she gave
me that watch as a wedding gift a very long time ago," I say.

She hands me the watch.
The glass has yellowed and the hands aren't ticking away the time any longer.

"I thought I lost
it," I say. "I kept it in my nightstand drawer in a shaving kit box
that used to be my grandfather's. I noticed it was gone one day, but didn't
know when or why until now. I could never wear it. We found out on our
honeymoon that I'm allergic to yellow gold. My ring finger and wrist swelled up
so much that I couldn't bend them for days. We had to replace my ring. Luckily
the jeweler exchanged it for us because we were flat broke back then."

"So you're a
lobster?" She asks.

I laugh.

"It's a silly
reference to an old TV show—
Friends
. It has to do with lobsters mating for
life. Two of the main characters were meant to be together, they said, so they
are like lobsters."

"Never heard of
it," she says.

"It was a bit
before your time. You haven't seen the re-runs?"

"Is it on Netflix?
Because if not, I probably didn't see it."

"You're missing
out," I say.

"On more marine
life jokes?"

"Something like
that."

"So that's really
your watch?" she asks.

I nod in reply.

"Why would she keep
that?"

"I have no
idea."

I put the watch in my
pocket. Libby moves on to opening another box. Inside are bundles of pencils.

"Ever hear of
"Edge Water Dentistry?" she asks.

"That's where your
mom used to work," I say.

"What did she do
there?"

I'm slightly caught off
guard by the question, remembering the person I knew was not the same person
she knew. Libby knows nothing about the Jane from before, only a story about
some woman named Lisa who had fits and made her feel like baggage. I'm also
reminded of the pencils my father had in his room at the GreyHawk retirement
home—the ones he argued with me about last summer. The same pencils that
my father was so sure were delivered to him by my wife and daughter. I wonder
now if there was more to that story, but he's gone and I'll never know.

"She was a dental
hygienist," I say.

"Wait, you mean to
tell me she worked terrible hours at a bar in this podunk town, getting leered
at by creeps, when she could have been working in a dental office?"

"She got a degree
in it. She even contemplated becoming a dentist herself, but then you came
along and she decided going back to school would be too much with a baby in
tow."

"Unbelievable,"
she says.

"After what we've
seen this past week, you should have no trouble believing this."

"No," she says
with a chuckle. "You're a lobster and she's a dental hygienist. My parents
are so weird."

My parents
. I cherish those words in my
head as we load the boxes into the tightly packed bed of the pickup.

As I walk back to lock
the barn door I accidently slide my hand over a rough edge of the wood. A
splinter jabs my palm and draws blood. I pull out the splinter no problem, but
when I look up I notice something on the barn door that I had previously
missed. There, carved into the backside of the barn door are two unmistakable
letters and a plus sign.
L + F
.

Lisa plus Frank. Talk
about unbelievable. Was this her way of leaving her mark, by repeating what she
and I used to do? I know of course that we're not the first ones to carve our
initials in some piece of wood. The Carving Shelter is an example of that, but
it hurts just the same. It hurts that she can replace me in that equation, like
an interchangeable part. Like I don't matter. Like I'm baggage. Lost baggage.

I think of the words
scribbled over our initials at the Carving Shelter. "I'm sorry -
EMM," it read. I made an excuse before, assuming that it had to have been
done as a joke or by some vandal. But was it possible that she did it? But
when? And why? And what does EMM mean?

I shut the barn door and
lock the padlock, sealing up that painful image of her and Frank's
pronouncement of love.
 

Chapter 38

Spokane

"This is
nonsense," Mom says.

We're at the Cedar House
and she's standing behind the sofa, bracing herself with both hands on the back
of it; her mouth agape at me and Libby. After the five-hour drive from Port
Orchard, Libby and I came directly to the house in Spokane to see Mom, but this
isn't how I wanted things to go. We haven't even entered the living room yet.
We're standing just inside the front door.

"Why would you say
such things?" she continues. "Nonsense. Where did you find this poor
girl?"

"Mom," I say.
"This is real. This is Aspen. I know it's a lot to handle, but this is
your granddaughter, I thought you'd be thrilled."

Libby ever so subtly
slides in behind me, putting distance between her and her grandmother. She's
terrified and embarrassed. Mom's reaction is baffling to me. Can't she see the
resemblance? Doesn't she recognize her granddaughter?

"Thrilled? Who could
believe such malarkey?" She says, then turns to Libby, "I'm sorry
dear, but this is some sort of mistake you've been mixed up in."

She grips her way around
to the front of the sofa and sits stiffly on the edge, holding her hand to her
chest like she's trying to catch her breath. I have to fight the feeling that
it's all a show. Does Mom so desperately need attention that she's
orchestrating this over-the-top response?

Libby walks by me and
examines the photographs on the wall—one of which, includes her as a
child.

I start to explain again
to Mom how I discovered that Libby is my daughter, but she cuts me off.

"I can't take this
sort of excitement," she says, her hand still over her heart. "You
shouldn't do this to me, William."

"Maybe I should
just leave," Libby offers.

"No, we're
staying," I say. "This wasn't supposed to go like this. She's
being—well—herself."

"But she doesn't
want me here and I'm don't want to be here either if—"

Libby stops as we hear
the door to the garage open down the hall. In walk Kendall and Gracie. I look
at the time— 3:30 p.m. The girls are just returning home from school. I
totally forgot they would be coming home at this time. I shouldn't have brought
Libby in this way. I should have sat down with Mom alone before introducing her
to Libby. This is a disaster.

"Hello,"
Kendall says to Libby.

Gracie chimes in with a
sing-song, "Hi!"

Kendall seems to be
eyeing Libby. They were playmates as very young children and it's entirely
possible they would remember each other—if either of them knew who the
other was.

They look to me to
explain. I freeze, not knowing if I should introduce Libby as my daughter. This
makes my stomach churn. Why did Mom have to react this way? Why couldn't she
just be happy for me or for her granddaughter for finding her father?

Libby takes the action
out of my hands by introducing herself.

"Hi, I'm
Libby," she says to her cousins. "Are you guys just home from
school?"

"Yeah, I cleaned
the class aquarium today!" Gracie says.

"Very cool. Do you
like fish?" Libby asks in a sweet voice.

She's obviously been
around children before. Yet another thing I don't know about her.

"No, but I got to
skip P.E. and we were doing laps on the track and I hate doing laps on the
track, so it was good that I cleaned the aquarium instead," Gracie sets
her backpack on the floor. "I'm going to go watch TV. Bye, Liberty!"

And with that, she
bounces out of the room, leaving the rest of us in silence for several moments.

"What's going
on?" Kendall asks, obviously sensing tension in the room. She continues to
look Libby over, searching for something.

"Your uncle has
lost his mind, that's what," Mom says.

"Great, thanks for
that Mom," I say.

"I don't
understand. Who are you?" Kendall asks of Libby.

Libby holds up a finger,
signaling to give her a moment. She strides across the room and I think she's
going for the sliding glass door to the back deck. Maybe she's going to make a
run for it and leave this crazy house. Maybe I'll go with her; it might be
easier. But instead she picks up a picture frame off a shelf built into the
living room wall. It's a picture of me, Jane and Aspen.

I know the picture well
because it's the last one that I remember that includes all of us.  We
were here at this house on an Easter Sunday. Aspen is holding a blue and pink
basket filled with little plastic eggs that I remember very clearly helping her
find throughout the back yard.

Libby hands the picture
to Kendall and points at Jane.

"That's my
mom," she says.

"Aunt Jane?"

"Yes, but I knew
her as Lisa, or Mom I guess."

"But
how—"

"I know, it's weird
and all new to me too," she says, pointing to the picture again.
"That's my dad too. He's your Uncle Billy, but you know that."

"I don't
understand, so who are you?" Kendall asks.

"Well, in that
picture I was Aspen. Today I'm Libby or Liberty if you ask your sister."

"So you're my
cousin Aspen? But you're—"

"Not dead. Never
was," Libby says.

Kendall wraps her arms
around Libby's neck and pulls her in for a hug. Tears in her eyes. It's a
wonderful thing to witness, and definitely not what I expected. After all the
fighting with Kendall, to see her embrace Libby is nothing short of amazing.

"I thought you
died," she says, still holding her close.

"I've heard that a
few times over the past few days," she says. "I'm still getting used
to being brought back to life."

*
* *

Libby follows Kendall
into her bedroom where I can only assume she's going to explain the entire
story in the absence of their grandmother who continues to stew, red-faced on
the sofa.

"You're not making
this easy, Mom," I say.

"Me? You barge in
here after abandoning us for days and days. You bring some girl in
here—"

"Your
granddaughter," I correct.

"Says you."

"Because she
is."

"Please, William,
let me finish. She's under the impression that she's Aspen. Why? What sort of
witchcraft would lead her to this insane conclusion?"

"Let's start with
the fact she looks identical to Jane—"

"Her again? Come on
now."

"What the hell does
that mean?" I ask. "I don't know what's happened to you over the last
few days, but you're acting like a crazy person. Shouldn't you be happy for me?
I've got my daughter back. You of all people should be over the moon about
this."

"I've lived too
long to think that people just pop up out of nowhere," she says.
"It's not natural. Is your dead wife waiting in the car or something? Is
she going to burst out of a cake and sing for us after dinner? You can't be
serious about this. I raised you better. This is my fault, I must have done
something to deserve this."

The anger boils inside
me. I take in a deep breath and prepare myself to lose it. I hear the shouts in
my head and play the argument out to its end. I want to scream at this act of
unrepentant narcissism. But I wait. I hold my tongue, knowing that this is a
defining moment, one that I expected to be a beautiful, memorable one for all
the right reasons. Not like this.

I take another deep
breath and try to control my voice.

"This isn't about
you. And I shouldn't have to convince you of anything. Libby is your
granddaughter. My daughter. She's been lied to and neglected for years and I
won't let that sort of negativity continue toward her or anyone in this family.
My family. You're not being yourself."

"You have no right
to speak to me that way," she says, her jaw clenched in a way I've never
seen before. There's a bitter fire burning somewhere behind that expression.
"I've always done what's best for you kids."

"What in the world
are you talking about?" I ask, exasperated.

"A mother's duty is
never done; that's what."

"OK, I've had
enough," I say, standing up. "You aren't making any sense. You need
to accept this. Period. This conversation is over."