Lifelines: Kate's Story (10 page)

“I
want to see Dad.”

Evelyn’s
face went slack. “Why would you want to talk to him?”

“Do
you know where he is?”

Evelyn
yanked her cigarette container open and shook out a fresh nicotine stick. Kate
didn’t mention the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.

“Do
you know where he is, Mom?”

“How
would I know? It’s been years.”

“When
did you last hear from him?”

“I
have no idea where he went.” She breathed hard through her nostrils and glared
at the table. “How can you torment me? My own daughter—it’s your fault he’s
gone, and now you want to take my friend away from me. You’re jealous, because
you have no one.”

Coffee
spilled over Kate’s hands as she lurched to her feet. “That’s cruel.”

“You’ve
always been jealous. You wanted your father all to yourself, going to his
construction sites, always keeping him late.”

“For
heaven’s sake, mom, of course I wanted Dad’s attention. What kid doesn’t? You
were the adult. If you weren’t getting enough attention, it was your job to
take it up with him.”

Evelyn
started to cry. “Promise me you won’t look for him. Promise, Kate. If you love
me, you’ll promise. He sent us away, and—if you do this, Kate, you’ll destroy
me.”

“Mom,
this isn’t about you and Dad.”

“Promise
me!”

Kate
couldn’t swallow, and she felt a reflex surge up her throat. God, don’t let me
throw up all over her.

“I’m
not doing this to hurt you, Mother.”

Evelyn
drew her five-foot-two body up and glared at Kate with the expression Kate
remembered from the day she painted the kitchen walls with red food coloring. “You
will not search for your father,” she pronounced in a voice that lodged
somewhere between Kate’s heart and her throat.

Kate
forced her voice through the rigid tension in her chest. “I’m sorry you’re
upset, mother. I need to leave now. I’ll come back tomorrow, for lunch, unless
you want to cancel.”

“You’re
cruel, Kate. You always were, even as a child. You ruined everything for me in
Alaska, and you want to ruin it all again. Why do you hate me so much?”

Kate
fumbled her purse from the counter. Halfway across the living room, she
croaked, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She
got to the car but couldn’t remember the part where she opened her mother’s
front door. She jammed the key into the ignition. What if Evelyn opened the
door and reached out her tentacles, cut off Kate’s escape?

Tentacles.
Jesus.

The
car roared and Kate fumbled the shift.

She’s
like a god-damned octopus, tentacles snagging from every direction. I can’t get
around them, can’t get past them.

Why
did you say you’d come back tomorrow? Why are you such a baby? She’s a seventy
year old woman, and you’re forty-nine. She never beat you and there’s no excuse
for cowardice.

Halfway
down the hill to Sixth Street, she yanked out her seat belt, snapped it home as
she reached for the brakes. As her foot depressed, she realized there could be
ice. Her breath on the air, and she would sail right through the stop sign,
into the traffic, trying to escape.

Her
car stopped with front wheels in the middle of the pedestrian crosswalk.

David’s
voice rang in her ears. You’ll kill yourself with your reckless driving. Or
you’ll kill someone else ... again. Is that what you want, Kate?

The
drive home passed in mental reruns of the scene at Evelyn’s. Kate tried out
fantasies where she kept it together and asked questions despite her mother’s
tears; fantasies in which her mother gave her Han’s address and said, “Say
hello to him for me.” That one brought a broken laugh as she turned onto Taylor
Road. It wasn’t remotely funny, but what could she do but laugh when she’d made
such a mess of her vow to manipulate her mother for once in her life, instead
of the other way around?

You
need to work on this hold your mother has over you.

Later,
Sarah. I’ve got enough on my plate.

Evelyn’s
face flashed vividly into her mind, her voice snarling: You will not look for
your father.

Kate
slammed on the brakes with both feet and sent the car into a sideways skid at
the foot of her own drive.

E
velyn
stood at the window as Kate’s car whipped around the corner. How could her
daughter taunt her with painful memories of Han and that final summer in
Alaska?

Evelyn
had loved Alaska. The people on the streets, friendly and English-speaking, a
relief after two years in Indonesia. She sat each afternoon in her chair by the
window on Windermere Street, Beethoven on the stereo while sharp mountains
filled the window. In Indonesia the neighbors had complained about her music,
and before that, in Brazil, Kate—home schooled for an interminable two
years—perpetually swamped out Evelyn’s orchestra with The Carpenters and The
Bee-gees.

In
Alaska, Kate attended public high school, and for two blessed days each week
she attended pottery class after school, so Evelyn didn’t have to deal with her
until Han came home from work. Even better, in Alaska Kate was old enough to
leave alone nights, and Han came home early all winter because of the short
days. She’d gone dancing so many times over the winter, romance returned now
Kate wasn’t under their feet all the time. Things got even better when Evelyn
fell sick in January. Han took her illness seriously, and she made him see how
much the stress of Kate’s constant energy harmed her health.

He
began keeping Kate on the job site after school, and even picked up dinner on
the way home. Evelyn made sure he knew how much she appreciated it, and he kept
it up into the summer. Such a wonderful spring, warm and sun-filled. Han acted
like the lover she’d once fantasized him to be.

Until
Kate ruined everything.

Evelyn
glared through the window for long seconds after the sound of Kate’s car faded.
She reached for the back of the sofa, balanced on it, then transferred her
steadying hand to the corridor wall.

Surely,
after all these years it would be impossible for Kate to find Han. He’d bounced
around the world like a yo-yo, California to Brazil to Indonesia to Alaska. So
romantic, she said when he got the job in Venezuela. They never stayed anywhere
long enough for it to get old. She loved the life, and Han was the best part.

Evelyn
braced against the doorway to the spare room. After Han sent them away from
Anchorage, this was Kate’s room until she went to university. The week after
her daughter left, Evelyn hired a neighbor to pack Kate’s possessions in boxes
and paint over the too-bright wallpaper. She decorated this room as a sewing
room, although she never took out the sewing machine once the decorating was
complete.

She
threaded her way through boxes, using a hand here, a hand there to balance.
Kate said Evelyn needed a cane, but she wasn’t ready to look like some old cripple.

The
box she sought stood in the corner. She found the photo album and hugged it to
her chest as she carried it back to the kitchen, balancing herself with box,
doorway, wall, and kitchen stove. She laid the album on the table, then
shuffled to the counter where she plugged in the electric kettle. She heard its
noise almost at once; it hadn’t been long since Kate made coffee.

She
used counter and chair to balance back to the table, picked up the now-cold cup
of coffee Kate made her, carried it to the counter and carefully dumped it down
the drain. Then she spooned instant coffee in, and since no one could see,
three teaspoons of sugar and two of coffee whitener. When the kettle boiled,
she stirred the mix and carried it to the fridge. She set the timer on the
table for five minutes, by which time the coffee would be the perfect
temperature.

She
adjusted her chair to the right distance from the table, lit a cigarette and
placed it precisely in the ashtray. Then she carefully opened the album.

Her
wedding day. Han had been so handsome and she looked good, too, slender and
brunette. They stood locked in each other’s arms outside the Seattle church,
creases from the sun crinkling the skin around his eyes as he stared at her
with adoration.

She
felt tears leak down her cheeks. So unfair. Once, he’d loved her, until Kate
destroyed their marriage with a careless accident ...

His
letters waited at the back of the album, but she turned each page slowly and
delayed contact with the letters by clinging to the memories trapped in old
pictures. Evelyn and Han dancing, New Year’s night in Jakarta. She turned the
page and stared at Han holding a big fish he’d caught in Alaska. She’d refused
to cook it and he’d wrapped it in foil and baked it himself. Next page:
pictures of Kate with a hammer in her hand. On the right side, Han outside the
Anchorage house, a big grin on his handsome face as he showed off the new
snowmobile, no sign of Kate in the picture.

She
turned the page, but as always, the pictures ended here. She should have taken
more that last year, hadn’t known the end was so near. The back of the album
now, the envelopes wedged into the place where the paper stuck together.

She
pulled out the first letter. Blurred postmark, but she could close her eyes and
see the letter inside, the date at the top—nineteen years ago this April 15.
She slid out the paper and unfolded it. The timer dinged and she pulled her
hand away.

Timer
... coffee. She stood and walked to the fridge, hand on chair back, then fridge
door. Coffee, now cooled. She carried it back to the table.

Dear
Evelyn

For
years I’ve wanted to write, but haven’t known what to say. Perhaps now it’s
time, as I start a new life.

By
the time you get this I’ll be married to a lovely woman who’s been my good
friend for two years now. We’re heading for Northern Canada, where I’ll work on
the James Bay power project.

I
regret the way we parted, and if I had it to do over again ... Well, as somebody
said in a poem, “The moving finger writes and having written, moves on.” It’s
too late for us, Evie, but I want you to know I remember you fondly.

As
for Kate, I’d like to see her. Could you please send me her address? I don’t
know if she’ll want to meet with me. If she does, I want to try to have a
relationship with her. Despite everything, I’ve never stopped missing my
daughter.

Han

If
I had it to do over again ...

He
regretted sending her away. If only he’d written before he married that woman.
Of course he couldn’t say so in the letter, because of that woman, but he still
loved Evelyn. This lovely woman he talked about was second best.

The
second letter came nine years later. Evelyn held it in her hands now, but
didn’t open it. She thought of Kate’s rigid face. What if she shoved her way
into the house and started to search for clues to Han? A fragile
seventy-year-old woman couldn’t stop an obstinately determined daughter.

Evelyn’s
hands trembled as she lit her cigarette. She took two drags, then set it down
in the ashtray. She picked up her lighter and the letters, then stood on
faltering legs.

On
her way into the living room, she gripped counter, stovetop, doorway. Then she
sat down on the ceramic hearth and opened the fireplace’s glass door. She
placed the letters on top of one of the artificial logs.

Gas
fire ... she wouldn’t need the lighter after all. She closed the door and stood
up. Her feet felt numb as she stumbled to the switch on the wall. When she
reached it, she turned to face the fireplace before she pushed the switch up.

In
the fireplace, gas flames popped to life, and one of the letters slid off the
log. Evelyn reached one hand out towards Han’s letters, as if she could save
them, but the paper curled around the edge of one of the logs, and a yellow
flame played along one corner. The flame broadened into a curved line that
danced across the surface of Han’s words.

As
the letters burned, tears leaked down her cheeks.

K
ate picked
up her cardboard container of Starbuck’s coffee from Sarah’s desk, and cupped
both hands around it to soak up the warmth.

“Sarah,
how many forty-nine year old women do you know who can’t face down their
mothers? I totally blew it.”

“Did
you expect her to tell you about the ten thousand dollars?”

“Not
in this lifetime. I had to ask, though.”

“So
you gave her fair notice you plan to check the guy out?”

“I
doubt she listened, but since Sunday, I’ve talked to the neighbor again. The
guy who borrowed the money is named Noel Wilson.” Kate put the coffee down. “I
asked Jerry Glendennan if he’d run a check on him.” Jerry was a Madrona Bay
policeman Kate had worked with on child abuse cases.

“So
the disaster you mentioned, your blowing it, is the part where you asked your
mom about your father, and she told you nothing?”