Dear Mr. Knightley (28 page)
“Sounds great, Sam. You’ve done a lot, but nothing changes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sammy-girl, lots to do, but nothing to feel.” Cara whispered the words with a singsong lilt. And my nickname came out just loud enough to pierce my heart.
“That’s too far.” I grabbed my bag as a deep, painful, red blur flashed before my eyes. “Do what you want, Cara. We’re done.”
“Don’t leave.” She rushed the words out. I heard desperation in her voice, and that’s the only thing that made me stop.
I turned, more furious than I’ve been in my entire life. The nickname had ignited a fire, rather than a fear, in me.
“Do you want to go there, Cara? Do you? Because I’m not hiding anymore, and if you want to fight . . .” I paused and waited for her to look me in the eyes. “I will decimate you.” With each word I stepped closer, until I stood above her.
Cara blanched. “I only said it to hurt you. See if I still could. I’m sorry. Please?” She took a shuddering breath, cringed with the pain, and looked to the ceiling.
I stepped back, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath myself. “I’ll stay.” I dropped my bag. “But it was too far, Cara. Don’t do that again—ever.”
“I know.” She held my eyes for a moment before concentrating on her blanket. “I used to get so jealous of you and be glad when you shut down and went away into your head. It made me feel strong. I want to feel strong again.”
I understood, so I stayed. But I didn’t sit, and it wasn’t comfortable. We skirted around our feelings and protected our secrets for a few minutes before I realized we were done. I reminded Cara about Grace House one more time and left, leaving my anger with her. No sense in carrying even that home.
Maybe Cara and I will be more someday, but right now I feel closure and peace. I hope I helped her too. Maybe she’ll take my advice and return to Grace House. It will change her life and, as I’m learning, change isn’t always bad.
It’s been quite a couple days and I’m ready for some lighter fare—which starts tomorrow night—with Alex. I didn’t tell him where I’ve been these past two days.
Coward
. He texted a few times, and I simply replied that I was busy with work.
I want to share, but think of the can of worms I’ll open if
I mention Cara—too many worms. Here’s the exchange from earlier:
Alex: Where are you? 2 days too long! Don’t say you’re busy or I’ll march to Trib Tower and demand your release!
Me: Don’t get me fired. Free now and like being missed. Such nice compliments will get you anything.
Too flirty? I still can’t define our relationship, and I press every now and then to see what he’ll do. Despite his criticisms about deflecting, Alex does it better than I do.
Alex: Need a date for dinner @ Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder. Lobby 6pm tomorrow?
Me: Can’t wait.
So there it is. Still no clue about our relationship, but I get to go to Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder. FINALLY! That’s worthy of caps, don’t you think? I’ve probably built it up in my mind, but I’m so excited. I need to text Hannah.
Oh . . . I gotta go. The timer buzzed. I tried a new recipe, Forty-Clove Garlic Chicken. It sounded wonderful and smells even better; but now I wonder how long I will stink. Will forty cloves of garlic wear off by tomorrow night?
Have a good evening, Mr.
Knightley . . .
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I know it wasn’t a date—not a real date—but I couldn’t help myself. I brought a change of clothes to work so I’d be in a cute floral skirt and wedge heels for tonight’s dinner. Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder deserved that. And it was worth it. What a night!
The small waiting area was packed when we arrived. The host studied our faces, just like I’d heard, and declared, “One hour.” I wondered if that was determined on real time or a cuteness scale. Maybe that’s why Josh never wanted to go. Unnecessarily mean, I know.
The wait didn’t bother us. I wanted to absorb the room and the experience, and suspected an hour might not be long enough—but something caught my attention. Two couples nudged each other, looked toward us, and started whispering. Alex noticed too. He turned slightly to his right, gently maneuvering me in front of him.
“You’re putting them in your blind spot,” I giggled. I do that a lot lately—very unnerving.
“They’re talking about me, but they’re not quite sure.”
My eyes trailed over to them.
“Don’t look.” There was a flicker of panic in his voice.
“I won’t.” And I didn’t.
“I must seem so strange to you, like I’m afraid of my own
shadow. But I don’t like meeting other people’s expectations. I never measure up.”
“They have expectations?” My vision flicked to the couples. They were still tittering about us.
“Don’t be naive. Everyone has expectations.”
Alex was clearly upset—and it surprised me. Usually he’s so composed, almost cavalier. But tonight he was jumpy, all his nerves exposed to the moment.
I looked him straight in the eyes. “Focus on me. My only expectation is to enjoy a wonderful evening.”
“I need an Oreo,” he quipped.
“Glad you’re back.” I almost called him on the deflection. He’s done it to me enough times, but I sensed he needed some space.
Once we sat down, I told Alex about Hannah’s proposal and how I’ve wanted to come here for over a year.
“Why didn’t you say something? Or why not just come?”
“I don’t know. I remember her saying that the booths were so private you felt alone in a crowded room.”
Alex quirked his eyebrow.
“I’ll kill you if you start singing.” He held his hands up, and I continued. “It sounded so special that I just wanted to land here, not orchestrate it. And here I am.”
“Here you are.” He settled into the booth. “Are you disappointed?”
“Not at all.” I settled in too. “Now tell me your deepest secrets. We’re alone.” I said it flippantly, then couldn’t believe it. After that scene earlier? Besides, that street runs two ways. I paled, but for once Alex didn’t notice—he was two shades paler himself.
I rushed on. “I’m kidding. I would like to ask one thing, though.” I paused, wondering if even this was too personal right then. “How’d you come to know the Muirs so well?”
“They took me in—adopted me in a way.” He stopped, and I thought that was the end.
I waited.
“I didn’t go home Thanksgiving my freshman year. Christmas either. Pops was my English lit professor, and he invited me to stay with them for both holidays. I’d already spent countless hours in his office discussing books and writing. I thought I was so smart. Really I was an angry, lonely kid.”
“Why didn’t you go home?”
“Dad told me not to bother, and I couldn’t afford it on my own.” Alex looked at the table. “He refused to pay any part of school if I didn’t stay in state, and I got that—state schools are cheaper. But it wasn’t about the money—it was about control. He thought I was a dreamer. A waste. Still does.”
“He can’t. Look what you’ve done.”
“It’s not what he wanted. Dad’s happy, though. My brother toed the line. He lives a few blocks from my parents, takes his family over for Sunday dinner, and works in Dad’s tax firm.”
“And you?”
“I’m okay—now. Pops has helped me. He’s taught me what a father can be and what a son can be. I’ll keep trying with my dad, but it’s hard.” Alex looked up at me.
I nodded. That’s all I know about parents—it’s hard.
“Your sisters?”
“I’m closer to them. Jenni lives in Texas and Suzanne in California. They don’t get in the middle, but they don’t shun
me either. But it’s all hidden, all in secret. Even my mom won’t call unless Dad’s out of the house.”
“I’m sorry, Alex.” I needed to offer him something in return. But how much? “My parents died a few years ago. The Muirs accepting me like they have is a miracle for me.”
Alex stared at me a moment, and I could see his jaw flex. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything?” He paused and leaned forward. “I feel a little selfish complaining about my perfectly healthy—if dysfunctional—family.”
“I like it. Not the dysfunctional part. I mean I like hearing about them. About you. I don’t like to talk about my parents. In fact, very few people know even that much.”
“I’m honored. Will you tell me more?”
I held my breath. I didn’t want to deflect, and I refused to hide, but I lacked courage. “Can I tell you about them another time? It’s not an easy subject for me. But someday I would like you to know.”
He smiled, slow and long. “When you’re ready, I’ll listen.” He held my eyes. “What shall we eat?”
“Everything.”
The food was delicious. The pizzas are cooked in bowls with the dough draped over the top. The waiter then flips it over onto your plate and pulls out the ceramic bowl, and the cheese, which was at the bottom, is now on top and spreads over the sauce.
As we ate, my mind wandered back to my parents. Usually thinking about them fills me with fear and, more recently, anger. Not tonight. Tonight I remembered something Father John said when he told me my father had died.
“He was sick, Sam.”
“I’ll say.”
“No, I mean he had clinical mental illness.” Father John took my hands and held them, drawing me into his words. “I read his file, Sam. He suffered terrible abuse, and only in prison did he get counseling and medication. There’s no indication that on the outside he got any help at all.”
“He went to college, Father John. He was some drugged-out genius and dropped out. That’s what my mother once said.”
“That’s not entirely true. But she was right about his being smart. He was off the charts in some respects and not hitting even minimal markers in others. It’s hard to say how the brain works. I think the abuse broke an already fragile brain.”
“What are you saying? He was out of his mind?” I spat the words out.
“Yes.” Father John squeezed my hands to gain my attention. “I am not excusing him, Sam. I’m saying that he may not have known what he did or why he did it. He was terribly sick.”
“I don’t care.”
“Not now, but someday you might. And when that day comes, I wanted you to know the truth. He caused tremendous pain, Sam, but he was also in tremendous pain.”
I sat in that safe, high-backed booth eating pizza while all this played through my memory. And I accepted it. I let it flow over and through me in a way I had never allowed before. I don’t know how I feel about my father now, but tonight the memories took on a different tone. The black/red fear I associate with him faded. There are shades of yellow and even more temperate colors like blue swirling in the scene.
Alex was quiet too. Maybe his own thoughts swirled about
him—I don’t know. I simply know it was comfortable and wonderful. I felt safe not striving for words and smiles and laughs and sighs—all those things Ashley and Debbie threw out at that Halloween party—to intrigue him and show my interest. I felt sure that no matter how quiet or contemplative I became—Alex would call me again.
Sincerely,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The professor had a heart attack. At least that’s what I think happened. Mrs. Muir called it “atrial fibrillation.” He had chest pains and shortness of breath and passed out. I call that a heart attack.
“He’s going to be fine, dear. I wanted to call so you wouldn’t worry.”
“Does Alex know?”
“Yes, dear, I called him. Robert has had episodes before, and this one wasn’t as bad as others. The doctors here have examined him thoroughly and given him new medication.”
I leaned against the counter. There was nothing I could say. I know this was about them, but I could only think of myself. Horribly selfish. But I felt like a fool for wishing, for letting them in, for wanting them to be mine.
“Sam?”
“I’m here.”
“He wants to talk to you. Just a moment.”
“Mrs. Muir, he should rest, please don’t—” I didn’t want to hear the professor’s voice. I wanted them to fade away. I wanted to finish washing the dishes, keep their garden, pay their bills, and in a month—pack my bags.
“Sam?” The professor’s voice was soft and breathy.
“I’m here. Are you okay?” I wiped my hand across my eyes, leaving a trail of suds.