Laura Caldwell - The Night I got Lucky

A few long and quiet moments later, the door creaked open. Lillian stuck her head in, her long mess of golden hair practically preceding her. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” I said in an even tone.

She walked inside and leaned against the sink. She had a beer in her hand, but she’d barely drunk any of it. “Brandon feels awful.”

“For taking off when I was seven, or for acting now like he didn’t?”

She blinked. A pained expression moved fleetingly over her face.

“I’m sorry to be harsh,” I said, “but-”

“No, that’s all right. He did a very terrible thing back then. And he lived a life of guilt and disgrace for many years.”

“Until he met you,” I said. “You saved him. That’s what he says.”

“Men.” Lillian shrugged and laughed lightly. But the laugh faded. “Finding Brandon was the best part of my life, too. I always flitted from one thing to the next. I was a waitress, a dental hygienist, an actress, a teacher and a massage therapist. But Brandon forced me to find what I really wanted to do, which was to work with books. He was the one who got us here and found the space for the store. He made me realize that people can start over.”

Starting over. It was exactly what I’d been trying to do-start over with my father. Soon, I had to go home soon and start over with my mom and Evan and my job. And especially with Chris.

“Billy,” Lillian said, “he might deserve your anger, maybe even hatred, but if you’re here to punish him, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

I felt a grudging admiration. “You must really love him.”

She put her beer down on the counter. “I love that man more than anything. And I think part of my job as a wife is to protect him. I’d love to see him get to know you girls, but not if it’s like this.” She waved a hand in my general direction. “I know you think he deserves it, but I think he’s served his time.”

We sat wordlessly for a few seconds. “I just want to move on,” I said at last.

“Will it help you move on if you’re spiteful to him?”

I thought about it. “No. It will make it worse.”

She stood from the sink and touched my arm briefly. “I’ll see you out there.”

When I came out of the bathroom, Lillian and my father were holding hands, listening to the music. I gave a tentative smile, which they both returned. The three of us spent the next twenty minutes quietly, the music pardoning us from constant conversation. When the singer took a break, Lillian excused herself. She gave me a long look, as if giving me one more chance.

Without the strum of the guitar to fill the bar, the silence between my father and me was weighty. He cleared his throat. He ordered an iced tea and another beer for me.

“Would you like a glass?” he asked formally.

“No, thank you,” I said.

Another painful quiet while the bartender opened my beer.

“I have to ask,” my father said. “How are Dustin and Hadley?”

I bit the inside of my mouth. I held myself back from saying Why don’t you ask them yourself? But I felt as if I’d given Lillian a silent promise to be nice. “I thought you knew how my sisters were since…you know, since you had us followed or whatever.”

“That only tells me the hard facts-where you live, who you live with. I want to know how you all really are. Are your sisters happy?”

Quite the question. Who could answer it except themselves? I told my father about Dustin’s husband and her job. I described the slanted street in San Fran where they lived, where Dustin herself had ripped out walls and put in new drywall. I told him how Hadley wanted kids, but I left out how hard she’d been trying. I tried to offer him a few details of their lives without giving too much. That would be for them to do someday, if they chose.

He asked me about my job. I explained what I did, what I used to like about it and what I disliked about my new position, the position I’d dreamed of for so long.

“Sometimes you have to know when to double back,” my dad said.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no shame in going home. I wish I’d realized that a long time ago.”

I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my job or our family, or both. But his statement held a kernel of truth. And in that instant, I saw something else we had in common. We tended to run from our challenges. My father had done so physically, while I usually made the jog mentally. But hopefully we were both learning to fight that inclination.

We watched as the guitarist took his seat again. The moment of quiet was somehow comfortable now.

My father turned to me. “I hope you’ll come back again. We’ve got a great jazz festival in August.”

I heard his words over and over-I hope you’ll come back. An influx of emotions filled in around them-pride that my father wanted to see me again, disgust at my own reaction, and somewhere, way back in the mix, a sliver of hope.

“This has to be enough,” I said. “For now.”

He grinned, the motion making creases in his tanned cheeks. “That’s fine. It really is.”

I nodded. I realized this day had been enough for me. I’d found him. I’d met him. I’d learned something about why he left. I knew he hadn’t left because of me. I liked him a little.

I slipped off my stool and hugged him. I had expected him to smell like my stepdad, Jan-like a golf course, like a barbecue grill-but my father had his own soft scent of paper and spicy soap.

A moment later, I was walking back to my hotel, down the main street of Telluride. Above me, the sky was bright with stars.

T he flight home from Colorado was a blur of blue airline seats and the run from one gate to the next and eventually the skyline of Chicago as we landed. The entire time, I’d been in another world, reliving the time with my father the way I used to relive my first dates with Chris, and then shifting my thoughts to my husband, our relationship and the concept of marriage in general.

Getting married, I decided, was like being handed a pair of tiny, precious packages, each with a Fragile sticker on the side. Both persons had to carry their package carefully. If one person mistreated or dropped theirs, as I’d done recently, as Chris had done early in our marriage, the packages began to deteriorate, causing both people to wonder whether they needed, or wanted, them at all.

But I knew I wanted to brush off our precious packages and tape up any rips. I wanted a second shot at carrying mine every day.

At O’Hare airport, I called Chris.

“He’s in court until 1:00,” his secretary said, “then he’s going straight to a deposition.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “When do you expect him?”

“About 5:00. Maybe a little later.”

“Thanks. I’ll call him then.”

Still standing in the arrivals terminal, I dialed my mom’s number in Barrington. Miraculously, she was home.

“Baby doll, are you all right?” she said. “I’ve been worried about you.”

My heart leaped. “You have?”

“Well, of course. You simply took off a few days ago.”

“Oh, well I-”

“Look, darling, I’m having a few people over for lunch,” she said, quickly leaving the original topic. “Why don’t you join us?”

I looked at my watch-12:00. I could spend an hour or two at my mother’s and still get to the office later in the afternoon, something I desperately needed to do for more than one reason. But I also needed to talk to my mom, to tell her I’d met Brandon. I said I’d get a cab and be there in thirty minutes.

Telling Chris I’d kissed Evan was agonizing. Now, as I sat in the back of a taxi, heading toward my mother’s house, I felt like I had to come clean all over again. I’d have to explain how I’d gone to Colorado to track down the husband who’d abandoned her and her children.