I tell her I’ll be right down. Instead, I sit there, watching the blue light winking on and off against my posters. I’m probably going to walk out of here in handcuffs. I reach over to the nightstand. Pick up the pocket Bible I brought with me from Texas. Thumb the pages. It’s in Deuteronomy, isn’t it? Yeah, here it is. He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death. . . . It’s true in a way. Whatever happens, it’s going to be the death of my military career, my work at the hospital. I stand up. Walk out of my room and start down the hall. They’ve got me. What would be the use of denying it? Might as well get this over with.
But when I stop at the top of the stairs and listen, they’re not talking about me. Or him. They’re saying something about a break-in? Yeah, but that was a while ago. Was there another one? . . . Dad? What?
“—place is owned by, let me see. It’s in my notes. . . . A Miss Viveca Christophoulos-Shabbas.”
“That’s me. He’s been staying at my beach house.”
What? Helicoptering who to Boston? Dad? He’s hurt? Was it those sharks? How bad did they get him? Is he going to—
Robbery? An assault? Someone assaulted Dad?
I take the stairs two at a time. What are they talking about? What’s wrong with my dad?
Part V
Three Years Later
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Orion Oh
She’s in the doorway, holding up the phone, waiting for me to notice her. How long has she been standing there? She creeps around here like a ghost, this one. Not like her predecessor, that’s for sure. You could hear Carla coming from a couple of rooms away. “I was going to take a message,” she says. “But it’s your daughter in California. I wasn’t sure if—”
“No, that’s fine. I was working away so hard in here, I didn’t even hear it ringing.” I hold out my hand, and she approaches. When I had the sunroom built this past spring, I purposely didn’t have an extension put out here. My concentration’s compromised enough without a bunch of interruptions. I take the phone from her. Haven’t talked to Marissa in over a week. “Hey there, California. What’s shaking?”
“Got some news, dude. That’s what.”
“Yeah? Good news, I hope.”
“Yup. They’re extending my contract. Looks like I’m going to be gainfully employed as Kendra for another eighteen months.”
“Oh, honey, that’s terrific. Congrats.”
“Yeah, the writers are working on a new plotline. You know Dr. Amos?”
“The one who runs the hospital?”
“Right. So it turns out my character’s not just the spunky waitress at the pub. She’s also the daughter Dr. Amos never even knew he had. Bianca kept her pregnancy from him and gave me up for adoption.”
“Bianca. Is she the one who’s been snatched by Somali pirates?”
“Uh-huh. Kidnapped and presumed dead. The actor who plays her is actually off on maternity leave, so they’ve written her out of the show until February. The way they’re handling it is, this letter shows up in her papers, and when Dr. Amos goes through them, that’s how he finds out that he has another daughter.”
“And why did Bianca keep it from him?”
“I don’t know. For spite maybe. Because she’s a total bitch.”
“Aha.” I reach over and click “save.” I wrote three new pages this morning, and I’d hate to lose them like I did the last time.
“And you know their other daughter, April?”
“The other waitress at the pub?”
“Right. You know how she and I have become best friends? How April and Kendra have, I mean? The writers are developing a storyline where April gets so threatened by me—by Kendra—that she starts developing this sibling rivalry that begins to make her crazy. So she’s going to start plotting to murder me. Meghan? The girl who plays April? She’s thrilled because she finally gets to play something other than Miss Goody Two-shoes. But I guess I’m going to survive because, hey, why would they sign me to an eighteen-month contract extension if the writers were going to kill me off?”
I smile. “Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to tune in someday and see you getting bumped off, even if it’s make-believe.”
“Yeah, and dude, you know what’s way cool? Why they’re keeping me? Because of the fan sites. My character is getting a ton of traffic. And my Facebook page has over twelve thousand subscribers. Which is like whoa—for someone who’s only been on the show for a year? Daytime Emmy nominations are coming up pretty soon, and Joe says they’re submitting a couple of my scenes for consideration as Best Newcomer.”
“Well, good luck with that. Joe Agnello’s really been your fairy godfather out there in Hollywood, hasn’t he? That’s one good thing that came out of your mother’s wedding. Isn’t that where you met him?”
“Uh-huh. Did you hear about his father?”
“Yes, your mother told me. She and Viveca are driving up for the funeral this weekend. Obituary said he was ninety-seven.”
“Yeah, he was such a sweet old guy. I talked to him and Joe for quite a while that day at the wedding until . . . well, you know. I was going to try and fly back for the funeral myself. For Joe’s sake, you know? But I can’t because of the shooting schedule. So I sent him and Shel this awesome food basket from Zingerman’s. Bread, cheese, imported chocolates.”
“And Shel is . . . ?”
“Joe’s partner.”
“Ah. Hey, speaking of your character’s parentage, aren’t Bianca and Dr. Amos both pretty WASP-ish? How is it that they have an almond-eyed daughter?”
“That’s come up, actually. Makeup’s been experimenting with me—de-emphasizing my Asian looks a little. And the writers will probably deal with it in some way. But come on, dude. Six months from now, I could find out that someone else is my father. Anything’s possible in soap opera land.”
“Apparently. So anyway, not to change the subject, but how’s therapy going? You still thinking about quitting?”
“No. You know how you said I should stick with it a while longer? Well, I’m glad I did because at my last appointment, I had a kind of breakthrough.” I ask her if it’s anything she wants to tell me about. “Yeah, sure. It’s about Mom. My unexpressed anger toward her, you know? Like, when she left you and hooked up with Viveca.”
“Really? I knew that Andrew was angry about that. And Ariane at first. But I never realized you were.”
“Because I was kind of burying it, I guess. I mean, Viveca was so nice to me. Taking me places, buying me things. And my drinking: I was burying it that way, too. But Dr. Klein helped me realize that when Mom left you, it triggered my own abandonment issues. That I was like projecting or something. It has to do with my childhood stuff.”
“So you’re saying you felt abandoned as a kid?” I know how that feels.
“Well, Andrew and Ariane always had that special twin thing, you know? That bond or whatever,” Marissa says. “So I used to feel like the odd kid out sometimes. But it was really more about Mom than them.”
“How so?”
“Because she was always so much about her work. Out on her scavenging trips. Down in the basement making art out of them. I’d call down the basement stairs, ask her to come up and make me my lunch, or come up and play a game with me or something. And she’d be like, ‘Okay. Just give me ten more minutes.’ And then it would be like an hour or more.”
“Yeah, well, don’t give me a free pass. I was just as much of a workaholic as she was.”
“Yeah, Dr. Klein asked me about that. But you were away at your job, so that never bothered me. But Mom was at home, you know? All she had to do was come upstairs. And this one time? She told me about how Ari and Andrew were a planned pregnancy, but I was an accident.”
“A happy accident,” I tell her. “You were her baby, Marissa. She was just as crazy about you as she was with your sister and brother.”
“Yeah, I know. But it was like I had to compete with her art. I’m just saying it wa
s something I felt. Not all the time. Just sometimes. But hey, I made out better than her first kid. Right? The one she miscarried.” Annie’s first pregnancy was another of the secrets she’d kept from me. That one didn’t come out until last year, during one of those family sessions we had over the phone with Annie and her shrink. It was the roughest of those conference calls, especially after Marissa disclosed in tears that she’d had an abortion, too. “So yeah,” she says now. “I’m still seeing Dr. Klein. He says I’m making progress.”
“Sounds like it. Well, good. Keep up the good work. And what about your recovery. How’s that going?”
“Great! I’m getting my three-month chip next week.”
“Hey, that’s wonderful, honey. I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah, thanks. Kieran’s going to try to rearrange his schedule so he can give it to me. Because he was the one who got me to my first meeting.”
“And how’s everything going on the Kieran front?”
“Awesome, Daddy. God, if someone had told me a year ago that I’d be going out with an actor, I would have laughed in their face. But Kieran’s like the total opposite of most of those narcissistic jerks. His sobriety date’s coming up pretty soon, too. He’ll have four years. We’ve been talking lately about my moving in with him when my lease is up in November.”
“Really? Big step. You sure you’re ready?”
“Pretty sure. Not totally sure yet. We’ll see. But we’re good together, you know? This is the longest relationship I’ve ever been in.”
“Well, that says something. I liked him that weekend you guys came to visit. But proceed with caution. Okay?”
When I look up, the ghost is standing in the doorway again, a sandwich in one hand, a Diet Coke in the other. I point to my desk and she brings them in, puts them down. There’s a Post-it on the plate along with the sandwich, reminding me that the transport van is picking me up in another forty minutes. I nod. She nods back and leaves, quiet as a cat. She’s nice enough, this new one, but something of an enigma. Well, it’s only been a week. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other. When I refocus on what Marissa’s saying, she’s talking about Annie and Viveca’s trip to Greece.
“Yeah, they finally get to go on that wedding trip they’ve been postponing for three years, thanks to me. I’ve always felt bad about that.”
“Well, you shouldn’t, Daddy. Mom wanted to be there for you. One thing I’ve learned in my program is that guilt is a wasted emotion, you know? Look back on the past but don’t stare.” She speaks in these recovery aphorisms all the time now, I’ve noticed. Day by day. You can’t breathe the past or the future, only the present. And as long as she lives by them, fine. But it’s like she said the last time we talked: all this newfound happiness of hers rests on a single shot glass that she could pick up in a weak moment. Sabotage herself. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s done that.
“So what’s new with you, dude?” she asks.
“Me? Same old same old: writing, physical therapy. Oh, I’ve got a new home health care aide. That’s new.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think that was Carmen who answered the phone.”
“Carla, you mean? No, she gave her notice a few weeks ago. Moving down to Georgia where her daughter lives. Can’t believe how quiet it’s been around here since she left.”
“Yeah, she was a talker, huh? How’s the new one working out?”
“So far so good. She’s reserved. Kind of shy, I guess.”
“Oh. You know, Mom and Viveca are losing their housekeeper, too.”
“Are they?” I grab my soda. Take a sip. Take a bite of my sandwich.
Marissa says there was a shooting at their housekeeper’s building—that the victim was an eighteen-year-old boy who used to babysit for her son. Got mixed up with a gang, Rissa says. “So Minnie and Africa are moving out of Newark. She has a grown son in Massachusetts and they’re going to live with him and his family.” The sandwich is liverwurst and Swiss. Mayonnaise instead of the mustard I asked for, but hey. Everyone’s got a learning curve. “So, dude, how’s your book coming?”
I take another sip of my soda. Swallow. “Good, thanks. I’ve got all the chapters of the first part outlined. Now I’m starting to flesh them out. I’m waiting for something I ordered on Amazon to get here. A book of oral histories from Chinese immigrants back during that period. I’m looking for specifics. It’s all in the details, you know? I was going to tell it chronologically at first. Start with my grandfather’s childhood. But now I think the first chapter’s going to be about his voyage over here. His misconceptions about where he’s headed, his fears of the unknown. And then I’ll have him flash back to all that earlier stuff. The backstory, as we authors call it.” We authors: I’m being ironic because I’m such a rookie at this, but Marissa doesn’t pick up on it.
“Cool,” she says. “Hey, dude? I better get off now. Kieran’s coming over to help me run my lines for tomorrow’s taping and I’m not even dressed yet.”
“Yeah, I have to go, too. I’ve got a one thirty appointment over at the rehab place. Say hi to Kieran for me. And hey, congrats again on your good news. Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you, too, Daddy. Hey, tell Ari to call me. I’d ask you to tell Andrew, too, but it would be wasted breath. I finally got him on Twitter, but half the time he doesn’t even answer my tweets.”
“Well, he’s pretty busy at work.”
“No one’s that busy, Dad. Okay, bye.”
I turn off the phone and sit there, smiling. Marissa had us worried for a while, but she seems to be doing so well these days. Three months sober, a contract extension, a steady boyfriend who’s not a jerk. I just hope it lasts. That it’s not just a house of cards. I think about my last appointment with poor Seamus, how upbeat he sounded just before he ended his life. But Marissa seems much more mature lately. Annie and I have both noticed it. Why worry about something that might not ever happen?
Half an hour later, I’ve eaten, moved my bowels and emptied my bladder, gotten rediapered. The toilet stuff’s still a little awkward with this new aide, but that will pass. By the time the transport van honks out in the driveway, I’m in my chair and ready to go. She comes up behind me, releases the brake, and wheels me out the door and down the ramp.
Ah, Larry’s driving today—the retired cop. Good. He’s got a lot more personality than the other, younger ones. “New girl, Doc?” he says. Then to her, “I can take him from here. What’s your name, sweetheart?” I can’t see her face, but she’s probably blushing. Between her shyness and the fact that she’s white-haired and fifty or sixty pounds overweight, I’m guessing she hasn’t been called “sweetheart” for a while. She tells him her name and he takes hold of the chair. “Just like that old movie, huh? Johnny Belinda. That was just on this past weekend. The wife and I watched it. I forget the name of the gal who played her. The one who was married to Ronald Reagan.”
“Jane Wyman,” she says.
“Yeah, there you go. Jane Wyman. You an old movie fan, too?”
“Yes.” That’s all he gets out of her. Just a yes.
Larry wheels me onto the lowered ramp and hits the switch. It beeps, I rise. He rolls me into the van, locks the chair in place, and gets back in front. We’re off. In another twenty minutes, I’ll be doing my arm crank ergometry and resistance training exercises. Not much fun but necessary for my arterial functioning, as Paula reminds me whenever I complain.
“So I was telling the wife about you last time I drove you,” Larry tells me, glancing in the rearview mirror. “She said she remembered when it was on the news about your assault. Asked me if they ever caught the son of a bitch who clobbered you. I told her I didn’t know but that I’d ask you.”
“Yeah, they got him and the girlfriend a couple of months after it happened. They had tried pulling the same deal in Boston, up on Beacon Hill. That was their specialty: preying on temporary residents, people who’d sublet. They’d pass themselves off as brother-and-sister housecleaners help
ing out their sick mother. But the couple in Boston was smarter than I was. Got suspicious and notified the cops. They caught them in the act, hauling out antiques.”
“Put them away, I hope.”
“Yeah, he just got sentenced a few months ago. She made a deal with the prosecutor. Testified against him and got off with a lighter sentence. He was the one they really wanted to nail, which they did. He got twenty-five years.”
“And you get the rest of your life to live with what he did to you, huh? They should have put the son of a bitch away for good.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“You testify?” I tell him I did. “And how’d that go?”
“It was . . . challenging. Having to face him in court.”
“Couldn’t they have videotaped you instead?”
“Nope. Law says he had the right to face his accuser.”
“Was the bastard able to look you in the eye?”
“On and off, yeah.” Jesus, Larry, keep your eyes on the road, will you? “Not when the prosecutor had me describe my ordeal after the attack. The fact that they had to put me in a medical-induced coma until the cranial swelling went down. Open up my back so they could get the bone fragments out. They delayed the trial for over two years because I couldn’t remember a lot of it at first. But as time went by, more and more of it came back. So between my testimony and the girlfriend’s . . .”
“And what about your paralysis? They think the rehab’s going to help you get the hell out of that chair eventually?”
“Afraid not. The blow I took injured me above the ninth thoracic vertebra. T-nine, they call it. So that left me with what they call a ‘complete’ SCI.”
“What’s an SCI?”
“Spinal cord injury.” I forget that not everyone’s as well versed in the lingo as I’ve gotten to be. “There was an outside chance during the first several months that I might regain some of what I lost. But as time went on, it became less and less likely. So what you see is what I got. There are some experimental treatments that they’re trying to develop—stem cell transplants, something called ‘spine cooling.’ So maybe somewhere down the line.”