The clock above the marshal’s sign-out log read two-thirty. This had been the longest eleven-hour day I could ever recall. I decided to head home. The calls I needed to make could wait.
Two lanes of stalled traffic greeted me a half-mile onto the beltline. The third lane was moving at a crawl. I maneuvered into it and ignored the nonverbal pleas of the other motorists to cut in front of me. But that lane, too, came to a grinding halt. Karma.
I could’ve turned my cell phone back on—or the radio to find a traffic report—but the silence was alluring. My thoughts were not as simply silenced.
Why is Kate so adamant about me not calling her parents? I recalled the first weekend I had spent with her family. I had gone home with Kate for the brief Thanksgiving break during our freshman year and had one of my most memorable holiday experiences. The enormous estate of Corbett and Margaret Daniels had been brimming with people and conviviality. We stayed up late on Wednesday night, listening to music and discussing politics and current events. Corbett made sure our glasses were full and we each had a chance to speak our piece, and he showed an interest in every opinion.
Thanksgiving dinner was traditional, yet unlike any I’d ever partaken in—or have partaken in since. Three uniformed caterers served the meal in courses, each accompanied by an exquisite wine. The meal had been impeccably timed, yet leisurely, with room for toasts and jokes and laughter. Before he carved the turkey, Corbett stood, raised his wine glass, and told us all how grateful he was to be surrounded by friends and family.
I’d imagined with some chagrin the scene of my own family’s dinner. The women would be buzzing around the cramped kitchen preparing the ordinary meal: coleslaw, overdone turkey, stuffing with too much sage, bland mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes topped with melted marshmallows, and cranberries fresh from the can. The meal would be devoured in fifteen minutes during the halftime of one of the important football games. My grandmother would interrupt and correct my grandfather’s stories. My uncle, having had too much beer, would belch and tell a few off-color jokes, at which everyone would laugh in discomfort. And the men would return to the game while the women cleaned up.
I’d been in heaven being a part of the Daniels’ festivities and told Kate so. She had responded that it was “a Hallmark Hall of Fame presentation.” I hadn’t gotten it then, and I still didn’t get it.
Just as quickly as the traffic had come to a stop, the beltline began to move at its usual ten-miles-per-hour-over-the-speed-limit pace, and I made my way back to the here and now.
My relief when I pulled into the driveway was short-lived: As the garage door lifted, I saw David’s car, and I was nowhere near ready for the confrontation his earlier call had portended. He stood in the kitchen listening to phone messages and turned toward me as I walked in.
“I didn’t expect you till later,” I said, dropping my briefcase and jacket next to his on the cluttered counter.
“I tried calling you several times this afternoon, but it went straight to voice mail,” he said, taking me in his arms. “I wanted to get home before it’s time to go pick up Lily so I could apologize. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.”
With my face nestled against his chest—his starched oxford cloth shirt rumpled soft from the day’s wear—I felt blessed consolation. And I began to sob.
While I’d explained many times the relief crying brought me, my tears make David as uncomfortable as his direct manner sometimes makes me. He turned off the answering system, gently took my hand, and led me to the soft leather couch in the family room. “I’m so sorry,” he said again as we sat down. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Virtually everything about this day has been wrong,” I said, “starting at three-thirty with the call from Kate. The phone rang in the middle of that recurring nightmare I’ve been having—I dreamed it was a fire alarm and I was trapped in a burning jail cell with the snitch. And then Kate told me she’d been detained by the cops and needed me to come. And I didn’t know what to do with Lily…” I was too choked up to continue.
David put his arm around my shoulder and murmured, “Easy, kiddo. Just take it a step at a time.”
I took several breaths and continued more slowly. I related the circumstances of Kate’s arrest and detention. David asked questions along the way, but remained dispassionate—until I mentioned the cash Kate had in her pocket at Yvonne Pritchard’s.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure she didn’t go there to sell the girl some drugs?”
“How can you say that? You know Kate. You can’t possibly think she’s a drug dealer!” I said, shaking my head defensively.
“I didn’t think she was a drunk driver, bad-check writer or embezzler either, but you said she’s admitted to being two of them.”
“Doug and Sam don’t seem to think she’s a dealer. And she gave them consent to test the bills for fingerprints and drug residue. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what they find, but I’m sure they won’t find Yvonne’s prints or any drugs on the money.”
“So what’s your next step?”
“Trying to line up a good lawyer to represent her in federal court. She says she wants me, but that’s not gonna happen.”
Another raised eyebrow.
“Seriously, David, I know it would be the exact wrong thing for our family at this point.” But can I really refuse her if she persists? I thought to myself.
He glanced at his watch and got up off the couch. “More reality awaits,” he said. “I didn’t listen to all of them, but there are some messages you need to hear. Preferably with a glass of wine. I’ll go get Lily and a pizza, and we can talk more after she goes to bed.”
I uncorked a bottle of cabernet, poured a generous portion, and dialed the answering system. There were seven messages: one from Ida McKinley telling me Lily was safely ensconced at school that morning, one from Rosalee asking me to call her at the office, and five from Corbett Daniels, each more frantic—and demanding—than the last.
Corbett’s first message said someone doing a bail investigation had contacted them, and he wanted to know what “this nonsense” was all about. The second said he’d called Monica Smith-Kellor after he was unable to reach me and she’d filled him in. Of course they’d post bail. They’d fight these “despicable bastards,” apparently meaning the prosecutors, with everything they had. Then, should he and Margaret come for the detention hearing? Finally, “We’ll be on the red-eye tonight. Make us a reservation at the Hilton, and call me back to let me know when we can meet.”
With each message my resentment rose. I’m your daughter’s friend, not your slave. I finished my glass of wine and stopped myself when I reached to pour another. Quit being so petty, I said to myself. These are good people. They’ve had a huge shock and they’re worried sick. It won’t hurt you to be gracious. I made the hotel reservation but, perhaps passive-aggressively, decided to wait a while before calling Corbett. And I was beginning to see why Kate hadn’t wanted me to call her family. At least I could tell her I wasn’t the one who’d initiated the contact.
**
Lily chattered her way through dinner: Mrs. McKinley was so nice. Mrs. McKinley made pancakes—in the shape of Mickey Mouse—for breakfast. Mrs. McKinley taught Lily a new song while brushing and French braiding her hair. Mrs. McKinley walked her into the classroom to see Lily’s art project. Mrs. McKinley said Lily could come spend the night sometime soon and they’d bake cookies.
Covering his mouth with his napkin, David’s eyes grinned at me. I was very happy to be home with my family.
By the time Lily finally fell asleep, I could barely hold my head up. The tension in my back and neck hadn’t eased with three glasses of wine. David—in an effort, I sensed, to make further amends for his phone call—offered a massage. Without hesitation, I let him lead me to our bedroom.
My thoughts would not relax as easily as my aching muscles. “I’ve been indebted to Kate Daniels for almost half my life,” I said, leaning up on one elbow.
“You haven’t been indebted to her, you’ve felt indebted. There’s a big difference,” he said.
“But Lily—”
“That’s been seven years, not seventeen.”
“We’ve been over this before, David,” I said, lying back down on the bed with exasperation.
It had been during our sophomore year in college when my symptoms had begun: chest pains, numbness in my hands and feet, difficulty swallowing, racing heart and loss of motor control. The symptoms hadn’t always occurred together but all increased in frequency, and my efforts to ignore them were futile. I had convinced myself I was dying but, at the same time, was terrified to find out for sure.
I didn’t even hear Kate come in one afternoon, as I sat on my bed absorbed in catastrophic thought. She badgered me until I told her what was wrong.
At Kate’s insistence I went to an internist, who referred me to specialists for a multitude of tests. Each specialist reported the negative results with pleasure, expecting to see my relief. I would have been more relieved by an affirmative diagnosis—and with it a cure. Finally the internist sent me home with a prescription for Valium to take, as needed, for my “generalized anxiety.” I had been skeptical at first, but the meds had resolved the symptoms and had eventually enabled me to learn about panic disorder and to experience some success in talk therapy.
“Yes, we’ve been over this before,” David said, gently kneading fragrant cocoa butter into my shoulders. “But I still believe urging someone to get medical attention is a simple act of friendship—not a debt to be repaid. You’ve had this sense of obligation ever since I’ve known you, and I don’t understand it. I can’t help resenting Kate for whatever she does to foster those feelings.”
It was the perfect time to tell David the rest of the story. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.