The Whys Have It Page 9

  Something in me settles, the feeling that no one understands. We all deal with grief in our own ways, but when all is said and done, all any of us wants is to be validated. To have someone identify, tell us we aren’t crazy, aren’t alone. Megan’s mother just handed me a gift. It might be wrapped in black and tattered on the edges, but nonetheless, I’m grateful.

  “It does help.” I nod and reach for a tissue in a box on the chair next to me. My eyes drift to the flowers gathered en masse at the front of the church and settle on one arrangement. I remember those roses, I remember that pink ribbon. I wonder if the same family that sent them to me sent them to Megan’s family as well.

  The feel of a soft hand squeezing my wrist chases the thought away.

  “You’ll call if you need anything, won’t you?”

  I assure her that I will and leave Megan’s parents to themselves and their daughter, one last private moment alone as a family. It isn’t something I want to see, more grief at the foot of a casket. If I never witness or feel another escaping tear or labored sigh or heavy heart in my life, it would be a relief.

  I try to ignore the suffocating pressure inside my chest and focus on the back door. It’s right there, so close. My heart rate speeds up with anticipation. The tension in my neck ebbs a bit, working its way down my shoulders. Nothing a couple of Tylenol won’t cure the second I get home. After that, a long bath, a glass of wine, a pillow, and Netflix will round out my day.

  Just before I reach the door, I spot a man sitting by himself across the room. The breath catches in my throat and holds there. It isn’t that I recognize him—his face is down and he’s studying his upturned palms. But all at once I know. I know in the way you sometimes sense the phone right before it rings, or a knock right before it sounds on your front door.

  Or a police officer getting ready to ruin your life with bad news.

  He wears slim khakis and a fitted black polo, a beanie pulled down around his ears. An odd thing to wear during a Missouri summer unless you’re wanting to hide. He sits forward, chin propped on folded hands. His head comes up, his sideways stare aimed straight for me like he’s been watching but hesitant to approach. It occurs to me then that he’s giving me a choice: I can talk to him or I can leave. Either way, he showed up. He wants me to know that he’s here.

  When I hesitate, he sits up, hands resting on his thighs. His intense gaze holds mine, and I swallow. Under any other circumstance, I might consider him forward, too direct to be appropriate. As it stands, I recognize the grief he’s wearing. It’s covering every part of him, from his downturned eyes to his clenched fists. I’m not the only one who might benefit from a glass of wine. Maybe an entire bottle.

  All the tension in my body rushes back when he stands to face me and all I can think is oh no oh no… He shoves both hands in his pocket and takes a step in my direction. My panic flows, ebbs, flows, and nearly flattens me before I’m struck with a thought. I left a voicemail. One I felt ridiculous for leaving. One I assumed he didn’t even listen to. But he came. The man lives hundreds of miles away and showed up for this small town, small headline funeral.

  I have no idea what it means.

  He’s standing in front of me, and I’m out of time to process it.

  “I got your message,” he says almost reverently. He casts a furtive glance around the room, taking in the stained glass windows, the dark Alderwood cross looming over the stage, the casket sitting there like a flower-laden reminder of everything gone wrong this past month. I’ve loved lilies my whole life; now the sight of them—the sight of any flower, really—makes me feel as though I’m suffocating. Who knew the scent of springtime could make you sick?

  I grip the back of a chair to hold myself steady and look up at him. “You didn’t call back. How did you find the place?”

  “I made a few phone calls. Pulled up the obituary online to find the name of the church.”

  I flinch at obituary. Such a harsh word to use for someone so young. My mind goes blank for conversation. The silence stretches, long and black and endless.

  “I haven’t been inside a church in forever,” he says, breaking the quiet. “That cross is huge.” He nods over my shoulder, and I turn to look at it. He’s right; it’s oversized. There’s no way Jesus could have carried that thing on his back without using some of his superhuman strength. The thought seems almost sacrilegious, and I turn away. “You okay?” he asks when I look at him. “You look kind of pale.”

  I blink. My thoughts are muddled and three topics just rolled off his lips in random succession. I feel sick because I am sick. Sick and tired of death and sadness and grief and the nauseating smell of flowers. But I won’t say that. My head spins trying to pick something else to discuss. In the end, it’s easy. I stay away from any questions about me and go straight for him.

  “You look overdressed for summer. June in Missouri is really hot, in case you didn’t know.” I try a smile but it doesn’t feel quite right, like my lips have remained in a straight line so long that I no longer remember how. That’s when it hits me; I haven’t been truly happy in weeks. Not once.

  Despite the tension, he grins. “I’ll remember that. I’ve been cursing myself for it all morning.” He shifts again and scans the room, his eyes locking on Megan’s parents still standing by the casket at the front of the church. I see it, the moment he realizes who they are. He stares, swallows, the fear in his eyes paralyzing him in place, the breath in his lungs coming faster, deeper. Now we’re both pale.

  All at once I’m at war with myself. On one hand, I want Cory to feel some of the grief we carry, to shoulder some of it for me so the weight won’t be quite as heavy to bear. On the other hand, I feel a tug of compassion. I want to get him out of here, away from any real or imagined contempt he might face. Because really, when it comes down to it, everyone makes mistakes in life—some small and invisible, some horribly large and critiqued by the public. And then sometimes our mistakes are out of our control, like being a passenger on a bus that veers into a couple of teenagers. That could happen to anyone. But maybe not just anyone would have shown up to pay respects despite being so obviously uncomfortable.

  The compassionate side wins out. Not surprising. I’ve never been good at retribution.

  “Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” The words come from me. The surprise settles around us both.

  He flicks another glance at Megan’s parents and I see the hesitation. He’s dealing with his own mental battle—back and forth, in and out. I watch it play out in his worried eyes, his downturned mouth. Finally, he looks at me and nods.

  “Sure. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat? It was a long flight and I’m starving.”

  Eating with Cory Minor wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I thought maybe we would stand in the parking lot and chat for a minute, but I opened this door and there’s no choice except to walk through it.

  “Okay,” I say. “There’s a place a few streets over. Hop in your car and follow me.”

  Surprising me, he shakes his head. “You follow me this time. I already have a place in mind.”

  My eyebrows go up before I question the action. It isn’t until we’re driving that it hits me; Cory is from Springfield. I remember reading about it a few years back.

  I shift in place, suddenly uncomfortable. He just became a little too familiar, and I don’t like the feeling.

  CHAPTER 15

  Cory

  Normally when I have lunch with a woman, she is fidgety, jumpy, and nervous. Generally looking ahead to the after—after we leave, after we’re alone, after we kiss or make out or whatever we do, after we fall madly in love and I ask her be my date at the Grammys or the Oscars or the alter. The scenario is as predictable as it is exhausting, because I have no plans to ever get married. And as for awards shows, they are best attended with someone equally famous; that’s what it takes to garner the most attention from the press. It’s isn’t something I’m proud of, but it is what I’m used to.

&n
bsp; I’m not used to this.

  Sam looks around the room with an expression on her face I can’t decipher, but if I had to guess, I might call it discomfort. Distaste? Maybe that’s more accurate. Distaste mixed with a fair amount of wanting to get the heck out of here.

  “Is something wrong?” Curiosity gets the best of me, and I have to know. We’re sitting in a rounded leather booth at Bambinos, one of the nicest Italian restaurants in Springfield. The tables are covered in white linen, the lights dimmed enough that people at the next table would have to squint through the darkness to make out our features—a definite plus for me—and they have the best bruschetta you’ll find anywhere. Loaded with garlic and peppers and olive oil, it’s better than anything I’ve tried in Italy. Might sound blasphemous, but it’s true.

  Surely it’s not distaste.

  “No,” she says. “Just…this place is expensive.”

  She twists her napkin, and I want to kick myself. She’s a normal girl worried about how much this meal will set her back, and she thinks I expect her to pay for herself. Not too long ago, the thought of laying down this much money for lunch would have made me sweat. How quickly we forget when our circumstances change.

  “Stop worrying. It’s on me.”

  She releases the napkin and looks me in the eye. “You’re not paying for my dinner.”

  “True, I’m paying for your lunch. And try to enjoy it, because here comes the waiter.”

  She sighs and picks up a piece of bread, but I note with a tiny bit of pleasure that she doesn’t protest. I also realize that I like the idea of taking care of her. Now, I mean. Just this once. After this, she goes her way and I go mine. That’s the way I want it.

  I grab my own roll and take a bite.

  “Besides, I figured I could do better than McDonald’s. Fast food generally invites a mob of screaming teenagers, so we’re better off sitting here in this corner. Unless getting pulled on and yelled at is your thing?”

  She holds a piece of bread in each hand. “No Cory, it isn’t my thing. I’m a girl who likes her privacy, believe it or not.”

  My insides deflate. She likes privacy, yet I managed to crash into her world and turn the whole thing public. Will I ever do anything right?

  “I’m sorry.” She says softly, chewing slowly and deep in thought. She reaches for her water and takes a sip, then sets the glass down and folds her hands on the table. “Thank you for this. I’ve never been here before, and it’s nice. I’m just a mess of emotions right now, and I honestly feel—”

  “Who had the eggplant parmesan?” the waiter asks, and I shoot him a look. Terrible timing. I want to hear how she feels, not discuss pasta.

  I lift my hand and he sets the plate in front of me, then moves to Sam’s side of the table. He almost makes it. Almost. Maybe the plate is too hot or their rhythm just isn’t in sync, but as Sam moves her fork and salad plate out of the way, he knocks into her hand, the plate tilts sideways, and Sam’s pasta goes straight into her lap. All of it. Not one string of mozzarella left standing.

  She jumps up and I jump up and the waiter jumps back and apologies start flying.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  The waiter says it and I say it and she doesn’t hear either one of us because she’s busy looking at her pants. They’re ruined and I should have taken her to McDonald’s. Why did I choose this stupid restaurant?

  “Here, let me help you.”

  We’re both speaking again. I come to her side of the table and reach for a napkin—the thick cloth kind that should soak up a plate full of cheese and tomato sauce pretty well—and begin to pat her thighs as noodles slip away from her body and drop to the floor. It’s the wrong thing to do. Sam stiffens, something clicks, and a few excited whispers make their way to my ears.

  That’s him.

  I think that’s him.

  Oh my god it is him.

  And then Sam speaks.

  “Three people just took our picture, and I’m pretty sure your hand was between my thighs in all of them.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and that’s when I know she’s had it.

  With me.

  With this restaurant.

  With our whole situation.

  But it isn’t until someone asks from behind me, “Can I have your autograph?” that she really loses it. With a palm pressed to her forehead, she looks at me straight on.

  “You know Cory, I’m not up to this. I don’t have the energy, not today. I’m sorry, but emotionally I just can’t take it.” She looks down at her pants and the first tear escapes. Followed by another. Before I can say anything, Sam pushes past me and runs for the back of the room. Say what you will about seeing the bright side in every situation, but sometimes there is no bright side. Sometimes the only thing to see is darkness for miles and miles with no way to find even a single glimmer of light.

  That’s all I find myself thinking as I turn to the girl behind me and practically growl out the words, “No, you can’t have an autograph. No one gets an autograph!”

  At the startled look on her face, I slump in my chair and mentally berate myself. And that’s where I wait, hoping to God there’s no back door to this place. Hoping to whoever else might be listening that Sam hasn’t already disappeared through it.

  * * *

  I hang my head in my hands. It’s only been a couple of minutes, but it seems like it’s taking forever.

  I should leave. I have a vacation to get to, plans ready and waiting for me. I don’t know this girl and I seem to be making everything worse. And sure, I owe her everything, but no amount of groveling or begging or buying nice dinners could ever repay this debt. There’s no use in even trying.

  I stand up just as she rushes out clutching a stack of paper towels in one hand and a cell phone in the other. I frown at her agitated state. Only one leg is marginally cleaned up, the other still shedding linguine noodles. One noodle falls to the floor. She doesn’t even notice. I tell myself again that I should leave, that whatever has her wound up isn’t any of my business, but I can’t make myself go. She looks worried. And now so am I.

  I reach for her arm as she brushes past.

  “Sam, what’s wrong?”

  She barely gives me a passing glance as she covers the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for lunch.”

  Thanks for lunch? We didn’t even eat, and ten seconds ago she was done with me.

  Sam turns and walks away, but she’s still within earshot when I hear the words, “How long has he been missing?”

  I don’t know what that means, but there’s no way I’m leaving now. Reaching for my wallet, I fish out a hundred dollar bill, slap it on the table, and take off, hoping to catch her before she reaches the door and ignoring the cell phone clicks and camera flashes as I rush past.

  “Sam, wait.” I call out to her. “Who’s missing? And don’t open the front door yet.”

  That gets her to stop. She turns to gape at me. “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t checked to see if it’s clear yet. Paparazzi could be everywhere by now.”

  She rolls her eyes and spins away, shoving the door open with her hip. After the darkness of the restaurant, sunlight blinds us both. The unmistakable barrage of clicking ushers in the heaviness of dread that I’m used to.

  Sam just glares at them unfazed, muttering under her breath. “Screw the paparazzi. They wouldn’t dare mess with me right now.”

  “What happened?” I ask her, ignoring the shouts of Cory, what’s it feel like to be home and Cory, how will your parents react to seeing you after all these years? There’s nothing I want to answer anyway, no appropriate way to respond. All that swims in my mind is that worried look on her face and the desperate hope that I didn’t somehow cause it. “Sam, who’s missing? Maybe I can help.”

  I reach for her arm just as we make it to her car. Finally, she stops to look at me. “Do you have any experience trying to find old men who have no money, no sense of direction, and no memo
ry? Because my father is missing from the nursing home, and I have to try and find him right now.” She retrieves her car keys, hands shaking so badly the keys slip from her grasp and land on the pavement.

  I reach down to grab them, then hand them back to her as I pull out my own keys. “No, but I know how to drive.” I unlock my rented Land Rover and open the passenger door. Without protest, she climbs inside. Walking around to the driver’s side, I slide behind the wheel and start the ignition. It doesn’t matter if she would rather do this alone. It doesn’t matter if I wasn’t actually invited. I’m in this now, and I’m not leaving.

  I yank the gear in reverse and quickly pull out.

  “Just tell me where we’re going.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Cory

  She grows more agitated with every turn of the city block, but I’m lost. Not literally, but in every other sense of the word. We’re making no progress, I can’t think of any other routes to take—funny how even after a decade, driving these roads is second nature—and the nursing home gave us no direction. What kind of nursing home doesn’t keep better track of their residents? It’s a revolving door of negligence, that’s what it is. We stopped at the home first, right after leaving the restaurant, where a large African American woman told us in short, choppy, wet syllables what happened. Apparently sometime during the walk from the cafeteria to the rooms, Sam’s father wandered through the open side door when no was monitoring him. The door, usually armed with an alarm to prevent this sort of thing from happening, had been left open by a man hired to install new security cameras along the hallways. The irony of this is not lost on me—kind of like the idiot who robs a home and posts a snapshot of the event on Instagram—but I kept all quips to myself. Jokes usually fizzle on people facing mounds of grief and missing fathers.

  We’ve been driving fifteen minutes since we left the home, and I’m anxious. I hate not being able to solve problems on a quick timeline.