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Opening the drawer, I pulled out the shiny, white photo frame and stood it up next to my iMac screen. I’d fill it with an image from my next sonogram. Memories weren’t meant to be hidden away and forgotten. My father was right, as always.
I thought of Marc and all the memories of his past he’d hidden from me. Was it possible to be so connected to someone that their memories became yours?
I hoped so.
I arrived at the Philadelphia Museum of Art at a few minutes before my seven p.m. date. And I found my dinner companion sitting on a bench near the espresso bar. He was sipping a hot drink and wearing a crisp white button-up with dark jeans. He looked relaxed. He wasn’t nervous about our date.
As I approached, his eyes found me, and his handsome face stretched into a gorgeous smile. “Fancy meeting you here,” I remarked.
He stood from the bench, and his gaze roamed every inch of my body before he spoke. “This is the place we agreed on, isn’t it?”
I smiled. “You’re the one who suggested the museum.”
His eyes locked on mine, and his smile dimmed. “You look tired.”
“That’s no way to greet a lady on a first date.”
“Of course,” he replied. “Where are my manners. Can I buy you a coffee?”
I glanced at my belly and shook my head. “I’ll have a sparkling water.”
He chuckled as he headed toward the espresso bar counter. “Oh, so you’re one of those girls who only orders water and salad on a first date?”
“One of those women?” I corrected him. “Keep needling me and it might just be our last.”
As he ordered my sparkling water and paid for it, I felt that familiar sensation of butterflies I got whenever we did this. Every year, since Marc and I started dating in college, we took separate modes of transportation to meet at the Museum of Art, where we loosely reenacted our first date.
Last year, I used the occasion to tell him I was nine weeks pregnant with Mira. Instead of pushing my memories of that day aside, I allowed myself to remember the guarded hope in Marc’s eyes, the way the smell of the salad dressing had made me queasy.
We usually met in the museum restaurant, the way we did on our first date. But the restaurant closed after lunch service, and today I spent the afternoon with my father, or rather what was left of him. Life had sure changed since that first date.
We took our beverages and sat down at a table nearby to chat, as we did ten years ago.
“So you’re into pregnant women, huh?” I teased him, still pretending to be on our first date.
He smiled and studied my face for a moment before he spoke. “Do you want to talk about your day?” he asked gently.
It was difficult to hide anything from Marc, which only made it more infuriating that he could so successfully hide things from me.
“It was harrowing,” I replied. “I left feeling guilty because I realized I had treated him just like everyone else — like a child. I should have been better to him.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Cass. You’re just trying your best. No one can fault you for that. Least of all your father. He worships you.”
“Which is exactly why my visit should have been a respite from all the down-talk and coddling. I failed him today. But I won’t do it again. I’m going to talk to Robert tomorrow about starting my maternity leave ASAP. I want to be able to help my mom occasionally. She shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone.”
“She has a full-time live-in aid. She’s not alone.”
I looked him in the eye as I replied. “That’s not the same.”
“Are you sure you—” Marc stopped at the sound of my cell phone ringing.
The futuristic alien ringtone echoed in the vast corridor of the museum. I’d designated this ringtone to my sister Lina many years ago, as a reference to an inside joke. The first time Lina got stoned, she swore she saw a UFO in the sky. She refused to believe it was the altitude warning lights perched atop a nearby hill for passing airplanes.
“Hello?” I said, answering after the first ring.
A loud sniff followed by the most alien words I’d ever heard, “Dad’s dead.”
Violent Tremors
Walker has been working on my SUV in the scorching August heat for three hours straight. Meanwhile, I’ve been sanding the peeling white paint on the banister. I had plans to slather on a shiny, new coat of the black paint I found in the garage.
The house is so old. And not a criticism of Walker, but it’s pretty poorly maintained. I imagine these small home improvement projects will keep me occupied while Walker works on my car. I try not to think about the possibility I’m inhaling lead paint particles as I rub sandpaper across the old banister. Besides, only children have to worry about lead poisoning, right?
I should know the answer to that question, but this damn head injury has turned me into an idiot. A selective idiot.
I can remember the titles and publication years of most of my father’s books, but I can’t remember if either of my siblings is married. I can’t even remember if I’m married, though I have a feeling I’d remember something that significant.
I tie the bottom of the T-shirt I borrowed from Walker, securing the knot right below my bra to get the sweat-soaked fabric off my back and stomach. But there’s no breeze inside the house to cool my exposed skin. I need to take a flying leap into a sparkling, blue swimming pool.
When I reach the garage, Walker is lying on his back underneath the front end of my SUV, only the lower half of his body is visible. It’s a gorgeous lower half.
The smudges of dirt on his jeans and the well-worn suede work boots look perfectly matched to his current position. Like a shot crafted by a film cinematographer. When I call his name, he’ll slide out from beneath the car without a shirt on, and I’ll swoon. At least, that’s how it would happen in a movie.
“Walker?” I call out softly, not wanting to startle him.
He doesn’t respond, continuing to work on whatever he’s doing for a few more seconds before he slides out from beneath the vehicle. To my abject disappointment, he’s wearing a shirt.
He stares at my bare midriff for a moment before he tears his gaze away to look me in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.”
I smile at that country drawl I’m beginning to adore. “Want to go for a swim?”
He sits up too quickly, flipping the wooden board with wheels that was underneath his torso. The board smacks him in the back of the head.
“Criminy!” he shouts as he rubs his sore scalp.
I try not to laugh at his choice of curse word. “Are you okay? Do you think you’ll need stitches?” I ask with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm.
I won’t admit it to him, but I’m sort of dying for Walker to finish fixing my car so I can ask him to go to the city with me. Not to live with me. I don’t even remember where I live. But I suspect I can find that out by getting in touch with my family. I hope they all still live in the city, or I’m screwed. Then I’ll be the one shouting criminy.
Walker pulls his fingers out of the sweaty scruff of dark hair on the back of his head and holds them up. “No blood. Just a bump. I’ll be fine.”
I smile as I nod toward the tree line at the back of the property. “Are there any swimming holes in those woods? A creek or lake or somewhere we can cool off?”
He rises to his feet, lifting the bottom of his T-shirt, and using the fabric to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I reckon there’s a creek about a quarter-mile southeast of here. In the opposite direction of that meadow you visited.”
My stomach clenches at the memory of that embarrassing encounter in the meadow. “Right. Um… Is it safe to swim in that crick?” I say, imitating the way he pronounced the word creek.
He shakes his head. “Are you making fun of the way I talk?”
“I would never!” I reply, clutching my chest dramatically.
“Is that what you call flirting?”
My insides melt. “You’re a fast learner,” I r
eply with a seductive smile. At least, I hope it’s seductive. “Can we go swimming now?”
He smiles, his blue eyes staring into mine for a long moment. This is definitely the longest he’s ever looked me in the eye, and it’s completely disarming. I look away as I’m overcome with a deep feeling of discomfort.
He glances at my foot. “Are you sure you should be getting that foot wet?”
I glance at the crude duct tape and gauze dressing. “Duct tape is pretty water-tight. I learned that on Mythbusters.”
“Mythbusters?”
“Not important. The important thing is I’ll be fine. Can we go now?”
He chuckles as he reaches for a grimy, red hand towel resting on the front of the headlight of my SUV. “Give me a minute to close up shop.”
I watch intently as he puts away his tools and pulls the rickety, wooden garage door closed. “Are you any closer to getting the car running?” I ask casually, trying not to sound like I’m rushing him.
