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“Is it tacos?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Un Romance Con Tacos.”
A romance—or a love affair, perhaps—with tacos.
Every shred of information he doles out, I snap up and file away. Declan’s favorites: tacos, motorcycles, fast cars, swimming, learning to fly airplanes, scaling massive mountains, baseball, soccer (football), parties with his thousands of dear friends (I was correct—it seems he’s obnoxiously well-liked), roller coasters at “theme” parks, reading, foot rubs, saunas, yachts, Scotch whiskey…and, from his father’s perspective, anything that can be snorted, swallowed, or injected.
I’m pleased to see that Charles seems to understand it, though—that addiction is a sickness much more than a choice.
“I could tell he was really trying,” he says. “For a long time.”
“I think that’s true.”
By the time I fall asleep a wee bit later, watching the screen by my bed as it shows the European light grid below us, I feel as if I’ve gained a friend—someone to help me through this odd new life. And my heart bleeds with wanting Declan.
Twenty
Finley
Two Days Later
My pulse begins to gallop as the line that inches down the road depicted on the GPS screen nears the red dot.
102 Infinity Cir., Leavenworth, WA
.5 miles
Stone the cows!
It’s Charles driving our rented sport utility vehicle. I’m in the middle row with Baby, who’s got her nose toward the window, which is rolled partway down. The smell is heaven—like sunlight, if sunlight had a scent. There’s a certain richness about it: a blend of dirt, water, clean air, and a lovely, slightly spicy, earthen aroma I believe must be the smell of all the tall, green-needled trees. It’s like nothing I’ve experienced.
I’m not sure why I didn’t realize this would be the case, but when our plane landed in New York, and I felt the warm, soft air, I realized—it’s summer here. We’re in the northern hemisphere. It’s lovely summer, and I’m in America. Baby is in America. Last night for dinner after having my vaccines and physical in New York, I ate a hot dog. It was lovely. Everything has been so lovely.
New York was lovely, but I think Washington is quite a bit more so. Charles thought the trees might make me feel a bit odd or perhaps out of place, but I adore them. I adore their canopy, the hiddenness of this pine-needle-paved lane. I’ll confess I don’t adore the asphalt, but I see its practicality. And all the same, I quite like this softer road.
When Charles turns the wheel and we start down the short driveway, I can scarcely draw a breath. We’re rolling toward a green and yellow cabin in a clearing with tall trees above it, bending in the wind.
“You good back there?”
I nod, but that’s not quite true. Everything is glittery and wobbling in the prism of my unshed tears. I squeeze my eyes shut, wipe them.
Then the car has stopped. We’ve parked. Charles says, “I’ll take Baby for a look around.”
I nod slowly, understanding. And I’m opening the heavy door. I’m passing Baby off then stepping out onto the spongy, needle-covered ground with its impossibly thick grass. I notice two red rockers on the cabin’s porch. The entire front wall, where it’s not door, is windows.
Knowing that he bought this property for my mum—for both of us, I suppose—hoping we might come here to adjust to American life bit by bit, these trees protecting us from people and their foreign germs while we adjusted to this vast, more modern world…it gives me chills. And fills me with such gratitude. And yet it’s all so odd, because I realize now…if we had made it here I was seven, I’d be doing something very different now.
I try the knob and find it gives. I turn it slowly with my trembling hand and push the door open. I notice the room’s vastness first. The roof’s rafters, all the polished cedar. It smells…earthen. Like wood. The space is flawlessly appointed with fluffy couches, leather chairs and—
Him.
I see his tired eyes first. At first glance, I think they’re bruised below, so dark are the circles there. I see the horrid paleness of his face—what of it isn’t covered by his beard. I see the shock of white gauze all about his chest and shoulders. Both his arms are tucked against his chest in dark slings. He’s propped up in a recliner with a pillow around his neck and a red blanket over his lap.
And then he’s spotted me. I can tell the moment he does. His mouth trembles and tugs sharply downward at the corners as his eyes squeeze shut. Tears stream down his face as I walk to him.
Then I’m there beside him, and I don’t know how to hug him, so I simply touch his hair. He breathes deeply, and then he groans, as I suppose the movement hurts his shoulders.
“Oh…my darling…” He groans again, more a bark of pain, and I take his face in my hands and lean down, pressing my cheek to his.
