A Seahorse in the Thames (19 page)

I tear the check in half, then in quarters, then in eighths. I place the pieces on the coffee table in front of us.

Gavin watches me wide-eyed.

“So you’re not going to go to the police?” he finally says.

“No, I’m not. But you should.”

Gavin just stares at me.

“That’s ridiculous!” Kevin exclaims. “When that loser came here, my dad paid him off and sent him on his way. There’s nothing illegal in that.”

“Did you ever see James Leahy conscious again, Kevin?” I ask. “Did you see him walk out of here?”

Kevin’s eyes widen and he seems to turn to stone where he stands. He says nothing. I can see in his eyes that he’s suddenly realized he’d been deceived all these years, just like the rest of us. James did not regain consciousness. James wasn’t paid off and then sent on his way. James Leahy died and Gavin never told a soul.

“And why should I go to the police after seventeen years?” Gavin says, closing his eyes when he says the word “seventeen.”

“Dad?” Kevin’s voice crumbles into a whisper.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” I say. “His family deserves to know what happened to him. You, of all people, know what it is like to lose someone you loved.”

Gavin sits back in his chair and places his hand over his forehead. He rubs it gently but his brow his deeply furrowed nonetheless.

“Dad?” Kevin says again.

“What will you do if I don’t?” he says.

I look at Stephen sitting next to me. I wonder what he would say if he were me. It doesn’t take long to think of an answer.

“I will pray every day for as long as I have breath that you change your mind.”

Seconds of strained silence fill the room.

“I am so tired of it,” Gavin finally says, wearily, as if each word weighed a hundred pounds.

I lean forward, toward him. “Then be done with it.”

I stand up then and Stephen clumsily stands next to me. “I’m leaving.” I place my hand on Stephen’s back as I help him maneuver his way out of the study. Gavin doesn’t rise from his chair. He doesn’t say a word. Kevin follows us to the front door, opens it wordlessly and watches us leave. He is also unable to bid us farewell.

Stephen and I say nothing to each other as we make our way to my car. I help him in and then walk over to my side. Kevin is still standing at the doorway, watching us. I get in and close my door and Kevin finally closes the door where he stands.

Stephen reaches across the seat and takes my hand. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, and his voice is laced with emotion such that I’ve not heard coming from a man in I don’t know how long.

“That felt good,” I say in return.

He squeezes my hand.

“Still want frozen yogurt?” I ask.

“Sure.”

I drive away and my thoughts fly to Rebecca. I wish I could tell her. But I think she already knows.

She is free.

S
tephen is quiet as I drive to the nearest frozen yogurt place so that I can treat him to the promised dessert. I pull in to the parking lot and look over at him. He looks like he is deep in thought.

Or perhaps in pain.

“Stephen, are you okay?”

He turns his head slowly toward me. “Mind if we just get it to go,” he asks, forcing a smile.

“The headache is back?”

He just nods and looks away.

“Oh, Stephen. I’m sorry. When did it start?”

He shifts in his seat. “A while ago.”

“A while ago? How long?”

He turns to me again. “Don’t worry about it, Alexa. It only started getting really bad just now.”

“Do want me to just take you home? We can do frozen yogurt another time.”

He nods. “Maybe that would be best.”

I get back on the road and head west on I-8. Stephen has his eyes closed. I feel so bad for him. There is nothing I can do except to get him home where I know he has pain medication.

“Hang on, Stephen, I will get you there as soon as I can.”

He nods. “No speeding,” he mumbles.

“No, I promise. No speeding.”

It does not seem like the time for small talk. Or big talk. I turn on the radio to a soft jazz station and keep the volume low.

Twenty-five minutes later, we pull into Stephen’s apartment complex. As I help Stephen out of the car, it startles me how much he is leaning on me. We take the stairs slowly.

I get him inside and help him to lie on his sofa.

“Where is your pain medication, Stephen?” I remove the one sandal that he is wearing.

“Kitchen. By the toaster.”

I go into the kitchen and find a butterscotch-colored bottle of white pain pills by Stephen’s toaster. I grab the bottle and a clean glass from the dish drainer. I fill it with water and head back to the living room, reading the label on the medication. Stephen is allowed two pills every eight hours. I turn the lid and pour out two tablets into my hand.

“Here you go,” I say when I reach him. I hold out the pills and the water and he takes them from me and swallows them. He lies back on the sofa pillows and closes his eyes, his brow wrinkled in pain.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” My voice sounds weak and young.

He shakes his head slightly and holds out his hand. I take it with mine. “I will be in Lala land here pretty soon. Don’t you worry,” he murmurs.

“Stephen, do want me to help you get to your bedroom?”

Again, he shakes his head slightly. “Nah. I’ll just sleep here tonight.”

I let go of his hand to grab one of the bed pillows on the chair next to the couch. I place it under his head and then I take another one to elevate his ankle. Then I get up and tiptoe down the hallway and open a closet, assuming it’s for linens. I am right. I find a light blanket inside and I take it back to him.

As I am covering Stephen with the blanket he opens one eye to look at me. “Pretty pitiful first date, huh?”

I smile down on him. “Are you kidding? This is the best first date I have ever been on.”

He grins in spite of his pain. “Liar,” he mumbles.

I kneel down beside him and tuck the blanket in around his shoulders. “The best first date I have ever been on,” I repeat. I want him to know I mean every word.

He opens both eyes then and reaches with his good arm to gently touch my face. It is the softest touch I have ever felt yet it nearly sends me reeling with its intensity. I just about topple over from my kneeled position. “Me, too,” he whispers.

He closes his eyes and drops his hand. I settle onto the floor, resting my head on the overstuffed arm of the couch. I am about as close to Stephen as I can be short of lying next to him on the couch.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” I whisper back.

He keeps his eyes closed and gives me a thumb-up. Then he relaxes his fist and holds out his hand. I take it and caress it as the medication begins to work its way through his body.

After several minutes of just sitting there stroking his hand I look up from my hands to see that Stephen is staring at me. He smiles—a sleepy smile—and then he gently pulls his hand out from under mine and places it under my chin, pulling me forward. He makes a concerted effort to lift his head off the pillow, a truly gallant gesture. Every instinct tells me he wants to kiss me and he doesn’t think I should have to be the one to close the distance.

But I do.

I follow his lead and bring my head close to his, my mouth to his mouth. It’s my kiss that lands on his lips, not his kiss on mine, and the absolute beauty of it makes my eyes water. I have never known a sensation like this. It is something borne of the divine, I’m sure. Stephen’s hand stays on my cheek, his thumb just below my right eye. He surely must feel the tears that are gathered there like bridled applause.

The kiss doesn’t last long, Stephen hasn’t the strength. Before he lowers his hand from my face, Stephen brushes his hand across my cheek, just below my closed eye. A tear falls onto his hand despite my feeble attempts to rein them in, and I open my eyes to see Stephen fingering the wetness as though he were running his fingers through silk. I sit back on my knees and place my head next to his on his pillow.

Stephen reaches for my hand again and we say nothing as he drifts off.

I am speechless with awe.

When I am sure Stephen is sound asleep, I rise quietly to run a little errand. I tiptoe out the front door, leaving it unlocked. I’m gone less than ten minutes. I return from the Vons grocery store nearby with a pint of frozen yogurt, which I place in a prominent place in Stephen’s freezer. Then I grab a tablet by his phone and pen a short note that I hope he will find before his mother arrives in the morning.

Stephen:

Did you know frozen yogurt is GREAT fort breakfast? Check out the freezer. I’ll call you Saturday night when I get back from Coronado. Or you can call me.

Alexa

p.s. I meant what I said last night
.

I leave the note propped up by the water pitcher full of sunflowers on his kitchen table. I turn to leave but I can’t help but watch Stephen for several minutes as he sleeps. On impulse I walk over to the couch, lean down and kiss him on the forehead.

Our second kiss.

It is heavenly.

It’s after one in the morning before I can relax enough to fall asleep. My mind is full of a thousand thoughts and the house seems empty and lifeless without Priscilla and Isabel in it. When I wake up the next morning it is after nine and a whole day stretches before me that seems bereft of purpose. I do the things I have put off doing for two weeks, like laundry, vacuuming and tackling the pile of bills on my computer desk. I answer some email, scour my bathroom, sweep the porch and clean out the fridge. By one o’clock I am restless and bored. I want to see Stephen. I want to be with Priscilla and Isabel. I feel wickedly out of sorts. I could really go for a run on the beach.

I press my hand to my incision wondering how much it will hurt. It feels tender, especially after cleaning, but not too bad. Perhaps a light jog, nothing too strenuous. I can always slow to a brisk walk if the jarring is too painful. It feels good to put my running shoes on after what seems like a long time.

On my porch I attempt a few light stretches. My incision protests somewhat so I skip my normal routine and just start out with a slow jog down to the beach.

Usually when I jog I find a host of trivial, unrelated things to set my mind on. Sometimes I think of weightier things, like my family, or my yearning to carve out an ordinary life for myself—one with a husband, kids and a van with cup holders in the backseat. But today I find my mind is wholly set on Stephen and the things he told me last night; about his turning to God when his life was in tatters. It was such an amazing story. Stephen is such a genuinely nice person; it would seem that he surely must have always been this way, but he is no liar. If he says he became the kind of person mothers warn their daughters about, I must believe him. I must also believe then that his transformation was real. I think this is why I have found his faith so appealing. I know it sounds silly; I have only known him two weeks, but he just seems so
real
. Especially the spiritual part of him. Religion has always seemed like a “put on” thing to me, like it’s something people wear, like a sweater or a mask, but it’s not who they really are. But it’s not that way with Stephen. His faith is like that tiny seahorse sparkling in the dirty Thames. It is something I never expected to find. And to think I could have missed it. If I had not been home recuperating from minor surgery, I would not have met Stephen. The thought of this is disconcerting.

I can’t tell what our future is of course, but I cannot help but feel that Stephen is part of my destiny. It’s a scary, wonderful thought. Wonderful because loving Stephen is the nicest thing I can think of to do with my time here on earth. Scary because Stephen may not live to see another summer. That’s just the plain truth of it. But the fear is not like the kind one would feel at being in open water where sharks are known to swim; it is more like the fear that grips me when a roller coaster I’m on is about to start and the sheer size of it assures me that I am in for the ride of my life.

I slow down as my under worked lungs and muscles whine and complain. I walk off the exertion, rubbing my incision gently as it starts to itch. I walk back to the triplex, taking in big breaths of air. Patrick is washing his car in his driveway,

“So, Alexa, is your sister still here?” he says as he sponges the hood.

“She leaves tomorrow, Patrick,” I say.

“Going back to England.”

“Yep.”

He continues to rub the hood of his car. “Want to catch a movie later?”

“Sorry, Patrick I have plans.”

“Okay,” he says, like I am missing out on real opportunity.

I inwardly cringe as I reach into my mailbox before going inside. Some opportunities are meant to be missed.

Once inside, I grab a bottle of water from my fridge and start to drink as I sift through the mail. Two credit card offers. The cable bill. A medical journal. A bank statement. And then a flash of color. A post card. On the front is a picture of a wedding chapel with the words” With Love from Las Vegas” scrolled across the top.

I nearly spit out the swig of water in my mouth.

I slap the post card over so that I can see what Rebecca has written.

Hi Lexie!

I’m married! I wore a white dress that we found on sale at the mall. It’s a prom dress but I didn’t care and Cosmo said I looked like a queen! We are driving to a place where Cosmo has some cousins. Then we will wait for my passport to come. I will write you when we get to Italy. Maybe you can come visit me and I will make you spaghetti! Thanks for keeping my secret. You can tell Mom now. And Frances. Tell Priscilla, too! We will be neighbors. Kind of.

Running out of room.

Love you,

Rebecca DiMarco!

I read it three times before I am fully able to process everything. Rebecca is moving to Italy. She got married. In a prom dress. She is waiting for her passport. She is going to learn how to make spaghetti. And hopefully not burn down her house.

Despite my mother’s insistence that I not call her on my cell phone, I snatch up my kitchen phone and dial my number. I get the recording that tells me the cell phone customer I am trying to reach is unavailable. Which means Mom has it turned off.

The stinker.

I will have to sit on this news for the next four hours.

Mom and Priscilla are sitting out on her patio when I arrive at Mom’s front door at six. Mom hollers at me to come on in and join them. When I step onto the patio I see that Isabel has a little folding baby carriage and she is giving Clement a ride around the little backyard. Margot and Humphrey are following her like two Secret Service agents.

“Cute little stroller,” I say when I join them.

“Mum got it for her,” Priscilla says. “I let her because it folds up and fits inside Isabel’s suitcase. There would have been too many tears if we had had to leave it here.”

“I would have gotten her a baby doll, too, but she wanted that seahorse to have the stroller,” Mom interjects, laughing. “Can you believe it?”

I sit beside them.

I can believe it. I can believe a lot of things.

“I have some very interesting news for you both,” I say.

They both turn to look at me.

“I got a postcard from Rebecca in the mail today. She’s okay. And she’s married.”

Mom’s eyes widen in shock and perhaps she feels a twinge of disappointment that I got the post card and she didn’t.

“Well, where is it?” Mom says.

I do have it in my purse, but I’m reluctant to show it to her. I think the line “You can tell Mom now,” is going to bother her. But if Rebecca were my daughter, I’d want to see it, too. I reach down and pull it out of my purse.

“Let me see it,” Mom commands.

“Okay, but remember she wrote it thinking only I would be reading it, Mom.”

But my mother takes it from my hand. Priscilla leans over to read it, too. I watch their eyes move across the sentences. I can see when Mom reads “You can tell Mom now.” I can see when Priscilla reads her own name.

Mom shakes her head when she is done reading it, and then hands the postcard to Priscilla, as if oblivious that Priscilla has read it over her shoulder.

“She marries and moves to Italy and she can’t even tell me in person,” Mom grumbles.

“Don’t lose sleep over it, Mum,” Priscilla says as she re-reads the postcard. “It’s done. If you want to stay on speaking terms with her, send her a wedding gift when you get her address and offer her your congratulations.”

“She sounds happy, Mom,” I add.

“I didn’t know she was
unhappy
before. No one told me she was unhappy.”

“I don’t know that she was terribly unhappy, Mom, I think she just wanted a chance to lead a normal life. One came her way and she just went for it.”

“I just can’t believe she did this to me.”

“Mum, please don’t erect a wall of bitterness between you two,” Priscilla says. “Believe me, it’s not worth it. Let her go. Wish her well.”

Mom just sits there, contemplating her options, I guess. Priscilla hands me the card and I place it back in my purse. We sit in silence for a few minutes and then Mom does what she always does when life throws her a curve ball. She pretends she doesn’t know how to catch. She changes the subject.

“I should have gotten Isabel the doll anyway,” she says absently

“Did you have a nice evening last night?” Priscilla says to me, pulling the conversation back to things that matter.

I can really tell her nothing about what happened last night with Mom sitting right there. I can only hope I will have a few minutes alone with her before she and Isabel leave tomorrow.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

Priscilla looks at me and her eyes are questioning me.
Did something happen?
her eyes say.
Oh, yes, something did
, my eyes say back. She nods slightly.

“What? Did you have a date or something?” Mom says coolly, like she is not in the mood for more surprises.

“Kind of,” I answer.

“Did you see Stephen?” Priscilla asks.

“Who is Stephen?” Mom says.

“The man who was fixing her house.”

“The one who fell off her roof?”

I see Mom and Priscilla have discussed my current love interest. I wonder what else Priscilla has told her. But then I suddenly realize she can’t have told Mom much of anything else. Because Mom would have said, “The one with the brain tumor?” instead of the “the one who fell off her roof,” if she had known more. There will come a time when I may tell her more. But not yet. If I told her I am falling in love with a man with an inoperable brain tumor, she would probably have me declared insane.

“So what did you two do?” Priscilla asks.