Twenty-Five Years Ago Today (12 page)

"What was it about?"

"I can't talk about it. Even now."

"She would've forgiven you. You've got to
believe that, or you'll drive yourself nuts."

"I don't think she would've."

Cheryl lightly squeezed Kris's knuckle. "That
doesn't say much about her as a person, does it? We all blow up
over trivial things that pale in importance when we're faced with
something bigger. I'm sure your fight was upsetting, but I doubt it
changed Nicole's feelings for you. It's just a shame you never had
a chance to make up."

"You're lucky that your mother is so open
about Diana and your dad, and that you can talk about things. Death
was a bad word in my family."

"How so?"

Kris drew back, her shoulders slumped. "I'll
give you an example. After Nicole died, my Uncle Neal mentioned her
at a July Fourth party. He said she loved seeing sparklers and
fireworks when she was little. My grandfather asked why he had to
ruin a happy occasion by bringing up sad memories. He stormed into
the house. Uncle Neal strode in after him, and we all sat on the
picnic bench as they yelled at each other."

She looked at Cheryl, whose face held the
damp remnants of her own grief. "I know Grandfather missed Nicole,
too, but he was so non-demonstrative."

"Sounds like he had trouble coping with his
feelings," Cheryl said. "That wasn't a healthy attitude to pass
down to his children."

"Grandfather was the same way about his wife.
When I was seven, I asked about her once. My mom got flustered and
explained that my grandmother had died of cancer a long time ago.
She said never to ask Grandfather that question or it would upset
him."

Kris clamped her fingers around her cold mug.
"My mother's a lot like him. They spent a great deal of time
together. They were both doctors, so they had the same
interests."

She drank the water to moisten her raw
throat. She'd never analyzed her family before. The observations
had popped into her mind as she mused aloud. Now there they were,
out in the open. Kris slanted another uneasy glance at Cheryl.

"Were you bitter that you couldn't talk about
death?" Cheryl asked.

"I guess. I wanted to tell my mother about
Nicole, but she changed the subject whenever I brought up her name.
She stopped seeing my Aunt Susan and never explained why. She won't
discuss anything important. Now I find myself doing the same. I
keep everything pent-up inside."

"It's good to question the attitudes you grew
up with. You can make sure you don't repeat patterns with your own
children."

"My mother and I don't click," Kris said.
"Sometimes she looks at me, and it's like she wonders how she got
stuck with me as her daughter."

"Maybe she has a hard time expressing herself
to you."

"I can't talk to her, either. Eric's lucky to
have you as a mom."

Cheryl hugged her, a quick maternal embrace.
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in weeks. Anytime you
need a sounding board, I'm here. We have a lot in common, you and
me. More than you know."

***

At home that night, Kris read her new
mythology book, but she couldn't stop thinking about Cheryl Soares.
Kris liked her. A lot. Cheryl had given her a paperback on grief,
slipped it inside the bag when Kris wasn’t watching. She would read
it later.

She had to help Cheryl's family. They were
nice people who didn’t deserve the tragedies they had suffered.

Purring, Chipmunk curled beside her on the
couch. Kris flipped through the oversized pages. Each chapter
related a separate myth: Hercules, Midas, the Golden Fleece,
Cupid.

Her high school Latin teacher had assigned
myths in class. Ancient Greeks had created the gods in their own
image, making them petty, jealous, vain and inconsistent, like
humans. The Romans borrowed the Greek gods, but gave most of them
different names and qualities to fit their customs.

Her Latin teacher preferred the Greek
versions. Romans took their religion more seriously, she'd said,
and had turned the gods into sedate, boring, beings.

Kris skimmed a paragraph about Zeus, the
Greek king of the gods. He'd cheated on his wife, Hera, changing
his shape to seduce women.

"If Zeus were my husband, I'd get a divorce,"
she told Chipmunk, scanning ahead.

Two of his illegitimate children were twins,
Apollo and Artemis. Apollo, the god of music, reigned over the sun,
and his sister the moon.

Kris touched the page. That's right. How had
she forgotten?

The Romans knew Artemis as Diana.

Chapter 11

25 Years Ago Today

A new 40-unit housing complex for senior
citizens is called the Franklin Dennett Project.

A
ccording to legend,
the Diana of myth had roamed the wilderness, accompanied by nymphs
and a pack of hounds. Artists portrayed her with symbols -- the
stags she hunted and a silver bow. Kris closed the book as the
phone rang. This was crazy. She wouldn't learn about the real Diana
from ancient religion.

She snagged the cordless off the kitchen
wall. "Hello."

"I'm sorry, Kris," Holly said, talking fast.
"I don't know what got into me. I shouldn't have been judgmental
about your Diana Ferguson story. I'm glad you like your job and
that you want to explore reporting."

Guilt rushing over her, Kris scraped out a
chair from the table. She’d forgotten about the fight with Holly.
She had to give her sister credit for making the first move. "I'm
sorry, too. It wasn't fair to leave you in the lurch."

"I shouldn't have been jealous you're in a
field that excites you."

"Doesn't medicine excite you?"

"Truthfully? I'd rather be an airplane
pilot."

Hoping she wouldn't sound too puzzled, Kris
spread a napkin out in front of her like a place mat and tore the
corners. Maybe it was lack of sleep, but she wasn't following this
conversation. "An airplane pilot?"

"Don't you remember that Airline game we used
to play? I was always the pilot."

Kris tried to picture her sister in a pilot
uniform, but she couldn't erase the white lab coat from her mind.
"Sure I do. You just caught me by surprise. I never realized you
were serious about it. Why didn't you go for it?"

"Mom pushed me into pre-med. Suddenly, we had
so much in common. We were closer than ever, and I loved that. I
just kept going, and now I'm a doctor." Holly gave a dry laugh.
"Weird, huh?"

Had their mother and grandfather talked about
anything besides medicine? Not that Kris could recall. Now the
cycle was repeating.

"Are you happy?" she asked.

"I met R.J., so I thank God for that. And I
like helping patients. But am I passionate about my job? Not
really. I envied you when you went to New York and got out from
under Mom's wing. You don't care what people think. I wish I could
be like that."

Kris played with the snowfall of napkin bits.
"Don't envy me too much. Remember, I work irregular hours so I can
sleep. I've got a cat to keep me warm at night, not a husband."

"Being single bothers you? I wondered."

"Sure it does, but I just can't ..." Get
close to anyone. "I can't find any guys worth my time."

"You will, don't worry," Holly said. "It's
not too late."

"It's not too late for you, either. You could
switch fields."

"I've invested so many years in medicine. And
it wouldn't be fair to R.J. if I focused on something else." Holly
cleared her throat. "Listen, R.J. and I are throwing a party next
Saturday to break in our china. Will you come?"

How Kris hated parties, but it was her turn
to make an effort.

"I'll be there," she said.

***

Her talk with Holly haunted Kris that evening
at work. Her sister wasn't perfect after all. Still, Kris couldn't
pity her too much. Holly made excellent money, had a loving
marriage and surrounded herself with close friends. If she wanted
to change careers, she could. Her husband would support her in
anything. She didn't know what real regret was.

Bruce approached Kris’s desk with a stack of
faxed press releases. She had barely seen him all week. Most
reporters had erratic schedules, but he seemed even less tied to a
timeclock than the others. He wouldn't last a day as editorial
assistant.

She turned from her wedding announcements and
glared up at him. "Why did you tell Jacqueline about that
obit?"

Bruce dropped the press releases into her
in-box. "What obit?"

"The one where the son reamed me out."

Shrugging, he riffled through the pile. "Oh,
that. I didn't think it was a big deal."

"Jacqueline thinks so."

"She overreacts."

Kris squeezed her pencil tighter, tempted to
snap it in half. "Then why would you tell her?"

"She must have asked me. Hey, I saw your
yo-yo feature on Dex's desk. I'm glad he's giving you those puff
pieces. His priorities are screwed up. Can you believe he used to
make me drop everything for that fluff?"

She had slaved over that article, fitting in
the interview and the twenty inches of writing between her daily
tasks as editorial assistant and her Diana Ferguson sleuthing. It
would appear in the Sunday lifestyle section with a color photo.
She had even gotten Dex to fork over some money for her
freelancing. Here was Bruce, putting down her hard work. He was
Narcissus, in love with his own reflection.

"Luckily, that fluff added to my paycheck
this week," Kris said.

Her intercom buzzed and a voice told her she
had a visitor. Good thing. Bruce looked ready to kill. She had the
same urge herself.

Out in the front office, the female employees
hiked purses over their shoulders and shut down computers, waiting
for the stroke of five. Kris halted. Eric Soares stood at the
counter, following her with his direct gaze.

"I didn't expect to see you," she said.

"I hear you're going to New York."

"I'm visiting Diana's old friend,
Raquel."

"I want to go, too."

She stared at him. She and Eric, alone on a
three-hour car ride? "You want to come? To Hyde Park?"

"You were right. If we don't take a risk,
we'll never find out what happened to Diana."

Her mind sorted out the possibilities. Had
his family coerced him into playing guardian once again? Kris led
him over to two chairs against the wall. "You really feel that way?
Since when?"

Eric pulled out a leather wallet and handed
her a packet of photographs. "Take a look."

She flipped through the pictures. A couple of
children, a professional portrait of his parents. She stopped at
the next photo.

A young girl crouched behind a little boy
outside, her arms around his neck. Both laughed into the camera,
showing the same dimples. Adoration wreathed the child's grinning
face. Kris felt a stab of pity for Eric.

He'd been too young to understand the
finality of death, but he must have wondered where his beloved aunt
had gone and sensed his family's pain. Their grief and
disillusionment would've influenced his upbringing. Had Diana
lived, he might have been a different, more trusting, person.

"You asked what I remembered about Diana," he
said. "I only have this one picture of her taking me to a park,
pushing me on a swing."

"It seems like a nice memory."

"I wish there were more. I do want justice
for her death, just the way you did for your cousin. Were you close
to her?"

Glancing again at the picture, Kris shivered.
"Yes," she whispered.

She regained her composure. "Look, here’s the
deal. I'm leaving for Hyde Park tomorrow. I told Raquel I'd be
there by three. If you meet me at the bookstore, I'll drive."

"Fine," he said. "See you there."

***

Kris turned up the volume of the car radio.
She and Eric hadn't spoken since Burger King in Connecticut. He
didn't know what to say any more than she did, or else he wasn't
interested in small talk. After a few useless attempts, she
concentrated on a Beatles marathon. Eric bent over a notebook,
scribbling.

At a stop light in Poughkeepsie, she
stretched out the tight muscles bunching up her back. "What're you
working on?"

"A song. It's not coming together."

"Do you write many songs?"

"When I have time," Eric said.

They passed a string of shopping plazas and
restaurants. "I've heard the Hudson Valley is a nice vacation
spot," Kris said. "FDR's house is in Hyde Park."

Eric nodded. She kept her mouth shut for the
rest of the ride.

Craft shops and snow-laced trees lined the
curving road into Hyde Park. Eric directed her to the street
address. Kris parked in the driveway and stared up at a white
Victorian house on a hill. Through the pines, the blue Hudson
glimmered against powdered mountains.

A skinny teenage boy answered the door in a
heavy metal tee-shirt and ripped jeans. He ushered them in with a
mumbled hello. "Ma!" he called, jogging upstairs.

They waited in the foyer. If Diana had lived,
she might have had a son his age. Kris couldn't picture Diana
Ferguson as forty-six. She brushed off her boots on the welcome
mat. It moved slightly, uncovering a nick in the tile. Through the
doorway, board games, school books and coats littered the dining
room table. Gorgeous house, but lived-in.

A woman trudged down the staircase in a nylon
warm-up jacket and sweatpants, her gray-threaded bob framing a
puffy face. She hesitated on the last step, her knuckle white
around the banister. "Hello."

Kris barely recognized her. This was the sex
object who had picked up guys everywhere she went? No, that wasn't
fair. Raquel had aged, like everyone did.

Except for the unlucky ones.

"Thank you for inviting me," Kris said.