Tomorrow We Die (8 page)

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe.” She stowed her cell phone. “But let’s just say, I feel a leading.”

CHAPTER 12

Tunes broadcasted from an iPod tucked in the center console of Naomi’s classic Volkswagen hatchback.

Switchfoot, “Beautiful Letdown.”

The thirty-five-year-old German auto rattled as we exited the freeway for Victorian Avenue in Sparks. A bulging fabric grocery sack sat on the floor of the rear, a bag of tortillas flopped over the edge.

I rested my elbow on the door. “I can’t believe you still have this thing.”

“It’s not a
Thing
.” She hit her turn blinker. “You should know the difference.”

I smirked and ran my hand along the seat material. “New vinyl?”

“Yeah. That and my dad rebuilt the motor a few years back.”

Something old. Something new. I studied her. “Same, but different.”

She looked in the rearview mirror. “You talking about the car now, or me?”

“Hard to pinpoint. But something’s definitely different.”

She glanced over. “Things have to grow. They can’t always stay the same.”

“So I’ve learned.”

She stopped at a light. “Have you?”

Good question.

I had run full sprint from the prospect of our friendship progressing into a serious relationship. It still gave me a sinking, drowning feeling that conjured the memory of an event I fought daily to ignore – a day that pulsed and beat beneath the floorboards of my mind.

Love . . . marriage. I equated it to death. And regardless of the fact that not having Naomi in my life made it seem like a part of me was lost . . . I couldn’t see how things could be otherwise.

So no, I guess I hadn’t learned.

“Here we are.” She pulled to the curb by the same single-story stucco home I remembered, with its small, well-trimmed lawn hedged by boxwood. A newly painted white picket gate opened to a brick path that led to their crimson front door.

Naomi’s dad walked out onto the porch, his enormous smile accentuating his slender face. “Hey, hey. There you are.” He bear-hugged her.

“Hi, Dad! Guess who I ran into?”

“I see.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “Welcome back, Jonathan.”

Back
. . . “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, please. You two aren’t in high school anymore. Call me Gary.” He turned to Naomi and rubbed his hands together. “What’s the dinner plan for tonight?”

She lifted the grocery sack. “I was thinking I’d make tacos with the chicken I brought the other day.”

“You are such a blessing. You know that?” He put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek.

She elbowed him in the ribs. “All right, all right. I love you too.”

We walked inside and unpacked the bag on a honey-stained wooden island. Matching hickory cabinets filled out the kitchen, older in style but well cared for.

A female voice, just louder than a whisper, came from the end of a hallway. “Hello, sweetie.”

A woman I hardly recognized leaned on a cane, a burgundy scarf wrapped around her head, her gray-blue eyes hovering over gaunt cheekbones.

Naomi’s countenance wilted. “Mom.”

They embraced.

I stared at the island, at the can of refried beans and the bag of rice, at the onion and peppers.

“Caroline,” Gary said, “you need to conserve your strength.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, dear, but I’m fine. Besides, we have a special guest.”

Naomi wiped her eyes. “Mom, you remember – ”

“Of course I do. A pleasure to see you again, Jonathan.”

“You as well, Mrs. Foster.”

She walked over to me and then paused to catch her breath, leaning on her cane. Her hands were thin but elegant, her nails polished and manicured, a simple wedding band and diamond adorning her ring finger.

She placed her palm on my cheek. It smelled like aloe. “You look all grown up.” She looked over the vegetables on the island. “Now, what can I help with?”

“Nonsense, Caroline,” Gary said. “Please, come sit down.”

Naomi picked up a knife. “We’ve got it, Mom.”

Caroline grimaced. “But Jonathan’s our guest.”

I picked up the cilantro and took it to the sink to rinse. “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Foster.”

She relented with a coy smile and sat at the kitchen table. “So, Jonathan, I heard a rumor about you.”

I shook the cilantro out and patted it with a paper towel. “Uh-oh. Pure speculation, I’m sure.”

“I heard you did a fine job on your MCATs. And that you’ve been awarded a scholarship.”

“Yes, ma’am, that is in fact true. UNR Med School.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Gary set a glass of ice water in front of Caroline. There was a deep, sincere love in the way he looked at her – a lifetime of affection and trust expressed in a glance.

I realized halfway into dinner that I’d been hunching over the table with food in one hand, drink in the other – rapidly chewing our Mexican meal. The fact that I’d been eating like a paramedic dawned on me when Gary Foster presented a question just as I’d stuffed another mouthful.

“Jonathan, do tell us about what made you want to become a doctor. Weren’t you interested in being a professional kayaker or something along those lines back in school?” He smiled and waited.

I was a minute out, minimum, from finishing chewing. I raised my eyebrows and smiled back, brought up a finger and smiled again, dabbed my lips with a napkin and chewed faster. I scratched the side of my head, pointed to a painting of Sand Harbor at Tahoe on the wall, and grunted admiration. They grinned and bobbed their heads. As soon as I could take a drink of water, I did and exhaled.

“That’s a really good question. You know, you get to help people, provide a valuable service. It can be exciting.” I took another sip.

Who was I kidding?

It was for her. My mother.

It always had been.

I stared at the wood grain in the tabletop and stuck with a simple answer that still resonated truth. “And . . . it’s nothing at all like what my dad has ever done.”

The room fell silent.

Gary cleared his throat. He glanced at Caroline, then at me and raised his glass. “To what our fathers have never done.”

I stood next to Naomi as we worked on the dishes. The Fosters’ vintage dishwasher, though in great working order, was small, so we did most of the stuff by hand. I washed and she rinsed, her hip brushing mine. She took the soapy dishes from me with both hands, all the while humming.

The tune sounded vaguely familiar. Like the melody of a music box brought out only at Christmastime.

My cell phone rang. I held my hands out of the bubbles and searched for something to dry with.

Naomi pulled a towel from the stove front. “Here.”

“Thanks.” The number was local, but I didn’t recognize it. “This is Jonathan.”

“Jonathan Trestle?”

“Yeah.”

“Jonathan, this is Steve from O’Brien’s pub.”

My heart bungeed to my stomach. “On Wells Avenue?”

“No, South Virginia.”

“Right.”

“Your father – ”

“Don’t explain. I’ll be right over.”

I pocketed the phone and clenched my teeth.

Naomi enshrouded a plate with a yellow cotton towel. “Everything okay?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“What is it?”

“It’s my dad. He – ” I pressed my lips together. “His car broke down and he needs a ride home.”

“Oh.”

“Thanks for a great dinner. But I’d better go.” I walked to the front door.

“Jonathan?”

“Yeah?”

She dangled her keys in the air. “You’re going to need a ride too.”

Her VW puttered up the on-ramp to the interstate. “If you want, you can just tell me where your dad is and we can give him a ride. Save you time.”

“No. I mean . . . thanks. But it might be something that I can fix, so I want to stop by home to pick up my tools.”

“Sure you won’t need a hand?”

I stared out the passenger-door window. “I’m sure.”

At the café she parked next to my car and turned off the ignition. “You sure everything is okay?”

I got out and leaned on the door. “I had a great time. It wouldn’t be right for me to keep you.”

“I don’t mind. Really.”

“I’ll see you later.” I patted the doorframe.

“Jonathan.”

“Yeah.”

She tilted her head. Her eyes pierced me. “Will you?”

I gave a slow nod.

“Then give me your hand.” She held hers over the passenger seat.

I hesitated, and then stretched out mine. She turned it palm side up and wrote her number on it. She rolled my fingers into a fist.

“Don’t lose that.” A subtle smile turned her chin.

I breathed deep and quick. My eyes flashed hot and full of liquid. I tapped the top of the car, took two steps back, and walked away.

The only thing that made O’Brien’s Irish was a kitschy brass four-leaf clover that twirled on a string behind the bar. Scribbled on one side was the dubious autograph:
Best Wishes, Bono
.

The pub was windowless and cavern-like, the air weighted with cigarette smoke. An Italian man in his fifties leaned behind the counter watching a soccer match on ESPN2.

“Are you Steve?” I said.

He didn’t look at me. “In the back corner.”

My dad sat by the jukebox, propped up against the wall with his head turned toward a wastebasket.

Jim Morrison crooned from a pair of tired speakers.

“The clock says it’s time to close now . . .”

A silhouetted figure appeared in a booth with the quick flame of a lighter, followed by the red glow of a cigarette.

“Learn to forget . . . Learn to forget . . .”

I rubbed my dad’s sternum hard with my knuckles. “C’mon, Dad. Wake up. You can’t sleep here.”

He inhaled and cracked open his eyelids.

“Wake up, Dad. Come on. You gotta get up.”

He mumbled. His breath hung heavy and putrid, pungent like cognac and moldy bread.

I took his arm around my shoulder and squatted next to him. “Dad, you gotta get up.”

I moved to stand, but his body slid away from me. I stood and leaned on the jukebox. “Fine.”

I put my arms around his torso and heaved him up, bracing his body against the wall. I took a breath and, in one motion, moved my shoulder under his midsection and straightened up, spreading my legs for balance
.

With my father in a fireman’s carry, I turned to face the door, his ankles hitting the jukebox. I passed the bar and fished out a twenty from my wallet one-handed. I threw it down on the counter by Steve
.

The weighted tavern door swung shut behind us.

Trash rustled in the gutter. Night encroached. I grabbed a plastic grocery bag swirling by the wall and hooked it around my father’s ears.

He vomited once on the way home. At the house I tied the bag shut, threw it in the trash, and pulled him inside. His shoes dragged along the hardwood hallway. I laid him against the wall in his room with his head turned to the floor.

Across the hall in the bathroom I washed my hands, and as I did, blue ink ran onto the porcelain and down the drain. By the time I processed what was happening, it was too late.

Naomi’s number was gone.

A box of pent-up rage busted open. I slammed the bathroom door against the wall. The knob broke the plaster. The entire door vibrated.

I looked for the closest thing I could throw and snatched a dove-shaped glass candleholder from the top of the toilet. I hurled it down the hallway.

It shattered.

My father didn’t stir.

Shards flinted in the darkness.

A memory came to me of my mother lighting a candle in that holder one Thanksgiving. She struck matches and wore a flower-print dress, her eyes accented by dark eyeliner that curved up at the corners. My father sat at the head of the table in a white T-shirt, his face unshaven, his cheeks rounding his jawline. He was grinning. The room smelled like stuffing and turkey. It was before . . .

I rubbed a finger over the small scar on my forehead. I clenched my fist. My eyes felt like cast-iron boilers.

My father hadn’t stirred.

“See what you did.” I wanted to grab him by the shirt and yell at him until he woke up and understood.

I thought about kicking him. Like someone would kick a dog.

But he wouldn’t wake up.

And he wouldn’t understand.

And even if he heard me and saw the anguish in my face, he would only cower back with an empty slew of resigned apologies.