Where We Belong (38 page)

Hearts and thoughts they fade away.

Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away.

Fade away, fade away …

30

marian

I
knew
Kirby could play the drums from her little rap in the writers’ room. But I am still moved and mesmerized when I walk into the bar and see her playing real drums, under lights on a stage, before a live audience, with her
father.
It is overwhelming and surreal, and I am filled with pride and pain.

And yet, here they are, found, together, singing the song I remember so well him playing. It was one of my favorites in his repertoire—one that I always requested as we whiled away the hours on the futon in his bedroom. One that he played in the woods that day when we took our only photograph. His voice is even better now, more mature, although I never saw him in this element, in a real performance. His guitar playing is polished and confident, and
God,
so sexy that I can hardly stand it. I am watching the boy I fell in love with, feeling like the girl I once was, the memories rushing back so hard and fast that it hurts my head and heart.

After the last beautiful chord, there is a standing ovation, wild cheering, and whistling. People call out his name; some know hers. A man in a black felt fedora cups his hands around his mouth and shouts for an encore—at which point Conrad turns and consults with her. His back is to me, but I can see her nodding, smiling, then leaning in to whisper something back to him. They are a team tonight, their first together.

Conrad paces back to the front of the stage, lowers his head, and coolly mutters into the microphone, “Yo. Did I mention she’s my daughter?”

With this announcement, the applause escalates, as do the calls for an encore. But Kirby stands up, takes a quick bow, and then deadpans into the microphone that she has a curfew but thank you very much. People laugh. They like her. They
love
her.
I
love her.

She sees me and gives me a quick wave and a generous smile, then whispers something to Conrad as they step off the stage and work their way over to me, amid backslaps and praise. As they get closer, I can see they are both sweaty and breathless. Then they are right beside me. Conrad’s smile from on stage has faded, but so has his animosity from earlier today.

“Wow,” I say. “You guys were incredible.”

“Thanks,” Kirby says, her cheeks bright pink, her eyes sparkling. There is pure joy on her face that makes me want to cover it with kisses.

I want to kiss Conrad, too—the urge is overwhelming,
scary
—and against my better judgment, I look into his eyes and say, “That brought back memories.”

He nods, accepting this statement without exactly agreeing, as he drapes his arm over Kirby’s shoulder. “She’s a natural,” he says, deflecting the remark.

“It’s clear where she gets it,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, then turns away from me, converting the conversation into a private moment with Kirby. “Thanks for coming out,” I overhear. “I had a blast.”

“Me, too,” she says, flushed with pride and adrenaline and obvious affection for him.

“Come back soon,” he says, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

“Maybe this summer?” she says. “After I graduate?”

“Anytime,” he says. “Absolutely anytime.”

I think back to the end of our visit when she first came to New York, how different that sentiment sounded from my lips. How different our first night together was on those stools in my kitchen—careful and restrained. How different he is from me. He is real and raw—the two things I loved about him. The two things I’ve never really been able to be, at least not in my real life, only in the worlds I create on paper. At least not since that summer.

Kirby steps away, exchanging a few words with the bartender, the two appearing to be friends, as Conrad looks at me.
Really
looks at me.

“I hate what you did,” he says. “But I’m trying not to hate
you.
”

“Thank you,” I say, overcome with a fresh wave of emotion.

“Thank you for coming back,” he says, then reaches up to lower his cap, hiding his eyes. “Well, I better get back to work.”

“Right. Sure,” I say.

“See ya, Marian,” he says, then turns once again, to have a final private moment with Kirby, giving her a sweaty hug good-bye.

*   *   *

In the car ride home, she is quiet, as if digesting everything that happened,
basking
in it, a small smile of triumph on her face. I want to respect her privacy, the emotional integrity of her experience, yet I’m dying to know what she and Conrad talked about, and what he may have told her about his life. Finally, I can’t stand it another second and come right out and ask whether he’s married.

She shakes her head.

“Kids?” I ask hesitantly.

“Only me,” she says, staring out the side window as we drive away from the city back north to the suburbs.

“Well, it’s good to see he’s still playing music,” I say, searching for an opening—anything to get her to talk about the night, Conrad, her feelings.

“Yeah. But he’s also a businessman,” she says. “Zelda’s is his bar. His creation.”

“Oh?” I say, surprised, pleased. “That’s great.”

“Yeah. It started out as a jazz club, like, fifteen years ago—and he brought in all these great musicians from the city, friends and other people he knew. And then word of mouth just spread and now the bar is like a legend in Chicago—and musicians come from all over the country to play all types of music.” It is the most excited she has ever sounded about anything.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” I say, even though a small part of me is
very
surprised, and I think she sees right through it, the way she always seems to cut through any bullshit.

“He never went to college,” she says. “But look at him. He’s
really
happy in that bar. He called it his home. His family. His ex-wife even works there—and they’re still friends.”

I file this fact, wondering what their relationship was like and why they broke up, then say, “You two were amazing together.”

“Thanks,” she says. “It was really fun.”

We fall silent as we approach Glencoe, then drive onto Maple Hill. The houses are mostly dark, except for an occasional porch light. When we pull into our driveway, she turns to me and says, “You broke his heart, you know.”

I freeze, then turn to look at her, her face in a shadow. “He told you that?”

“Not in so many words—but yeah. He really loved you.”

I can tell she is on his side, and I don’t blame her
. I’m
on his side.

“And I think…” she says, her voice trailing off.

“What?” I say, turning off the ignition and facing her.

“Never mind,” she says, shaking her head.

“You can tell me,” I say, bracing myself for something hurtful he said, something truthful that I know I will deserve.

But instead she says, “I don’t know. I kinda get the feeling he still does.”

Before I can reply, she is out of the car, slamming her door, walking toward the front walk. I get out and follow her, wishing I could go back in time. Wishing I had been a little more like her when I was eighteen.

*   *   *

The next morning, Kirby knocks on my bedroom door just before nine. She is dressed, with her suitcase at her feet, and says she has to get going, she has finals to study for. I quickly rally and throw on sweats, and a few minutes later, we are standing in the foyer, my parents coming in from the kitchen to meet us.

“Are you sure you can’t stay for breakfast?” my mother says.

“I really have to get back to study for exams,” Kirby says. “If I want to pass precalc and graduate.”

My father nods and says, “We certainly understand that.”

“Well,” Kirby says, her voice sounding bolder than it did when she arrived, as if she grew up on stage last night. “Thanks so much for having me. It was really nice getting to know you guys.”

“Oh, you, too, Kirby,” my dad says, stepping forward to give her a big hug and kiss on the cheek. “It’s nice to finally meet our granddaughter. We know you have a family who loves you very much, but we hope we can add to that. We really hope this is just the beginning.” He looks at my mother and she nods her unconvincing agreement, nervously twisting her pearl necklace.

Kirby smiles, then shocks me by saying, “Thanks, Grandpa.”

He grins, the happiest I’ve seen him look in a long time.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, in which it becomes clear my mother is not going to hug her good-bye, I announce that I’m going to walk her out. My parents nod, getting the message that I want to be alone with her, as I grab her suitcase and head outside. By the time we get to her car, she has become quiet and serious again, but I tell myself it has more to do with the nature of good-byes, especially in fragile, new relationships. It will take time to establish trust and a real bond, whether a friendship or something more maternal, and I am willing to work for it.

“So, I’m graduating in a couple of weeks,” she says.

“Yes?” I say, hopeful.

“My parents wanted me to invite you. So. You’re invited … But I know how busy you are with your show and everything so it’s cool if you can’t—”

“I will be there,” I say. “Definitely.”

She nods and says, “Cool. I’ll text you the details. Or call or whatever.”

“That would be great,” I say.

“Well. Thank you,” she says, even though we both know that the invite is her gift to me—and not the other way around.

*   *   *

Back inside, my mother refreshes her cup of coffee and then pours one for my father and me. She then begins to crack eggs in a bowl, preparing to make omelets. I remind her that I have an early flight and not much time before I have to go pack.

“Final exams and television scripts,” my dad says, still looking reflective. “It never stops.”

“Or big trials,” I say, smiling.

“So how did it go last night?” my mother asks, her voice breezy. As if Kirby merely went to the movies.

I look at her, wondering why she can’t acknowledge the full weight of what’s happening—or accept the idea of Kirby in our lives. Maybe she feels guilt over the decision she helped me make and wants to justify to herself that it was the right one. Maybe she stills sees a stigma in what happened and is worried about what people will think. Maybe she simply fears Conrad, worries that he will derail me once again.

“Conrad and Kirby really hit it off,” I say, telling them briefly about the scene when I walked into the bar, but unable to do it—or them—justice. “It was emotional … very touching. I’m happy for them.”

My dad puts down his mug and holds my gaze. “That is really something,” he says.

“I should have told him so much sooner,” I say.

My mother shakes her head, steadfastly refusing to see it this way.

I ignore her and turn to my dad. “It seems pretty clear that he’ll never forgive me for what I did to him.”

“You can’t go back,” he says. “Just look forward. You’re doing the right thing
now.
”

“I’m trying,” I say.

“That’s all you can do,” my dad says, hugging me just like he hugged Kirby in the foyer.

*   *   *

I sleep on the whole flight home, but am still groggy when I walk into my apartment, late in the afternoon. My housekeeper came on Friday, and the place is even more pristine than usual, everything in its place. I open the refrigerator, but as usual, there is nothing to eat—not that I’m hungry anyway. I wander over to my desk and glance at a stack of scripts that I meant to pack and read on the plane, but feel completely uninspired to deal with now. I contemplate a run in the park, but am not in the mood for that, either. I turn on my stereo, but music—
any
music—reminds me of Conrad and that look on his face when he realized who she was. I will never get over that look. So I finally pick up the phone and call Peter, ask him to come over. He says yes, of course, he will be there as soon as he can, his voice comforting.

He arrives around five, straight from the office. He says he’s been there all weekend, putting out fires. I wonder if one of them has anything to do with my show, but don’t ask. At the moment, I’m too drained to really care. We sit on my sofa and I tell him about the weekend—the conversation with my father in the park, Conrad’s hostility, his touching performance with Kirby. I tell him everything except for the way I’m feeling now—because I don’t even know how to describe it to myself.

“That’s great progress,” he says when I’m finished. He has that satisfied look he gets in meetings after he’s found a solution to a problem, and I realize he deserves a lot of the credit for what happened this weekend. For making me see that I had to confront the past and tell the truth. That as much as I owed that to Kirby and Conrad and my father, I also owed it to myself. “Are you glad you went?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It was tough … But yeah.”

“Anything worthwhile is tough,” he says, taking my hand and squeezing it.

“Yeah. Well, you were right.”

Peter shakes his head as if to say it’s not about being right. “I’m sorry I was so hard on you. I just had a difficult time accepting … all the secrets.”

“I know,” I say. “I understand.”

“But we can move on,” he says. “Right?”

I nod, every part of me trying to do just that.

“I’ve missed you, Champ,” he says.

I tell him I’ve missed him, too, and after we look at each other,
really
look at each other, he pulls me over to him and kisses me. I murmur apologies, and he whispers back his understanding and forgiveness.

“I want you,” he says, his hands running over, then under, my blouse.

“Let’s go,” I say, leading him back to my bedroom where we silently undress, each of us helping the other with buttons and snaps and belts. Our eyes stay locked the whole time, a silent conversation taking place, until we are both naked, kissing again. He tells me I’m beautiful, running his hands along my hips and back before lowering me to the bed. He is smooth and sure in each movement, every word. I think of all that has happened since we were last together like this, a few nights before Kirby knocked on my door. It feels like a lifetime ago.