Dead Time Page 35
I phoned Jonas and told him the plans. He seemed relieved that I was on my way. He assured me he would be fine until the next day. I was tempted to believe him. What choice did I have?
I phoned Lauren again before I left the airport. Again, she didn’t answer.
I left Lauren yet another message when I got to Boulder. I let her know I was getting concerned at her silence. I wondered if she, too, had lost her phone.
In my life I was learning to always leave room for irony.
Sam had left me a voice mail on the home line. Lisa was alive. She was at Cedars-Sinai. The hospital, at the patient’s request, was not releasing information about her condition. He hadn’t heard anything about the baby. Or Amy. He said he thought that was good news—that he hadn’t heard anything about Amy.
He also thought his L.A. law enforcement colleagues had pieced together a pretty good scenario to explain what had come down.
Jack’s cell-phone memory contained evidence of a call to Oden two days before I flew to California. The cops’ theory was that Jack had inadvertently started the final ball rolling when he made a decision to confront Oden with the news Jack had learned from Nicholas Paulson about Jaana’s pregnancy.
Oden instantly began to sense that his house of cards was crumbling. LAPD detectives found a receipt from a gas station in the Marina district in San Diego in Oden’s car. The receipt was dated the same day that Jack was planning to drive to L.A. to see Lisa. Oden had apparently arrived in San Diego just in time to follow Jack north for his rendezvous with Lisa in Mt. Washington. Jack’s next stop was Tarzana. Oden followed him there. The cops figured that it was at that point that Jack must have told Oden what Lisa knew. Oden killed Jack in the garage of the old barn and stashed his body in the decrepit pickup until he could decide what to do about Lisa. He returned to Mt. Washington the next day to get her. With Lisa bound and gagged in the cab of the truck he’d stolen, Oden drove to the Valley to retrieve Jack’s body.
He probably thought he was one trip to the desert away from dodging a second bullet.
But that was when I ran from Amy’s naked overture to the bed of the old Ford.
Sam ended his message with a laugh as he shared the fact that the local media had identified me as Gregory Alan.
I thanked the copywriting gods for that small favor.
I’d appreciated my time in New York City. I’d been surprised at how much I enjoyed being in L.A. But I felt consummate relief being back in Boulder. The gestalt of the place—the city against the mountains, the mountains against the sky—provided a much-needed anchor for my soul. It was one of those days that I found the Front Range so lovely that the tableau seemed preposterous. On one side of the valley, my home sits near the crest of pedestrian hills. On the opposing side of the valley, mountains soar from fifty-five hundred feet to fourteen thousand feet in the blink of a geological eye. Above the Rockies is western sky. Above that is possibility.
Tucked into the western edge of the valley is a town that is so full of contradictions that it is hard to believe it is the work of so much planning. Prescient leadership has left the city of Boulder as the hole in one of the most appetizing geographical urban doughnuts anywhere. The town, peculiar in so many amusing ways, is surrounded by pristine greenbelts stretching as far as my eyes can see. I marvel at the splendid economic wastefulness of the undeveloped acreage whenever I slow down long enough to be grateful for it. Developers, I imagine, want to fall on their bejeweled subdivision swords whenever they view the immense swaths of prime mountain and valley real estate that Boulder taxpayers have cordoned off from bulldozers. Forever.
Once I get my family back here, I was thinking, I might never leave.
I gave Mona a brief respite from her dog-sitting chores but explained that I’d be flying out the next morning to retrieve Jonas. The three dogs and I went on a late-afternoon walk on the familiar trails of Spanish Hills. Huge thunderheads were building along the Front Range. One reached toward the stratosphere in Jefferson County to the south, and another one did the same in Weld County to the north.
For that moment Boulder was dry. During monsoon season that could change in an instant.
A female voice stunned me when I walked back into the house with the dogs. I was disoriented enough to blink a few times and consider the possibility that I was hallucinating. I finally realized that someone was leaving a message on the answering machine. I charged for it. The dogs charged after me, barking. Just before I reached the phone, the voice said, “Adi.”
Adi. Amy.
I hit Play.
“Alan? I got this number from Mel’s mom. Hope it’s okay to call. I’m kind of glad you didn’t answer, that I got your machine. It’s easier, maybe. Listen…I’m fine, still shaky and sore, but okay. I’m staying with some friends from the show for a couple of days. Thanks for all your calls. Someday—not too soon—maybe we can talk about what happened. Something. Wow.” She sighed. “Okay…Last part. I want you to know that—when the whole adored thing ends up not working out for you and your wife—feel free to give me a call. I think you know what I mean. You take care. Adi.”
Yes, the whole adored thing.
A second message began to play. “Hey.” It was Sam. “No more news about Lisa. Can’t get anyone to talk about the baby. Merideth’s here, but I haven’t seen her yet. Amy’s been discharged from the hospital.
“Jack had contacted Oden after he talked to Paulson. Oden knew Jack had learned about Jaana’s pregnancy. Oden panicked—he started following Jack as soon as he left San Diego to come up to meet with Lisa. Jack was Oden’s initial target. It looks like Jack just told Lisa too much. I’ll keep you posted if I learn more. I…uh, I’m leaving L.A. Something came up.” Beep.
The phone rang. Caller ID read OUT OF AREA.
Amy’s calling back, I thought. My pulse raced.
I said, “Hello.”
A crisp, clear, male voice said, “Hello.”
The man had the type of generic accent that caused me to think that I might be getting an unwelcome robo-call from a politician or a charity. Before I could respond to his greeting, he continued. “This is Joost Holkenen. I am calling from Hilversum, in Holland. It’s not far from Amsterdam. Is this Alan Gregory?”
Why do I care where Hilversum is? I thought. Then I felt my legs begin to buckle.
I was no longer enjoying the afterglow of a pre-dusk walk with the dogs on the dusty trails of Spanish Hills in late summer. Suddenly it was the previous April all over again and it was three o’clock in the morning and I was trying to decipher the shocking news from Israel that my friend Adrienne was dead.
Oh, God. Joost Holkenen was in Holland. Hilversum is in Holland.
“Yes. Are Lauren and Grace okay?” I said. Please, please.
“Your daughter is well. Good. She is a fine child. Lauren is…ill, I’m afraid. Suddenly. This afternoon…early evening, really. She is in hospital here, in Hilversum. She has suffered some…paralysis. She is resting right now.”
Lauren is paralyzed. Holy shit. “Lauren? Her MS?”
“Yes, the doctors say. The MS, in her legs.”
I tried to recall the neurological anatomy. I thought “legs” likely meant a spinal-cord lesion. “Leg”—singular—was more indicative of a lesion in the brain. “Both legs?”
“Yes.”
“Where is Grace? My daughter? Is she with Lauren?”
“Of course, of course. She is with my daughter, Sofie, and her family. In Amsterdam. She is fine. By now asleep, I’m sure. It is late here.”
The situation he was describing made no sense to me. Why would Grace be with this man’s daughter and her family? Why wasn’t Grace with Lauren?
I swallowed down more panic. “I’m sorry. I’m not thinking clearly. Are you Lauren’s doctor? You said your name is…?”
“Holkenen. Joost Holkenen. No. Please, do not apologize. I am…Sofie’s father.” He paused. “Grace’s…sister’s…father.”
Grace’s…s
ister. Grace’s sister’s…father.
Gibberish. Who are you? I wondered.
An old relational brain-twister I had stumbled over since I’d first heard it as a child invaded my brain, uninvited: Brothers and sisters I have none, but this man’s father is my father’s son…
I could never figure the damn puzzle out.
I forced myself back to the suburb of reality that included Joost Holkenen and a town in the Netherlands called Hilversum. Could the concussion be causing my brain to misfire this badly?
“My daughter Sofie, and her family.” That was what Holkenen had said. He hadn’t said “my daughter Sofie, and my family.”
My daughter Grace was with Holkenen’s daughter Sofie, who was with her family. Sofie’s family was not her father’s family.
How does this work? My brain felt incapable of determining how many quarters were in a dollar, let alone solving this intercontinental relationship riddle.
Grace was with Sofie, and Sofie’s family. Okay. But was Grace also with Sofie, and Grace’s family? Did Grace’s family now include Sofie, and Sofie’s family?
I gasped. Does Grace’s family include Joost Holkenen?
When that last question formed in my head, I suddenly understood everything.
By the time my comprehension had endured for the duration of two eye blinks, I tried to shake it away with a silent, plaintive, No. I tried to pretend that I understood nothing.
It was too late. I did understand. I attempted to take a deep breath. I couldn’t. My lungs had shrunk to the size of walnuts. I coughed, then choked down vomit. I almost gagged as I swallowed it back into place.
I said, “Sofie is the daughter that Lauren gave up for adoption…when she was in college? She has been trying to arrange to meet her.”
None of what I said was news to Joost Holkenen. “That is correct,” he said. “Sofie is Grace’s sister—her half sister.”
His delivery was unremarkable. He could have been reciting the Hilversum–Amsterdam train schedule. His matter-of-fact tone made it clear to me that Joost didn’t have a bike in this peloton.
What did his neutrality mean for me? I wasn’t sure.
I steeled myself to ask the Powerball question, the one that could change our futures. Mine and Joost’s. Lauren’s and Grace’s. Maybe Sofie’s.
I said, “And you are…Sofie’s birth father?”
“I am,” said Joost Holkenen.
With surprising equanimity, I reviewed the facts in my head: My wife’s long-ago, year-abroad college lover is on the phone telling me all these years later that my wife is paralyzed in Hilversum in the Netherlands. That same man is my daughter’s half sister’s father.
The particulars, I recognized, were not good news for me on so many levels.
“Mr. Holkenen?” I said. “You live in Hilversum?”
He hesitated. Not for long—it was hardly a pause at all—but I noted the delay, perhaps because of how badly I feared it. Holkenen had been expecting me to connect some dots—and my question about where he lived provided all the evidence he needed that I had accomplished some important dot-connecting. His hesitation before he answered informed me that he hadn’t looked forward to witnessing the advent of my awareness.
I appreciated that the anticipation of my anguish made him uncomfortable. I liked that about him.
He finally said, “I do. I produce television here. News.”
The irony, finally.
I could feel cell walls imploding in my soul.
SIXTY-FOUR
I met Jonas and Kim in the terminal of LaGuardia the next day just before noon. Jonas gave Kim a protracted, poignant hug when the time came for her to go back home. They each had tears in their eyes as they said good-bye. I thanked Kim and promised her we would stay in touch. I felt good that Jonas had connected with his family, and especially good that Kim was part of it.
I could feel Jonas’s fragility as he watched her turn to walk away.
While we waited to clear security, I distracted him with a question about the Rockies’ chances of meeting the Mets in the playoffs. He reacted with a pronounced exhale that almost reached the threshold for a chuckle. He told me he’d done the math and that the Rocks would have to win almost all their remaining games just to be a wild card. I told him that I thought I remembered the Yankees winning something like fifteen in a row once to end their season. With more heartbreak in his voice than someone his age should have been able to muster, he said, “The Rockies just lost three of their starting pitchers for the season, Alan. And anyway, the Rockies aren’t the Yankees.”
He was right, of course. The Cubs may have written the book on futility and heartbreak, but in their brief history the Rockies had been doing a fine job of polishing the abridged version of the same tale.
We made it down the concourse only as far as Auntie Anne’s before I heard a telltale quiver radiating in Jonas’s voice. He’d just started describing a double-play in the previous night’s Mets game, but he couldn’t remember the name of the Mets’ second baseman. His frustration threatened to engulf him. With a hand on his shoulder I led him over to the side of the narrow concourse. I sat down with my back against a wall below a bank of pay phones and pulled him onto my lap.
He didn’t resist. He leaned into me, resting his head against my shoulder. He shook—quaked, really—before he started to cry. Once he began to sob, he continued for at least five minutes.
My own emotional balance remained sketchy. I was logy from the concussion, and ragged from everything else, but I felt strong enough to be Jonas’s dad at that moment.
Between sobs, he said, “I—I—I—”
I said, “I know. I miss her too, Jonas. I miss her too. I’m so sorry.”
Healing is not an event; it’s a process. Despite the hiccups of the Mojave, Holkenen, Hilversum, and Lauren’s paralysis, the process of healing was proceeding for me. I was getting better, stronger. I could feel it.
Despite his premature visit to connect with his mother’s family, the process would proceed for Jonas. He would heal too.
When I was pretty sure Jonas was done with this round of tears, I said, “Want to go home, buddy?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“I think I can do that. Brownie?” I asked. I was thinking Au Bon Pain.
He said, “Maybe a pretzel.” He had his eye on Auntie Anne’s.
“Or both,” I said. “A brownie and a pretzel. I can do that, too.”
We stood up.
Grief visited, comfort food on the way, Jonas turned the page back to baseball. “You think the Rockies could do it?” he asked, all cynicism suddenly absent from his voice, hope’s pendulum swinging far into the realm of fantasy. “Win the rest of their games? Maybe win the division or get the wild card?”
I wanted to be an optimist, but believing the Rockies could win out sounded borderline psychotic to me. “No,” I said. “Have they even won five in a row since the break? You think it will be the Mets in the East?”
The Mets would be a good consolation prize for Jonas.
“Gotta be. No way they can lose this lead,” Jonas said. We stepped into line for the pretzel. He added, “Yankees will fold. Mets–Sox World Series, Mets in six, that’s what I think. Can I get a Coke, too? Please.”
“It’s yours,” I said. “You know what—I didn’t tell you what your dog can do to a piece of paper, did I?”
“No. What?” His red eyes brightened.
“She makes confetti,” I said. “Perfect confetti. Times-Square-on-New-Year’s-Eve confetti. So be careful where you leave your homework. She’ll shred it in seconds. She’s a machine.”
He laughed.
It gave me hope.
The Rockies winning out? Ha, no chance.
It was okay with me. I already had my great news—a son who liked to talk baseball.
SIXTY-FIVE
Jonas and I were back in Boulder by dinnertime. I was suffering a bad case of airplane-seat ass. I’d get over it.
Without prelude, she said, “I have to tell Wallace, don’t I?”
She wanted me to disagree with her. I said, “Or Mel could tell Wallace.”
“She’s a wreck. That girl broke up with her. Jules. She told Cara she needs to do some growing up.”
“Maybe,” I said, “she does.”
Cassandra pondered that simple reality for a moment. “There are worse things,” she said.
“A million,” I replied. I was tempted to offer a few examples. I didn’t. Cassandra neither thanked me nor apologized to me.
I hadn’t decided if I deserved either.
I called Sam just to talk. He was, I guessed, on some desert road—north or south, highway or not—in the immense emptiness that fills most of the map between California and Boulder. I got his voice mail. I let him know I was back in town with Jonas. I didn’t tell him about Lauren. That wasn’t voice-mail fare. I gave him Jonas’s cell number and asked him to call me as soon as he got a chance.
My working hypothesis was that Sam had retraced his route through Las Vegas—maybe he’d stopped for a while and resumed his search for a five-buck blackjack table—and was someplace on 15 or already heading east on I-70. I allowed there was a chance that he’d reconsidered his earlier decision and strayed south to rendezvous with Ramona on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. If that appetite had prevailed, Sam would be coming up I-25 a few days later than I expected.
Not up “the 25.” Up I-25.
Back in graduate school I’d had a psych professor who used axioms to teach important psychological principles. One that had stuck with me was: You can go broke buying insurance.
Over the many years since I’d been exposed to his wisdom, the reach of that particular rule kept expanding. Experience had taught me that it contained a wealth of truth about many things. Even, it turned out, about insurance.