Chasing Rainbows A Novel

EIGHTEEN


“VZXY TQER FY QPWYDERBBW FHULIHDW, FQR ZR TQER FY VZMYW XBDIHDW.”

-EBDYP LZYDLYCHHDW

When Sunday arrived, so did the opportunity I’d been waiting for. My niece’s first birthday party.

I’d picked up Poindexter from Number Thirty-Six and dragged my faithful companion along for two reasons.

First, he could stand to learn a thing or two about the art of confrontation.

Second, his dog-cousin, Buster, not only graduated at the top of his obedience class, but he had the certificate and T-shirt to prove it.

I arrived late as usual, screeching my car to a stop. I scrambled to grab Elizabeth’s present and climb out of the car in one motion.

I opened the back door and Poindexter sat staring at me, not moving a muscle.

“Come on.” I waved dramatically toward the house. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t exactly shake his head, but he did make a general motion that clearly communicated his disinterest in going inside.

He’d spent the night here on more than one occasion, and I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of trauma he’d suffered. Of course, with Poindexter, a raised voice constituted trauma.

I reached into my pocket for the treat I’d brought along. Number Thirty-Six had assured me Poindexter would be putty in my hand as long as he knew I had these little goodies.

I pulled out a red gummy piece of I-don’t-know-what shaped like a miniature steak.

Poindexter gave me a single brow arch.

I’d be damned.

I waved the treat in front of his nose, pointed at the house and worked up my most authoritative tone of voice. “House. Now.”

He was out of the car and up on the front step like a shot.

I did my best to hide my dismay, figuring a blatant display of surprise would do nothing for the success of any future doggie commands.

I handed over the treat then rang the bell.

My mother answered the door, and I leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Welcome to the zoo,” she said with a smile, but the light in her eyes let me know she was in heaven.

Mark and his first wife had never had children, even though he’d always wanted a houseful. When he’d married Jenny, who was no less than ten years younger than he was, she’d been pregnant within the first year.

Elizabeth was their youngest.

I found the birthday girl in her high chair, clearly the center of attention at a table full of sugar-crazed children. Mark was in the process of lighting the cake’s single candle but managed to give me a quick chin tip.

“Bernie.”

“Mark.”

I wasn’t sure whether the chilliness between us stemmed from the fact I had missed most of the party or whether it was just our usual chilliness.

Buster’s nose hit my knee, and I reflexively bent down to pat his head. My fingers connected with hard plastic, and I frowned, dropping my focus to the dog’s level.

He wore a bright blue helmet, some sort of high-tech contraption more commonly seen on the Tour de France, if I wasn’t mistaken.

“What’s wrong with Buster?”

“Nothing.” Jenny breezed into the room with a second helmet in her hand.

I never ceased to wonder how she kept up with her life. I found myself tired just watching her buzz around the party, juggling toddlers, adults, food, and tantrums.

My mother always said people adapt.

If that was the case, I felt I’d adapted fairly well to being a slug.

But not Jenny.

Her cheeks were flushed with color and her eyes sparkled as they always did. Full of life.

“Has he been having seizures?” I asked, my brain working to figure out why on earth poor Buster needed headgear.

“Nope.” Jenny moved toward Poindexter whose eyes had taken on a distinct gleam of panic.

“What are you doing?” My voice climbed several octaves.

“It’s for his own good.”

With that, Elizabeth’s sippy cup flew into the air, landing squarely on Buster’s head. Without the helmet, I imagined the cup full of milk would have hurt like hell. With the helmet, the dog merely blinked before he resumed begging.

I looked at Poindexter and shrugged. “When in Rome, buddy.”

As Jenny strapped on the orange helmet, Poindexter’s big brown eyes bore right through me.

No wonder the poor thing had wanted to stay in the car.

I leaned down to his level and whispered in his ear. “I’ll make it up to you.”

By the time he’d snarfed down five pieces of cake, he’d gotten over the whole helmet aversion.

As for me, I’d stopped after two pieces, choosing to drop back a bit from the center of activity. I leaned one hip against the kitchen counter, shifting my attention from the party table to the beautiful afternoon outside.

As the party progressed, I could say I tried to talk myself out of a confrontation with my brother, but that would be a bold-faced lie.

The truth was, I couldn’t wait to get him alone, to corner him. The problem was going to be how to do that surrounded by fifteen toddlers, Jenny, my mother and two dogs in safety helmets.

Yet, as fate would have it, the attendees began to topple like little exhausted dominos. Hyped up on birthday cake and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, they slowly succumbed, their blood glucose levels plummeting before my eyes.

One by one they were carried out by politely smiling parents who no doubt couldn’t wait to return the favor at their child’s next party.

When Jenny disappeared upstairs carrying a party-weary Elizabeth in her arms, I made my move.

My mother vanished into the kitchen, trying to clean up the party mess in order to help Jenny. I supposed I should have done the same thing, but instead I stalked Mark like a lion working a desert watering hole, trailing him out into the backyard and the waning warmth of the afternoon sun.

He’d snagged a bottle of beer from the fridge as soon as the last guest left and took a long swallow as he turned to face me, his eyebrows pulling together. He lowered the bottle, and pursed his lips.

“Spill it.” He gave a quick shrug, daring me with his angry expression.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, as if I didn’t know exactly what he meant.

“It means, you’ve had a bug up your ass since you walked in the door, and I’m guessing it’s got nothing to do with making your dog wear a helmet.”

I squinted at him, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the slant of the afternoon sun. “You have to admit it’s a bit much.”

“It’s been a long day. Get to the point, Bernie.”

His tone angered me. His stance angered me. At that particular moment in my life, his breathing angered me.

Was this what we’d missed all those years we hadn’t lived together as brother and sister? Maybe all the time I’d spent regretting our lost opportunities for sibling bonding would have been better spent being thankful we lived apart.

Apparently, proximity didn’t bring out the best in either one of us.

“Why won’t you do it?” I asked, waving one hand wildly into the air.

“What?” He tipped his beer bottle to his lips, his gaze narrowing.

“You know exactly what.” I took a step closer. “Why can’t you go to Mom’s house and pick a damned jacket?”

He blinked, surprise splashing across his features.

What had he expected me to say? Surely he knew he’d let Mom down. He’d let her down ever since that first moment we’d stared into Dad’s closet together.

“Are you kidding me?” Now it was Mark’s turn to step closer. “That’s why you’re so pissed off at me?”

I nodded. “Can’t you see you’re hurting Mom? Why won’t you do it? Don’t you want one of Dad’s jackets?”

He blinked again. “I do, I’m just...it’s just...”

“Are you scared?” I could tell by the way his features tensed I was treading on dangerous turf. “I can’t believe you’re scared.”

He frowned then, taking in a deep breath then slowly releasing it.

I knew the trick. Hell, I’d patented the trick.

My brother was stalling for time to think. Well, I wasn’t about to give it to--

“Did you ever stop to think you’re doing a fair amount of hurting Mom yourself?” he asked.

His words took me by surprise and this time, I blinked. “I’m hurting Mom?” I patted my chest. “I’m helping Mom.”

“How?” One corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk and I fought the urge to smack it down. “Are you helping her by getting divorced, losing your job, or going through some short-haired, boot-wearing transformation?” He gestured at my head and then my feet.

“At least I’m there for her.” I straightened, my voice climbing at least three octaves.

“Are you?” He had the audacity to laugh. “Because the last time I was at her house, you were nowhere in sight.”

“Oh, and when was that?” I asked. “When you were finally helping her sort Dad’s jackets?”

“Stop it.”

This time, Mark and I both blinked.

“Both of you.” My mother’s voice was sharper and angrier than I’d ever heard it.

Mark and I turned to face her. Instant shame washed through me at the sight of her flushed cheeks, bright with anger. She might sound big, but at that particular moment, she looked small. Very, very small.

And standing in my brother’s back yard arguing on my niece’s first birthday wasn’t helping anything.

I should have apologized. I know this. But I didn’t. Instead I jerked my thumb at Mark as if we were back at home during the years before he’d moved out.

“It’s his fault. If he’d just face the fact Dad’s gone, we could all move forward.”

I never expected the tears that sprang into my mother’s eyes.

“Nice going,” Mark muttered.

My heart rapped against my ribs, guilt reaching deep inside me and squeezing. “Mom, I’m sorry--”

She held up one hand and turned, headed back into the kitchen. Jenny appeared in the doorway and intercepted her, placing one hand flat against Mom’s back as she steered her out of sight.

“Nice going,” Mark repeated.

“Oh, shut up.” I shook my head, angry with my brother and furious with myself. I crossed the yard as quickly as I could, stepped into the kitchen, unhooked Poindexter’s helmet and headed for the front door.

I never stopped to say goodbye or to apologize or to bang my head against the wall.

I felt pretty certain any one of those actions would have been acceptable at that particular moment.

Instead, I headed for home, feeling like an ass.

I needed to drop off Poindexter before I went into work, but when I reached my neighborhood, cars lined the street and strains of Hot, Hot, Hot blared from the open windows of Number Thirty-Six’s house.

I stood, transfixed, as six older women danced their way around Number Thirty-Six’s house, their grass skirts swaying, Hawaiian shirts all but glowing in the afternoon sun. The day was seasonably chilly for late winter, but to look at the smiles on the women’s faces, you’d think they’d been transported straight to the Big Island.

Uninhibited joy lit their expressions, and I wondered when in my life I’d learned to hold back.

“How’s your friend?”

Number Thirty-Six’s voice sounded close, and I jumped a foot. Who was this guy? Batman?

“Better,” I answered, “Thanks again for taking care of Poindexter.”

I turned to face him, my gaze held momentarily by how good he looked with a peach hyacinth behind one ear. Not many men could pull off the look, but Number Thirty-Six? Well, I’d come to realize the man could pull off just about any look out there.

“Your party?” I asked.

“My mom’s.” His grin spread wide, and I tried to remember a time I hadn’t seen Number Thirty-Six happy. “I’m just the host.”

I looked back at the party and sighed. “You’re a good son.”

“She’s a great mom.”

“Her birthday?”

Beside me, he nodded. “Her eightieth.”

My heart fell to my toes. How Daddy would have loved a party like this for his eightieth, if only he’d lived a little longer.

Number Thirty-Six touched my elbow lightly and a jolt of awareness shot through me. “There’s a piña colada over there with your name on it.”

I moved toward my house, breaking our contact, pulling away from the party and Number Thirty-Six, when a very large part of me wanted nothing more than to don a grass skirt and dance the night away. But the local hockey league had a late afternoon game and I’d offered to man the snack bar.

Thank goodness. Otherwise, I might be forced to sit home and think about how awful I’d acted at Mark’s house.

“I have to work.” I forced a bright tone into my voice. “But you have fun.”

“How about a cup of coffee then?” he asked, his eyes widening with the taunt.

I grinned, giving a slow shake of my head. “Never touch the stuff.”

He laughed as he turned back toward his mother and her guests. “So you keep telling me, Number Thirty-Two. So you keep telling me.”

o0o

By the time I got to the rink, I’d rehashed the scene at Mark’s house so many times my forehead hurt from frowning.

David was nowhere to be found but players and families had begun trickling in from the parking lot.

Ashley sat in the snack bar, nursing a large Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate.

“Where’s your dad?” I asked.

She wrinkled her nose. “What’s wrong with you?”

Was I that transparent? I waved off her question dismissively. “Nothing.”

One perfectly applied pale brow arched subtly. “Sounds like you’re stuffing your feelings.”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. I’d forgotten how dangerous new information could be during the teen years.

“I had a little argument with my brother.” I shrugged. I neglected to add the fact I’d made my mother cry and I’d stormed out of the house like someone more the age of...well...Ashley. “Where’s your dad?” I repeated.

She drew in a slow breath, took a dramatic sip of her chocolate and slowly shook her head from one side to the other, sending her perfectly glossy hair swinging. “You won’t believe it, but there’s a sale at Macy’s. He said he’d be back in time to lock up.”

I sank into a chair.

A sale at Macy’s? David?

I made a face.

Ashley threw her hands up in the air. “I think he’s channeling Mom or trying to keep up her reputation while she’s in the hospital, or something.”

“Did you see her today?” I asked.

Ashley nodded. “Most of the afternoon.” Her features brightened, her eyes dancing. “I think she’s coming home tomorrow. And we had the best talk.” Another shrug. “Probably the meds making her nice.”

More like the scare making her realize all she had to appreciate.

I reached out to ruffle Ashley’s hair and she expertly dodged and blocked my hand. “Do you know how much time it takes me to look like this?”

A laugh bubbled between my lips. “Just testing your reflexes.”

Forty-five minutes later, the ice was a wreck from the game’s first two periods and I’d inhaled so many chocolate chip cookies I thought I’d explode. I’d been staring into space for who knew how long, when Ashley popped around the corner, startling me so much I squeaked.

She grinned--an ornery, up-to-no-good grin.

“What did you do?” I asked, immediately expecting the worst.

She frowned, and I could read her unspoken thoughts. I was acting like a grown-up. Imagine.

“Want to run the Zamboni with me?” Her inflection climbed through the roof.

Zamboni.

I’d tactfully avoided all talk of Zamboni operation since my first few days at the rink. I had no intention of revisiting the topic now.

“Nope.” I spoke the word sharply, turning to wipe down the already spotless counter.

“I can teach you, Aunt Bernie.” A slight pause. “Please?”

I scowled, obviously having spent too much time around Ashley’s father. “You want to teach me?”

She nodded, visibly encouraged by my question. “You know you want to do this. Face your fears and all that stuff, right?”

I reached up to rake a hand through my hair, knowing the short waves would be left in a disastrous tangle, but not caring.

Face my fears.

The kid was good.

“Who’s going to drive, you or me?”

“Me.” She slapped her chest. “You can ride with me. I’ll teach you every step.”

“What about the snack bar?”

“We’ll put up a back-in-ten-minutes sign.” Obvious excitement shimmered in her eyes. If the kid was this enthusiastic about teaching me how to drive the death machine, how could I say no?

I pressed my lips together then forced out one word. “Okay.”

Ashley clapped, then spun on her heel. “Let’s go.”

I quickly scribbled the note for the snack bar and followed, dread simmering deep inside my belly.

My father always said I could do anything, especially something other people already knew how to do. Certainly, driving the Zamboni-from-hell fell into that category.

I mean, thousands of people probably knew how to drive a Zamboni, right? And you didn’t hear about Zamboni deaths all that often, so chances were I’d survive to talk about this.

But several minutes later, as the big machine lumbered across the ice and the cold rink air slapped me in the face, I longed for a barf bag.

I hadn’t realized precisely how terrified of the machine I was until I sat down next to Ashley on the freezing cold vinyl seat.

Terrified didn’t come close. I was petrified.

“Isn’t this easy?” Ashley screamed as she maneuvered the machine around the ice, following a precise pattern as the overhead sound system played Muzak.

“Piece of cake,” I answered, lying through my teeth.

“You want to steer?” she asked.

I dramatically shook my head no, but I was too late. Ashley let go of...everything...and climbed onto the seat.

We were at center ice, headed straight for one of the team benches. The cave man mascot stood staring down the machine as the Zamboni lumbered closer and closer. He planted his fists on his fur-covered hips and furrowed his perfect brows.

I should have known Ashley had ulterior motives.

She widened her stance, solidifying her balance.

I reminded myself to remember her technique the next time I jumped on a chair to assert myself.

I frantically scanned the controls, working to bring the death machine to a stop, while Ashley went into action.

“Hey, a*shole,” she hollered at the precise moment there was a lull in the Muzak.

An audible gasp filtered through the rink. The cave man straightened, apparently well aware he was the a*shole in question. I cringed as Ashley proudly gave him the finger, for the entire rink to see.

“Here’s what I think of you and your eyebrows. Matter of fact, you and your eyebrows can kiss my--”

I leaned on the Zamboni’s horn, drowning out Ashley’s final thought. She dropped back onto the seat next to me, pride shining in her every feature.

At that particular moment, I was aware of three things.

One, I was a natural at operating the death machine.

Two, Ashley had apparently overcome stuffing her feelings.

And three, Diane and David were going to strangle me with their bare hands.

o0o

“It’s funny,” Diane said, biting back a grin as I walked into her hospital room the next morning, “I always thought I’d be the one to teach my daughter to give someone the finger.”

I winced.

“You know, I realized I wasn’t even mad she made an obscene gesture in front of the entire rink,” Diane continued.

“No?” I dropped my purse to the floor and leaned down to kiss her forehead. I couldn’t help noticing her overnight bag was packed and ready to go.

Diane shook her head. “I was mad I missed it.”

I squinted, not sure where to go with my side of the conversation.

The corners of Diane’s eyes grew a bit sad. “If anyone should be encouraging her to make vulgar hand gestures, it should be me.”

When my brow arched this time, it worked. Call it shock. Call it what you will, but Diane’s words had snapped my left brow to attention.

“I’ve neglected her. I can’t let my entire world revolve around this baby.” She lovingly rubbed her baby bump. “I need to get Ashley back.”

Her gaze lifted to mine, tears pooling along the rim of her lower lashes.

“You never lost her,” I said softly, shaking my head. “Not for a second.”

Diane sniffed. Loudly. “You sure?”

Was I sure? “Absolutely. You’re her mom. No one’s ever going to change that. Not even some out-of-control Aunt Bernie teaching her to express herself.”

“I got a little out of control with the purse thing,” she said, squishing up her features.

I shrugged. “Blame it on the hormones.”

A knock sounded at the door and I tensed, imagining Dr. Platt popping in to make one last visit. Instead, a brilliant smile lit Diane’s face. I turned to see David and Ashley walking through the door.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Diane asked, though the joy painted across her features made it clear she was delighted Ashley was here.

“We wanted to bring you something first.” A sheepish grin slid across David’s face--a look I hadn’t seen since the night he and Diane met. I could still remember each of their expressions. I can also remember thinking this is it. And it was.

Ashley handed Diane a large box.

“For me?” But Diane had already begun attacking the ribbon and paper even as she asked the question.

The paper fell away and she hoisted the lid from the box, reaching inside to pull out a bag. She gasped, moisture shining in her sparkling eyes.

In her hands, she held a fabulously stylish diaper bag, suede with an embroidered heart and the word love spelled out in rhinestones.

Some might call the bag gaudy or over-the-top. I thought it one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

“Dad picked it out,” Ashley said, her voice softer than I’d heard it in thirteen years. “By himself.”

The tears glistening in Diane’s eyes trailed wet paths down her cheeks, slipping into the lines of her smile. “I love bags. How did you know?”

David beamed as he moved beside her, wiping first one cheek and then the other. “Lucky guess.”

Ashley and I both looked at the pale tiled floor to hide our grins, and when we returned our gazes to Diane and David, they were kissing like a couple of high school kids.

“I feel sick.” Ashley slapped a hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t fool me.

Hope sparkled in her gaze. Real hope. The kind of hope I’d been afraid she’d lost for good.

“I’m sorry I was such an idiot when you were first admitted,” David said softly to Diane. “I was scared.”

I hooked my arm through Ashley’s and pulled her tight against my side. She was looking up at the ceiling, apparently unable to stomach such a public display of affection from her parents. But, no matter how far up she tipped her chin, she couldn’t hide the smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

A bubble of warmth burst inside me, spreading outward to my fingers and my toes.

Diane and David and Ashley were on the mend. Sure, it had taken a crisis to set the change into motion, but wasn’t that often the case?

Who knew, maybe the bun in the oven knew exactly what he or she was doing.

I never saw Dr. Platt again. He didn’t say goodbye, and he wasn’t at the nursing station as we left.

Part of me still wanted some sort of admission from the man, some sign he had a heart beneath his robotic exterior. But the man had never said anything that wasn’t negative during that awful time in my life five years earlier. Why should now be any different?

After all, life wasn’t a Hollywood movie and not every ending provided closure. Sometimes an a*shole was just an a*shole, and sometimes a doctor who didn’t believe in miracles was just a doctor who didn’t believe in miracles.

I watched as David and Ashley bracketed Diane’s wheelchair as her nurse pushed her toward the lobby.

Dr. Platt might not believe in miracles, but I did.

And maybe that was all that mattered.

o0o

“Life must be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.”

-Soren Kierkegaard