Twenty-Four
CALEB STOOD FROM his crouched position by a painting, spine ramrod straight. His heart beat in his throat. Slowly, like a burglar caught, he turned to face the woman who had spoken. At the back of his mind he wondered if he should have his hands up in surrender.
Didi’s mother stood by the door of the painting room in a peach uniform, fists on her hips and a scowl on her pretty-yet-fatigued face. The years of taking care of Didi were catching up with her.
“Mrs. Alexander,” he said, stammering the name slightly. She could kick him out. It was her right, since he had essentially broken into her home. Cops might even be called if she wanted.
His obvious fear softened her slightly, although her shoulders remained tense when she said, “Call me Angela. Mrs. Alexander makes me sound so old.”
He let out a sigh of relief. “Angela.”
“So,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Like a criminal confessing, the words fell out of his mouth. “I rang the bell, but no one answered. I figured you were at work and that maybe Didi was asleep.”
“If you thought she was asleep, then why force your way in anyway?”
“Please,” he begged. “I need to see her.”
She rubbed her forehead, shoulders slumping forward, losing all their earlier tension. “What about disappearing from her life don’t you understand? You’re clearly unhealthy for her. She hasn’t gotten out of bed since we got back from the hospital. The only reason I’m leaving this house is I can’t miss any more work.” The last part seemed like she was saying it more to herself than to Caleb.
“Please, Mrs. . . . I mean, Angela.” He took a step forward. “I love her.”
The words came out smoothly. No hesitation. And it tasted right. Felt right. He loved her. He would have wanted to tell Didi first. That time in the car hadn’t counted since he’d almost killed the both of them. But he knew Didi’s mother needed to hear it just as much as her daughter did. He saw that more and more the longer he stayed in Angela’s presence. She would do anything to protect her daughter. He wanted her to understand that he felt the same way.
“Her father loved her too,” she said harshly. “One bad episode and he left.”
He flinched. “I’d like to think I’m more of a man than your husband was.”
“Sure, you’re confident now. Wait until she spirals again. Let’s see how long you last.”
Then Didi’s words when they were at Coward’s Cliff came back to him. “I can’t see the future, Angela, but I do know one thing. Whether I stay in your daughter’s life or not should be up to her. Just let me see her.”
“Can’t you see what you’ve put her through?” Angela indicated the paintings with a swipe of her hand.
From where he stood, he turned in a tight circle. “All I see here is beauty. This one”—he pointed at the garden party painting—“is the first event we attended together. I thought to myself when she arrived in that yellow dress that she was the most beautiful girl there. And this one”—he gestured at the Summer Swing—“was our first slow dance. If she’ll have me, I plan on more slow dances with her. This one is my favorite.” He crouched down again beside the Fourth of July party painting. “Did you know she gave me a painting for my birthday? It’s from this day too. It was of the two of us during our first kiss.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
The quiver in her voice gave him hope as he pushed to his feet. “Didi was wrong to stop taking her meds. I get that. Her decision was a dangerous one. I certainly had nothing to do with it. Had I known about her condition—”
“You would what?” Angela interrupted.
“Maybe I might not have dragged her into my world,” he said honestly. The admission took her aback. “But I cannot change the past. All I can do is ask for a chance to try to make her happy. You have to at least give me that.”
She crossed her arms. Then she stepped aside, reluctantly creating enough room for him to pass. “You’re right. Ultimately you being in her life is her decision to make.”
With uneven steps, he skirted around the chaos and Angela toward the kitchen. Dishes were piled high in the sink. A mound of clothes sat on the floor beside the washing machine in the small laundry room. The table was a mess of half-empty Chinese takeout. A stale pizza smell hung in the air.
The door to Didi’s room was ajar when his gaze finally landed there. Gathering what little courage he had left, he opened the door the rest of the way and peered in. “Didi?”
The mess in the kitchen extended into her room. Clothes littered the floor. Piles and piles of books and magazines ate up what space the clothes and shoes didn’t. And there on the bed lay a mound covered by several layers of comforters. The whole scene seemed unreal.