“Are you hungry?” my mother asks Conrad, standing. “Let me get you a plate.”
“No, thank you,” he says. “I just ate—and can’t stay long.”
Charlotte says, “We were just talking about Kirby’s singing voice a few minutes ago. She must get it from you. Aren’t you a musician?”
Conrad nods modestly, then says, “Your sister’s got a lot of talent. I wish I could take credit…”
“You can take credit,” Marian chimes in. Then she turns to my mother and says, “You should have seen them together on stage.”
Of course, I haven’t told anyone in my family about this, so a long discussion begins of our performance in the bar, Marian leading the charge, telling everyone how brilliant we were together. Her intentions are good, but I wish she hadn’t brought that up as my mother looks sad again, probably because I hadn’t told her myself.
“I was going to tell you,” I say to her. “But the Belinda stuff … things just got hectic.”
My mom nods, like she understands, as my dad heads to the refrigerator, bringing back a cold Budweiser for Conrad. “I don’t know if you like these. But you sorta have to in St. Louis!”
I look at Conrad, holding my breath, hoping he’ll stay, and sure enough, he takes it and says, “I’m always in the mood for a Bud. Thanks, man.”
I exhale, relieved and happy, then start laughing—I don’t know why. I try to stop but can’t.
“What’s so funny?” Charlotte says, looking for the literal joke, as she always does.
I shake my head then say, “Nothing … Just raise your hand if you think this is really, really bizarre?”
Everyone raises their hand and the ice is officially broken.
* * *
Sometime after we eat my mom’s cake (and my dad makes everyone sing and pose for photos), we all head to the family room, including Conrad who is on his second beer and has stopped looking at his watch. When my dad turns on the Cards game, the two start talking baseball (Conrad is a White Sox fan) and really seem to hit it off—which is great except that it highlights the fact that my mom and Marian have nothing to say to each other. They’ve exhausted all the surface topics and it is clear that they have nothing much in common. And that’s when Charlotte busts out with the family photo albums.
“Wanna see some pictures of Kirby when she was little?” Charlotte asks Marian, handing her three huge albums.
“Charlotte!” I protest. “Those are so boring!”
But I’m secretly pleased when Marian lights up and tells my sister it is an excellent idea, she’d love to see some photos. She opens the first album and freezes, staring down at my earliest baby pictures, including ones taken on the very day she gave me away. I see my mom watching Marian with a tense, almost pissed-off, look on her face, and I start wishing she would hurry up, turn the page, and get to my toddler days. But she doesn’t. She just keeps lingering there at the beginning, looking sort of sad, until she finally says, “Conrad. C’mere. Baby pictures of Kirby.”
He nods, gets up from his chair and walks over to her, looking down over her shoulder, then sitting on the couch next to her. “That’s one good-looking baby,” he says to no one in particular.
I can’t help feeling proud, because he looks proud, but I still say, “Okay. Guys. Move it along. You have eighteen years to cover.”
Marian finally turns the page as my mom works her way over to the couch and begins to narrate over Conrad’s shoulder. That was the day I first smiled, rolled over, ate solid foods, pulled myself up in my crib. As the pages keep turning, my mom finally sits on the other side of Marian, loosening up, telling stories about me—and Charlotte—some of them funny, but most of them pretty dull. Conrad and Marian look far from bored, though, and ask my mom lots of questions. She answers, and my dad and Charlotte fill in with occasional color commentary.
When they get to my first drum kit, and my mom starts telling the story about how I slept with it next to my bed, I get this funny feeling inside and then realize what it is. It’s the feeling of belonging. Right here where I am. In this house. With my parents and Charlotte. The people who know all my stories, from the beginning. The people who know me.
“And that’s when Art and I got our first earplugs,” my mom says, with a laugh. “Not that Kirby wasn’t talented from the start. Just very, very loud and talented.”
She looks over at me and smiles. And I smile back at her because I can tell she knows what I’m thinking and feeling. Even better, I can tell she’s feeling the same way.
* * *
Sometime after seven, when we all start to yawn, Conrad says he’s going to hit the road. My dad says he is welcome to stay for the night, but he politely declines, insisting that he loves night driving.
Marian says she should go, too, then asks my dad if he wouldn’t mind calling her a cab.
“I can take you,” Conrad quietly offers.
“Are you sure?” Marian says, looking surprised.
“Yeah. No problem,” he says with a shrug.
Everyone says their good-byes as Marian gathers her purse and my father writes down directions back to the hotel. I walk to the foyer, waiting for them, hoping nobody else follows. Nobody does, and a moment later, I’m outside with them, standing next to Conrad’s car. It is not yet dark, but it looks like a storm might be coming, thunder rumbling in the far distance.
“Well,” Marian says after a few quiet seconds pass. “Thank you for having us.”
“Yeah. Thank you, Kirby,” Conrad says.
“It was a really nice ceremony. And day,” she says.
I nod, feeling a lump in my throat. There are so many things I want to say, yet my mind goes blank and all I can do is feel.
“I’m glad you were both here,” I finally manage, thinking how strange it is to be standing with the two people who made you, something most kids take for granted every day of their lives, but something I never really believed would happen. And certainly not like this—on such a big, important day.
“We’re proud of you,” Marian says.
Conrad nods his agreement, accepting her “we,” and even adds, “We wish we could take credit.”
I smile, then take a deep breath and give them both a hug, first Marian, then Conrad—which sort of turns into a fleeting, awkward three-way hug. I fight back tears that seem to come from nowhere, and then say a quick, final good-bye. Only this time, I know it’s not really final.
Once safely back in the shadows of my porch, I turn and watch them get in the car and back up, waving when Conrad honks twice, one beep for each of them. Then I take a deep breath and go back inside to join my family.
34
marian
It is impossible not to think of the past as Conrad drives me back to my hotel. We’ve just spent several hours with Kirby and her family, and I haven’t begun to process those emotions—from her moving graduation ceremony to the first strained moment I walked into her house and met her parents, to Conrad’s surreal arrival, to the end of the evening when Kirby’s sister got out all the old family albums and her mother began telling the stories only she could tell. I think of how difficult it must have been for Lynn and Art to share such an important, special day with strangers, even if we are her blood relatives. Especially because we are. I am happy for Kirby and excited for her future, but it is so hard to see, up close and in vivid color, all that I missed and will never be able to get back, no matter how many stories I’m told or photographs I’m shown. I meant what I said—that I made the best decision for her—but I cannot deny a sense of profound loss for what I gave up. For what could have been.
In this moment, though, I am thinking about Conrad and Conrad only. I have kept the memories at bay all day, even when he stood so near me that I could inhale his still familiar scent, but now they are rushing back, fast and strong and unfiltered. I have to fight the sudden urge to reach over and rest my hand on his leg like I used to whenever we drove around in his black Mustang.
&nb
sp; “Merge onto I-44,” I say, following the directions Art scratched out for us on a napkin. I am trying to make every mile, every second, count, wishing Conrad would slow down or at least turn down the radio and talk to me.
He nods. “Got it.”
I covertly study his profile, but he glances my way, catching me staring.
“What?” he says. There is no hostility, but no warmth, either. Just blankness. For a second, I almost miss the anger.
“Nothing,” I say, looking straight out at the highway again. The view is urban but generic. We could be anywhere.
He sighs, turns the station once, twice, then obviously dissatisfied, turns the radio off altogether. We drive another few minutes in silence until I point out our exit on Vandeventer Avenue.
He veers to the right, then finally speaks. “She’s a great kid.”
“I know,” I say. “She’s awesome.”
“So’s her family,” he says. “I really like them. Art’s a character.”
“Yeah,” I say. “She really got lucky.”
“You got lucky, too,” he says, shooting me a pointed glance. “If she had ended up in a bad situation…”
He shakes his head, as I finish his sentence for him. “You would never have forgiven me.”
“No,” he says.
I point out our final turn onto South Kingshighway. “So you have?” I say. “Forgiven me?”
He takes a deep breath and shrugs, as if I’ve just asked an impossible, philosophical question rather than a relatively straightforward one. “I don’t know, Marian.”
I bite my lip and say nothing, having no choice but to accept this, along with his obvious reluctance to talk. About a mile later, I point to my hotel. “That’s it. Up on the right,” I say.
He nods, then pulls into the drive as a valet appears.
“There’s a bar in the lobby,” I say, feeling frantic. “Will you come in for one drink?”
He shakes his head. “I have a five-hour drive ahead of me.”
“Just one drink?” I say. “Ten minutes?”
He takes a deep breath, exhales, and says, “Okay. One drink.”
I open the door, and tell the valet I’ve already checked in but my friend will be staying for a few minutes. Then we both get out of the car, and walk through the mostly empty lobby to the Eau Bistro, finding two seats at the end of the bar. A beat later, the bartender finds us. I order a Chardonnay, he asks for a Stella. He stares straight ahead until our drinks arrive and he takes his first long sip. Then he turns to look at me, squarely in the eyes, and says, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I tell him that I don’t know.
“That’s bullshit. You do know.”
“I … don’t … I just don’t think I was mature enough … I wasn’t ready to handle adult truths … and complicated choices. Keeping a secret made it all seem easier.”
“It wasn’t a secret. It was a lie,” he says.
I nod, realizing that Peter was right—there really is little difference between the two.
“Did you think I’d try to talk you into an abortion?” he asks.
“No,” I say, putting my glass down without taking a drink. “It wasn’t that. It was more … that I was afraid you’d talk me out of an abortion … Then, once I talked myself out of it, I was afraid you’d talk me into keeping her.”
“I wouldn’t have tried to talk you into anything,” he says. His voice is more confused and hurt than angry. “I would have let you choose. That’s what I told you before you took the test.”
“Okay. Well, maybe I was afraid that if I told you … I would talk myself into keeping her,” I say.
He gives me a look of utter exasperation, then literally throws his hands up.
“I loved you,” I say—as if this explains it all. And in a strange way, it sort of does.
“I loved you, too,” he says, staring me down again.
I hold his gaze, feeling light-headed, and in that instant, I know for sure it’s not just nostalgia making me feel so funny inside. It is Conrad himself, here in the present.
“I could have helped you,” he says, lowering his voice. “At the very least, you could have let me say good-bye.”
“I know. I should have,” I say, remembering that day. “I’m glad you got to see the photos.”
He shakes his head. “I was talking about saying good-bye to you.”
I catch my breath and then say, “Oh.”
“I always knew we wouldn’t stay together, Marian. That we were probably too young. And that you were definitely too good for me … But I thought I was good enough for a good-bye.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t too good for you.”
“Yeah. Right.” He takes a sip of his beer and rolls his eyes. “Ms. Highfalutin producer about to marry some … damn … Hollywood bigwig.”
I give him a look of surprise.
“Kirby told me.”
“Well, did she tell you we broke up?” I say, realizing that I never told her that news.
Conrad shrugs, as if it makes no difference either way. And I’m sure it doesn’t.
“I’m not highfalutin,” I say, my voice quiet.
“You’re big-time,” he says. “Big fish. Big pond. Big-time.”
I look at him, thinking that I’d give it all away to go back and tell him the truth that day. But I know he wouldn’t believe that, so instead I say, “Yeah. Okay. I’m big-time. But you have the better, truer life. I saw you up there on stage. You’re doing what you love.”
“So are you,” he says.
I shake my head, realizing that although television and writing have always been my passions, I’ve often let my goals supersede the journey—and the love of what I’m doing. A constant battle to stay in control, get to the next level, ensure that my life stays perfectly, carefully scripted.
“It’s not the same. You seem so … happy,” I say.
“I’ve had some setbacks here and there. A divorce. Few too many drugs. But overall … I can’t complain. So far.” He knocks on the bar.
“Do you want kids?” I blurt out.
“I have one,” he says.
“You know what I mean,” I say. “Do you want more? A family?”
“Sure. Yeah. I always have … What about you?”
I nod and say, “Yes. If it’s right.”
Like where we just came from, I think, picturing Kirby and her family, their home filled with love. “But if it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t happen,” I say.
“You’ll always have Kirby,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “So will you.”
He gives me a sideways smile and says, “Hard to believe that she is the result of one stupid summer night, huh?”
I shake my head and say, “It wasn’t a stupid night.”
“You know what I mean. We were just a couple of dumb kids. Fools.”
“Yeah. I guess so. But in some ways I think I was smarter then,” I say, thinking of how I followed my gut that night when I said yes to him. For years, I regretted it. Regretted him. Even regretted her. But now I can see that there is redemption and beauty in an accident emanating from love. Now I can see that she is the best thing I ever did.
He takes a long drink of his beer, then smiles to himself.
“What?” I say, expecting something profound.
He gives me a look that I remember well, the same one he gave me in Janie’s backyard. “You might have been smarter then, but you’re better lookin’ now.” He shakes his head. “Damn.”
I smile, taken aback—a compliment was the last thing I expected tonight. “You are, too,” I say, my insides fluttering.
He raises his eyebrows, signals the bartender for our check, and says he better go. “I remember what happens when I drink with you.”
“You were drinking Dr Pepper that night,” I say, smiling.
“Was I?” he says.
I nod.
“Well, then, I remember what happens when you drink. You took advan
tage of me.”
I can tell he is kidding, but my heart still pounds wildly. “Don’t go yet,” I whisper.
“I have to,” he says. “But maybe I’ll see you again. At Kirby’s college graduation.”
“I don’t think she’s going to college,” I say.
“Oh, she’s going,” he says with a wink, as if he has the inside scoop. And I bet he does. “So see you in four years?”
I nod, but say I really hope we can talk before then. He says I know where to find him; Zelda’s is open three hundred sixty-five days a year.
I look at him, hopeful. It almost sounds like an invite. “Why’s it called Zelda’s, anyway?” I ask, trying to remember his mother’s name, wishing we could talk about her tonight. Wishing we could talk about so many things.
“The Great Gatsby’s my favorite book,” he says. “F. Scott Fitzgerald dedicated it to Zelda.”
“His wife?” I say.
“Yeah. His crazy-ass wife who he had no business loving that much,” he says, giving me a loaded look. “You know what their joint epitaph says? It’s a quote from the book … Their kid picked it for them.”
I shake my head. “What’s it say?”
His eyes close halfway as he recites, “‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”
I stare at him and he stares right back with those intense blue-gray eyes.
“Now,” he says, sliding two bills onto the bar. “I really gotta go.”
“Okay,” I say. “But just remember—”
“What’s that?” he says, getting up from his stool, standing so near me that our legs touch and I feel his warm breath on my cheek.
I inhale deeply, then say, “You can run. But you can’t hide.”
“So I’ve heard,” he says with a small smile, and I can tell he remembers his words on that unforgettable night. I can tell he remembers everything.
He stands, zips up his jacket, and gives me a nod good-bye. Then he walks out of the bar while I replay our conversation, the entire day, and the night we made our perfect mistake, under the ceiling fan in Janie’s parents’ room. I order one more glass of wine, feeling a wave of intense loneliness. I miss Peter for a moment—and then realize it’s not Peter I miss, but the idea of what I once thought we shared. I think about my career and what I want to write when this show eventually dies, whether because it’s canceled or because I decide to move on.