A Perfect Day

  I stepped back from the computer. “How did you know about this?”

  Allyson walked over to the window, and she was silent, as if considering whether or not to reveal her source. She finally said, “Camille.”

  “Camille?”

  She turned around. “You were set up.”

  The room was quiet as the reality set in. “How long have you known about this?”

  “About an hour.”

  For a moment neither of us knew what to say. Then Allyson took a deep breath. “That’s the real reason that you came home, isn’t it? You thought you were dying.”

  I ran my hand back through my hair. As ashamed as I was of it, it was the truth. After a moment she said, “I better get back. Nancy will be back soon.”

  “You shouldn’t drive in this.”

  “I’ll be okay. The plows are out. I-15 was clear.”

  My mind reeled with a thousand thoughts, but I was incapable of selecting just one of them. She said to me, “Will you see me out?”

  She waited while I put on my shoes; then I followed her down to the hotel lobby. The valet had left her car at the curb, under the protection of the awning. Allyson handed him her claim ticket and a five-dollar bill and he surrendered her keys.

  I walked around the car with her and she climbed into the driver ’s seat. She rolled down the window.

  “If I had known anything about this, I would have stopped it,” she said. “It wasn’t right. But I’m not sorry that you came back. It was a nice Christmas. Even if it was only because you thought you were dying.” She turned away, not wanting me to see the tears welling up in her eyes. She lifted a hand to her cheek.

  I touched her arm. “Ally.”

  She shook her head. “I’m okay. I can do this.”

  “I don’t think you should drive home like this. This storm . . .”

  “The weather is the easy part of this.” She turned back to me for just a moment, and there was finality to her gaze even greater than when I had left her earlier. “Bye, Rob.” Then she slowly drove away. I wondered how many times a heart could be broken.

  Chapter 66

  I called Camille the moment I got back to my room. I didn’t check the hour. I didn’t care if I woke her. I did. She answered, “Whoever this is, it better be important.”

  “It’s Robert.”

  She was suddenly lucid. “Mr. Harlan, you had us worried. I take it you’ve been debriefed.”

  Anger welled up inside of me. “What did you get from this, Camille? Is this your idea of revenge?”

  “That’s not the way it is, Rob.”

  “Yeah, I believe that. How could you have been so vindictive? What gives you the right to play games with my life?”

  “What gives me the right? You’re the one playing games with people’s lives. The question is, what gives you the right? Everything that has come to you was a gift from someone else. Everything. Your book is your wife’s story, not yours. You just put your name on it. And she let you take that sacred part of her life because she loves you. She even went back to work so you could take your shot. And how do you thank her for it? You leave her. But you’ve gotten good at that, haven’t you? Nothing personal. Just business.”

  My own words made potent weapons.

  “Let me tell you something about business, Rob. Every year thousands of books are written and not published. Many of them are good books. Some of them are even great. I know because they come across my desk. If I hadn’t believed in you, you’d still be in the business of screwing on sprinkler heads. You made it because I decided to take a chance on you. And that makes me a party to creating this Robert Mason Harlan monster. The least I could do was to put that monster back in its cage before it hurt anyone else.” Camille’s voice fell to a softer, more despondent tone. “Aside from your broken family, do you know what the saddest part of this whole affair is? I used to really like you.”

  I was quiet for a long time as I considered her words. Then I replied softly, “I know. So did I.”

  Now Camille was silent. I was the first to speak. “So the chest pains really were just reflux,” I said. “Hillenbrand said his name was Michael.”

  “It is. His full name is M. Stanford Hillenbrand. The M is for Michael. He goes by Stan. Like your brother.”

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “Stan has talked about doing something like this for years. But it was my idea to try it on you. The theme of most of his books is how society lives in denial of their own mortality and that it’s a mistake. He believes that we’re only fully alive when we’re faced with death.

  “In one of his books there’s a case history of a man who got the wrong test back from a hospital lab. His doctor told him that he was dying from a rare disease. This man was a well-known business executive who had fallen off the moral deep end. He was cheating on his wife. He had a college-age son whom he hadn’t seen for years. And he was embezzling from his company’s pension fund. When he found out that he was dying, he went through a complete reformation as he set about putting his life in order. He went back to his wife and asked for her forgiveness. He went to his son and developed a relationship with him. He paid back the pension fund with interest, and as his final penance he turned himself in to the company officers. Eight months later, when the lab discovered their mistake, the story made the papers. A reporter asked this man if he planned on suing the hospital. His response was classic. He said ‘Why? They did what they’re supposed to do. They saved my life.’ ”

  I understood how this man felt. “How did Michael do it? He knew things no one could have known.”

  “Some of the things he got from me. You told me many of your secrets. Probably more than you remember. I provided him with all the background information. But most of the information he got from you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stan’s a first-class computer geek. He hacked into your computer, hoping to read your e-mails. But he hit gold. Apparently you keep your diary on your computer. He would read it every night. That’s how he knew everything that was going on in your life, how you were feeling, who you were corresponding with, even what you were praying about.”

  I didn’t even consider the laws he must have violated. In light of the day’s events they seemed trivial. Then Camille said, “I can understand why you’re angry at me. I’d be angry too. But remember this was never about me. It was about Allyson and Carson. I was only trying to keep you from making a big mistake. So you tell me. Did I do the right thing?”

  Chapter 67

  The snow had started to slow as Allyson pulled into the garage. She turned on the hall light as she walked in and hung up her coat. Nancy was in the family room, sitting next to the Christmas tree. The house was quiet.

  “I just put Carson to bed,” Nancy said. “What happened to you guys?” Then she saw the sadness in Allyson’s face. “Where’s Rob?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Nancy crossed the room and put her arms around her, pulling Allyson’s head onto her shoulder. “Oh, dear. What happened?”

  “I can’t explain tonight. I can’t think about it anymore. It’s too complex.”

  Nancy gently rubbed her back. “You don’t need to talk.”

  “Is Carson still awake?”

  “I think so.”

  “I need to see her.” Allyson leaned back. She wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “Oh, Ally.” She kissed Allyson’s cheek. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep in the guest room tonight. If you need anything, just call.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good night, sweetie.”

  She hugged her again. Then Allyson walked down the hallway to Carson’s room. She slowly opened the door, splitting the room with a faint, vertical beam of light. Carson was awake and shifted quickly in her sheets. “Hi, Mommy.”

  “Hi, sweetheart.” She went to the side of her bed and knelt down, putting her face next to Carson’s. “Did you have a good day?”

&nb
sp; “Uh-huh. Nancy got a new puppy. It’s so cute. Its name is Chazzy. Can I have a puppy?”

  “Maybe sometime. But I think for now Nancy needs you to help her with her puppy.”

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  Allyson groaned within herself. “Well, sweetheart, Daddy’s gone back to work.”

  “To book tour?”

  There would be time to explain later. “Yes. To book tour.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She paused before her next question. “Is he going to come home again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Weren’t we good?”

  Allyson ran her hand across Carson’s cheek. “You were very good, sweetheart. You are a very good girl.”

  “Then how come he went back to book tour?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes, when you get older, things get hard to understand.”

  “I think they’re hard now.”

  Allyson pulled Carson in close. Then she climbed into her bed and held Carson against her, and they fell asleep in each other ’s arms.

  Chapter 68

  Sometime in the night the blizzard died. I was awake for its passing. It was around two-thirty in the morning when the winds had calmed and I looked out the hotel window into the darkness. In the light of the street lamps I could see what was left of the dwindling storm—latecomer snowflakes falling to the white below, disappearing like rain on the ocean.

  I fell asleep around that time but woke only a couple of hours later with the dawn. My room was bright. The sky shone exceptionally blue, as if in recompense for yesterday’s absence.

  I didn’t shower. I just quickly ran some water through my hair then followed it with a comb. I changed my shirt and put on my parka. Then, with my things still in the room, I left the hotel. I didn’t have time to pack. I needed to see Allyson. I needed to go home.

  In the early hours of morning the snowplows had caught up with the storm and the main roads were clear and salted, with snow piled on the roadside in tall banks. A half hour later I pulled into the driveway of my home. Everything was crystalline, and the elms in our front yard sparkled in the morning sun as if they had been dipped in sugar.

  I sat a moment in the car preparing myself. Then I climbed out. The air braced me. It was even colder in the southern end of the valley than it was downtown. I knocked on the front door of my own house. I could have let myself in, I had all week, but this time it didn’t feel right. I felt like I needed to be invited in. It was only a moment before Allyson opened the door. She was wearing one of my T-shirts and it draped over her like a nightshirt.

  “Hi,” I said. My breath froze in the air.

  “Hi.”

  I pushed my hands deep into my coat pockets. “Can we talk?”

  She nodded. “Come in. It’s cold.”

  As I stepped in, I noticed that she was wearing the necklace I had given her for Christmas. I followed her into the living room. The room was warm from the fire as its yellow and orange flames licked futilely at the fake log. Allyson sat down in an armchair in front of the hearth while I sat on the couch opposite her. For a moment we just looked at each other.

  “Carson still sleeping?”

  “Yeah. She had a hard night.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “Nancy slept over last night.”

  “I saw her car,” I said. “She’s downstairs?”

  Allyson nodded.

  “Thanks for coming down to the hotel last night. You were crazy to drive in that storm. But thanks.”

  “I was worried.”

  “I know. I was worried about you driving home.” My words trailed off in silence. I could hear the tick of the grandmother’s clock in the foyer. I laced my fingers together in my lap and leaned slightly forward as I searched for the right words.

  “Last night was bizarre beyond words,” I said. “When you told me how I’d been set up, my mind was going a thousand miles a second. At first I was mostly just angry with Camille and her friend for making me believe that I was going to die. That’s pretty much where I was emotionally when you left.” I looked into her face for some reaction, but there was none. I continued. “Then it hit me that I really wasn’t going to die. You can’t believe the exhilaration I felt. It was like being pardoned at the gallows after they’d already put the rope around my neck. What an amazing thing to be given a second chance at life.”

  I took a deep breath. “I spent all night thinking about what I really wanted from this second chance. I realized that if I could spend my next life with anybody, it would be you.” I looked into her eyes. “It doesn’t matter where we live or what the world thinks of me or even if I ever sell another book, just as long as I’m with you. I want to grow old with you. And when the day comes that this life really is over for me, I want to leave this world with you by my side.” I looked down while I gathered the courage to proceed. “If you let me come back, I promise you that you will never again doubt that you are the most important person or thing in my life. I know I’m asking a lot after hurting you. But I’m asking. Do you think . . .” I paused from emotion. Then I looked back up, my eyes looking into hers. “Is there any way that you could let me back in your heart?”

  There’s always that moment whenever a proposal is made—the climactic, excruciating instant when time seems to stand still while the name is pulled from an envelope or the jury files in with their verdict. For me no moment has ever seemed so long. Allyson just looked down; then she walked over and sat next to me on the couch. She looked into my eyes. “You never left it.”

  Postscript

  A YEAR LATER.

  It’s hard to believe that it’s been a whole year since I went home to my family. It’s been a good year. I’ve been true to the promise I made to Allyson. I’ve been true to myself. I like myself again.

  I’ve been back to see my father. On most of those visits I took Carson and Allyson with me. Our visits were awkward at first—especially for my father—but they’re getting easier. He’s no longer Chuck to me, but Dad. Even this took some getting used to. In our visits I have seen glimpses of a man I never knew. He’s old, and I don’t suppose there’s much time left for us, certainly not enough to fill in the pages of a lost story, but I’ve left the past to its own demons. There isn’t time for regret. There never is.

  The other day, while reading the paper, I came across a bookstore’s advertisement for author M. Stanford Hillenbrand. I stared at the picture of him for a long time. He has a new book out, his first novel. It’s called The Reaper’s Wife, or something like that. He had a signing at a bookstore not far from my home. I considered paying him a visit. I even drove to the store, but I never made it inside. I suppose a part of me still wants to believe that he is an angel. Who’s to say that he’s not? God works in mysterious ways. Or maybe He’s just pragmatic. Why send a burning bush when an e-mail will do?

  My next book is scheduled to come out sometime this fall. Allyson’s very excited about it. It’s the story of a man who believes he has just a few months left to live. I’m just pleased that it has a happy ending.

  I’m back with Camille. Things are good between us. I can laugh about everything now, which is certain proof that time is the greatest of all comedians.

  Darren stopped calling sometime in January. His last message was a terse rebuke predicting for me a life of obscurity. I found his prediction vaguely amusing. It was like predicting nightfall. In the end obscurity is everyone’s destination. On the bright side I did get one more joke out of him. It goes like this: “What did Hemingway say when he was asked, ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ Answer: ‘To die. In the rain. Alone.’ ”

  A month ago I had a peculiar dream. I dreamt of my own funeral. As the mourners filed past to pay their respects, I stood next to my body, unseen, watching them. Though I spoke to everyone, I was unable to make them hear me. Except for Allyson. Somehow Allyson knew my thoughts as if they were her own—as if we were boun
d by some force that transcends death itself.

  It has made me wonder if perhaps there is more to our relationships than mortality portends. If perhaps some things are forever in another realm, where clocks stop and nothing remains but the bonds we have forged through love. That and the lessons we’ve learned.

  Perhaps. The lessons do remain. I learned much last year. I learned that the measure of life is revealed in the quality of our relationships: with God, our families, our fellow men.

  I’ve learned that the greatest threat to love is not circumstance but the absence of attention. For we do not neglect others because we have ceased to love; rather we cease to love others because we have neglected them.

  I’ve learned that each day is a miracle unearned.

  I’ve learned that while life is ephemeral—a vapor—love is not. In short, I have learned what matters and what does not.

  I don’t know what my future holds or even in whose hands it lies, but I know where I am and what I have, and it’s enough. I’ve lived twice and loved once, and that’s more than any man should ask for. And through it all, the woman I love is still by my side.

  It’s been a good year indeed.

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