Blue Wide Sky Page 7

  He smiles a half-smile. “I was a boy once. All right if I borrow Kat for a couple hours in the morning?”

  “She’s usually finishing up her schoolwork around eleven.”

  “Eleven is good.” He steps onto the boat, then turns to look at me. “I’m sorry for the way the picnic ended. I shouldn’t have gone into—”

  I feel petty, like a person carrying a grudge that suddenly looks overplayed. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. I can’t seem to tell anymore. My emotions are in a jumble, and I can’t make sense of what’s going on inside me.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I say. “You were unbelievably kind to make that call to your friend about Kat.”

  “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

  The sun is strong on my shoulders, and I meet Sam’s intent gaze with a near feeling of lightheadedness. The protective part of me is poised in flight mode, but another part, the part that once loved him beyond what I have words to describe, caves ever so slightly. And I am intensely aware of his dark hair, his strong shoulders, the awareness in his eyes.

  I can’t say for sure what it is, his kindness toward Kat, his quiet, reassuring strength, or the physical chemistry that is still so readily identifiable between us.

  Maybe it’s all three. But in those moments, standing outside under a spring sun, I feel the love start to return.

  ~

  ONCE SAM LEAVES, Kat goes to the house, and I help Myrtle finish cleaning up in the cafe kitchen. She is beside herself when I tell her about the wheelchair hanging in the tree.

  “Why didn’t I hear those two hoodlums out there doing that? And why aren’t those boys in school today?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Sneaky little devils,” she says. “They better hope I don’t catch them when they’re up to no good. I’m not too old to swing a frying pan.”

  I smile a little at the image of Myrtle chasing them down the road with her cast iron skillet. “Kat tries to act like it doesn’t get to her,” I say, “but I know it does.”

  “And why wouldn’t it?” Myrtle is all but shaking with anger. “Somebody needs to kick those boys’ butts.”

  “Sam’s cooking up some kind of payback.”

  Myrtle nearly drops the soup pot she’s been drying. “Oh, he is, is he?”

  There’s teasing in her voice, but something else, too, that says it’s about time somebody started looking out for Kat and me. “Don’t go making something big of it, Myrtle,” I say.

  “Nice-looking man like that actin’ on your behalf. I’d say that’s somethin’.”

  “That’s what friends do,” I say.

  “Is it now?” She puts the pot on the counter, shakes out her drying cloth. “Um-hmm.”

  And we’re back to that again.

  ~

  AFTER DINNER, Kat and I watch a movie on Netflix. I make a big bowl of popcorn, and we sit on the couch with the lights off, because we like for it to feel as much like we’re at the movie theater as possible.

  This is one of her favorites, Hachi: A Dog’s Tale, a story about a dog so devoted to his owner that he waits for him at the train station every day, even years after the man dies. We’ve seen it three times before, but I cry with the same abandon this time as I did the first. Kat cries too, and we sit there, arms wrapped around each other, while the credits roll by.

  “Why do we do this to ourselves?” I ask her.

  She sniffs and wipes the back of her hand across her face. “Some things are worth the tears,” she says.

  “How old are you?” I tease, pulling back to look at her.

  “Ten,” she says.

  “Oh, yeah.” I hug her to me again and tell her then about Sam’s plan to pick her up in the morning.

  “To do what?” she asks.

  “I think he has a little plan in mind for the Smith boys.”

  She smiles now. “Really?”

  Her enthusiasm surprises me somehow, but then I guess this is not something she’s known before, a man in her life willing to go to her defense. “You okay with that?”

  “Better than okay.”

  We clean up the dishes and head to bed. I tuck her in, kissing her good-night with a poignant awareness of her excitement for the outing with Sam. I’m glad, but I’m also wary of her becoming attached to him, when I know he’s not here to stay.

  I put on some music and sit down at my desk to pay bills. I’m not sleepy; my brain feels like it’s on overload with all the questions circling around inside it.

  The computer on my desk is like an open box of cookies, tempting, beckoning. I put away my checkbook and hit the space bar. The screen lights up. I click on the browser and pull up Google.

  When the box appears, I type in Sam’s name, along with a few other identifying factors. London, England. Cardiologist.

  Believe it or not, I’ve never done this. I’ve thought about it, but then left it alone, one of those doors I knew I was better off not opening.

  A glut of references pops up. I click on the one at the top that lists Sam as a partner in a London cardiology group. The website cites him as one of three doctors. There is a photo of him—looking very serious and distinguished—unlike the man in shorts with whom I’d just spent the afternoon. A short bio describes his practice and his belief in the importance of a patient taking control of his or her health with lifestyle changes and choices.

  I read every word like they’re drops of water, and I’ve been in the desert without. I click back and link to another site where I find pictures of him with a woman I presume to be his wife. The caption below reads:

  Dr. Sam Tatum and his wife, Megan, donors to the Bonham cardiac wing of Mercy Hospital in London.

  She’s pretty.

  I can’t deny it.

  No, she’s beautiful. Like one of those supermodels who’ve reached forty without a single worry line. I can’t even see evidence of Botox assistance. Her skin is smooth and unlined. Her dark hair long and straight. In the picture, she’s wearing a short black dress that shows lengthy legs.

  Next to her, Sam is dressed in a tuxedo, and he looks ridiculously good in it. They are a stunning couple, and an objective part of me thinks what a shame it is that they are no longer together. Like a beautiful pair of bookends separated and no longer functional.

  But then I notice that neither one of them is smiling—and I wonder how I missed that. They’re not touching either, standing side by side, poised as if they’d been caught off guard in being asked to pose for the shot. I glance at the date of the photo. Two years ago.

  They’d been miserable. It’s clear to see. I wonder for how long.

  Strangely, I don’t feel any gladness for this realization. Some part of me had always thought that Sam would be happy in his life without me. And maybe deep down, I’d felt some comfort in that.

  It feels like a crazy admission, considering our history, but I wonder then, if that might be the real definition of love. Caring about someone else’s happiness even when it doesn’t include you.

  ~

  SAM CALLS BEFORE I’ve had my first cup of coffee.

  “Morning,” he says.

  “Morning,” I say. “You’re up early.”

  “Have you seen the Moon?”

  “No.”

  “Take a look. It’s still out.”

  I walk to the window and pull back the curtain. The sky has started to lighten, but the Moon hangs like a giant beach ball, translucent yellow with clear markings throughout. “It’s beautiful.”

  “My room was so bright when I woke up; I thought it had to be daylight.”

  I remember that about him—how his mother had said when he was a little boy, he’d wake at the first ray of light in his room, how she’d tried dark curtains and window shades, but even the slightest speck of light brought him wide awake. I feel a morsel of tenderness for the memory and the fact that in this, he is still the same.

  In all fairness, I realize that in many ways, he’s still
the same.

  There’s a heaviness to the silence between us, as if there are things we both want to say, but don’t know how. I don’t mind it though. It’s nice just knowing he’s on the other end.

  “Gabby—”

  I rush to stop him, hearing in the tone of just my name that he’s going to say something I’m not ready to hear. What’s happening between us feels fragile and vulnerable, and I want to protect it from too much too soon.

  “You’ll be here at eleven, right?” I rush in.

  “Eleven.”

  “Okay. We’ll see you then.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “Enjoy the Moon,” he says and hangs up.

  The duty of comedy is to correct men by amusing them.

  ~ Moliere

  Sam

  I get to the marina a few minutes early, and Kat is already waiting for me. She’s rolling her chair back and forth in the driveway, looking nervous.

  “Hey,” I say, getting out.

  “Hi,” she says, smiling, her blue eyes lighting up.

  Gabby comes out of the cafe then, a dishtowel in her hands. She’s wearing jean shorts, a white tank top and flipflops. Her blonde hair is loose and shines in the sunlight.

  “All right if I have her back in a couple hours?”

  “Okay,” she says. “Should I say have fun or be careful?”

  I smile, and our gazes hold for a moment. “We won’t wreak too much havoc.”

  “As long as I don’t have to bail you out of jail,” she says.

  “We’ll keep it short of that.”

  Gabby gives Kat a kiss on the cheek. I put her chair in the back of the car, and she gets up front with me. We back out of the drive and pull away, Gabby still watching from the front yard.

  “So what are we doing?” Kat asks, with barely restrained curiosity.

  “First, we’ll need the boys’ phone numbers,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says carefully. “They have cell phones.”

  “Can you get the numbers for me?”

  “Sure,” she says and taps the screen on her phone.

  She chats a couple of minutes with a girl named Sarah who’s apparently also homeschooled – I hadn’t thought about that – and then pulls a paper from her purse and writes two numbers on it. The girl apparently asks why she wants them because Kat says, “I’ll tell you later, okay?”

  She hangs up and looks at me. “Got them. What’s next?”

  “Next is the local newspaper office.”

  She smiles. “And what are we doing there?”

  “We’re gonna see a man about an ad.”

  And her smile grows bigger.

  ~

  AT THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE in Rocky Mount, we both go inside and I write up the ad:

  Premium cow manure needed for scientific experiment. Please contact Lance Smith or Tom Smith at either number listed below. Need is immediate. Call anytime, night or day.

  Kat reads over it and giggles.

  “When will this be listed?” I ask the young woman behind the front desk.

  She glances at the clock on the wall behind her. “It should make tomorrow’s edition.”

  “Great,” I say. “How much do we owe you?”

  We get back in the car, and Kat says, “Where to now?”

  “Now, we’ll go see a man about some cow manure.”

  She laughs. “You’re really good at this.”

  “Nichols Dairy, here we come.”

  I’d made some calls to local dairy farms first thing this morning and found one that had what we would need. It is only about ten miles away, and we drive the county roads with Kat pointing out sights along the way. Tonk’s Country Store. The elementary school where she would go if she weren’t doing homeschooling. Her best friend Sarah’s house.

  I like hearing her talk. Her voice is soft with its southern inflection, and it’s uncanny how much she sounds like Gabby. Not just in word choice, but with a particular lilt to certain words.

  “You and my mom used to be friends?” she asks in a surprise change of subject. “When you were young?”

  I hesitate, debating what to say, but then realize the truth is the only version I can tell. “We were.”

  “She acts funny around you. She doesn’t normally act that way. Around men, I mean.”

  “What way?” I ask.

  “Like she’s nervous and doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

  “I probably act the same way around her.”

  “You do,” she says, matter-of-factly. “You liked each other as more than friends?”

  I take a deep breath and wonder if I’ve taken on more than I bargained for. “We did.”

  “Do you still now?”

  “I don’t really know how to answer that, Kat. I’ll always feel something special for your mom. But we’ve lived separate lives for a lot of years.”

  “I thought people stayed together if they loved each other. Why didn’t you?”

  “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “Mama said you moved away.”

  “I did. But not because I wanted to.”

  “Why didn’t you come back?”

  “I kind of messed all that up,” I say.

  She gives me a long, assessing look, as if she’s trying to decide how much of a bad guy I am when it comes to her mom. “You mean with another girl?”

  “Ah, yes. With another girl.”

  “I bet that hurt my mama.”

  “It did,” I admit, realizing Kat is not your typical ten year old. “It’s one of my biggest life regrets.”

  “And we don’t get re-dos, do we?”

  “No. Not very often, anyway.”

  “She must have really missed you when you left.”

  “I missed her too.”

  “There it is!” she says, pointing ahead to the Nichols Dairy farm turn off, and I’m off the hot seat, at least for now.

  I swing a right and follow the gravel road to its end where a two-story white farmhouse stands to the right. Out to the left is the barn operation, black-and-white cows milling about as if they’re waiting to be let in for the next milking.

  I stop just short of the barn, and a young man in coveralls and a John Deere hat strolls out to meet us. He smiles big when he sees Kat, then glances at me as if questioning why we’re together.

  I get out and walk around, while Kat rolls down her window and calls out, “Hey, Hank!”

  “Hey there, Kitty Kat! Whatcha doin’ out here?”

  “Mr. Tatum brought me.”

  “Sam,” I say, sticking out my hand to Hank.

  “Howdy do,” he says, nodding once.

  “I’m a friend of Gabby’s. Kat and I are out on a little errand today.”

  “What can I do for you?” he asks.

  “I called earlier about buying some cow manure.”

  “Well, we got plenty of that,” he says, laughing.

  “We just need a couple buckets full,” I say. “I talked to someone who said that would be all right.”

  “Sure thing. You plantin’ a flower bed or somethin’?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He looks at me with clear curiosity as we grab the buckets from the back of the Explorer. Kat says she’ll wait in the vehicle, and I tell her we’ll be right back.

  To the side of the barn, he grabs a shovel, and we walk over to a trailer that’s hitched to a tractor. “We spread this on the fields,” he says. “Best fertilizer there is.”

  “I guess so,” I say.

  We fill up the buckets and carry them to the Explorer, setting them in the back. “What do I owe you?” I ask.

  “Not a thing,” he says. “Come back anytime.”

  I thank him, and we pull away, Kat waving out the window.

  ~

  WE DRIVE TO THE top of the driveway, where each of the boys will get off the bus later in the afternoon.

  Kat giggles nonstop as I carry the buckets to their spot and jog back.

  Once I�
�m in the vehicle, I look at her and say, “Mission accomplished.”

  She offers me a high-five. “Mission accomplished.”

  “Dairy Queen to celebrate?”

  “Awesome,” she says. She looks out the window and then in a more serious voice, “Thank you, Dr. Tatum.”

  We lock eyes for a moment, and I can see what it means to her that she’s had someone go to bat for her. “Sam is good with me. And you’re more than welcome,” I say.

  Real kindness seeks no return; What return can the world make to rain clouds?

  ~ Tiruvalluvar

  Gabby

  While Sam is out with Kat, I call Dr. Lanning’s office and speak to the receptionist. I explain that a friend of mine, Sam Tatum, had spoken to Dr. Lanning about an appointment. She is immediately aware of the referral and says that Dr. Lanning had told her to expect my call.

  I’d been nervous for some reason, worrying that I would have to explain my connection to Sam or why he had called for me. I realize how ridiculous that was when the receptionist transfers me to a nurse who had also been told to expect my call. Her voice is soft and southern, and she asks me a series of general medical questions about Kat, which I answer with practiced ease.

  “Would next Monday at nine o’clock work for you to see Dr. Lanning?” she asks.

  “Ah, yes,” I say, not expecting him to see her this quickly.

  “He had a cancellation and asked me to hold it for you.”

  “That’s very kind,” I say, realizing the breadth of the favor Sam has done for us.

  “All right then,” the nurse says. “I think we have everything we need for now. We’ll see you next week.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say and hang up.

  I stare out the window of my small office. Two ducks glide gracefully across the lake, side by side. I’ve been alone for so long that I hardly know what to do with the feelings battling inside me — resistance to letting anyone else help me for fear that when I’m alone again — I won’t be able to shoulder the responsibility as I have done. That maybe like a muscle, my ability to do everything I can for Kat will atrophy if I’m not using it full force.

  Even as the thought races through my mind, I know it is ridiculous. Sam has simply connected us with a doctor he thinks might be able to help Kat. There’s nothing more to it than that.