The Miles Between Us Page 4

  “I don’t need a bloody vacation! What I need is—”

  “Goodbye, Phoenix.”

  The kid was still sputtering when he hung up the phone.

  It took him a moment or three to recover from the steaming mass of sheer audacity that was Phoenix Hightower. That wasn’t even the kid’s real name. His real name was Russell. He’d been dubbed Phoenix by his manager, who’d thought it sounded more appropriate than Russell for a future teen idol. “Can you believe that, Emma?” he said. “That goddamn—I mean, bleeping—little monster? Talking to Daddy like that?”

  Emma studied him through tear-filled eyes, but her only response was a whimper.

  So he let it go. When he found out who at the record company had given Phoenix his unlisted home number, heads would roll. But for now, he would let it go and focus on his daughter instead of that condescending British twit. He turned on the stereo, found an oldies station, and began dancing his daughter in swooping circles around the kitchen, singing with Doug Fieger of the Knack as he danced. This was his favorite thing to do with Emma, and usually it elicited peals of delighted laughter, especially when he sang off key with great gusto, butchering the lyrics. Sometimes, she even tried to sing with him in her charming, non-musical way. But tonight, Emma was having none of it. Tonight, My Sharona wasn’t her cup of tea.

  The song ended, and he said, “This isn’t working, is it?” Sobbing, her eyes wide with accusation, his daughter just stared at him. “You want to go for a ride?” he said.

  She bobbed her head up and down and, through her sobbing, said with exquisite clarity—at least to his ears, “Car?”

  Emma never failed to surprise him, never failed to delight. With fatherly pride, he said, “That’s an offer I can’t refuse,” and grabbed his keys.

  It was getting late, but the lights were still on at Trish and Bill’s house. Together, they greeted him at the door. He handed over his daughter to her adored Uncle Bill, then allowed himself to be enveloped in a warm, motherly hug from Trish. “How are you doing, hon?” she said when she released him.

  “I’ve had better days.” It had finally caught up to him. The exhaustion. The stress. The terror.

  “Ice cream,” Bill said to Emma, opening the freezer door and pulling out a carton of Häagen-Dazs. “Drizzled with chocolate syrup. Sound good to you, Emmy?”

  “Kee,” she said. “Kee.”

  “Works every time,” Bill said, closing the freezer.

  “Little brat wouldn’t eat anything for me,” Rob said.

  “Uncle Bill has the magic touch,” Trish said. “He’s been spoiling the grandkids for years.”

  “I never met a kid who’d turn down ice cream.” Bill took a spoon from the drawer and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses with a knuckle. “How’s my sister doing?”

  “I talked to the doctor before I left. They’re keeping her an extra day, just to be safe. As long as everything goes okay tomorrow, they’re releasing her Sunday morning. She’s coming home with some strict rules, and they’re giving her iron supplements to boost her blood. Right now, I’m counting my blessings. This could’ve been so much worse.”

  His stomach growled, and a frown crossed Trish’s face. “When was the last time you ate?” she demanded.

  He opened his mouth to answer, realized for the first time that he hadn’t eaten all day. He’d been too focused on Casey to think about food. “Breakfast,” he admitted. Breakfast had consisted of an Egg McMuffin, eaten at God only knew what time, and washed down with a cup of black coffee. No wonder the exhaustion had crawled inside his brain and left him drained and empty.

  “Sit here.” Trish pulled out a chair. “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Right now,” he said, “I’m so hungry I could eat the damn things raw. But over easy will do.”

  “Coffee? Tea? Beer?”

  “I’d love a cold one.”

  Emma and her Uncle Bill retreated to the living room with their ice cream, and Rob nursed his beer and watched Trish bustle about the kitchen. Damp curls ringing the edges of her upswept hair, his sister-in-law swung a cast-iron frying pan onto the stove and lit the burner. His grandmother had owned one of those pans. She’d called it a spider, and the food she’d fried up in that spider, swimming in lard, was one of his fondest memories from childhood.

  Trish moved to the fridge, took out a package of bacon and three enormous eggs. Beneath the blond curls, she had a sweet face, softened and enhanced by the twenty extra pounds she carried. When he’d first met Trish Lindstrom Bradley, he hadn’t been sure he liked her. Trish had made knowing everybody else’s business her life’s work, and she wasn’t shy about expressing her opinions. Sometimes, her assertive and overly maternal demeanor grated on him. Tonight, he found it comforting. When she plopped a huge plate of perfectly fried eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him, he almost wept. “Anything else I can get you?” she asked.

  “Ketchup? And coffee, if you don’t mind.” After the day he’d just gone through, he would have loved to ask for another beer or six, but he had precious cargo to transport, and with Casey away, he needed all of his faculties. So he settled for coffee instead, generously poured ketchup over his eggs, and wolfed down the meal as though he hadn’t eaten in six months.

  When he was done, he set down the fork, sighed in satisfaction, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Thank you,” he said. “I had no idea I was so hungry.”

  “You have to take care of yourself,” Trish said. “Casey and Emma need you right now. When will Paige be home?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Good. Casey’ll be running on empty for a while. Paige should be a big help to both of you.”

  “I swear to God, Trish, I’ve never been so scared in my life. If I lost her—” To his acute embarrassment, tears sprang to life behind his eyelids. It was the exhaustion, he told himself as he leaned forward on his elbows, hands covering his eyes in mortification.

  Trish patted his forearm. “I’m so sorry about the baby, hon.”

  “I keep thinking.” He drew in a long breath. “I keep thinking that it would’ve been another little girl like Emma. And it breaks my heart to think she never even got a chance. And then I think—” He paused to look over at her, unable to continue for an instant. “The same thing could’ve happened with Emma. You know? And my blood runs cold. We’re so lucky to have her. I never realized how much.”

  She took his hand in hers. Squeezed it. “But it didn’t happen with Emma. She’s right here with us, precious and beautiful and every inch your daughter. I know you’re grieving for the baby you lost, but you have to focus on what’s right in front of you. Casey, and Paige, and Emma.”

  “Yeah. I know.” When she released his hand, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Cleared his throat and combed long, bony fingers through his messy hair.

  “Casey wants more babies,” she said.

  “Yes.” He picked up his fork, idly dragged the tines through the egg yolk that was rapidly congealing on his plate.

  “What are you going to do about that?”

  He dropped the fork back onto the plate. “You know what, Trish?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have a freaking clue.”

  * * *

  Back home, he got Emma bathed and dressed for bed. She’d finally quieted down, but she still wouldn’t sleep. He turned on the bedroom TV, and with Emma lying on his chest, cuddling with her favorite blanket, he stretched out on the bed. There was nothing on TV worth watching, and he flipped channels with growing disillusionment. Finally, he gave up, traded the remote for the bedside phone, and called Casey’s hospital room.

  “I hate this house when you’re not in it,” he said when she answered.

  “I know, babe. Are you okay?”

  “I’m lonely. And sad. And a bunch of other things I can’t even put into words.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  There was silence on the phone line between them, but it was a comfortable silence. J
ust knowing that she was there, at the other end of that line, was a comfort. “How’s Emma doing?” she said.

  “She’s missing you. She finally stopped crying after Uncle Bill bribed her with ice cream. But she doesn’t like being here without you any better than I do.”

  “I’ll be incarcerated in this lovely establishment until Sunday. Why don’t you pack up Emmy’s gear and make a quick trip down to visit your folks?”

  “Tonight? It’s a three-hour drive.”

  “It’s still early enough. They’d be thrilled to see you, Flash. And Emmy. You know how they dote on her.”

  It hadn’t occurred to him, but the idea was greatly appealing. With one exception. “If I do,” he said, “you’ll be all alone tomorrow.”

  “Believe me, I’ll have visitors. Probably more than I want. In between, I could use some alone time. And I think you could use some Mary time.”

  She was right, of course. Casey had a way of seeing through the bullshit and zeroing in on whatever was beneath all the bluff and bluster. There were times in a man’s life when he needed his mother, if only as a sounding board and soft shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” he said. “I hate to leave you.” Especially at a time like this, but he didn’t want to say that.

  She read his mind anyway. “I’m not in any danger. I just need to rest and recuperate. They’re holding me because they know my definition of rest isn’t the same as theirs. It’s very hard to overdo it in a hospital bed. But there’s no reason you shouldn’t go down to Boston and enjoy a little time with your family.”

  “I’ll think about it.” He paused, shifted himself into a more comfortable position. “Phoenix called me.”

  “Oh?”

  “He wanted to know why I thought being with my wife in her time of need was a higher priority than recording his frigging album.”

  “Oh, for the love of God. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him the world doesn’t revolve around him.”

  “And how did that go over?”

  “He laughed at me. The little bastard.”

  “How disrespectful.”

  “That’s our Phoenix. Gotta love the kid. Generally I just laugh it off, but tonight, his utter inability to put himself in somebody else’s shoes got to me. The guy lacks empathy. I think he’s a sociopath. Like Ted Bundy.”

  “A serial killer in the making?”

  “Don’t make fun of me. I’m serious.”

  “I know you are, my darling. That’s one of the reasons I love you.”

  * * *

  He debated whether or not to call his mother, finally decided he didn’t want to surprise her by showing up at her door unannounced at some ungodly hour. On the other hand, he didn’t want to go into details over the phone. “Hey, Mom,” he said when she answered.

  “Well, if it isn’t my long-lost son.” Her Irish brogue always said home to him in multiple lovely shades of color. “About time you remembered you have a mother. How’s the wee one? Am I going to see her again before she graduates from college?”

  “She’s fine. Growing like crazy. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about coming down tonight, if you wouldn’t mind making up the crib for Emma.”

  “You know you’re always welcome, any time.” There was a brief pause. Then, “What’s wrong?”

  Like Casey, his mother had that sixth sense, that built-in radar that honed in on the tiniest note in his voice, the most minute body language. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said.

  “You were never any good at lying, my son.”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said. “I just feel like visiting my mom. You have a problem with that?”

  “Mind your mouth or I’ll have to take you over my knee. You may be taller, but I’m still in charge. I’ll get the crib ready and freshen a bed for you.” Another pause. “I assume Casey’s coming with you?”

  “Not this trip. And stop prying.”

  “I have to pry. Otherwise, I’d know nothing, since none of my children ever tell me anything. Is something wrong between you and Casey?”

  “We’re fine, Ma. Stop worrying.”

  “I’ll stop worrying when I know there’s no reason to worry. Until then, I’ll carry on. I’m Irish. It’s what we do best.”

  It was nearly midnight when he reached South Boston, where he was greeted by a light summer rain infused with the intoxicating scent of his mother’s blooming roses. Emma had fallen asleep shortly after they left home. Fearful of waking her, he carried her into the house, car seat and all. His parents waited, their faces somber, concerned. “I made tea,” his mother said. “Crib’s in the room at the top of the stairs. Since you don’t need a double bed, I thought you’d like your old room.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” He kissed her on the cheek, clasped hands with his dad, and carried Emma up the stairs. The poor kid was so wiped out that she never woke up, not even when he untied her pink sneakers and removed them. Once she was settled, he pulled the covers up to her chin and then stood watching her, tiny and innocent and perfect, his heart flooding with a love so deep and strong, it nearly brought him to his knees.

  He quietly closed the door—as far as it would close—and took a look around. The upstairs hallway was still the same hideous gold color it had always been, the carpet threadbare and thin. The house was creaky, the roof saggy, the floors so crooked you could go bowling without even throwing the ball. Just drop it and watch it roll. But this was home, in a way that no other place had ever been home. He’d spent the first twenty-two years of his life in this house, and that upbringing would always be a part of who he was. He’d been lucky. He’d grown up in a home filled with love and family and wonderful memories, with two parents who loved each other, who still loved each other after forty-plus years of marriage. And yes, he knew he was romanticizing it, conveniently forgetting the times when they’d lived on soup for days on end because there hadn’t been enough to feed a family of nine kids. But as a boy, he’d never given a thought to that kind of thing. He’d been too busy living. As far as he was concerned, he’d had an idyllic childhood. That was what he wanted for his own kids.

  He’d missed the boat with Paige. Those lost years were something he could never get back, and he would spend the rest of his life regretting them. But Emmy symbolized love and hope and a bright, shiny future. Even starting as late as they had, in their mid-thirties, he and Casey had talked endlessly about what they expected from their life together. They’d spent her entire pregnancy making plans for the family they intended to raise. They’d agreed to eschew boundaries, to let biology determine how many children they would have. They hadn’t expected that bright and shiny future to be tarnished by loss after loss.

  His parents were waiting downstairs. “All right,” his mother said briskly, “why are you here and why isn’t Casey with you?”

  “Casey’s in the hospital,” he said. “She had another miscarriage.”

  “Goddamn it,” his father said.

  “Oh, Robbie,” his mother said. “I’m so sorry. But Casey’s all right?”

  He sat down in a chair and stretched out his legs. “She is now. It was touch and go for a while. Too damn close. I was in New York, working. If Trish hadn’t found her…” He ran a hand over his face, scrubbed back his hair, let out a sigh. “I was so damn scared.”

  “Of course you were! But why aren’t you there with her?”

  “It was her idea for me to come here. She knows how much I hate being in that house alone, and the hospital’s holding her until Sunday. She did a few mental calculations and decided I needed the two of you right now more than she needed me.” Beneath the table, he worked off his sneakers and wiggled his toes. “And of course, she was right.”

  “Of course. When has she ever not been right?” His mother poured hot water over a tea bag and set the teacup in front of him.

  “Thanks,” he said, and took a sip of hot, bracing tea. He closed his eyes and leaned back his head, grateful for home, for his parents, for t
he simple comfort of a cup of hot tea at the end of a very long, very bad day. “Listen, Ma,” he said, opening his eyes and turning his head in her direction. “Do you still have Great-Grandma Sullivan’s ring?”

  “Of course. I promised it to you three years ago. I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”

  “Our anniversary’s coming up soon. I’ve been waiting for the right time to give it to her.” He took a sip of tea. “I think now’s the right time.”

  “Oh, so you think, do you? I was starting to wonder if you were planning to wait until your fiftieth. Sometimes men can be so stupid.” And she got up from the table and bustled out of the room.

  He narrowed his eyes, set down his cup. Fighting back a smile, he said, “Tell me something, Dad. The way she bullies all of us, how have you managed to put up with her all these years?”

  “I don’t know,” his father said. “Maybe for the same reason Casey puts up with you?”

  “Ouch.”

  “You might have taken your looks from me,” Patrick MacKenzie said, “but in every other way, you’re the spitting image of your mother. Stubborn, willful, outspoken. A little too impulsive, a little too rash.” Patrick lifted his own teacup and saluted him with it. “But in spite of all those sins, my son, you and your mother are redeemed by virtue of the fact that you both have a heart as big as all outdoors, and you both wear it proudly on your sleeve.”

  Rob lifted his teacup, touched it to the one Patrick still held high. “Amen,” he said.

  Casey

  They stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home from the hospital. Rob cautiously handed her a cup of decaf, then took his own cup from the girl at the drive-thru window, mumbled his thanks, and set it in his cup holder. Without speaking, he pulled away from the window, circled the building, and waited for a Dodge Ram to pass before pulling out into traffic. “You’re quiet,” she said.

  “Sorry.” He removed both hands from the steering wheel, stretched his fingers, and returned them to the wheel. “I’m just thinking.”