My Sister's Keeper (24 page)

I leaned closer. “What?”

He pulled me down hard. I heard a rip and felt a button pop free. His teeth were clinched. “Promise me.”

“
I promise, Dad. I swear.”

He fell back against the bed panting. His skin was yellow and scales splotched his face. “You

”

“
What?”

He closed his eyes. “You’re not mine.”

I leaned closer. “What? What, Dad?”

A nurse burst through the door with a hypodermic needle. “You have to leave now.”

His voice was just a whisper. “You…are…my…nephew.”

“
What?” I placed my ear against his lips.

The nurse inserted the needle into Dad’s IV tube. “Please. Leave
now!”

Dad’s last words were nothing more than a hiss of air, but I heard them clearly. “Charlie was your father.”

Then he collapsed.

32

T
HE NURSES GOT DAD STABILIZED and sedated while the four of us waited down the hall. Mom, Martha, me, and Winston. I had a thousand questions running through my mind, but for the first time in my life, I felt whole.
And for the first time ever I felt a closeness to Dad.
He said I was
perfect
. I broke down and wept like a grief-stricken mother mourning the death of her child.
My God! I was Charlie’s son. Why hadn’t someone told me?
Quivering uncontrollably, I sat there in front of the three of them and bawled like a baby. They cried, too. Even Winston.

It felt so good, so
liberating
—like I’d been used my whole life to mop the floor and someone had finally rinsed me clean and wrung me out.

Dad had certainly given me a lot to think about. He may technically be my uncle, but on that day he was
my dad
. And all at once, I wanted him to live. For the first time I understood him and wanted to know the rest of the story. I wanted more time with him.

Mom took Martha home, but I hung around the waiting room until a nurse reminded me for the third time that he would not be conscious until much later that day.

I went to my office and sat alone speculating on how it could possibly have happened that Uncle Charles was my dad and no one had spoken about it.
Ever.
I could hardly remember anyone even uttering his name all these years. What had Uncle Charles been like? Who was he?
Who am I?
Is Martha my sister or my half-sister? I had a lot of questions and I wanted some answers.

Lizzy interrupted my thoughts to tell me that Mrs. Sophia Wadsworth was there to see me. She was my staunchest supporter on the Board of Directors of Thalian Hall and I had a feeling why she might be there. I greeted her warmly in the lobby and escorted her to my office where she refused a seat.

“
Mr. Baimbridge, I’ll not be long.” She lowered her eyes, gripped her pocketbook with both hands, and pursed her lips exposing the lines of her seventy-odd years. “Due to recent developments, the Board has decided to engage another director for
Laying Down the Law
and requests that you return the scripts and musical scores at your earliest convenience.”

I hated hearing it, but it didn’t devastate me as much as I’d thought it would. “I understand.”

“
I’m sorry, Richard.”

“
Me, too. Thank you, Mrs. Wadsworth.”

She pivoted, opened the door, and left. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. Opportunities like that come but once in a lifetime. Yet, with all I had going on, I would not have been able to give it my best effort. I’m sure my stepping aside was better for everyone involved. I was in the process of calling the cast members and asking them to contact the theatre concerning the future of the show when Sydney called.

“
All you all right?” I asked.

“
Yes. Why?”

“
I heard some things before you hung up last night that—worried me. I tried to find your number and call you back.”

“
Good thing you didn’t. That would not have been good.”

“
It sounded like he hit you.”

“
I’m okay.”

“
Did he?”

“
It’s okay. I’m fine.”

I drew a deep breath. “Well, be careful.”

She was silent a moment, then said, “The reporters seem to think—to me—they seem to think that…you’re…”

Her implication knocked the wind out of me. “Guilty?”

There was a short pause before she answered. “I’m just saying that I think that’s what they think.”

“
What do
you
think?” I asked.

My heart was pounding so loudly, I almost didn’t hear her whispered reply. “I don’t know.”

“
Well…” I tried to make the best of it. “I can’t imagine how you would, actually.”

She changed the subject. “How’s your father today?”

I sighed. “He’s

not doing too well.”

“
I’m sorry to hear that.”

“
Yeah. Thanks. Look, have you had lunch yet?”

There was a long pause before she answered. “No.”

“
Would you like to run out and get something?”

There was another long pause—so long that I withdrew the invitation. “Never mind. I understand.”

“
Where?”

“
It’s okay. We’ll do it some other time.”

“
No, really. Where?”

“
Anywhere you like, Sydney. Just name it. I’ll buy.”

There was another beat of silence. “It would have to be someplace out of the way…that isn’t too crowded.”

“
Well, maybe it’s not such a good idea right now.”

“
I’d love to. Really, but—”

“
You don’t have to say it. I understand.”

“
Do you know that gazebo on the back side of Greenfield Lake?”

“
Gazebo?”

“
It’s nice. Just follow Lake Shore Drive around the lake. You’ll see it. Meet me in thirty minutes?”

“
Yes. That’ll be good. I’ll bring the food.”

“
All right.”

I’d taken the bike to work figuring I might not have that many more opportunities to ride it before going off to prison, grabbed my jacket and riding helmet, and headed out the door. A thin layer of high clouds diffused the sun and the temperature had risen into the upper sixties—more like the weather should be in Wilmington this time of year. I ducked into the deli next door, picked up a couple of their specialty wraps—a Burro Loco and a Hurricane Duffy—along with some chips, homemade humus dip, and a couple bottles of water. A short time later, I found the gazebo and pulled into the parking lot five minutes early.

I’d played around the lake some as a kid, but it had changed. Or my appreciation of it had. There were azaleas, dogwoods, and crape myrtles in full bloom, pines and oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and patches of manicured green lawns with white benches and this one white gazebo. An elderly man in a shaggy beard sat behind an easel working on a oil painting of the lake and a couple of young lovers cuddled in a car nearby making out.

Springtime in Wilmington! O
ne more thing I would miss about this area.

As I removed my helmet, I spotted Sydney’s van through the trees and watched as it rounded the lake to the parking lot next to the gazebo. As she parked and checked her makeup, I dismounted and grabbed our lunches. She opened her door and stepped out wearing a black leotard, sheer black ballet skirt, long white leggings bunched up at the ankles, and black dance sneakers. Reaching back into the van, she grabbed a turquoise sweatshirt that she yanked over her head.

“
I had no idea it looked like this back here,” I said.

“
It’s beautiful! Especially this time of the year,” she said feeding her ponytail through the back of a blue denim baseball cap as she pulled it down over her head. “Sometimes I just come and sit back here all by myself.”

“
I can see why.”

Sydney shook out her ponytail and closed her door. “How’s your face? It looks a little better today.”

“
It feels a little better, too. Don’t you look terrific in your dance clothes.”

She smiled. “Thank you.” As she stepped past me, our legs brushed against one another and a ripple of electricity shot through me awakening every nerve in my body, setting them on edge. Walking ahead of me, she stepped into the gazebo and took a seat facing the lake. Soft, filtered light reflecting back from the flowers into her face reminded me of an 18
^th
century French impressionist painting and I wished I’d thought to bring a camera.

As I unrolled the wraps, cut them in pieces, and spread the vegetable chips, I felt her eyes studying me. “You’ve got to have some of everything,” I said opening the dip.

She took a small piece and a napkin. “It looks delicious.”

As we took our first bites, a pair of white swans sailed in low over the lake, stretched their legs forward, skied across the surface of the water, and then dropped gracefully on it. I swallowed. “I wonder if they realize how magnificent they are. How
free
they are.”

“
I’m sure they have no idea. They just do what they know to do.”

There was a moment of quiet while we ate a couple more bites and washed it down with our drinks. “I don’t care what the reporters say,” I said. “Or how guilty I look, Sydney, I swear to you on my sister’s life I did
not
do what they insinuate I did.”

“
If I thought you had, I wouldn’t be here now,” she said scooping a chip in the dip.

“
Thanks.”

“
But this stuff in the news—these serial killings, it’s all they talk about at the studio. They’re scared to death the next one could be their daughter.”

“
I’m sure.”

“
I hope you understand.”

“
I do. I just hope it ends soon. It’s brought my business to a standstill.”

“
You said your dad isn’t doing well?”

“
No, he’s…” I sighed. “…not.”

“
I’m sorry.”

My mind drifted. I wondered if my
real
dad had ever come here. If he appreciated the beauty of a pair of swans on a lake…or a sunrise on the river…or how beautiful a woman’s face can be with soft light coming across it at just the right angle. I wondered if he’d ever been in a play, or walked on the beach at night, or if he would’ve thought all that to be a lot of nonsense.

“
A penny,” Sydney interrupted.

“
For my thoughts?”

She smiled, “Yeah.”

“
I was just thinking about you.”

“
What about me?”

“
Sitting in the bottom of a closet. Whispering into a telephone. Wondering why
you
, of all people, would subject yourself to that kind of—”

She looked away. “It’s complicated.”

“
Yes, but is it worth it?”

She twisted the cap off her water and took a drink while her eyes followed the swans as they paddled along the shoreline. “It wasn’t always like this. Actually, he really hasn’t been around all that much this past year. And it really didn’t matter that much…until now. And now, I’ve asked him to get his things out…and that’s what has him upset.”

“
I wish you had somewhere else you could stay until he’s gone.”

“
Did you bring me out here to talk about Scott?”

“
His name is Scott?” I snickered. “Not Scott McGillikin, I hope.”

“
You know him?”

“
Oh, great. Scott McGillikin is my attorney and he knows we were together Saturday. You’re my alibi.”

Sydney laid her head back and closed her eyes. “I told him I was helping a friend Saturday.”

“
Well? You were, weren’t you?”

She pulled her feet up onto the bench and wrapped her arms around her knees. “We’ve been together for about five years, but things haven’t been all that good for a long time now. I wanted him to move out a year ago, but didn’t say anything until yesterday. And when I asked him to leave, he got mad. But he left. Then he came back last night to—to get a few things.”

“
What did he do?”

“
He can be a little strange at times, but he’s never been violent before.”

“
Damn! What did he do? Tell me.”

“
He—” She dropped her forehead onto her knees.

That son-of-a-bitch!
I crammed the rest of my Burro Loco into my mouth and wiped my hands. My eyes burned and my forearms tightened. I grunted. “I’m so sorry, Sydney. He did that because I told him about you going out to the farm with me Saturday.”

“
Please don’t tell him about our date today.”