Pack Up the Moon (16 page)

Thursday, May 15, 2014
8 a.m.

N
olan rubbed his face with his hands and then rested his wrists on the steering wheel. Fred Weasley rumbled low in his throat next to him on the passenger seat. Not in the almost year he’d been out had Nolan been by the house, not until now. There were guys he worked with who treated spying on the ex like a game. They took a grim delight in coming to work and relaying what a whore their ex-wife was, how she was out banging some dickwipe while a sitter stayed with their kids.
My
kids, they’d say, shaking their heads before pulling on their work vests.
Mine.
The single guys avoided those conversations, and the married ones looked horrified, but all the divorced men leaned in and listened, Nolan had noticed. They couldn’t help it.

And now here he was.

If only he could figure out how to get out of the car. Go knock on that thick strong door he’d loved so much. But so far, he couldn’t.

Mr. Foster, a grumpy retired English teacher from the local high school, stepped down off his front porch to pick up his newspaper, dressed in that same old ratty green robe he’d always worn. There was no reason he’d look at Nolan other than simple nosiness, which he did. But Nolan’s old beater wasn’t anything Mr. Foster would recognize and Nolan kept his shades on as he pretended to look at his phone.

Nolan had to admit the outside of the house looked good. From his parking spot, he couldn’t see the claw-foot bathtub in the garden. Of course he couldn’t. That was the whole point. She must have kept the gardener, that much was obvious. From jail through his court-appointed lawyer, he’d hired a guy sight unseen to take care of the front and side yards in his permanent absence. Kate had always loved having pretty grass and joyful flowers, but she had absolutely no talent when it came to gardening. Watering once a week was too much to remember, and for her it was just like cleaning the house: something she never noticed needed doing. Yeah, he’d left her well taken care of, at least. He’d signed over the deed to the house and had moved all his money into her account before taking his name off it. He’d refused to pay for an attorney, saying the state-appointed one would be good enough. Nolan
was
a lawyer, after all, and he could have worked with the young guy more than he had. He hadn’t, though. He’d let the kid do the best he could in court, which wasn’t bad, actually. Nolan hadn’t fought a thing. Not a single goddamn thing. He had no ground to stand on to fight—he was in the wrong. If he’d had to live through it, he also had to be punished, he knew that. Even a lifetime in prison wouldn’t be long enough to fully punish him. He’d hoped for the death sentence—prayed for it, courted it like a lover, imagined what he’d whisper to Kate as they dripped the poison into his veins—even while knowing in California the state would never kill a man who’d mercifully killed his terminally ill, suffering child.

This was the real punishment, this right here.
This
was what he’d signed up for. Looking at their house, wondering if she was alone inside. For all he knew, Kate had a man in the house with her. Loving her.

Would another man be able to make her laugh the way Nolan had? For a selfish, dizzying moment, he allowed himself to remember the sound of her laughter. No one in the world sounded like Kate, he’d decided long ago, while still in high school. It didn’t matter what she was actually laughing about as her voice trilled up and then went so satisfyingly back down again. It was solid. You could rest a cup of coffee on that laugh. He’d just wanted to hear it, to be in on the joke. And he’d always,
always
been in on it. He missed her laugh more than he missed sex.

Kate probably wasn’t missing sex. Nope. A noble part of himself wanted to wish her the best in this—to hope her lover was skilled and handsome and kind. And the base part of him wanted nothing more than to storm into his old house, up the stairs, and drag out any asshole who might be in her sheets and beat the living shit out of him, to have the satisfaction of hearing him wheeze after a well-seated blow. He flexed his fingers and knew he could do it. Right now.

But Kate wasn’t his to fight for, though. Not anymore.

Nolan probably didn’t have too much time left here on this street before someone got interested in why a guy was hanging out in his car with no obvious reason. The neighbors all had their local beat cop on speed dial, something this part of Oakland could boast, and one of the biggest reasons he and Kate had bought here. The annexed city of Piedmont, a few blocks away, had a response time of under three minutes for all medical emergencies and felonies, and the rich citizens of this part of Oakland insisted on a similar response even while the deep east and west areas of the city were still torn by violence.

A woman getting in her parked Buick in front of him raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows and glared through his windshield. The look appeared to be directed at Fred Weasley, however, not at him. Fred tucked the top of his head under Nolan’s chin and pressed the rest of his long, shaggy body as hard as he could against him, sitting sideways on the emergency brake. Nolan wrapped his arm around the dog as Fred shook in paroxysms of delight.

In front of him, the Buick pulled out, the woman casting one more glare over her shoulder. It was time to start his own car. Drive away. He told himself to turn the key, but it was harder than it sounded, especially since he was dying to know what Kate had to tell him, what was so important she’d come looking for him. But there was no way he could make himself go up that walkway. No way in hell.

At that moment, as he reached to turn the key, a girl walked out of the side door. Really, she snuck out, as if trying to avoid being noticed. Had she broken in? She was young, and had something in her hands, but she didn’t look like the burgling type. She was wearing . . . was that Kate’s robe she was wearing? The one he’d given her the Christmas before Robin died?

Nolan sucked in his breath and leaned farther forward. There was something familiar about the girl . . . She was young, maybe late teens or early twenties? Maybe she was one of Kate’s friends’ kids; Vanessa Hutchins at the gallery had a girl who would be about that age now, didn’t she?

His heart started racing, thumping uncomfortably in his chest, and he had no idea why. A fine trembling started in his right hand as he touched the car key.
Turn the key. Just leave.
It was time to go. Fred was due for his day-off ramble on the beach.

But the girl. So familiar. That brown hair, curled like . . . Those shoulders—they reminded him of . . .
Shit
.

Nolan shook his head and rubbed his eyes again.

He’d been seeing Robin everywhere lately. At the grocery store the other night, he’d almost run after a little boy he’d seen rounding the end of the cracker aisle. He’d been there only a second, and Nolan had just seen the back of his head. But that split second of
knowing
it was Robin was both the best and the worst second of his life in recent memory. The very highest hope, followed almost instantly by crushing despair.

The hope had made it worth it.

The girl picked up the bowl she’d placed on the porch.

In that moment, he saw it.

She didn’t just remind him of Robin. She
was
Robin, an alternate version of his son. Nolan could see it in the set of her head, the pointed slope of her shoulders, the way her left foot turned in as she stood, as if she was about to trip.

And he had no fucking idea who she was. A child she’d had with someone when they’d been apart during their early college years? That was
impossible
.

Nothing could be more impossible. Kate didn’t lie to him.

Wasn’t it impossible? He did math as quickly as he could—if she’d had a baby while they were apart, that child could be anywhere from eighteen to twenty-one. Shit, fuck, hellfire, the girl looked as if she’d fall into the age range.

She disappeared into the house through the side door, and Nolan closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. He tried to think, but his brain was spinning too fast for him to grab and tease out any single discrete thought. Robin. Kate. Robin. Robin . . .

While they were apart, Kate had given birth to a child. Shit, fuck, shit, what the
hell
was going on?

Kate had a daughter.

Thursday, May 15, 2014
8:30 a.m.

K
ate knocked gently on the bedroom door, and it opened quickly, as if Pree—suspiciously bright-eyed—had been waiting for her.

“Can I make you breakfast before you go to work?”

A guilty look flickered across Pree’s face. “I think I might play hooky today.”

“Pancakes, then?” Hope smelled like maple syrup and butter. Kate had never wanted to make pancakes so much in her whole life.

“Um. I’m not that hungry, really. Maybe some coffee?”

In the kitchen, they stood in silence while the coffee hissed into its carafe. Unsure if it was a companionable silence or not, Kate worked at carefully picking out the few shards of glass still remaining at the bottom of the sink. Pree didn’t ask what she was doing.

Kate poured Pree the first cup, and then waited until there was enough to pour for herself. Pree pushed a blue-black curl out of her eye and then stared into her coffee cup as if she were having a hard time deciding whether or not to take the first sip. She was so
beautiful.
Young. Gorgeous in her casually worn luminous skin. Alive. For one second Kate allowed herself to bask in this feeling of pride in a person she’d helped create. It had been a long time. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

What if, on the very small chance, Pree was here because she wanted to talk? What if she wanted something from a mother she’d never had, a mother she didn’t know?

Sternly, she reminded herself a child with two mothers doesn’t lack for maternal advice. But oh, god, if she did . . . There weren’t words in the English language to describe how she’d feel. The color didn’t exist that would paint the happiness it would bring.

To be a mother. That’s what Pree’s mothers had had this whole time. Kate hadn’t been a mother in three years, and the urge to be one was almost overwhelming. The urge to touch Pree (to smooth the hair back off her face, to touch the tip of her perfect nose) burned in her knuckles and made her fingers twitch. It was ridiculous, not to mention socially and morally unacceptable. And still it was there, inside her, a feeling that might knock her down, physically, all the way to the ground.

Carefully, she sat at the kitchen table. Pree sat in Robin’s place and Kate chided herself for noticing. There wasn’t a better place, after all. It was the only seat for Pree.

After a moment, Kate said, “I want to ask you something.”

Pree’s eyes widened.

“An easy question, I mean.”

“Okay,” said Pree.

“What kind of art do you do? I mean, your medium. You didn’t really tell me.”

Pree looked surprised. “Um. I guess right now my medium is pixels. Lots of pixels. I draw vehicles, props, environments, all for this console game we’re building. They bring me ideas—like, tell me to fill this room in a certain way, or that they need a samurai sword. I go off and research whatever it is, and then I render it for the scene.”

“That sounds cool.” Joy thumped around Kate’s chest, lodging itself somewhere near her heart.

“I like it.” Pree looked at the table. “I mean, it’s okay. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve sold out, you know?”

“You’re making money by being an artist. There aren’t very many people who pull off that scam.”

“You do.”

It was true. Kate did. Finally. “Yeah. I worked my ass off for a really long time and I support myself now. But it wasn’t easy, and I’m not a normal case. Most people give up before I did. It was just a question of how long I could hold on. And honestly . . .” Kate paused. “My husband’s job took care of the bills. They took care of this house. It wasn’t until less than five years ago that I really started making a living wage. And if I were really honest, I’d admit I don’t even love the work I’ve been selling.”

“Seriously?”

“People like the dark stuff. They like bleak.” Kate looked at her fingertips, remembering when they were always stained with color. “I used to paint with every sliver of the rainbow, every tiny piece of it. Every single shade. But that’s neither here nor there, really. What?” She paused. “What’s that look?”

“No, it’s just that . . . You’ll laugh.”

Kate wouldn’t. No way. “I promise not to.”

Pree appeared to be deciding something. Finally, she said, “Hang on.” She pattered up the stairs and clattered back down, this time clutching her backpack.

“You have work here!” Kate felt like clapping her hands and sat on them to prevent herself.

“Kinda.” Pree took out a black Moleskine that looked well used. It was battered, the corners of the cover bruised and soft-looking. “It’s probably not your thing.”

“Try me.”

Pree opened the book, shielding the contents with her body. Then she opened to a page and pushed it across the table toward Kate. “It’s not very good. I mean, it’s okay, but it’s . . . the kind of thing I really like to do.”

It was a drawing of a girl, bold black lines done in thick ink. The girl wore ragged shorts and a short top with suspenders. Heavy combat boots. Dark square glasses sat on an oval face, and her mouth was open in a shout. She was muscular, with biceps and thick thighs. She was young, cocky, and Kate could almost hear the yell coming off the page. “Cerulean,” she murmured. Cerulean was the color of determination that rose from fear.

“What?” Pree looked startled.

“Oh. Sorry. I know it’s bizarre, some kind of weird synesthesia, but sometimes I see color in voices. If you could hear her, this girl’s voice would be—”

“Cerulean. Yes.”

They stared at each other.

“Whoa,” breathed Pree.

“Do you know—?”

“Can you tell—?”

They stopped.

“You first,” said Pree.

“What color is my voice?” Her whole life, Kate had longed to know.

“Red.”

Kate sat back in her chair, strangely relieved. That’s what it
felt
like. “Red . . .”
Red for passion.

“More like burgundy, with plum undertones. So not true red, very purply.” Pree paused. “It’s pretty. What about me?”

“Green.”
Green for strength.

“Right
on.
That’s what I thought.”

“Pale, fresh green, like the inside of a cucumber.”

Pree pulled back the book and stared into the drawing. “I can’t believe you heard that.”

Kate shook her head, trying to clear it. “Damn. That’s so fucking cool.”

Laughing, Pree closed the book. “I heard about this guy who sees numbers as colors, and each color is a different emotion. The low numbers are primary colors and emotions, and the higher colors are combinations of them. He recited the numbers in pi for five hours, twenty-two
thousand
numbers, all in order, all correct, just because he remembered the poem he’d written in his head about the emotions of the colors.”

“Wow. That makes me feel almost normal.”

“Right?”

“So, what do you do? Comics? Graphic novels? More?” Kate said.

“All of it. I have this fantasy of doing all of it. But time, you know, there’s never enough of it. Right?”

Kate touched the cover of the book lightly, with one finger. “What else?”

Suddenly, Pree looked shy.

“What is it?”

Pree pulled something from her bag. It was something important, Kate could tell by the way her shoulders rounded protectively.

“Stickers.”

Thick black lines curled over the blue-and-white sticker, which looked like it might have once been some kind of label. “RARE. Nice slap.”

Pree gaped. “You know street art?”

“Graf’s cool. I’ve never done any, but I love it. I studied it for a while, looking specifically at their shading. There’s some great grayscale stuff. Have you seen the warehouse over on Mandela Parkway? A big group of women got together and bombed it a while ago.”

“I read about that.”

“I’ve been there. I’ll take you sometime. If you want to.”
Too much, slow down.
Kate added another spoon of sugar to her cup, even though it was sweet enough already. “You sure you don’t want some toast?”

“I’m okay. I, um, woke up early and stole some of your cereal.”

“I had cereal?”

“Two kinds. I had the Cocoa Puffs.”

Shit
. Kate had left those in the cupboard, next to her own Cheerios. It had been a small concession, just a tiny one. She knew she’d throw them out at some point—she just hadn’t gotten around to it just yet. The pain knifed her gut, as sudden and unexpected as always. She breathed. In. Out. Hold on.

“Must have been kind of stale,” she managed.

“They were kind of chewy.”

Kate stood, willing her knees to stay steady. “I’m going to have toast, then. Let me know if I can get you anything.”

“So . . .”

“Mmm?” Maybe if she didn’t look at her . . .

Pree cleared her throat, a soft noise. Then she said, “What did your mother say to you? When you were pregnant with me?”

“Not much, actually.”

“She didn’t know?”

“Oh, she knew. I think she knew before I even told her somehow. She just never had much to say to me even on a good day.”

“Is she alive?”

“No, she died last year.” At Pree’s stricken expression, Kate realized she should have softened the blow, but she hadn’t seen it coming.

“Oh. You weren’t close at all?”

Was that yearning in Pree’s voice? Kate said, “No. Not the way I wanted to be.”

“You were alone at the hospital. My moms said that, anyway.”

So alone.
Kate sucked in a breath and nodded. “She tried, but she was in a dark place then. And she wanted me to keep the baby, as crazy as that was, as young as I was. She thought, if I kept you . . . Anyway. She gave me a hand-knit sweater afterward. A gorgeous, cabled Aran wool sweater. She must have been working on it when I was pregnant, hiding it in her bedroom. I guess . . . it told me she didn’t wish me dead or anything. But still. We never talked about it after.” About the baby. About Pree. That had been the worst part of all, actually. Worse than giving birth naturally, worse than signing the papers in the hospital. Kate had at least known Marta and Isi would love the baby. Even as young and naive as she’d been in everything else, she’d known that. But Kate had just wanted to go home, to her mother. She wanted Sonia’s arms around her. She wanted to be able to cry for days if she needed to, and she wanted her own mother to take care of her. Not just a sweater.

Pree blinked. “Sad. What about your dad?”

“Died when I was young.”

Pree propped her elbow on the table and her chin on her knuckles. “What do you remember?”

Kate held the bread in her hand and considered the question. “His hands smelled like motor oil, even when he wasn’t working, but his jackets smelled like the cinnamon rolls he made on Sundays. He was loud, but only accidentally. He was ex–air force, and he flew helicopters, mostly commercial. On the weekends, he contracted for the parks department, flying paramedics. It was his favorite thing in the world, flying in and scooping up someone from a hillside who’d fallen or had a heart attack while hiking. He didn’t hear that well from the rotor noise, and to compensate, he yelled all the time.” Kate hadn’t thought of him, not like this, in years. She missed him suddenly, something she’d thought she was over.

“What did he look like?”

“That’s another good question.” Kate couldn’t really remember. She could visualize the photos she had of him, but the man himself—his image had slipped away over the years, no matter how hard she’d tried to hold on. It was why, in her last series, she’d painted only pieces of his helicopter, the sky, the ocean he loved, a jutting spit of beach. Pictures of her father. “Big. As tall as his voice was loud, and wide as a redwood.”

“But you were small then.” Pree kept her chin resting on her hand.

It was true, in the photos of him with Sonia, he didn’t seem that much bigger than his wife. “Yeah. Maybe I just remember him that way.”

Pree wriggled so that the chair creaked, a noise Kate hadn’t heard in such a long time. “So he never got to see what you became.”

A mother with no child. A wife with no husband.
“No. He would have thought being an artist was silly, probably. Military to the core.” Kate pushed the bread down into the toaster. Damn fancy olive loaf from the farmers market, it would probably burn in there. “First-world problems,” she muttered. “So. Tell me more about that Flynn you mentioned when we met. He’s an artist, too, right?”

Pree shifted in her seat, her knee thumping the underside of the table. Instead of answering, she said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about it. What was my father like?”

Kate stilled her face, making sure her lips didn’t give her away.
Loving. Kind. Sexy. Sweet. My best friend.
“I told you, he was nice.”

“Nice?” She smiled winningly, and Kate saw her own crescent moon crinkly eyes in Pree’s face. “Can’t you give me just a little more?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You must remember something. Do I look like him?”

Pree’s question jolted her back to the present, and she almost answered truthfully.
So much so that it hurts me to look at you
. But she said instead, also truthfully, “You look like Robin.”

Kate could almost see the war within Pree, the tension scribbled across her face. She wanted more about her father so desperately. What must she think? Had she bought the Greg Jenkins lie? What came up when you
did
google his name? Kate should have done that already, should be ready to back up the stupid, ridiculous, necessary lie.

Pree glanced down at her lap, and when she looked up, her eyes were less intense. “Well, then, what was Robin like?”

Kate softened inside. This was the only question that was safe to answer. “When he was born he weighed eight pounds, two ounces. His eyes were blue except when he cried—then they were bright green. The first movie he ever watched was
Star Wars
, because Nolan wanted to start him out right. He could read at age three, and he loved Harry Potter more than he loved ice cream. I never finished reading him the last book because there was too much death in it, and I regret that every day. He had scars on his back from the spinal taps and I worried that they would never go away, that he’d still have the reminder of his pain when he was grown. Then I’d wonder if he
would
grow up, and I’d pray for more scars, anything to buy him more time. When he went into a giggle fit, he sounded like a baby seal barking, something he knew, and on his birthday every year, he asked to go see the seals at Fisherman’s Wharf so he could show them what a good barker he was. He was perfect.”