When I See You (18 page)

"What? Kate? Jordan?"

My heart rate beats faster, and I hold my breath to maintain some kind of semblance of coolness with my mother. She grabs my arm and leads the way as I tap into the house with my walking cane.

"Nice try, Cowboy. I've read them both. And now, I'll read them to you."

"You're not making this easy, mother."

"It's never meant to be easy, Brock," she says with a little sigh.

≈ ≈

My mother rushes out the door to go deliver something to my father in the farthest corner of our ten thousand acres while I sit here waiting.

Waiting. Waiting. Just waiting.

I become impatient, accompanied by equal doses of frustration and resentment. All those hours spent on the battle field with Ethan, where we had to stay absolutely still and look for the enemy, don't help me, now. For the thousandth time, I censure myself for not allowing the Center to install the proper audible software on my parent's desktop computer or better yet, for not buying my own laptop, so I'm no longer dependent upon my mother reading my email to me like a school boy.

After an interminable half hour, she returns, calling out an airy hello that echoes to me from the front hallway. I listen intently as she finally settles herself down next to me to read my email to me. I give her a perturbed look in the direction of her melodic chatter, but she just laughs softly. She rattles the pages with such drama that I almost laugh, but this uneasiness rushes at me. I may have missed Kate, but that doesn't even begin to cover the scope of feelings I've experienced for Ethan's widow.

With one last clearing of her throat, she begins:

To: Lieutenant Brock Wainwright

From: Major Kate Richards M.D.

"She
outranks
you?" My darling mother asks.

"Yes," I say in irritation. "Get on with it. What does it say?"

Brock,

How is Criss Cole? I figure they have you set up with your computer by now, so I thought I would drop you a line. I've been doing some additional research about your condition and have contacted Dr. Tethers about some new methods to try to reactivate your memory. There's some new research being done in Europe on conditions such as yours and some new medications that we might be able to try. Anyway, I miss you. I hope you're doing well and enjoying your family.

"She knows about us?" My mother stops to ask.

"She knows my life story, for the most part," I concede. "She's met Diana, a few times, when she's come to town.

"She sounds lovely."

This is a rhetorical response. Lovely is a term my mother uses for things she doesn't necessarily care for: bridge, democrats, promiscuity. She makes an exception for me on the last one, but that's about it. I frown upon hearing her use the word, lovely.

"Well, if you ever get the chance to
see
her, you'll have to let me know," I say.

"Do you want me to finish or not?"

"Finish it."

I hope to consult with Dr. Tethers in the next couple of days. Would you be up for some company in Austin, then? I believe we have some unfinished business to conduct, Lieutenant.

Kate

I hear the familiar clucking of disapproval over Kate's suggestive words from my mother and grimace.

"That's it?" I ask in a noncommittal tone.

I'm not sure exactly what to make of Kate's email. Well, maybe I am, but there's this invading image of Jordan Holloway that has annihilated all my good common sense, and I''m fighting for this semblance of control before my mother discovers it.

"Sounds pretty suggestive to me," my mother says with a dainty laugh. "Okay, here's the other message from Jordan Holloway."

She begins to read word for word.

To: Brock

From: Jordan Holloway

Brock,

Hello. It's been a while and I am remiss in getting in touch with you sooner for a myriad of reasons that seem selfish at best. Let's just say; I haven't been myself, although I've gotten very good at decorating cupcakes.

"What does that mean?" My mother asks in her most persistent voice that will not be denied an explanation. "About decorating cupcakes?"

"I gave her a hard time about perfecting the art of cupcakes once," I mutter. This inner ache begins to throb inside of me as I realize how much I miss Jordan's emails to Ethan in Afghanistan. It's just another one of those things that I've been missing all these months. The loss of Ethan reverberates in so many ways for me; it's astounding.

My mother is still beside me. "Go on. What does she say?"

I've been going through the documents you sent and I have more questions than answers. I know I've been remiss in getting back to you. I'm sorry. In any case, we're making a trip to Austin. Max needs to see his grandparents; and you and I should probably meet in person and make the final decisions about the estate. You can fill me in about the Lazy J. "It'll be nothing, but fun and games" as Ethan would say.

"He would say that," I say, when my mother pauses again.

I grimace, remembering Ethan's famous sayings and experience this deep heartache again. I miss him. My mother clears her throat, pulling me back again, and continues on in her cheeriest voice:

Here's the thing, Brock. I don't like to fly, but I will. I've got some time off and I'd like to bring Max and Ashleigh, too. A change of scenery for all of us would be good, at least for a week or so.

Call me when you can, so we can determine the best way to meet up in Austin while I'm there.

Take care, Brock.

Jordan

"She wrote her phone number at the bottom," my mother says softly.

"I know her number."

I've tripped my way across my parent's living room, and stare out, unseeing, at what must be in the direction of their large living room window. I tap the dial on my watch, and the mechanical voice states the time 'five zero six p.m.'

"L.A. is two hours behind," my mother says.

I grimace in learning she's already calculated the time difference. "Yes." My voice is low, and I can barely utter the word.

"Are you all right, Brock?"

"No."

I turn toward the sound of my mother's voice. My face must say it all. My mother gasps as this unbearable pain, this never-ending suffering and the enormous loss of all of it washes over me now. Grief over Ethan. Grief over her. She haunts me. I have endless nightmares where she screams at me for breaking my promise to her in not keeping Ethan safe. And, on the nights I actually get some sleep, I dream of her, but the guilt of lusting for her makes me weak. Jordan Holloway serves as my own personal tormenter. And, to even be in the same room with her, again, as a blind man? No. I won't accept her pity.

"I don't think I can do it," I finally say.

"Oh Brock, you have to," my mother says. "You've been moping around for months about all of this, about what happened. We all loved Ethan, but his wife is reaching out to you. You have to help her. Be there for her." She sighs. "You have to call her. You should call her, now."

"Mom, it's not that simple." My voice rises, and I try to control the racing emotions as best I can. "Can you just give me a minute here? She doesn't—she doesn't know I'm blind. I don't want her to know."

My mother makes this clucking sound. "What? I don't understand why you wouldn't have told her," she says, uncertain.

I sense her hesitation. If there's a sound for hand-wringing, my mother is making it now. She's building up to something, and I'm suddenly on high alert.

"What did you
do
, mother?"

"Well, Jordan called here, earlier, for you." She sighs. "And, I told her what's been going on with you."

"You did
what
?"

"She was completely taken aback at your situation. She had no idea. I'm not even going to begin the lecture about you holding back on the truth of your condition from the people you care about, Brock. Anyway, I invited her to Austin. You've been trying to work on the estate paperwork with her. It seemed like a good idea."

My body has gone completely lax.
Jordan knows I'm blind.
The one thing I didn't ever want her to find out, and my mother has told her. And, now she's coming to Austin.

I try to summon righteous anger at the woman who brought me into this world, but I have this uncanny sense of relief. I've been absolved of the burden of telling Jordan.

My mother responds to my silence with a quickening in her speech. "I'm sorry, Brock. I betrayed your trust and I'm sorry about that, but don't think I won't do anything in my power to try and help you."

My mother takes my hand, while I begin shaking my head side-to-side and finally start to laugh. It's an inappropriate response to what she has just done to me. I think my body is as confused as my mind, which wavers with only mild annoyance at Janie Wainwright's meddling.

"This isn't going to be like my senior prom; is it, mother?"

My senior prom was a comedy of sorts where I went with two different girls to the same function, entirely due to my mother's interference. One girl was the one that I'd actually asked, and the other was a distant cousin from a small town who had never been to such a fancy event, and my mother had promised I would take her. We are on familiar footing here. I should have known that she would take it upon herself to tell Jordan one day. I didn't expect Jordan to ever call, let alone agree to come to Austin.

"Did you call Kate, too?"

"No. I'm going to leave that one up to you," she says with an impish laugh. "Jordan's flying in on Friday. She's taking care of some loose ends with the house and the restaurant."

"Le Reve," I say quietly.

My mind is busy trying to process all of these events.
Jordan's coming. She knows I'm blind.

"Maybe you should call her."

"I will," I mutter.

"See? It's all working out just fine."

My mother is doing what she always does, putting a positive spin on things and ignoring reality that might be incongruent to her way of thinking.

"Can't
see
," I retort.

"Sorry slip of the tongue," my mother airily calls out.

Her voice drifts farther away from me. She must be going back down the stairs, but I can only surmise. The only truth I really know is this: I can't see anything.

*≈*≈*

Chapter 11. Hope you're happy

Jordan

I'm pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, wondering what I have done in committing myself to a trip to Austin, while my inquisitive child watches me in gleeful fascination. I've finally told him we're going to Texas this weekend. Now, Max is busy looking at the atlas and the state of Texas that I've gotten out for him.

"Is everything pink in Texas?"

Max is staring at the road atlas. I start to giggle, realizing how the world must look to an almost four-year-old.

"No. I don't know why they do the states in different colors like that."

He holds the atlas closer and scrutinizes the map with various shades of pale yellow, blue, and pink. I kiss the top of his head and outline the borders of Texas with my finger and then, point back to the state of California.

"This is our state. This is where Brock lives, now. Far away. So, we'll go on a big airplane to Austin. Where your daddy used to live. Where Grandpa and Grandma Holloway still live. Brock's parents live on a ranch there. His mom sounds very nice."

"A ranch?" Max crinkles up his nose. "What's a ranch?"

"A ranch is a place where people live in big states like Texas. The people have lots of land, and they might raise cattle or horses. I don't know what they have on Brock's ranch." For the millionth time I reflect how little I really know about Brock and his life in Austin.

"Do you think they have horses on his ranch?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Would you like to go see?" His enthusiastic nod is barely contained. I start to laugh. "Okay. Good. So, we'll finish up Mommy's work at the restaurant and take a vacation. We'll pack our clothes and go visit your grandparents and Brock and his family. Ashleigh's coming, too."

"Can I take my picture of the elephant so Brock can see it?"

My son's question elevates my anxiety about Brock's condition. I couldn't believe it when his mother told me he was blind. How could I have not seen it? My behavior at Ethan's funeral comes rushing back. I was horrible to Brock. And, he was blind and injured; and I was awful. The guilt rushes at me from all sides. The reprieve from Liz and even Ashleigh has worn off.

"Max," I say. "We can take the picture, but Mommy will have to describe it to him. Brock's eyes got injured while he was in Afghanistan and he can't see."

"He can't see anymore? He's hurt?"