While You Were Gone: A Thought I Knew You Novella (3 page)

“Okay.” I gently place the elephant on my lap and wait.

“You are a tough cookie, Karen.” He says this like
tooof coooookie. “
You have been through a lot, no?”

I shrug, because
a lot
is relative. Compared to whom?

He raps his desk with his knuckles and continues without waiting for my reply. “Ah, well. What do you say to that, right? Okay. Here’s the thing. You have technique. You are respected by the group. But something in you… You are not ready to lead. You are too young.”

“That is bull,” I interject and palm my eyes. “You are the one who said that age is just a number.”

“I’m not talking about your age. You are too unsettled right now. You read music. You play music. You don’t feel music.”

“I’m the best violinist in Toronto. Or all of Ontario. Maybe even Canada.”

“I’m sure. Technically, I’m sure.” He nods, bows his mouth down, and scratches his cheek.

“Then what? Nothing about this makes sense to me.”

“That’s your problem, Miss Caughee. You think the world makes sense. You don’t see any beauty when it doesn’t.”

“You have no idea what I see,” I say quietly. I gently place the sculpture on his desk, on top of a manila folder with my name on it, and I leave him there, stroking his chin with his sad, strange little smile. I head to rehearsal.

Because I’m a professional, I head directly to Amy’s chair and tap her on the right shoulder. She turns and cocks her head, questioning.

“Congratulations. I’m happy for you, but I need a few days. Okay?”

She nods and gives me a twist of her mouth, almost a smile. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Kar. Really.”

“Are you sorry you auditioned?” The question slips out before I have time to think about it.

She hesitates and studies her violin in her lap. When she looks up, she squares her jaw and takes a deep breath. “No.”

I call Pete and almost fall over when he picks up. I’m stomping my way home from rehearsal, skipping the cracks in the sidewalk like a kid. Nikolai’s voice fights for space in my head over Mom’s, over Lesley’s, over Scott’s.
You are too unsettled. You might make a good mother one day. Are we going anywhere? A concertmistress must, above all, lead.
My stomach feels empty, scooped out, but my heart stutter-skips in my chest, an irregular, angry rhythm knocking against my ribcage like a kid kicking a pebble.

“Is it Mom?” Pete replies when I ask him to meet me for dinner.

I push aside a trace of annoyance. “No. It’s me. Is that so impossible to everyone?”

“That you’d need me? Um, maybe?” His voice edges up but breaks when he laughs. “Sure, I’ll meet you for dinner. Lemme run it by Mindy. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Mindy. I picture her face twisted in annoyance as she balances two kids, one on each hip, and a third tugging at her pant leg. Her perfectly lined lips, her tightly pulled hair, nary a wisp out of place. Even her yoga pants are clean. She’s a “together” mom, which is why it sometimes makes it so hard for everyone to believe I am barely a “together” person. I wait for the cancellation phone call, but it never comes.

At five-thirty, I push open the door to Faraday’s, and the smell of wet wood and cologne slaps my nostrils. Faraday’s is largely a businessman’s bar, but I like it for the Reubens. Pete is fifteen minutes late, which lets me take the edge off with a quick martini. A group at the end of the bar is watching soccer and laughing, ties undone, unbuttoned at the neck, jackets draped in a pile across the back of a chair. They all seem to know one another with a familiarity that comes with working together for years, and they elbow and mock each other like brothers. I have no idea what that kind of friendship feels like, and the realization sits in my gut, doing a dangerous little tango with the liquor.

“Hey now, Shortcake.” Pete slides into the booth across from me and gives me a grin. The childhood nickname feels good. I’ve missed my brother. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I can’t just want to see you?” I pull a Sweet ’N Low pack from the cut-glass holder and flip it around my fingers.

“You can, but you never have. So I thought this was about Mom?” He pushes his glasses up on his nose. My big brother, almost five years older than me, looks all of about twelve years old. He has sunny blue eyes, sandy hair, freckles across his nose, and a dimpled smile. Mindy generally leads the pack, Coach diaper bag in tow, and Pete trails behind like one of the kids. I’ve rarely seen them apart.

“Sort of. She was bad the other night. Her apartment… we have to talk. What do you want to do? Have you seen it?”

He shakes his head. “I know I need to go over there. She said the dead bolt needs to be replaced, but I thought maybe she lost the key again.”

“I can’t be the only one doing this, Pete.”

“I know. But I have the kids. I work. I don’t know when I’m supposed to be Mom’s keeper too.” He tugs on his ear and looks around for the waitress. It should feel more wrong to talk about Mom’s alcoholism while sipping on my third martini.

“I don’t know, Pete. But it can’t be all me. She hasn’t done laundry in weeks. Her pantry is empty except for tuna fish, and I swear she doesn’t take the trash out. There’re mouse droppings.”

He sighs. “Yeah, that’s bad. I get it, Kar. I do. I just… there’s only twenty-four hours in a day. Mindy is going nuts with the kids by the time I get home, and the twins just started ballet. Apparently, they’re virtuosos. Is that the right word?” He digs around in his pocket for his wallet, flips it open, beams a smile at me. “Look.” Two chubby four-year-old ballerinas stand in second position, side by side. Identical blond pigtails. Serious blue eyes gaze into the camera. They look like Pete, minus all the pink. I push the wallet out of the way.

“Yeah, they’re cute. I agree.” I throw back the rest of my drink as Pete rolls his eyes. “I need to come over and visit my nieces. But we really need to figure this out, okay?”

“The blind leading the blind,” he mutters. The waitress appears, and we order drinks, Pete a beer, me another martini, and sandwiches. She brings back the drinks, sets Pete’s pint in front of him, and he checks his watch when he thinks I’m not looking.

He takes a long swig of his beer. “Here’s an idea. I usually get off early on Mondays. Why don’t I go to Mom’s and fix her dead bolt. I’ll look around the house and get back to you. Then we’ll plan some kind of intervention, okay?”

“This Monday.” I twirl the olived toothpick around my glass.

He tips his head and gulps his drink. His phone buzzes, he reads it, frowns, and taps a quick reply. Then he looks back at me blankly. “What?”

“This Monday. You’ll go this Monday?”

“Yes. This Monday. I’ll call, and we’ll talk, okay?” He stands up. “I’ll get mine to go. We have a plan. Mindy just texted. One of the twins spiked a fever.”

“Wait, Pete. I…” I look around helplessly. “I’ve had a shitty day. Can’t you stay?”

“The kids are sick, Karen. I’m sorry, I would. But…” He gives me a half smile. “You’ll see one day. I don’t have time to think about my shitty days anymore. They’re all just… days.” He tosses a twenty down on the table and gives me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you Monday, okay?”

He pushes out the front door through a thick, gray-suited or khaki-clad crowd. I survey the bar: two groups of men on either side and a lone bartender drying glasses with a dishtowel. I migrate to the center of the bar and offer a weak smile to the bartender, who nods back.

“Another?”

“One more, then I’m out. Going home.” I suck on the olive, tangy and sweet, and absently watch the television.

“Going home? You’re the only one in here worth talking to.” A guy hovers to my left, the kind of guy that romance novels would call dangerously good looking. Dark hair, dark eyes, chiseled jaw, black jacket. I side-eye him and try not to smirk. Truthfully, he smells like pine and something wonderful, and I half want to fall for it all. Faraday’s is where a local girl can go to get hit on, picked up, and anything else her little lonely heart desires. I flash on the image of a guy, this guy, in my bed, between my legs, kissing my neck. Where Scott used to be. I inch closer.

“That guy who left you here is a jerk.” He leans in, and his face is inches from my face. All our little face electrons jump around, making sparks.

“You’re right. He is a jerk,” I agree. The leather from his jacket brushes against my hand. My fingers tap against my elbow. I give him my best “rescue me” face, batted eyelashes and pouty lip. I think about how much fun this can be, this little stupid game, and how I forgot about that. With Scott around, I haven’t really played it in a while. My mood fizzles out like flat pop. I straighten up, lean back, and give Leather Jacket a smirk. “He’s also my brother.”

“Well, brothers can be jerks, too.” He shrugs, his smile edging up higher on one side. “I have a sister. I bet I’m a jerk sometimes.”

“I don’t doubt it. Listen, I’m not really the best company. This was fun, meeting you, if that’s what you call this. I don’t know your name but—”

He extends his hand. “Mike Potter.”

I take it reluctantly. “Nice to meet you, Mike, but I think I’m about to leave.”

“Really? So soon?” He stands up, his back against the bar. “Listen, I’m going to run to the little boys’ room. I’ll get you one more drink, and when I come back, we can start over. Just talk.” He holds up his hands. “No come-ons, I swear.”

“That is actually a come-on. Just so you know.”

He motions for the bartender to get me one more drink—which is one more than I promised myself I wanted ten minutes ago—and trots off in the direction of the bathroom. Who the hell says “little boys’ room”? A free drink is a free drink. Oh, my God, I’m my mother.

“Pay no attention to Mikey. This is what he does. He’s a ‘God’s gift’ kind of guy.” The guy is leaning against the bar, sorting peanuts into small piles. “I mean, to be honest, it generally works for him. I guess I don’t know if it’ll work this time or not, but he’s rarely brushed off.”

“I wasn’t brushing him off. I’ve just had the world’s shittiest day. Normally, I’d play along.”

“Okay, you go first. ’Cause I think I can beat you.” He’s cute. Average. Glasses and a nice smile. Smart eyes, where you can tell he’s watching the world behind those glasses, even though they look like—

“Hey, I know you.” I almost say
penny eyes
but stop myself. He’s the guy I ran into in the street, knocked his files over.

“Yeah, I know. You ran into me the other day.” He ducks his head, a small smile playing on his lips before he redirects his attention to the hockey game.

“I’d call it a mutual… crash. But, yeah.” I stab the olive at the bottom of my glass and bite it. “So tell me your day. I bet I win.”

“This is like the worst happy-hour conversation I’ve ever had.” He leans back, and his full smile is nice. Wide and friendly. “Okay, so the other day, when I packed, I did a terrible job, which is crazy because I travel constantly. I should be good at this. But I forgot”—he ticks it off on his fingers—“my toothbrush, my razor, extra boxers, and my lucky tie. Also, I forgot my notebook, which I carry everywhere, that had all my flight info in it. So, fine, I use the kiosk and my phone like everyone else. But I can’t tell you—I was thrown. Then I get stuck on the plane next to a guy coming from backpacking Eastern Europe who spends the whole two hours detailing how toxic our lifestyle is, particularly deodorant and toothpaste. Then I get here, and I’m told I need to teach all new material, only later to discover it’s all executives. So I’m studying the class content after Day One, only to come around the corner and be railroaded by a woman who is clearly not paying attention, and half the class information, including the roster, goes flying off, halfway across Toronto. So today, I have to teach this class, no roster, no notes.”

I’m laughing. I can’t help it. “Wait, so those papers were all you had? It’s 2011. You must have it electronically.”

“No, no, no, Greg here is old school.” Mike is back, his hand clamped on Greg’s shoulder. “He does everything on paper like it’s 1985. Even his khakis have pleats.”

“I think I can beat this. I really do.” I clear my throat. “I had to pick my mother up from a bar, drunk at three a.m. I auditioned for concertmistress of the TSO and didn’t get it, against my best friend, who did. Now we’re not really on speaking terms, which may or may not be my fault. My boyfriend surprised me at midnight just to break up with me, and my brother has pretty much left my mom for me to handle because he has a ‘life of his own.’” I use air quotes with my fingers. “My career is shitty. I’m not sure I’m a good violinist anymore. My relationship is over, and I’m just truly lukewarm about the whole thing. And my mother acts like she’s in college, even going so far as to pick up guys my age. Mike, are you paying attention? Do you like cougars?”

“Who doesn’t?” He tosses the remark over his shoulder as a big play on the TV above our heads sets the crowd roaring.

“Mike is an equal-opportunity offender.”

“Offender!” Mike protests, turning his attention back to me. “Were you offended?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m just… tired. Ready for bed.” The line of bar taps swims in my vision.
And drunk.
The TV pulls Mike’s attention again, leaving Greg and me to sit in silence.

“You know,” Greg starts and pauses. “My mother was an alcoholic. She died years ago, and she had other problems. Mental health mostly, a touch of schizophrenia. But she always had a bottle of vodka open and going. Mixed with anything, really. OJ, AJ, Coke. I didn’t realize it until I was older, but she was.”

He goes back to sorting his peanuts, and I can’t figure out his system from where I’m sitting. I don’t know how to respond to his admission. Should we trade alcoholic mother stories now?

He talks before I can. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you that. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud to anyone, ever. But, there you go. The truth comes out in weird ways.”

“No, I’m glad you told me.” I touch his arm, and he stares at my hand. I pull it away. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your day, and your papers and… your mom.”