A Forty Year Kiss

21

Two weeks after Christmas, Melissa called him. He was surprised at first, then tickled. Until he heard the jagged edge in her voice. She was not all right. Something was wrong.

Can I drive up to your house? she asked. I just need your help, Charlie, and I don’t have anyone else to ask. Please.

Well, I mean, he stammered, you’ve got your mom, don’t you? You’ve always got your mom, Melissa. It’s an hour’s drive up here. At least forty-five minutes. You know—

No, she said forcefully. Just you. I can explain more when I’m there. Okay, I’m coming over.

Before he could say anything, even bye, the line was dead and his brain buzzed with curiosity, with dread. So this must be what it was like, being a parent.

The house was always some semblance of immaculate; still he set about tidying up. He polished the granite surface of the kitchen island until it shone like a mirror. He cleaned the first-floor toilet and sink. Gave the entryway and living room a good vacuuming. Then there was nothing more to do but pace the house, occasionally walking to the front windows to stare down the length of his driveway. The day was overcast, and out in the field, snow was collecting on the horse’s back, like the crest of an old ridgeline.

She arrived in less than an hour, and the moment he opened the front door, she fell into his arms. He was not sure what he had expected, but this was not something he had even considered. He was slow to return her hug, but then he did, rubbing her right shoulder blade gently. The young woman was sobbing. Really sobbing. He could feel his shirt growing damp beneath her face.

Hey now, he said gently, come on. Let’s sit down. Tell me what’s happening.

I’m sorry. I’ve been holding it all in. I didn’t know who to tell.

His back was turned to her as he led them towards the kitchen.

I’m pregnant, she said.

He could hear that she had stopped following him. Was standing still in the hallway. He turned back to her. He didn’t know what to say, so he remained quiet.

How far? he finally asked.

Two months.

But this isn’t a good thing?

She shook her head no. Such a guy thing to say, she muttered.

I’m sorry, Melissa. I, uh—tell me how I can help you. Anything.

I just need your help for a weekend, Charlie. Drive with me over to Minneapolis. Then—I don’t know. I guess I could check into a hotel for a few nights. Just until I can go back to work. Until I can be there for my girls. Look my mom in the face.

You’re not going to tell her?

No.

What about the father?

She shook her head no.

Do you know who it is?

She bit her lip and looked at him.

Melissa, if you’re hurt, or you didn’t ask for this, you need to talk to the police. I can’t. I mean, you have to—

It was stupid. I’m stupid, okay? I should—I should have known better. I shouldn’t have… God, I just thought—I wasn’t thinking. I just want to move forward. Because this is an impossibility. I need to stop this and move forward. Start over.

Do you have enough…? I mean, can I help out? Do you have enough money for everything?

I have enough. For the procedure anyway. Or the medication. The doctor. Whatever.

Fine. But then, if it’s just the same to you, I’ll bring you back here. You can recuperate here.

But my mom can’t know, all right? She can’t. I know that you two are…in love or whatever, and look, I think that’s great. But if she knew that I did this, she’d never forgive me. She loves my kids more than she loves me, I think. And she especially loves babies. This would crush her.

Oh, come on now. I’ve never heard your mom say even the slightest negative thing about you. She adores you. This happens all the time, Melissa. Are you sure you don’t want to tell her?

But you can see it from my vantage, can’t you? I have two kids, neither of whose dads are around. I should be doing more. Working a better job. I have a college degree. I’ve had good jobs, good opportunities. Had a nice place in Minneapolis. Drove a nice car. I ticked off all the boxes. But I blew it. I always blow it.

She hung her head, hair falling over her face.

You’re an alcoholic, he said quietly, like me.

She looked up at him but said nothing.

That was the wrong job for you, Melissa. You were way too close to the fire. That would be like me working for a brewery. A winery, or hell, a distillery.

I haven’t drunk any of that wine you gave me. Not yet. It’s—too fine. You gave me this amazing present, but it’s almost too much. You’re the only person I know—other than me—who’d even appreciate what they were drinking. So I’m holding out. Or maybe I will sell it. I don’t know.

I shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have given you that wine. It was like an O. Henry story, you know? I wanted you to be able to change your life, but I also wanted it to be a tough decision. It’s not a virtue, but you get to be my age, and, well, sometimes a person forgets that a gift should be a gift. Not a lesson with a thousand strings attached.

Beautiful wines though.

He grimaced. Come on, let me make you some tea.

I think I want to quit drinking, she said. I can’t keep doing this.

He looked at his feet, the floorboards. Maybe we can help each other, he said.

She looked at him. How? How are you gonna help me? I told you. I know booze. I know beer and wine. I know drinkers. And you, you’re well beyond a normal drinker. Charlie, you know this, but most people don’t have wine cellars.

He sat down beside her. Putting a little distance between them. Not so close that she might have been his daughter, but not so far away that they were strangers either. Their hands might easily have touched but didn’t.

I love drinking, he said. I’ve always loved drinking. But it might be time for me too. I, uh. Well, I love your mother. And our first time around, the reason we broke up, it was my fault. My drinking. And I do not want that to happen again. But at the same time, I’m afraid it could.

Maybe, if we hadn’t broken up, he thought, you would be my daughter. And it dawned on him. Maybe if I can hold this together, you will be my daughter. Maybe I could actually be your dad.

She loves you too, Melissa said now. But I think she’s afraid.

Afraid of what?

She shook her head. I think she’s afraid you’ll come between her and me. Actually, between her and the girls is maybe more the thing. I think she feels responsible for us all. I don’t think she trusts me. And I guess she’s right not to.

Maybe you’ll think I’m being hokey, Melissa, but I’m going to say it anyway. I’m not a religious guy, but…I think we all travel at different speeds. Like, back in high school, there were always those kids that were peaking right then.

Glory days.

Yeah. That was their peak. Can you imagine? Looking down from the top of the mountain, at the rest of your life, all the decades ahead, and knowing that none of it, not a day or night or moment, was ever going to be better than your prom? Some stupid football game? You and me—

And here he gently patted the side of her knee, dearly hoping that she would understand the touch just the way he intended: that he liked her, that he understood her, that he did not feel comfortable stretching his arm around her, or kissing the top of her head, as he would if she were his daughter, but that for now, this would have to do, this faintest of gestures.

I don’t think we’ve peaked. Not by a long shot. I think our best days are ahead of us.

***

Two weeks later he walked her inside a clinic. A strange feeling. He was not her father, and yet there he was, parking the truck on an asphalt lot and escorting her towards the doors of the clinic. On the other side of a fence separating the clinic from a neighboring house was a tall yellow cross, right in the backyard, and a sign too. God loves you and your unborn child, the sign read. He felt his blood pressure rise, and he placed his body between Melissa and that sign, Melissa and that cross.

He thought he understood Vivian’s daughter well enough, or hoped he did. She was essentially alone. Two children already, yes. But she had no partner, not even an ex, to pick up some of the slack. To take the girls on weekends. Or help with groceries and gas, utilities and clothing. If there were child support payments coming in, they didn’t amount to very much. There didn’t seem to be such a man, but there must have been one once. And if he wasn’t around now, Charlie assumed it was because the guy was in jail, or worse. He thought about her job. If he was reading between the lines properly, her work was no prize, and no guarantee either. There was drinking too. That much he didn’t have to guess about.

For all those reasons, this was the right thing to do. Another reason too: it didn’t matter what he thought. He held the door open for her.

Do you want me to come in?

No. It won’t take long.

You sure? I don’t mind.

I’m sure. I’ll text if something changes.

***

They drove back east in silence. He was worried. Worried that she would weep. That however composed she was before or during the procedure, he would be ill-equipped to help her afterwards. That he wouldn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if there would be blood, so while she was inside, he laid the softest fleece blanket on her seat. A blanket of dark blue. He hoped that was okay. Dark blue was not pink, or baby blue. It did not suggest a gender or the color of some unpainted nursery wall. If there was blood, it would not show. He had offered her a pillow, but she said, No, thank you. Just tilted her eyes towards the fogging window.

He turned on the radio but was frozen by the sound of James Taylor’s voice. Fire and rain. He didn’t know how she would receive it just then, his music, which, at the lowest points in his own life, had always comforted him more than any holy psalm or verse. He reached to turn the radio off, but without saying anything, she caught his hand and turned the volume up, as if to fill all the space between them. Then, when the song ended, she reached back out, shut the radio off, and turned back to the window.

I don’t know why I do these things, she said. I wish I didn’t. I wish I was a better person. A better mom. She shoved her hands between her tightly clenched thighs and brought her feet up to tuck them beneath her bottom. Her entire body seemed coiled into its smallest possible form.

He turned towards her and touched her shoulder. We’re almost there, sweetheart. We’re almost home. He decided at that moment that he would think of her as his daughter. Even if he never told her. Never told anyone. He liked this private revelation. That he could love someone who did not even know they were loved by him. That this philosophy could extend to the limits of his life if he so chose. But with Melissa, he would simply safekeep that love within his chest.

When they arrived at his house, he showed her to a guest room looking out on the pond. He understood her need for this time. This was a break in her life, a fissure between past and future. He imagined the way in which lightning brands the wood of a tree. This was that moment, and he was to be her caretaker through it. He accepted this role with seriousness. She had come to him needing a place to heal, and that meant something. Meant she trusted him more than any friend she had never mentioned. More than her coworkers. In this one way at least, more than her mother. She must genuinely trust him, he thought. She must need him.

He shut the guest room door and then stood in the silence of the hallway. A few moments later, he could hear her. Her voice, feigning happiness, lightness. She was on the phone with her girls, pretending this horror she had endured wouldn’t always be an invisible scar. And what could be worse than a scar no one would ever see? At least a person could grow proud of their scar. At least the scar was a story that might be shared. Some of the worst scars we inflict upon one another, he realized, were the invisible ones.

She was laughing now, but it must have been about the saddest laugh he had ever heard. Laughter that dissolved into crying so jagged she had to cover her mouth. Crying so pained that after a few moments, even her daughters detected that their mother was in pain. He imagined her being forced to collect herself, because he heard her sniffle, and then say, No, no, no. Mommy’s okay. I just really miss you two. I love you. Okay, please say hello to grandma for me. And please be good for her. Okay then—bye, my babies.

He walked downstairs before he had to hear her collapse again.

He wasn’t hungry, but he could imagine a drink. Could almost taste it. He closed his eyes. Pressed the lids down hard, like he was sealing off some nightmare reality. He could almost feel the basement steps beneath his feet, the light switch his right hand would flip, the air cooler down there, his hands on dusty green bottles, blowing on the old glass, reading labels slightly peeled away from their bottles, until he came to the bottle he knew would emcee, deejay, and cosign the whole evening. All the days of sobriety felt good, but he imagined them washed aside in the instant the wine touched his tongue, winding down his throat, coating his teeth, and hitting his body like a blush of purple heat.

She came down the stairs, mustering an exhausted smile.

He leaned against the kitchen island and tried to focus on her, the feelings she’d been contending with. He braved a smile.

I was thinking, she said. Well, like I told you, I want to stop drinking.

He nodded. But?

But not today.

Not today?

Not today. I think I want a glass of wine, if that’s okay. Or two. I want to make a fire in that woodstove. And I want to be quiet and just look at the flames. And maybe that’s wrong, but…that’s what I want right now. That’s what would help me get through this night.

Okay, he said. Well, I can’t very well let you drink alone.

I’ll be out there. In the living room.

You bet. I’ll take care of everything. The couch is comfortable. Just relax.

She turned back to him suddenly. Should I feel guilty, Charlie? I don’t want to feel guilty. I wish I could get drunk. But you won’t let me, will you? You’ll watch me. You understand what I want. Just—I just want the edge off. I want it all softened. Isn’t that okay?

He sighed. I think it’s okay. One bottle, between us.

Promise?

Promise. One bottle.

They sat in the velveteen darkness, on deep, firm new furniture, and let the fire’s orange-red light wash over their faces. Blueberry lay on the floor, dreaming, his legs running him nowhere. From a turntable in the dining room, they listened to Dave Brubeck, then Miles Davis, then Bill Evans, then John Coltrane, the volume very low. They said not a word. And they fell asleep that way, their glasses empty, rimmed in the tiniest purple crystals.

Sometime after midnight he touched her shoulder, and she went to bed. When her bedroom door closed, he collected the glasses and carried them to the sink. He squeezed soap onto a sponge and began cleaning the glasses in the warm water issuing from the faucet. He closed his eyes and felt regret for opening the bottle. They didn’t need the wine. And he was older. He could have suggested anything else. A walk. A cup of coffee or a sugary soda. Ice cream. A joint. Maybe even a cigarette. He needed to be stronger. She was leaning on him. Looking to him for guidance.

He lost his grip and the glass shattered against the porcelain of the sink, breaking in his hands, and then there was blood, swirling with the splashing water and twisting like a pinwheel down the drain. There was some pain too, but mostly more regret. He shut the faucet off and wrapped his hand in paper towels.

In the bathroom upstairs, he bandaged the hand and then stared at himself in the mirror. It was past midnight, and the entire day seemed at once a breakthrough and bad secret. He did not sleep well that night.