10. Empathy
10
Empathy
Daisy
I follow Asher’s gaze to the middle-aged woman with brown hair who’s talking to the chief. She looks weak, sick, as she leans on her crutches.
Asher is transfixed, so many expressions flashing through his eyes as he watches her, and I wish I could disappear from this intrusion into his personal life.
“What happened?” he breathes, his gaze still fixed on her.
“She’s got a rare syndrome. Incurable. I tried to tell you, but . . .” Evan scratches the back of his neck. “She has good days and bad days, but lately, it’s been a whole bunch of bad days. I wasn’t even sure she’d make it out today.”
“Does she know I’m here?”
Evan shakes his head. “I didn’t want to give her false hopes.”
“Then I should go,” Asher says, surprising me.
“What!” Evan steps forward, laying a hand on his brother’s chest, but Asher takes a step backward, looking at Evan’s hand like it’s some kind of alien being. “You can’t go, man. You have to talk to her. It would really make her happy.”
Asher rakes a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not here to reconnect or whatever. I’m only in Chicago for a job interview.”
“You came to the firehouse, Asher.”
He clenches his eyes shut. “This was a mistake. I can’t talk to Mom.”
“Um,” I chime in, wincing. “It’s too late. She’s coming this way.”
“Crap,” Asher hisses, turning around.
“You’d better not leave now,” Evan mutters, a dark shadow falling over his green irises. “You’ll break her heart.”
Asher turns to m e for support, but what am I supposed to say? I don’t really know him, or what happened with his family. I feel even more out of place right now than when I was dating a rich Chicagoan while I was the hick mountain girl. I try to smile, but I know it’s more like a grimace.
“Asher,” the woman says, hobbling on her crutches toward us. “Is that really you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” His voice is stoic, the chill in his tone making my heart ache. How can this be the same person I’ve gotten to know these past few days? It’s like night and day.
She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, they’re brimming with tears. “What—” she starts, but her legs lock, and she loses her balance. Evan catches her just in time.
Asher is frozen to the spot. He looks so tense, I’m getting literal chills.
The frail woman takes a step toward him, opening her arms. A lone tear escapes when Asher doesn’t make a move to hug his mom.
“Asher,” I whisper, my throat constricting.
He glances at me, then sighs before taking a single step forward. He lets his mom hold him, but he doesn’t embrace her back. He just stands there while she cries on his shoulder. This has to be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.
Evan’s eyes are also shimmering with unshed tears, and no one dares make a sound. Finally, their mom takes a step back, and when I glance at Asher’s face, I don’t see an ounce of empathy. I’m really confused, and even a bit angry at his un-display of emotion.
“Who’s this?” she asks, her glassy eyes landing on me.
“Hi!” I step forward, offering my hand. “My name is Daisy. I’m Asher’s colleague.” Well, that’s the closest thing I can come up with, anyway.
“I’m Cheryl. Nice to meet you.”
I smile, and a silence settles between us.
“Food, there’s food,” Evan blurts, clasping his hands. “Lots of it.”
“I’m not hungry,” Asher snaps. “Actually, we should go. We have a lot to do today, and—”
“Asher, please,” Cheryl begs, grabbing his arm. “Don’t go. We have so much to talk about.”
Swallowing, he looks away. I can tell this is difficult for him. He’s doing his best to hide it, but I see it clearly—the pain in his eyes, the sorrow. He’s not indifferent, like I first thought. He might even be the one most affected by all this.
“We really do have to go,” I add, feeling bad for him. “I’m so sorry.”
“Maybe you co uld come for dinner?” she pleads, and I have to avert my gaze, or I’ll cave instantly. I’m not a great sidekick for these kinds of things.
“We have a busy schedule,” he shoots back in that hollow voice, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Please, Asher,” Cheryl utters, her voice wavering.
Asher glances at me, and I can’t help but give him an insistent look. He can’t refuse this poor woman’s invitation. She’s his mother, after all. She gave him life.
He heaves a long sigh. “I’ll think about it. I have your number,” he says, casting a quick glance at Evan. And without a word of goodbye, he shoves his hands in his coat pockets and stalks away.
“I’m sorry.” I cringe. “I’d better go, but congrats again,” I say to Evan, not even sure whether that’s what I’m supposed to say.
“Thanks, Daisy,” he says with a nod.
I follow after Asher, who’s retreating at lightspeed. I have to jog to catch up with him.
“Are you okay?” I ask, but he just keeps going. “Asher? Talk to me.”
He stops dead in his tracks. “No, I’m not okay, and I don’t want to talk about it. Please, can we just drop it?”
I don’t want to. I really don’t. But I can see that’s what he needs—to take his mind off whatever happened back then. And my job this week is to tak e care of him. So, I oblige.
I offer a faint smile. “Okay. Let’s go.”
We meander down the sidewalk, continuing until we reach a restaurant I know. After a quick bite to eat, Asher gradually returns to his normal self. I’m determined to help him relax after the stress of this morning, so I take him to the Museum of Contemporary Art.
“You’re going to like this one,” I say as we enter the glass building. “It’s at least ten times smaller than the MoMA in New York.”
His head snaps toward me, a smile dancing in his eyes. “You brought me here on purpose?”
“I’m getting to know you, Asher Forbes. A bit of New York superiority was long overdue.”
He chuckles, the sound instantly warming my heart.
“Now,” I add, “don’t think I won’t defend it to the ground, because I love this place.”
He nods, a smile teasing at his lips. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
After a heated debate, all is onc e again right in the world. We spent the last hour arguing, bantering, and laughing. That’s the power of art, right there.
After our tour of the museum, I lead him to 875 North Michigan Avenue, formerly known as John Hancock Center. I gesture widely at the bottom of the skyscraper. “This building was the second tallest in the world at the time of its construction in the late seventies. And, yes, the tallest was the Empire State Building in New York.” I wink, and he shrugs, palms raised like the smug New Yorker he is.
“And now?”
“Well, today it’s a completely different story,” I say with a grin. “It’s the fifth tallest tower in Chicago, and I don’t even know its rank among the rest of the US. But we still call it Big John. And I personally love the view from up there.”
He smiles, nodding. “Kind of like Rockefeller Center in New York. I personally prefer the up-close vantage point to the bird’s-eye view from the Empire State Building or the One World Observatory.”
“Exactly. But before we go, let me be clear about something. Up there,” I say, pointing to the top of the building, “there is an attraction called TILT. You hold onto handrails against the glass window, and it tilts forward, as if you were about to fall off and crash on the ground.”
His face freezes, and I bob my head. “Yes. While you are more than welcome to try it, I will not participate, and you won’t coerce me into it like you did at the Sears Tower. I’ll be content to wait for you with a drink at the bar.”
He presses his lips tightly, probably withholding his smile. “Fine. I promise.”
A breath of relief drains from my lungs. “Great. Now that the disclaimer has been read, we can go up.”
The corners of his lips tilt, and I don’t miss the irony. “Okay. How about I buy you a drink instead?”