Chapter 40
Dirk
It’s choir night. Dress rehearsal. I’m running late. Someone’s in my way. It’s Lucy. What does she think she’s doing, blocking my exit?
We stare at each other.
This woman does things to me. So much trouble. She’s the one to watch, the kind of kid who gets behind your guard on the field, and before you know it, you regret everything.
I knew women like that, before I met Millie, and afterwards, a few times, while my guard was down, before I made friends with loneliness and got my life in order again, safe and stable, here at Brighton Court.
“What’s so wrong with change?” Lucy asks me, as if she knows what I’m thinking.
“What change?” I ask. There’s no smile from her this time, no guile, no charm beyond her almost feline beauty – just her question, hanging in the hallway, hovering above the gray landing that needs recarpeting.
“Always so suspicious, Dirk. I guess that’s why you’re still on your own.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“I know what you’re doing,” she says.
“What am I doing?”
“You’re blocking me.”
“Blocking you.”
“I’m not a ball, Dirk. I’m a person. A woman. A woman who loves you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Once a goalie, always a goalie, but this is no ball game. You can let me in, you know, into your goal, into your life. But actually, the ball’s still in your court, Doc O’Connell.”
I still don’t know what to say. I fold my arms. Unfold them. My hands swing, too big, beside me. My fingers flex and relax. I raise one hand to my chin, a habit, and stroke my cheeks with my fingers on one side and thumb on the other, feel my bristles.
Her voice is a whisper, so quiet I have to lean down to hear her.
“What if we were on the same team, Dirk? Think about it.” She holds my gaze for a few seconds – more – not smiling, not frowning. She lifts her head, then steps aside to let me pass.
I try to chuckle as I descend and get into Jamison’s car, but my heart’s not in it. My heart’s confused.
That night, after rehearsal, I’m aware of every sound from Lucy’s apartment below mine. I wonder where she is – in the kitchen, in her living room, feet curled beneath her on the couch, in her bedroom. I remember how she felt in the big bed in Franklin, so warm beside me as she slept.
I lasso my imagination, force it to the ground and straddle it. Lucy is just a neighbor.
Instead, I turn my mind to Jamison’s latest request, that I help him set up his own company, harnessing AI to come up with wealth management options faster than Capital Plus Investments, faster than anyone else.
Next day, I’m in my exercise gear, pulling on my new walking shoes when I get a call from Jamison, right in the middle of his working week, in the middle of the day.
I pick up, thinking someone’s cancelled on him for lunch at the club.
I’m watching my weight but I have all the time in the world, more time than I know what to do with.
I’m not prepared for his tone of voice - strained. Is my son crying? He can barely get out words.
“Jamison? Son?”
“Dad ...”
“Are you okay? Where are you? Has there been an accident?”
“Not exactly. Yes. But not like that. Dad?”
“What is it?”
“Dad, I need your help.”
“Can I call the police?”
“No. No. Where are you?”
“Brighton Court.” I say, mind spinning through possibilities. He can’t have crashed the car. I still have it. “Where are you?”
“Downtown.”
“You busy?”
“No. Need me to come pick you up?”
“Yeah. Be great, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”
It’s not the first time Jamison’s asked directly for help.
That’s what I’m for. We never stop loving our children.
But it’s the first time in a decade, maybe.
A memory of an incident back when he was in school flashes back at me, of rescuing Jamison and his friends from a party when they drank alcohol underage.
I took them to a back room of the clinic to sober up – kept their secrets quiet under patient confidentiality.
They were sick enough to have learned their lesson.
He’s drooping when I collect him, shoulders hunched, tie hanging off, suit coat crooked, one half of the collar turned up. He’s dejected, unshaven. Haunted. I wonder if he’s been drinking.
“It’s all over,” he says, the minute he’s in the passenger seat.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him it can’t possibly be over for anyone aged under fifty, especially someone in good health like Jamison. He’s a puppy, the whole world at his feet. But I hold it, get him home to Brighton Court, let him sink onto my sofa.
“Out with it,” I say.
“I’m ruined.” He pushes his fingers through his hair; won’t meet my eyes.
“Tell me.”
“Can I move in with you? I’ve been evicted.”
“Why’s that, son?”
“Didn’t pay my rent.”
“Why not? You’ve got a job.”
“That’s gone too, Dad. They cheated me. They promised me so much. I trusted them. I’m a fool. I’m so ashamed. You’ll take me in, won’t you?”
“It’s not drugs, is it, Jamison? Or gambling? We’ll get you help.”
He shakes his head and groans, head in his hands. His shoulders are shaking. My son is sobbing. I’m at his side in a heartbeat, my arms around him. I cradle his big head against my chest until he calms.
“Whisky or water?” I ask.
He chooses water.
The truth comes out – the swindlers, the way they extorted my son’s money, promised him wages that never came; demanded he pay “hurt money” into their business; wrote him out of the documents, then locked him out of the office.
“Do you need to see a lawyer? Walt would help you.”
He shakes his head.
“It’s my own stupid fault, Dad. I’m ruined.”
“You’re not ruined. Nobody’s ruined until their dying day, and you’re in good health, so you can stop that self-pity talk.”
“But ...”
“You know how I thought my own life would end with that head injury. I was younger than you – all my dreams in smithereens. I got on with it. I dreamed up something new and made it work. Wasn’t the same, but it worked well enough. I’ve lived a life. Since when did you become a quitter?”
“I owe half a million dollars.”
“Then get a job and pay it back.”
“It’s not that simple. I signed non-disclosure documents. They’ve trapped me.”
“What do I know about the world of money and finance, Jamison? I’m a simple country boy. Maybe you just can’t work in that industry anymore, but you’re able bodied. I know about work. It’s blood, sweat and tears, but it pays the bills.”
“Can I move in with you?”
“Not much room here, Jamison, but you’re welcome while you get your act together.
Make a plan. I’ll help you, of course I will, but I’m not made of money and I’m not earning any more.
I’ve let my registration go. You have an education.
Get another job. Take it easy here for a few days; of course you can.
But then get on with it. Do you need food? ”
“Not hungry.”
“Then sleep. You look like you’ve sleepwalked all night.”
“I did. Two nights.”
“Jamison. Take a shower. I’ll leave you some pyjamas on the end of the sofa. Take it easy now, son. You’re safe here and I love you.”
He’s sleeping like a baby fifteen minutes later; like a baby with a three-day growth, snoring like a man, but his body the same shape beneath the throw rug, curled up.
Were we too soft on him? Or too tough? Did he reach too high with Capital Plus Investments? Any job would do, to live a good life.
Millie’s not here to discuss it with. I head to the whisky myself, just for one, as the sun sets, and I wonder for a moment what Lucy is doing. She’s mentioned troubles with her own daughter, Phoebe. Until now I haven’t truly appreciated her concerns.
Jamison asleep is no longer a grown man. He’s still curled on his side, shrunken, like his softened form as a boy and baby – often all I ever saw of him after my own long days of labor, with patients, at all hours. Did I not spend enough time with him?
Then a memory comes back to me; of not so long ago. I’m on the settee in Franklin, after Millie died. I’m staring at the wall, and Jamison comes in, alarmed to find me so still, so quiet. It must be midnight. It’s cold. I don’t care about anything anymore.
It’s Jamison who brings a rug to me. He wraps it around me and sits close by.
He phones Dee. In hushed voices they talk about me as if I’m not there – decide to move me closer to them.
I go along with it. When they find the Brighton Court penthouse for me, I don’t argue.
I’m done with Franklin. Gradually I find my feet again.
I’m still finding them, still working out how to live without Millie, without my crazy job, without quite enough to do – but at least I’m my own free agent again, no longer in limbo.
One thing I know. I will do anything for Jamison, as I would for Dee and my grandchildren. I will never stop loving him, no matter what.
So next morning, when he wakes, when he’s showered and shaven and dressed, and we’re eating a decent breakfast of bacon and eggs and cinnamon toast – his favorite – I know exactly what to say.
“Jamison. I’m neither ignorant nor indifferent, and I know I might project confidence, because I’m an old white male, but I’ll be the first to tell you that most people – me included – we make it up as we go along.
You’re not alone in feeling lost sometimes.
My patients got better by themselves, apart from the obvious things, like needing stitches or settings for broken bones, or antibiotics.
And as for your mother – nothing in my power could save her, so how do you think that made me feel . ..
“But know this, son. You can’t stop trying. You can’t stop doing your best. And if you don’t believe in yourself, who will?”
“But ...”
“No buts. You’re safe and you’re welcome here, but not indefinitely. I have my own life.” I’m not yet ready to tell him about Lucy, about how I’ll want my own space, my own privacy, to see where time with Lucy might lead.
“Lick your wounds, Jamison. Rest and recover. Then you get back out there. You’ve got a brain. You’ve got a top education. Use them. Do your research. Retrain if you have to.”
I don’t tell him what else I’m planning. This is no time to go soft on him.