Chapter Twenty-Two
Tuesday, December 28th
Morning and early afternoon
“You have my work number, right?” Carol says as I drop her off at her office.
“And your work cell and iPhone,” I answer. “With traffic, I might be late.”
“Call if you’re going to be late,” she says sharply, sounding a lot like Mom. I finally got the car from Carol by telling her by not trusting me with it she was acting like Mom. “If so, I’ll get a ride home, but you shouldn’t be out driving on these highways late at night. Be careful.”
“I will.” She looks worried. She should be. She gets off work at six in San Diego. Caitlin goes on stage at four in LA.
“And don’t wreck my car,” she says, now sounding like Dad.
Sadly, given our interaction—or lack thereof over the past two days—I think she’s more worried about her stuff than me. We didn’t have a meal without frantic texting. We didn’t drive more than five miles without a call, mostly from her boss. I didn’t hear his part, just Carol agreeing to do whatever she was told, acting more like a serf than an honor roll scholar. It seems odd for a fancy phone and new car, but not enough to fly home more than once a year. I thought it was because she thought she was too good for us, but I wonder if it’s because she’s not good enough. She’s no longer the brightest girl in school or the big fish in the small pond. She’s just another person working another job. I wonder if the dreams she had have all vanished. While she’ll never know it, she’s never had more in common with Caitlin than she does right now.
The drive to LA quickly becomes the nightmare I’d imagined. I’m used to people driving fast—everyone in Michigan drives eighty miles an hour, and that’s just in the McDonald’s drive-through lane. People here can’t drive fast—the traffic barely moves—but they drive crazy. Cutting in and out of lanes like this was a video game, not a highway. I’ll put on my signal, but the only signal other people seem to use is a horn and a middle finger.
While I don’t plan on visiting any LA landmarks, I have time to kill before Caitlin’s shift starts at four p.m. for something called ‘Gentlemen’s Happy Hour’. I’m hoping my parents don’t ask Carol about today or she doesn’t feel the need to tell them. The only reason all of this has managed to go unnoticed, I can only assume, is that no one could imagine I’d do all of these things. Most of my life I’ve done everything I was supposed to, so this isn’t any different. I’m trying to help a family member out of a bad situation. No matter how many lies I’ve told to people, no matter how irresponsibly I’ve acted, it was for good reasons. The end justifies…
By one p.m., I’m in the parking lot, just in case she comes in early, but I can’t imagine she would want to set foot in a place like this one second before she needed to. Or wanted to? That’s part of what I must understand. Is Caitlin doing this because she needs the money or because she wants the attention, even the sad flicker of stardom that a place like this brings her?
I’m parked so I can see the employee door, which is good. If I saw the customer door, I think I’d want to shout at everyone to stay out. But I don’t shout or move. I just wait and watch. Though I’ve had almost three whole months to imagine the conversation, I have almost no idea what I will actually say to her. Like so many stories I’ve thought of but never written, all I know is the opening line. After spending time with Carol, I wonder if talking to Caitlin will be like talking to someone who looks like me, shares the same parents, but who I really don’t know.
I take out my notebook, click the pen and start jotting notes of things I want to say. It’s hard because I’ll write for just a few seconds, then go back to staring at the door. Every now and then a car will pass by or park near the customer door. It’s usually not a fancy car—a lot like Mom’s old Malibu—and some guy, about Dad’s age, will slink from the car. With the windows rolled down, I can almost smell their sweat of desperation and sadness. Caitlin might be working the ‘Gentlemen’s Happy Hour’, but I doubt these guys are gentlemen—or very happy.
I’m glad I know nobody here since I’m embarrassed that somebody might drive by and think I’m the kind of guy who goes to these places. Only, of course, that’s exactly the kind of guy I am. Would things have worked out differently for me if I’d never visited a porn site in my life? Would I not have made that terrible mistake with Thien? There’s one thing I do know. If I didn’t visit sites like that—me and a couple million other males—there’d be no places like this. In Flint, they talk about busting gang-banger drug dealers. If there were no buyers, there’d be no sellers. Caitlin being here is partially my fault, but not in a way that I imagined.
By two, I’m feeling anxious from all the waiting. The liter of Dew isn’t helping. Still with one eye on the door, I call Gabby with the prepaid cell I bought for the trip. The lie is to ask about her first tournament game tonight, but the real reason is I just want to hear her voice.
“Hey, Gabby, it’s Carson,” I say when she answers.
“How’s California?” she asks. “It’s snowing here.”
“It’s like seventy-five, without a cloud in the sky.”
“Sweet,” she says. “Have you been to the beach yet for me?”
“Not yet.”
“You make sure to go. Imagine us walking on the beach at sunset, okay?”
“Okay. Any word yet?” I ask, hesitant. Not only has she heard from no California schools, but even the Michigan colleges Gabby thought might give her an athletic scholarship have yet to contact her with an offer. I watched Mom ask Dad every day for a year if he’d found a job, until he finally exploded at her. “Don’t you think if I found a job I would have told you?”
“No,” she says, as reluctant to answer as I was to ask.
“Maybe there’ll be some college recruiters there tonight.”
“Maybe, but if so, just Michigan schools,” she says. “I want to be there.”
“Well, you’ve worked hard. I’m sure you’ll be rewarded.”
“Working hard, you should have seen me last night,” she says, then starts to tell me about yesterdays’ practice. I listen, but I’m distracted. Not by the door, which hasn’t had any action in the last half hour, but by Gabby’s belief. She believes she’ll get a scholarship. I fear she won’t and she’ll be heartbroken. She believes dreams come true. I know they don’t. Dad’s life is exhibit A. Caitlin’s exhibit XXX.
“Tonight’s game is against Carman. Should be hard, but we’ll dominate,” Gabby says, and I realize I’d better say something before she thinks I’m dead, or asks me where I am.
“Gabby, can I ask you something?”
“How many points I’ll score? I’d say double figures most definite,” she says.
“There’s only one way you’d not score double figures—” I start.
“If I was white,” she cracks.
“Hey, Gabby, something serious,” I say, and take a deep breath. “You know how you told me that Autumn deserved a second chance? Why?”
“Why I told you Autumn deserved a second chance?” she repeats.
“What do you think it means to give someone a second chance?” I ask.
She pauses. Pauses long enough for me to stare intensely at the employee door. There’s some activity. Two girls, one Asian, one black, just went inside. “Gabby, are you there?”
“Carson, to give someone a second chance means you forgive them for their mistake, even if what they did hurt you really bad or disappointed you. It means you love them no matter what they did, and you make sure the person doesn’t make another mistake. A second chance is all most people need if they learn from the mistakes in their life. Do you know what I mean?”
Before I can answer, a blonde, cigarette in hand, emerges from a red Eclipse.
“Gabby, I got to go,” I say. “I love you.”
I click the phone so fast there’s no time for her to respond to the promise I made with those three words. Like when you’re writing, sometimes you just react, and reveal the real you.
“Callie!” I shout. She doesn’t turn. “Callie! Callie!” Still nothing. “Caitlin!” I yell, and she turns. As I walk toward her, I wonder if she looks and sounds the same as when she left three years ago. Is she Callie now, or is Caitlin still alive?