Kane (60 page)

“It’s no secret I’ve never been much good at expressing how I feel,” I pressed on.  “I’ve been so wrong about so many things, I don’t know where to begin.  I’ll probably get this all jumbled up, but here goes.  Kate, when Tommy—”

“Don’t, Dan.  I was at fault too, but nothing you can say now will make any difference.”

“I know.  But I need to say it anyway.  Will you listen?”

“Dan …”

“Please,” I begged.  I took a deep breath and plunged ahead.  “When Tom died, a hole opened inside me that I couldn’t fill.  Not with you, or with the kids, or with work—no matter how hard I tried.  And I made a terrible mistake.  I know that now.  I shut you out.  I shut out everyone and everything and let the ache grow until nothing could ease it.  Then, when I thought I was losing you to Arthur, it seemed as though my whole world had come apart.”

“There was never anyone but you,” said Catheryn, still staring out over the roiling waters.

“I know.  I should never have doubted you,” I said miserably.  “I also know that there are things for which saying I’m sorry will never make right.  I am so deeply ashamed and disappointed in myself for what happened between Lauren and me, and I don’t expect your forgiveness.  But Kate, I would give anything to go back and do things over.  Every day I don’t see you, I feel so empty I don’t want to go on.  Last night when I thought I was going to die, the one regret that kept coming back to me was that I hadn’t told you how I feel about you in such a long time.  You’re the only real thing in my life, Kate.  You, and our children.  Without you, nothing else means anything.  On Christmas day when I said I didn’t know the meaning of the word love, I was wrong.  I knew it the first time I saw you, and I’ve known it every day since.”

Catheryn turned, tears gathering in her eyes.

“I also know how deeply I’ve hurt you,” I continued.  “I’m sorry, Kate.  I’m so sorry.  I know things can never be the same between us, but I’m hoping that—”

Shaking her head, Catheryn raised her fingers to my lips.

Before she could speak, I took her hand.  “Please don’t give up on us.  Don’t answer now.  Just think about it.”  I reached into my jacket.  “I’ve been carrying this around for the past couple of days, hoping I would have the chance to give it to you.”

Catheryn looked down at the object in my hand.  It was my Christmas present to her, the one she had refused—the ribbon coming unraveled now, the wrapping wrinkled and torn.

“Take it,” I said, offering her the crumpled package.  “I got this before … before everything happened, so I’ll understand if you don’t want it.  But Kate, I’m hoping you’ll keep it.  Whatever you decide.”  I took the umbrella and held it over her, then placed the present in her hands.  “Open it.  Please.”

Slowly, Catheryn untied the ribbon and removed the paper, revealing a small ebony box.  Inside, on a cushion of velvet, lay an antique emerald pendant.  Though the green stone was modest and the setting unassuming, I could tell from Catheryn’s expression that she understood the meaning of my gift.  I handed back her umbrella, then withdrew the pendant from its box and fastened the delicate silver chain around Catheryn’s neck.

A gust howled off the water, carrying a spray of stinging rain and the musty smells of the sea.  Like an angry demon, the wind tore at the umbrella in Catheryn’s hands, ripping the canopy.  Within seconds lashing rain soaked through her clothes, plastering them to her body.  Letting the tattered umbrella drop to her feet, Catheryn raised a hand to touch the pendant.  Then she lifted her eyes to mine.  In a voice filled with heartache, she asked, “A new beginning?  Do you mean it?”

I held her gaze, not looking away, even for an instant.  “With all my heart,” I answered.  “I want our family to be whole again, and I’ll do anything for that to happen.  If you’ll have me, I want to come home.”

I watched her, awaiting her response.

For a long moment Catheryn regarded me with an expression I was unable to fathom.  Then, with a sad smile, she moved closer and placed her head against my shoulder.  I could feel her body trembling from the cold.  Standing in the charred ruin of our home, I enfolded her in my arms and held her as if my life depended on it.  For a dozen heartbeats we stood as one, our figures joined in the steadily falling rain.

“Can I take that as a yes?” I asked at last.

And at last Catheryn responded.

“Tomorrow, Dan,” she said softly.  “We’ll talk about it … tomorrow.”

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my appreciation to a number of people who provided their assistance and expertise while I was writing
Kane. 
Any errors, exaggerations, or just plain bending of facts to suit the story are attributable to me alone.

To Detective Lee Kingsford (LAPD, retired), I again owe a debt of gratitude.  His gift of time, knowledge, and friendship once more proved invaluable during the preparation of the manuscript.  To Susan Dunning, my muse with a sharp eye for detail, to friends and family, to my eBook editor Karen Oswalt, and especially to my core group of readers—all of whom made critical suggestions for improvements—my sincere thanks.

An excerpt from the forthcoming

Allison

A Novel

Steve Gannon

1

F
riday, July seventh, on the fourth anniversary of my rape, I awoke feeling unsettled and depressed.  Rolling over in bed, I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, sensing a vague premonition of disaster that always accompanied my unwilling observance of that day four years past. 

Until the summer I turned sixteen and my brother Tom died and I was attacked and everything changed, I had always believed I was more than the things that had
happened
to me, or that I had done, or that I hoped to do.  Deep down, I believed I was more than that.  I believed that an essential part of me, a core part of me, was immune to the forces of life.  I believed that the part of me that was truly
me
would remain forever unchanged, no matter what.  Looking back, I realize now how naïve I was.

Years ago, in the telling of one of her stories, my mother tried to impart to me something about life.  Her tale involved a group of people who were offered a magical gift:  They were given the opportunity to rid themselves of their most painful, heartrending memory.  Gladly accepting the offer, everyone piled his or her greatest sorrow in the center of the room.  Newly unburdened, each person was then told to select a sorrow from the pile.  In the end, without exception, all there once more shouldered their own heartbreak.

At odd moments since, I’ve thought about my mother’s story.  I’m not certain I would want to forget what happened that summer.  Once rid of the memory, however, I don’t know whether I would have the courage to pick it up again.  One thing is certain:  I was forever altered by losing my brother Tommy and by my sexual assault and by the other things that happened that year.  I was changed, essentially and indelibly.  Until then I had been living a dream—a careless, carefree dream in which I thought nothing and no one could touch me.  Afterward, it was as if a veil had been lifted.  I had crossed a threshold from which there was no turning back.  No matter how much it hurt, I had joined the human race.

Outside my dorm window, the first fingers of dawn were beginning to light the sky over UCLA. Resolving to think of something else, I eased up on one elbow and squinted at the clock on my nightstand:  5:25 AM.  Reaching over, I flipped on a lamp and swung my legs from beneath the covers.  Time to get up.

Though reluctant to admit it, I knew that rising early was a trait I had picked up from my police-detective father, along with my powder-keg flashes of temper, disregard for authority, and a near obsessive resolve to succeed at whatever I attempted.  Despite hating to leave a warm bed, I also conceded that if nothing else, rising early gave me time to write before getting caught up in the distractions of the day.

After slipping my feet into a worn pair of slippers, I stumbled to an adjoining bathroom, used the toilet, splashed cold water on my face, and brushed my teeth.  During my freshman and sophomore years at UCLA, I had always had a roommate.  Most of the girls with whom I’d lived in the defunct Delta Zeta sorority house—a sorority row structure that had eventually been converted to a private boarding facility when the Delta Zetas moved off campus—were gone for the summer.  My most recent roommate, a petite, bright, messy young Asian named Janice, had left as well.  In her absence, my customarily crowded living quarters seemed almost spacious, especially the bathroom.

My reasons for deciding to remain at school for the summer rather than returning to my parents’ beach house in Malibu had been threefold:  First, I would be transferring to the USC School of Journalism in the fall, and taking one last upper-division literature class was necessary to complete my transfer credits.  Second, staying at school for summer quarter provided a final opportunity for me to enjoy the atmosphere of exploration and freedom I had enjoyed at UCLA over the past two years.  And third, and possibly most important, it gave me an excuse not to move home.

Gathering my hair in a thick ponytail and securing it with an elastic band, I inspected myself in the mirror.  In the image peering back I saw startling hints of my mother, Catheryn—a strong chin, high cheekbones, and large, inquisitive green eyes—qualities that in Mom appeared refined and beautiful, but that in myself, at least to my eye, seemed subtly coarsened by my father’s Irish lineage.  True, my long red hair—another genetic gift from my father that as a child I’d despised—had ultimately mellowed to a deeper auburn similar to my mother’s.  Around the same time, a rash of freckles across the bridge of my nose and cheeks had faded as well, and my body, spare and lanky over the course of several explosive teenaged growth spurts, had gradually softened with the emerging curves of womanhood.  Nevertheless, at nearly five-foot-eleven in my bare feet, I stood inches taller than my mother and almost every other woman I knew.

Ruefully, I turned from the mirror and marched back to my bedroom, trying to recall where I’d left my running shoes.  In the wake of Janice’s departure, I had spread out in the cramped room—my clothes, books, and other personal items expanding into the vacuum of my roommate’s absence.  My eyes traveled the small space, taking in my rumpled bed, an oak dresser I’d brought from home, and a pair of swim fins and a bodysurfing wet suit heaped by the door.  Beside the room’s single window, a small TV and a DVD player sat on a bookcase I had also brought from the beach house, along with a maple table that doubled as a desk.  Atop my makeshift workstation was a Mac laptop, HP printer, and a full-sized ergonomic keyboard—a refurbished computer setup that my father had given me years back.  Nearby lay stacks of writing projects in various states of completion.  Guiltily, I remembered that I still hadn’t finished an article I was writing for the
Daily Bruin
, the UCLA school paper.  The deadline was Tuesday.  Promising myself to work on the piece as soon as I returned from my run, I continued my search, at last spotting my Nikes beneath Janice’s bed.

Kneeling, I retrieved my running shoes, kicked off my slippers, and shrugged out of the oversized tee shirt I had worn to bed.  The room was chilly and I dressed quickly, pulling on underwear and shorts, a nylon windbreaker with yellow UCLA letters emblazoned on the back, and my shoes.  Next I checked my jacket pockets.  My fingers closed on the comforting cylinder of pepper spray I always carried when I ran.  The campus was relatively safe, but in early morning when almost no one was around, it didn’t hurt to take precautions.

Moving quietly so as not to wake any of the other girls living in the house—or worse, Mrs. Random, our resident housemother—I grabbed my cell phone, locked my room, and descended the staircase to the main floor.  After slipping out the front door, I made my way down a flight of tiled steps to Hilgard Avenue.  There I paused on the sidewalk, breathing in the crisp morning air.  Across the deserted street in the cactus section of the Mildred E. Mathias Botanical Garden, the shadowy arms of forty-foot-high euphorbia, thickets of aloes, and acres of spine-covered succulents rose like thorny armor against the dawn.  I stood a moment enjoying the view, then started off at a brisk clip.  After crossing Hilgard, I cut left onto a walkway bordering the garden.  Another turn brought me past the botany and plant physiology buildings and onto UCLA’s main campus.  Upon reaching the Health Sciences Center, I turned right.

I routinely varied the routes of my morning jogs, not only for safety, but also because I liked visiting different parts of the university’s lush campus as I ran, lost in introspection.  After passing the inverted fountain near Franz Hall, where water spilled down a huge central hole instead of rushing out, I proceeded north to Dixon Plaza, skirting its sprawling sycamores and stately fig trees.  Briefly I contemplated circling the Murphy Sculpture Garden as well, then decided against it.  I’d taken that route yesterday.  Besides, going that way would lengthen my run, and I had things to do before my ten o’clock literature class.

Increasing my pace, I turned west past a procession of older, ornately bricked buildings, descending to the athletic fields that flanked Sunset Boulevard.  After passing Pauley Pavilion, I continued west to the student recreation center and the encircling dorms that comprised UCLA’s western border.  Until then I had seen almost no one.  Fighting an encroaching sense of unease nevertheless, I remained alert as I headed back past the tennis courts and made another circuit around the athletic fields.  As always, my eyes and ears took in everything around me.  Since my assault, caution had become second nature:  parking in well-lit spaces, approaching my car with my keys out, wearing sensible shoes in case I had to flee, and carrying pepper spray when alone.  I hated living in fear of another attack; on the other hand, I was determined it would never happen again.