Wreckage (3 page)

“Yes, sir. I don’t know who that kid was, but like I told him—I don’t do any more interviews or appearances. I’ve made an effort to return to anonymity and would like to continue down that road. I’d appreciate in the future if you forgot my name and phone number ever existed,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Especially at FIVE o’clock in the morning!”

“I’m incredibly sorry, sir.” Bill Miller sighed. “Ralph, my production intern, failed to realize that you’re in California while we’re in
New York
and didn’t account for the
time difference
.” Bill emphasized the words, probably for pathetic little Ralph’s benefit.

“Okay, okay. The time was a misunderstanding, but still, that Ralph kid gave me a line about getting my number from Lillian Linden. I know that’s a lie. I don’t know how you found my number but I think I’ve made it extremely clear. I don’t want to do any further interviews with the press.”

Bill paused awkwardly. “Well, Mr. Hall, I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs. Linden
did
provide us with your telephone number. She agreed to participate in a
Headline News
exclusive dedicated to telling your whole story.”

Dave’s mouth opened but no words came out. Lillian caved? They hadn’t talked in months but this kind of news definitely merited a “heads-up” phone call. Of course, she wouldn’t be sharing the “whole story” as Mr. Miller put it. Dave wasn’t afraid of that. But offering up an exclusive interview to a notoriously aggressive news show? Beyond confusing.

Dave ran a shaking hand through his bed-head hair, an enormous knot twisting inside him. He wanted more than anything to call her, to hear her billowing laugh and know she’s happy. He was dying to hear about the boys, about her new life, about . . . but he knew that was an impossibility. No contact. That was the deal.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, you seem like a nice enough guy but I’m not interested.” He tried to sound certain. “I don’t want to get back into that spotlight and neither does my family. You’ll have to do this one without me.”

A low chuckle crackled through the receiver. “You know, she said you’d say that. Almost word for word too. Crazy.”

A begrudging smile snuck onto Dave’s face. Lily always did have the uncanny ability to predict his thoughts before they’d even entered his mind. It wasn’t possible to count how many times he’d jokingly accused her of being psychic. Dave’s heart filled with a strange cocktail of happiness and longing. This was why he didn’t talk about her, about their time together.

“Well, you can tell her she was right. Good-bye, Mr. Miller.”

Miller rushed to interject. “Mr. Hall, please, there’s one more thing. Mrs. Linden, she asked me to give you a message when you said no.”

Would this conversation never end? “Fine, tell me, but then I’m hanging up.”

“She said,” Bill Miller cleared his throat, stalling. “Um . . . well . . . She wanted me to say, ‘You owe me.’ ”

Those words struck Dave like a slap in the face. He grasped for the counter to steady himself.

Suddenly he couldn’t push the red End button; he couldn’t form words to say all the nasty things he’d been compiling in his head. He could only sit there, unable to speak, because what this man said was right. Dave did owe Lillian, more than anyone but the two of them would ever know.

CHAPTER 4

DAVID-DAY 1

Fiji

The weather’s perfect. Palm trees sway rhythmically and the glassy blue water winks at me in the sunlight, trying to entice me down to its edge. And here’s me, not giving a crap.

I’m wearing the same clothes I put on over twenty-four hours ago, and the fancy brown leather shoes Beth gave me for Christmas last year are pinching my toes with every step on the sticky blacktop. But that’s nothing compared to the torture waiting for me on that plane.

I know it annoys Janice and my other coworkers, but I despise Fiji and Adiata Beach. It has nothing to do with the actual cluster of islands in the middle of the South Pacific. It has more to do with being at the beck and call of entitled strangers for two full weeks—usually old people. And once I walk into that cramped little jet, I have to pretend to like these people.

I don’t know what it says about Carlton Yogurt that the past five winners of the Dream Trip have been over the age of seventy. At least that ad campaign about “increasing regularity” with special probiotics is working. Note to self: find a new job with a young, hip company like Pixar or Apple. I wouldn’t get a trip to Fiji every year but I also wouldn’t have to talk about how often old people poop.

I think I’ve been turned off on the South Pacific for life, because now when I come to Fiji I can’t consider anything other than what kind of babysitting I’ll have to endure this year. At least this time it’s only one week.

That’s my mantra: it’s only one week, it’s only one week. I repeat it with every step up the rickety metal staircase into the jet’s cabin. Squinting, I see Theresa come into focus, her hair impeccable despite the heat. I’m sure half a can of Aqua Net’s responsible. It’s nice to see a familiar face, though, and hers is always such a friendly one.

“Hey there, Dave, good to see you again!” she greets me. “Heard you just joined us, glad you made it for the best part. Private tropical island, all inclusive resort—honey, I wish I knew how to get your job.”

I cringe. Thankfully she doesn’t notice, too busy taking my carry-on bag and stowing it in a compartment near the cockpit. Turning around, she tilts her head toward the cockpit door, her sweet Southern drawl lowering to a whisper. “Instead I gotta deal with Captain Kent Grabby-Hands up there.”

“You and Kent aren’t together anymore, I take it?” She didn’t seem to mind Kent’s roaming hands last year, when they were living together.

She shakes her head. “No, but his hands haven’t caught on to that fact.” She laughs at her own joke before changing the subject. “So, how’s the baby? Any pictures?”

The word “baby” sends needles right through my chest. “No baby, Theresa. Not yet.”

Turning around on her stubby blue heels, the corners of her mouth tug down like someone’s forcing a frown on her naturally cheerful face. “I’m sorry, Dave. I thought . . . you said you and your wife were trying for a baby two trips ago, and then last year you said you were going to do that in-vitro stuff so I assumed . . .”

Why did I ever tell people we were “trying” to have a baby? At first they made jokes and jabbed me with knowing elbows. Now there’s only pity.

“The in vitro didn’t work either. We’re trying one last thing and then . . .” I shrug, not knowing what comes next. If I felt like spilling every detail of my personal life I’d tell her Beth’s in premature menopause and we are using donor eggs. I would say that I want to explore adoption, but Beth’s obsessed with the idea of being pregnant. But I don’t say anything because she won’t understand. No one can.

“I’m sorry, Dave, I didn’t know,” she says, like she’s greeting family and friends at a funeral.

“It’s fine.” I squeeze the handle of my computer bag once, twice. “So, I should probably say hi to Captain You Know Who.”

She taps her long fuchsia nails on a small door marked E
MERGENCY
, the plastic making a hollow sound with each clack. “Sure, hon, you go ahead. I’ll take your drink order when you’re done.”

Thankfully, she turns and walks away without trying to make any further attempts at an apology. Spending time with strangers might be exactly what I need. I knock softly on the thin metal door to the cockpit. When no one answers, I swing it open.

“Hey, sweetheart, get me some coffee would ya?” Kent says, without turning around. “Oh, and check where Mr. PR is. We gotta get out of here in the next ten or we’ll be waiting in line for an hour.” His bald spot’s doubled since I saw him a year ago and his remaining blond hair is buzzed short. It’s not a good look. That shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.

I clear my throat and he takes in my arrival without a hint of embarrassment. I don’t think Kent knows what embarrassment is. “Hey there, man, glad you made it. Now go sit down so we can get in the air, and close the door for me, would ya?”

Conversation over. Why I try to be social with that caveman I’ll never know. Shoving the door shut I try to squeeze away the annoyance, crushing the handle on my bag again, and again. Still not working.

Shuffling down the narrow hall toward the cabin, I can’t help but smile. I’ve spent dozens of hours on this plane over the past few years. Now it’s familiar, almost homey. All of the little flaws are dear to me, like the hairline crack in the lavatory door, the overhead light in the rear of the plane that’s been burned out for two years straight.

Besides those tiny irregularities that only someone familiar with the plane could point out, the interior’s nothing special. Five tan leather seats and full-size fold-down tables accessible to each of the front chairs, small screens that make you think a movie will be shown in flight. It won’t, but the illusion’s perfect for the contest winners. It’s like flying in a fancy shoebox and, as much as I hate this whole trip, I’d rather be here than at home.

“You know the drill, hon: Pick any seat you like, fasten your seat belt, and turn off all your gadgets till we’re in the air. Let me know if there’s anything you need. We have some snacks and refreshments in the front. Otherwise, relax.”

“Thanks, Theresa.” I’m only half paying attention because I’ve homed in on the winners. I push my computer bag under the first seat in the front row as Theresa makes her way up to the front of the plane, keeping one eye on the women in the second row. On the left, an older lady with puffy light-brown hair is already snoring. Must be Margaret Linden.

I was given a brief file on each of the women from Janice to help catch up after my late start, so I know a few things about Margaret: she’s the winner of the trip, she’s elderly (shocker), she lives in Iowa, and she elected to bring her daughter-in-law, Lillian, as her plus one.

Across the aisle, a younger woman leans against the window with the shade pushed fully open. She’s holding a book, but it dips beneath the seat in front of her so I can’t read the title. I wish I knew what she was reading. It has her so engrossed she doesn’t seem to notice how her brown hair tumbles down over her makeup-free face, already tan from a week on the beach. The sun hits her in this perfect way, like she’s bathed in artificial lighting for a movie. My mouth goes bone dry—she’s beautiful.

Just my luck. I’m really good with old ladies, lots of practice I guess, but attractive women get me all anxious and jittery, and I say incredibly stupid things to them. To think I was just complaining about the elderly.

My pulse pounds at my temples. Hopefully I remembered to toss Tylenol in my bag, or maybe Theresa has some. Rubbing the sides of my head, I try to remember what was in her file:
30-year-old female, Margaret’s daughter-in-law, stay-at-home mom
. I hadn’t even glanced at her passport photo. Eventually I’ll have to talk to her, but not right now. Right now I need meds, stat. I yank at my bag, the pain in my head getting worse the longer I’m leaning over. Finally it pops out and I shuffle my feet to keep from falling over. Could this day get any worse? Plopping the bulging leather bag onto my seat, I unzip the front pocket. If the medicine is going to be anywhere, it’ll be here.

My hands rifle through random office clutter, pens, scraps of paper, and a surprising amount of pennies, and I swear under my breath. If I’d just get organized like Beth always tells me to, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Damn it. I’m zipping the pocket closed with more force than necessary when I notice bright green eyes staring at me. The “plus one.” Her lips pucker like she’s holding in a laugh, and she waves like we’re old friends meeting again after a long separation, making me panic for a moment. No—I’d remember that smile, or at least I’d remember the way it makes my palms sweat and elbows tingle.

Putting a finger to her lips she points to sleeping Margaret Linden and mouths, “Later.”

“Okay,” I say, giving a stupid little thumbs up. I’m so bad at this.

When she returns to her novel, I sink into my seat, putting the laptop on my thighs. My head’s so full of conflicting thoughts, I jump slightly when the computer chimes on.

I don’t know how it’s possible to long for home and be glad I’m away from it at the same time, but it is. Part of me craves Beth. I want to find a strand of her hair tangled in the button of my shirt in the middle of the day, or hear the front door open and know by the cadence of her footsteps that she’s home. Yet, sitting here, alone with a computer full of e-mails, I’m freer than I have been in months.

I never imagined trying to have a baby could be so stressful. It’s something
so
easy that other people do it accidentally, but, apparently, too difficult for us to manage. I rub the bridge of my nose hard, as if I could rub out those memories—the months of arguments, the temperature readings and charts and negative pregnancy tests. I need to forget, because right now there are three little embryos getting all cozy in Beth’s uterus. If they all take, we could have triplets. Triplets. I know the idea should scare me but it doesn’t.

It’s good I’m here, to get some space between us so the air can clear before I get home. After the blood test we can make new plans. If the embryos fail, there’s a chance Beth will be willing to give up on her obsession with pregnancy. We could talk about adoption again. After all, the most important thing is to have a child; I’m dying to be a dad. This break might be the best thing that’s ever happened to us.

The phone buzzing in my pants pocket makes me jump. Thank goodness I switched it to vibrate on my last flight or Mrs. Linden would’ve been rudely awakened by my AC/DC ringtone. It’s probably Mr. Janus, making sure I made it to the plane on time. Before putting the phone to my ear, I see Theresa peek her head into the cabin and frown.

“Two minutes,” she mouths as the phone buzzes again. I nod and push the Talk button.

“Hello?”

“Dave?” Beth answers, her voice gravelly and swollen.