Here Without You (Between the Lines #4)

Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Page 30

Me: Shit. WHEN?

Brooke: Saturday. Can you be here? They need to see both of us interact with him. Are you doing the online parenting course?

Me: Yes and yes. I’ll figure something out. Call you later.

Me: We’re getting a visit with River on Saturday morning, so I can’t come to Berkeley this weekend – I have to fly in and out Friday-Saturday. So sorry.

Me: Dori, ANSWER me. Please.

Dori: That’s ok. Shayma and I are helping with a free laundry thing for local homeless people on Saturday anyway. I was going to text you.

Me: Were you?

Me: If I call you tonight, will you answer?

Me: I miss you.

Dori: I miss you too.

‘Hello.’

I didn’t realize how much I expected to get dumped into her voicemail again until I don’t. How much I missed the sound of her hello until I hear her say it.

‘Hey. You answered.’ Right behind the relief is anger. I didn’t expect that, either, and I start my silent therapeutic counting, hoping it will go away quickly. But it doesn’t work that way; the aggravation is filling me as fast as I’m emptying it, like a rainy day in a water-laden rowing boat, and nothing to bail it out with but a tin can.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,’ she says, and I’m literally clamping my jaw shut on the words that want out.

I breathe through my nose and count. One. Two. Three. Until I can trust myself to speak. ‘Can we talk, please? Are you still upset?’

‘I’m not upset, Reid. I just don’t think we should rush into anything –’

‘What do you mean by that – rush into anything? By anything – do you mean us? Dori … is this about River?’

‘No … Maybe. It’s not about him, specifically. You’ve got a lot going on with the movie, and River, and Brooke –’

‘Dori, the stuff about Brooke and me in the tabloids is all speculation or make-believe – you remember all the fabricated crap they printed when you fell on me last summer – that we were having a secret relationship –’

‘We did have a secret relationship –’

‘But we weren’t having one then.’

‘That’s your argument?’

‘Well. Yes. I didn’t say that they don’t guess right sometimes. And do I need an argument?’

She doesn’t answer. The silence is thick and solid. I want to reach through this phone and pull her to me.

‘Dori?’

‘You shouldn’t have to explain yourself, Reid. You’re right. I just want you to be free to do what you need to do –’

‘And I’m not? I’m not free to do what I need to do?’

Silence, again. I’m arguing her into corners, because that’s what I do. But if she goes mute on me, what good does it do me to be right? So I retreat to what I know. How I’ve been raised to handle conflict. It’s simple, really. If the communication is making everything worse, then we’ll just stop talking about it.

‘Your spring break is in three weeks, right? We’ll be done filming in Utah by then. I’ll have some long work days at Universal – but at least we’ll both be in LA. We’ll spend as much time together as possible. Everything will be fine. I promise.’ Without thinking, I ask, ‘Do you trust me?’ As though this question isn’t at the core of everything, and I haven’t just circled back around to it, as unintentional as it was.

‘You’re doing the right thing, Reid, and I’m proud of you for it.’ That’s the second time I’ve heard that sentiment in as many days, but this one feels like the prelude to something unwanted. ‘Spring recess is in three weeks, yes.’

Everything is off. The cadence of her voice isn’t quite right – it’s … flat, stilted, but I can’t see how to fix this. Plus she didn’t answer my question.

‘I’ll … call you, after we meet him?’

For the beat of several seconds, I think she’s not going to answer. Maybe she’s already gone. And then she says, ‘Sure. That would be fine.’

23

BROOKE

I’ve just got off the phone with Janelle, who is begging me, for the zillionth time and all that is holy, not to turn down Paper Oceans. She’s got her first call from the producer and is freaking out that I’ll say no to it. Attempting to explain my reasons does no good. ‘I’m done talking about this until you’ve got an offer on the table,’ I said, thoroughly irked. What I left unsaid, but she managed to hear anyway: And then I’ll turn it down.

When the phone rings, I assume she’s calling back with additional declarations of the Many Ways in Which I am about to Ruin My Career, but the number on the display is unfamiliar and begins with 512. Local.

My hand shakes as I jab talk and say, ‘This is Brooke,’ in the most confident voice I can muster.

‘Miss Cameron – hello, this is Wendy Long. I’m River’s foster mother.’

My fist clenched to calm the shaking, I strive to maintain my feigned composure. I know this woman has voiced concerns to River’s caseworker, his ad litem and the judge about me adopting him, though I’m not sure exactly what was said. Norman keeps reminding me that she’s just looking out for his best interests, but I can’t help feeling personally affronted.

I’ve got to do whatever it takes to mask that feeling.

‘Yes, Wendy, good evening.’ Shit. I automatically used her first name – something I do to even the playing field in adversarial confrontations. Awesome. I thump myself in the forehead with that clenched fist. ‘Please call me Brooke.’

‘Oh, certainly. Brooke.’ Her drawl is heavy, words fading into soft endings, fusing and linking together, mirroring my mother’s dialect. My brain screams hick, and I struggle not to assign that personal bias to it. ‘I thought we should have a chat about River before tomorrow’s visit. Is Mr Alexander going to be accompanying you? Is this a good time to talk?’

‘Yes, it’s fine. Reid will be in town this evening, and I’ll pick him up on my way over in the morning.’

‘Ah. Um. All right. Well, about River. There are a few important things you should know about him before you meet.’

‘Okay.’

‘First off, and most importantly – he doesn’t talk.’

Everything I know about children, I’ve learned in the past few weeks. I may not know much, but I know that most four-year-olds are language-proficient and can supposedly talk your ear off. Kathryn says four is the age of Why?

‘Kylie was more of a quietly observant child – oddly enough,’ she said, ‘but oh my Lord, Kelley asked why a million times a day. Why do apples come in so many colours? Why did the dog eat that? Why do teeth fall out? Why can’t I jump off the roof into the pool? The house always seemed unnaturally silent the moment she fell asleep.’

‘What do you mean, exactly?’ I ask Wendy.

‘I mean he doesn’t say words. He doesn’t communicate by speaking.’

‘At all? Ever?’

‘At all. Ever,’ she confirms.

‘Is he … developmentally challenged? From – what happened to him?’ I bite my lip and taste blood, cursing his adoptive mother to hell. Again.

‘I don’t believe so. He understands what’s said to him just fine. And he’ll nod or shake his head, so you get your basic yes or no responses. And most notably, I’ve heard him verbalize words and short sentences in his sleep a few times – usually during nightmares. So he can talk … he just won’t. It’s possible that he doesn’t even know he can.’

I frown. ‘What’s been done to address that?’

‘He sees a therapist every week, and his social worker every month.’

‘What the – what good does a therapist do if he can’t – or won’t – speak?’

‘He has River draw pictures about his feelings. He’s real good at that. He’s smart, and he’s a good little artist.’ I hear the affection lacing her words and almost lose it. ‘He’s just had a rough time of it.’

‘Yes. He has. I intend to end that, Ms Long. I promise you.’

‘Please, call me Wendy. And … I want to believe you, Ms – er, Brooke. But the stories in the tabloids, about you and Mr Alexander both … Well, I’m worried. I’m sure the gossip is played up and all to sell papers. I mean I seen one last week that said a lady gave birth to a thirty-pound baby, and I’m here to tell you, that’s just not possible.’

‘Well –’

‘Don’t get me wrong – you two are both young and nice-looking, and I don’t mean to pass judgement on you for your lifestyles, whatever they are. It’s not my place to say, you understand, except where River is concerned. He’s not …’ She swallows audibly. ‘He’s not a knick-knack, or a pet. He’s been hurt, and all the pretty clothes and new toys in the world aren’t gonna fix him. He’s like a little flower bud that just won’t open up, and to be perfectly frank – with what he’s seen, I don’t know if he ever will.’

Tears stream down my face and clog my throat. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Wendy. Now let me give you mine.’ My voice is earnest, pleading – such a foreign effort for me. But I need her to believe me. ‘I don’t know anything about raising a child, except how not to do it. I know he needs a home. He needs love. And I mean to give him those things.’ I take a shuddering breath. ‘If he never wants to speak, then I’ll just have to get really good at artistic interpretation. He can draw on the damn walls if he needs to.’

Reid slides into the passenger seat of Glenn’s king cab pick-up wearing his sunglasses and a Cal baseball cap, an open plaid shirt over a white T-shirt, jeans and boat shoes. He looks like a cute college boy, not a Hollywood sex symbol.

‘Brooke Cameron – sporting western boots one day and driving an F-250 the next. Will wonders never cease … What’s next, a ten-gallon hat?’

I flip him off, but he just arches a brow and smirks.

‘Aww, c’mon, I was just funnin’.’ His drawl is all kinds of exaggerated. ‘No need to get hostile.’

I roll my eyes behind my own mirrored sunglasses and pull into traffic as soon as he’s buckled up. ‘There’s more hostility where that came from, Reid Alexander.’ Like slipping into a broken-in pair of boots, I affect the accent he professes to love. ‘You just keep that smart mouth shut or you’ll be meetin’ your son sportin’ a fat lip.’

Luckily, he grins that full-wattage smile and shakes his head without any more flippant commentary. Cocky son-of-a-bitch.

As we leave downtown and head south on I-35, he turns the alt rock station down and asks, ‘You nervous?’

I sigh. ‘Hell, yes. You?’

‘I’ve never felt so panicked about meeting anyone in my entire life.’

Nodding in agreement, I say, ‘That pretty much sums it up.’