Chapter Eight
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I’m out of town for much of the next week, criss-crossing the country to visit various clients. Stops in New York, DC, Atlanta, Chicago, Houston, and then San Diego to spend an overnight with India before I head back home to my own house, my own bed, and yes, Matthew. I’ve heard not a peep out of Hart, and I try not to be irritated by it, but his lack of communication is a mosquito buzzing in my ear. Difficult man.
At least I’ve been busy and will continue to be so—I have to be on a plane stupid-early tomorrow and have a mountain of work to do before I can go to sleep. I’ve told Matthew no interruptions and have been trying to ignore the notifications that flash on my phone every few minutes, but when LO flashes on the screen, I answer. “What’s the story, morning glory?”
It’s Friday, so if India’s calling at this time of night, she’s either in Kona or there’s something really wrong. Possibly both.
“Rey, I—”
I kick my feet off the desk and put them on the floor, sliding the chair I’d been leaning back in closer to my desk to wake up my computer. That tone of voice usually requires a plane ticket.
“What happened?”
“No one’s hurt, I promise. We’re all fine. Sort of.”
My head cocks to the side, and my eyes narrow, the phone still pressed to my ear. This is interesting. No one’s hurt, no one’s dead, she’s not in tears, and she said “I.”
“What did you do?”
Even though I can’t see her through the phone, I can imagine India wrinkling her pert nose and wrenching her mouth to the side because that’s what she does when she doesn’t want to talk about something but still needs my help.
“Why do you assume I did something?”
I’d laugh because she’s not here to hit me if I did, but I shouldn’t. If she’s calling, she must’ve fucked up quite a bit, and I don’t want to make it any worse. I’m more than a little proud she and Cris can work through their periodic tiffs without my intervention, but I can’t deny it makes me feel needed, useful, when she does call.
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Her confirmation is muttered, and I can barely hear it. At least she admitted whatever this is was her fault. Another good step.
“Are you going to tell me what happened or should I guess? I’m assuming this is to do with Cris, yes?”
Not that she never flips out about business things, but that she can generally handle on her own, with the crack team of people she’s put together who can stand working for a taskmistress like her or with a little help from Cris. Burke Consulting Group is flourishing, and she turns away more work than she takes on. That’s where her strengths lie. It’s with people—and, god forbid, feelings—where she falters.
“Yes.”
“What was it this time? Did you scorch his favorite saucepan? Pick up the wrong wax for his surfboard? Try to foist an e-reader on him again?”
She snorts at my patently ridiculous suggestions because none of those scenarios would elicit more than a shrug from her extremely laidback husband, and I smile. All hope is not lost.
“No. It was so much worse.”
“So tell me, little one.”
I push back from the desk, because this is sounding increasingly like an issue that, while it would be nice to ease her through while cuddling her on a couch, probably won’t necessitate a flight across the Pacific. More likely a lengthy phone call and a series of check-ins over the next few days. It’s going to be okay, so I walk over to the fridge and pour myself a glass of juice.
Strolling over to the couch, I take a sip, enjoying the cool, intense burst of tartness that fills my mouth and cools my throat. I sink into the cushions, wondering precisely how long it’s going to take India to work up the nerve to confess whatever her latest transgression is. “Are you going to talk to me, or should I call you back when I’m finished with my Pilates?”
She laughs. “You do Pilates on Tuesdays and Thursdays, asshole.”
I don’t answer, but take another swallow of my juice. It’s different than the one Matthew usually gets. I like this one better. I’ll have to tell him to switch. And get some more hummus. My grocery list musings are interrupted by a heavy sigh. Showtime.
“So you know Cris has been depressed since Mal died.”
“I do.” Cris and his father had been close, and even though it had been a long time coming, I know the loss was devastating. Continues to be devastating. I can understand why. I met Mal a few times before he passed away. He was a genuinely good man who loved his family and never seemed to be angry at the shit hand he’d been dealt. He and India had adored each other.
I lost my dad at an early age to violence, and it still haunts me. I don’t have a whole lot to mourn because we didn’t have much time together, which would explain why I hear the same words of his echo through my head all the time: “Helping people is the best most important thing you can do. You have a super power and you should use it.”
Cris must have a hundred thousand conversations running through his head. Every time he steps into the kitchen, he must hear Mal’s ghost whispering in his ear. Maybe about how to perfectly poach an egg or wisdom about something more fundamental. Whatever it is, the pain of never being able to hear his real voice again can’t have dulled enough for the memories to inspire fondness and nostalgia. It must be excruciating.
“Well, I thought he was getting better, but then he got worse. I hated it, Rey. He seemed so lost and listless.”
It’s funny sometimes to watch the two of them together—India such a high-strung, busy little bee who can’t sit still as opposed to Cris, who’s slow and easy, like a sloth. Or moss even. His ease isn’t ever directionless, though. It’s always intentional. He’s very present, Cris. One reason he makes such a good anchor for India. He can chain her up and hold her down, and she’ll stay because he’s so rock-solid. India must feel like her bedrock’s shattered, and I cringe because that must hurt them both.
Then something occurs to me. She’s been using the past tense. Something must have gotten even worse, and that’s why she called me. “Then what happened?”
She makes a strangled noise. “He was all manic when he picked me up last night. When we got home, he’d made all this food. Like he’d spent all day in the kitchen. I don’t even know how we’re going to eat it all.”
“You’re rambling.” If it sounded like clinical mania, I’d be concerned. Grief can manifest in some strange ways. But she would’ve called last night, no matter what the hour here, if she were that worried. So instead I wait. Also, I’m not worried about the food. For such a tiny girl, India eats like a garbage disposal. Especially if Cris is putting her through her paces. If he’s all worked up, he probably will, for both their sakes.
“He told me he wants to have a baby.”
Holy what the ever-living fuck now? That’s what my brain screams, but what comes out of my mouth is, “Oh?”
“You can take your fucking oh and shove it, Rey Walter. You heard me. A baby. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a baby?”
“I have some ideas…”
“Seriously, Rey.”
Yes, seriously. I curse myself when I suck air through my teeth. I don’t have a lot of tells, but that’s one of them. She’ll have heard it, and it’ll freak her out I’m at a loss too. Get yourself under control, Walter. Dammit. If Cris has gone off the deep end, then I’m the only one she’s got.
I’d been under the impression Cris didn’t want to procreate, and for as long as I’ve known her, India’s been scared shitless of the idea. Not that people never change their minds about these things, but Cris is the polar opposite of fickle. Especially about something literally life-altering. A baby? Jesus.
“What did you say?” I cross mental fingers, hoping she didn’t respond with a stream of expletives, though that’s the most likely scenario.
“After I started breathing again, I told him I thought he was probably reacting to losing his dad.”
Huh. India is…not the most astute person when it comes to human psychology, but her reasoning makes sense. The whole mortality thing can really shake a person up, and at forty-five, Cris isn’t the springiest of chickens. Plus, he spends a lot of time by himself. Maybe the loneliness of having a part-time spouse is grating on him after it being the status quo for years, though India’s made an effort to go to Kona more often since Mal died. I suppose a baby could seem like a reasonable fix for all those problems: carrying on the genetic line and a companion, all in one squalling, if adorable, package.
“That sounds like a distinct possibility. What did he say?”
“He got huffy and went to clean up the kitchen.”
“Okay…” I’m not one of those “never go to bed angry” types. Sometimes you need time, and things can look infinitely better in the morning, when you’re not so cranky because you’ve actually had a good night’s sleep instead of staying up to the wee hours hashing something out with your partner. That doesn’t explain why she’s calling. “I’m not seeing what the problem is.”
“There wasn’t a problem. Until this afternoon.”
She sounds guilty. For India to actually feel guilty… “What did you do?”
“I went to Kona. To the animal shelter.”
Her small sentences and the reluctant way she’s dragging the words out of her mouth make the alarm bells go off in my head. Animal shelter? Dread is echoing loudly through my skull. “You didn’t.”
“He can’t replace Mal with a baby!”
Oh, she did.
“I know that, and so does he, somewhere deep down. But you tried to replace his dead father with a dog, India.” My disbelief has gotten the better of me. I try not to show any strong reactions when I’m dealing with India at all, because that rarely goes well, but come on. India might be one of the smartest people I know, but sometimes her lack of common sense is utterly astounding.
“I know!” she wails. “That’s what he said when I came home.”
“When was that?”
“Like an hour ago.”
“Where is he now?”
“Cris or Mano?”
“You named the dog.” It’s not a question, just an observation, and I rub the bridge of my nose.
“He had a name already.” Her words are shaped by her scowl. At least I haven’t lost total radio contact with my self-protective India. “Cris is in our bedroom, and Mano’s sitting on the couch with me. He’s a great dog, hadn’t been at the shelter long. Australian Shepherd mix. I’d send you a picture, but I don’t know if I’ll have to take him back.”
There’s a rustle in the background, and as if it’s going to help, I strain to decipher the noise.
“Hey, hold on,” India says into the phone, and then I’m guessing she pulls the phone to her shoulder because everything becomes muffled. It’s the most maddening thing in the world. Let me hear it already, because I know I’ll be getting it secondhand in a moment anyhow. Especially since I heard my name. I hope Cris isn’t upset she called me, but he can’t be surprised. They talk for a couple of minutes, and though it’s indistinct, there’re no raised voices or angry tones. Then she’s back.
“Sorry about that.”
“Do you want to call me back?” I don’t want to stand in the way of dialogue, especially given our history. No matter how much I’d like to play puppet master with the two of them, mash their faces together like Barbie dolls—kiss and make up already, dammit—I won’t because I’ve been asked not to interfere and I’ll be respectful of her wishes. Until I can’t anymore.
“No, he’s gone again.”
“What did he want?”
She laughs, a short chary sound that’s almost a sob. “He wanted the dog.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Because of course he did. I bet Cris is rubbing the mutt behind the ears as we speak. Maybe India wasn’t being so dumb after all. “You guys are going to be okay. You know that, right?”
“I do.”