Destiny - a novel - 13. Chapter 13: "When you know, you know"

Chapter 13: "When you know, you know"

 

Boredom, boredom, boredom! Not that I'm complaining, but the confines of Jack's hospital room are tough on an active girl like me, lol.

Granted, if I were back in Cincinnati, I'd be indoors anyway, 'cause the temp is freezing. But I'd have school, my house, my friends' houses, restaurants, the mall – 'OK, Dawn,' I silently lay down the law. 'Self-pity is not cute on me, and it's not constructive on anybody, 'cause it can't help Jack.'

I let my head flop back against the sofa cushion. Some blue sky, sliced up by the mini blinds, catches my eye and makes me turn to Lincoln. He's sitting at the far end of the couch, slumped a little forward on the seat, elbow propped against the armrest, and hand balled up and supporting his tilted forehead. My gaze continues on past him to Jack.

He's elevated on his bed, napping peacefully; his earbuds spill out some gentle music into our otherwise silent environment. Mrs. Shaw is back at the motel, also presumably sleeping. As to where that Jackson got to, hmm…

Lincoln scoots forward, lets his arm drop, and droops his head back to observe me. "Nice weather," he says softly, and I may be fooling myself, but there seems to be an insider-joke twinkling behind his Liz-Taylor peepers.

"Yeah," I mew. "Too bad we're stuck inside."

Linc's right – it's warm today. Perhaps it'll go all the way to 60 degrees this afternoon, and there are no clouds to mask the sky's intensity.

"It's quite a contrast, isn't it?" he asks. "Wet and relatively warm November/December; clear but cool Jan and beginning of February."

"Yeah. Weird, but beats Ohio, that's for sure."

Something causes me to blink and refocus on him. My reward is catching a definite 'vibe.' A wry quality burnishes the edges of Linc's voice, as he tells me, "It's noon now, and quite warm – almost al fresco weather."

"What are you talking about?" My hackles of suspicion are raised.

He just shrugs and tries to suppress a grin.

'Whatever,' I think. 'Talk about weird… OMG.'

"Remember our outing to the mall in Cincy?" Lincoln's new tone is dreamy, but connected to me in an interpersonal way – it's sincere.

"I remember how you ate your Star Chili dogs in the car as we were heading back. I remember your expression as you stuffed your gob-hole."

"Why? What was memorable about it?"

"It was the first time I saw you smile that day – a real one, unguarded and truly happy. I knew it wasn’t there because of the food, but because you were going home to Jack."

"Aw, Dawn. You judged my feelings right on that day."

I suddenly realize more. "Strike that. Your chilidog grin was the second genuine one of the day. The first was when you bought that snow globe." Our attention drifts simultaneously to Jack, and the object in question sitting on his bedside table.

"He sure treasures it," I say. "How did you know Jack would love it?"

Linc shrugs. "Just a hunch; when you know, you know."

A strange thought comes into my head: a recalled image of how Jack's sister picked it up with almost the same intensity as the snow globe's owner does. "What do you think the two people are doing in that globe, Lincoln?"

"It's about forgiveness. It's about being sorry and returning to family and loved ones."

"Family, huh? All I know is, Christie sure needs 'a time out!'"

Lincoln chuckles at that, and there's his wonderful chilidog-eating grin.

A serious thought slips out before I can stop it. "Do you think Jack is fading?"

Linc's smile gets locked in place – I've stunned him into emotional petrification.

"I'm sorry," I say hurriedly. "That was just a brain fart."

Lincoln eases the happy but empty expression off of his face. His arm comes up again to support his forehead.

I feel like shit. Why do I have to be so dumb? I think I'm just restless.

"I'm gonna marry him someday, Dawn. Don’t you doubt it."

"I don’t, Linc. If any two people on earth deserve it, it's you and Jack." I try changing the subject. "Hey, where'd that shutterbug brother of yours get to anyway?"

"He's preparing something."

"Preparing, something?"

"Dawn, don’t make me spoil the surprise. He's been wanting to do something special for you for a while." He rotates to hold my gaze. "I just hope you'll go with the flow."

I flush a tad. I'm quite frankly flabbergasted, but one of my patent-pending snippy comebacks is probably unwarranted here. I manage to eke out an "Ok" instead.

There's a rumbling sound outside of Jack's door, and the smell of food wafts in along with the sound of a knock on the neighbor's doorframe. Then, several things happen at once: a smiling orderly taps on the wood of Jack's open door and comes in carrying a tray; Jack calls out "Linc?"; Lincoln rises to go to him and arranges the tray table to accept the patient's lunch; and my phone vibrates.

It's a text from Jackson:

Meet me at the end of the corridor.

I type back:

When?

He replies immediately:

Now 😉

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

My face is upturned to the bracing sunshine – eyes shut, hands kicked back behind me for support – the gravel on the hospital roof slightly biting into my palms, but I don’t care. Like the radiant warmth seeping into my pores from overhead, I can let the thought sink in from my inner light that this is exactly what I need.

I cast my chin down, opening my eyes on Jackson. He sports a goofy, little-boy twinkle.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing, Dawn. I guess it's just nice to see you looking happy, that's all."

My thoughts are suddenly along the lines of 'Thanks, dude. Way to turn that smile upside down.'

The reaction he sees must entertain him, for my secret 'lunch date' is all awash in teenage-boy jerky movements: he tugs on his blue-jeans-covered knees and sits cross-legged with elbows propped forward on his thighs. Jackson wears the sexy sports coat I picked out for Jack's mom to give him, and in the full sunshine, the graphic pattern of the tattoo flash really pops. Right in the bower of his lap rests his trusty 35-millimeter camera – ever on, ever with the cap removed.

I glance down at my own brown sweatshirt sleeves with the pink hearts on them. It's some funny coincidence that I wore his gift selection on the same day he'd wear mine.

Looking around further, I see Lincoln's little bro has borrowed two blankets – which I can easily recognize as coming from their room at The Hermione Motor Lodge. He's laid them out side by side, and made quite the spread of finger food. So, here we sit, him on one of the long ends, and me on the other, on the roof of Jack's hospital. Talk about surreal…

"Glorious day, isn't it?" He squints as he scans the sky.

And it is too: a dome of blue up above with cotton candy clouds drifting past, a warm roof to sit on, and temperatures hovering about middling warm. I chuckle, telling him, "It sure is. Hard to believe it's the second week of February!"

"We've had no rain for a while, so that's good."

And again he's right; this feels really good.

I glance down at the spread he's laid before us, all open and accessible, and all giving off some delicious aromas. Small plastic tubs hold black and green olives, some stuffed with feta or blue cheese, others packed with roasted garlic, or sun-dried tomatoes. A small paper plate hosts a partially unwrapped package of Brie, and a plastic knife rides its rim. Next to that is a slender baguette sticking somewhat out of a paper sleeve from the bakery. There is a shallow deli tray shingled attractively in paper-thin slices of Italian meats: mortadella, prosciutto, and salami with cracked black pepper coating the outside rind. On the other side of the spread is a big open bag of potato chips and a container of white dip. The long green strips turning the creamy color slightly chartreuse must be the 'artichokes' the label promises. And right by Jackson's left hand stands a champagne bottle of apple cider, plus two red plastic cups.

It all looks incredible; it all makes me hungry in a way I haven't felt for quite a while.

"Jackson," I ask with plainly shown amazement. "How did you get up here? How did you get all of this up here?"

"Easy. Yesterday I scouted around for a place where the two of us could get away, and found the door to the roof was unlocked."

"And where did the food come from?"

"Draeger's. The supermarket's just down University Drive, 'bout a mile from the motel."[1]

"And one last question…" My enthusiasm down-gears into a frankly accusatory leer. "Why?"

His response takes the form of a boyish grin. "Because you need a break, if only for an hour or two."

I think but avoid saying this whole glorious scheme must be Lincoln Oliver's brainchild. I'd bet anything on it, well anything but that Brie – that stinky puppy's mine!

As if right on cue, Jackson hands me a paper plate and napkin, calling out warmly, "Eat!" But while I busy myself in unsheathing the bread, and going for my first chunk of creamy goodness, Jackson's camera makes that clicking sound. Damn, that kid has just captured the lusty look on my face for some of France's finest.

I put a portion of cheese on my plate and shit-grin over to him. My message could not be any clearer: 'I'll get you for that.'

He laughs and goes for a black olive. And then, slapping his hands in front of him like he's done a good job, Jackson reaches for the bottle of sparkling apple cider. "Linc says this stuff is pretty tasty. He snuck some in so him and Jack could have a decent New Years."

"Yeah, Jack told me it was about the most romantic moment of his life."

POP!

The cork goes sailing over the parapet. We give each other frozen Eddie Murphy Buckwheat looks, then crack up completely.

"Oh, that was so funny," I finally manage to sputter.

"I know, I know. I hope no security guard got dinged on the head by it!"

That sets us off laughing all over again.

Eventually, he manages to slosh some bubbly in a cup and rises a bit on one knee to stretch it over to me.

He pours one for himself, spilling a little; our goofy tittering just won't seem to quit.

After a couple of sips, he asks, "Did you see? The paper hearts are coming out all over the hospital. Valentine's Day is on its way."

I roll my eyes. "Jeesh, naked red-foil Cupids…in mid-flight…with drawn bows and arrows..? Give me a break."

I've burst his balloon. He goes on in a softer tone, "Not into Valentine's Day?"

"Not into corporate-funded 'romance.' Their idea of chocolate, teddy bears, and flowers is all just another big-biz money-grubbing scheme." Even as the words are leaving my mouth, I know I am probably ribbing Jackson a little too hard on the concept of 'romantic,' especially after he's gone to all this effort today, but I can't help it.

I suppose Jackson does the best thing I can hope for: he ignores me. While stretching for a chip and some dip, he mumbles under his breath, "Well, I like Valentine's Day."

Internally, this makes me laugh. This boy has great spirit, and I have to admire that.

For a little while we just eat. Our plates get loaded down with little samples of everything, and our cups get refilled a couple of times. Jack and Linc are right; this sparkling cider is pretty good.

Jackson's happy mouth – half stuffed with vittles – reminds me of lunch with him at Stanford Shopping Center. Somehow, shock and horror over Hamish and Christie's video allegations against Linc had driven all the fun and sweetness of our gift-buying foray into a repressed corner of my mind. Now, I feel like I can open the blinds on that recessed nook and let light in again. As he crunches into a chip, with his hand held below so he doesn't get any dip on his camera, I think back to his sappy gob chewing on those fries with mustard, and more importantly, reconnect to the feelings of tender openness I began to acknowledge for him then.

I reach over to try the dip myself, but I’ll put some on a torn chunk of baguette, thank you very much. I ask, "So, what kind of music do you like?"

"The usual…" Some potato crumbs exit his mouth. "Hip hop, R&B, not so much pop – and Indie groups."

"Like?"

"Like: Jaymes Young and Phoebe Ryan; The Eden Project; Skylar Grey."

"Cool. Those are all good!"

That makes Jackson's lapis eyes glimmer over the rim of his plastic 'champagne glass.'

"What about movies?" I inquire.

"I LOVE movies – all kinds, but I'm not into any of the comic book films. It's just the same stuff over and over."

I agree with him on that one, but I decide not to tell him. As he reaches for a green olive, I ask, "You into video games?"

"Nah." He smiles emphatically. "It's boring to sit in one place for hours on end. What about you?"

"Same. What about skateboarding?"

His eyebrows quirk, his expression grows round. "Skateboarding?! No… Why'd you ask that?"

It's my turn to chuckle. "I thought 9 outta 10 Cali boys live on four hard-rubber wheels."

"Ahh, the skater boys form their own clique, which is fine with me, cuz I'd rather go down a waterslide than across ten feet of rough concrete on my ass."

"There's a water park around here?"

"Yep, out in Concord. I always get a season pass."

"Back in Cincy, we've got The Beach water park, and Jack and I love to spend our summer days there. They've got a water flume that feels so good on a hot day. We should go sometime."

A slow-motion grin notches its way up the side of Jackson's face, but all he says is "Cool."

I change the subject; it's fun getting to know this younger Oliver boy. "Speaking of comic book movies, don’t you think Chris Hemsworth is hot!"

"Umm," Jackson stammers, taking on some defensive color. "He's good looking; he's cool, and all."

All of a sudden, I realize my faux pas. 'Straight boy… Oopps.'

I apologize. "My bad. I'm just used to talking about hot guys with Jack and Lincoln; I forgot some guys won’t be into talking about movie-men sex appeal."

Jackson laughs. "Ok. I'll admit, he's hot – but I won't be marrying him. Bromance, maybe; romance, no thanks."

"Well, you'll be glad to hear you can spare him the indignancy of having to refuse his proposal, as he's already got a wife."

The younger Oliver apes a forehead wipe with the back of his hand. "PHEW! What a weight off my mind."

As I listen to his boyish laugh ping back to me from every corner of the parapet, I think that I really like this kid. With this, he really notches way up in my estimation, for few guys our age can ever be honest about other men's attractiveness. But, Jackson can! Talk about hot, that feature in him is suddenly making my heart rate increase.

"What about photography?" I really want to reach out to him now. "How did you get interested in that?"

"Last year, first semester – as soon as I could – I took photography class and learned about emulsions, timing and making prints, but I was a lot younger when I first got interested in it. There used to be a place called the Ansel Adams Center in San Francisco. When I was in the 6^th grade, we took a field trip there, and I was hooked. The unflinching softness of Ansel's pictures of nature amazed me. You know, I think it was the first time I saw an actual black and white photograph face to face…" His arms shoot up to show it was large. "This big! There was just something hypnotizing about the way he captured everything just as it was. But in looking at it, you could also see the artist's humanity at the same time. Does that make sense?"

I nod my head.

"The Center is closed now – lack of funding – but the SF Modern Art Museum has a whole floor devoted to photography, and an awesome collection. We should go sometime."

"Cool. But, I guess what I want to know is, what is it you get out of doing it yourself?"

He reflects for a moment, his mouth goes slack and his cornflower-cyan peepers hold mine without blinking. He finally picks up his camera, and partially addresses his answer to it. "In a word? Freedom. Maybe, freedom and discovery. There's a certain moment when I disappear behind the lens, all my troubles and doubts and whatnot sink away to nothing. It's that reporter word…that – anonymity! It's anonymity for me behind the viewfinder when I capture moments unseen by the ones living it, but later they can see it for themselves too." His mood brightens a little; sincerity gilds his face as it's framed by the blankness of the low wall behind him. "I'd really love to take you to the museum."

And then, without warning, guilt reasserts itself over me. I suddenly start to feel overwhelmed.

Jackson senses it. "Dawn, I mean when Jack is better. You, me, Linc and Jack, we'll all go together. Ok?"

Fuck. Does he want me to cry?

Sweet, fucking Jackson only compounds it. "He's gonna pull through, I just know it!"

I rise to my feet. I feel upset, but why? I suppose I don’t really know. I go to the parapet and put my hands on it. I'm aware that there's a leafy landscape, out there, beyond the hospital, but I cannot really 'see' it; it's as if I'm looking out on a world that can be felt but not seen.

I hear the faint sound of a camera shutter. I glance in the direction it came from, and Jackson is lowering his lens about five feet to my right.

He comes to my side and leans elbows on the rooftop wall, rotating his vision up to mine. "I'm an asshole, Dawn. I shouldn't have mentioned Jack's condition; I'm sorry. This was supposed to be about giving you space to forget for a while, and now I've messed it up. Forgive me?"

"You fuckwit," I chuckle. "It's not you, it's me. And now I've made a spectacle of myself as a rotten guest, so you'll never invite me to another of your 'dinner parties.'"

Jackson laughs: "At fifteen, I don’t think I'll have any of those for a while."

I smack his upper arm. "I meant this, silly."

"OH! Then I'll definitely be inviting you to more of my rooftop picnics!"

I inhale and lean on the parapet to match my companion's pose. And as Jackson begins to pout, and inclines his way closer to me, suddenly my eyes are fully open.

"That's the university," he says, pointing. "See the tower? That's The Hoover Institution. The debacle of Bush's Gulf War II was planned right in that ivory tower of 19^th century 'values.' And over there is the shopping center. See?"

He comes right next to me. I nod. His warm flank settles against mine.

"That way," he continues with a slower, softer tone, "is the motel, and El Camino Real."

I swallow down a lump and follow the angle of his arm straight up into his face. "It's beautiful up here."

He holds my gaze; nearly whispers: "I agree. Totally beautiful."

Maybe if he were a bit older, say Lincoln's age, he'd take advantage of the situation, and…

Instead, he blushes and blurts out, "What are your plans for Valentine's Day?"

I feel a grimace creep over half my face. "Usual, I guess." I didn't add the 'Dweeb' I think in my head.

Suddenly Jackson's near whisper is back, his spectacular eyes glancing over every divot and bump of my visage. "Lincoln is planning something special for Jack."

"He would. He has a truly romantic soul."

"That he does."

"You know, I'm like the total opposite of a romantic. If some dork fell on his knee before me with some grand gesture, say a box of chocolates, a rose – or, HA!, a ring – I'd probably laugh my ass off and hurt his feelings."

An unbearable pall suddenly drains the color out of his face; if I had to guess, it looks like he is struggling with something.

"Dawn…" he stammers.

"Yes?"

"You're…"

"I'm..?"

"I think that I'm – "

He stops cold. Whatever it is he wants to say makes me shiver. "Um," I interrupt my own thoughts on purpose. "This has been great, but let's clean up now and get back to Jack's room. Ok?"

He reluctantly bobs his head, and already I regret not letting him say what he wants to, but the truth is, there's just so much I can take at one time.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

I didn't know what I'd see when I opened the door, but Mrs. Shaw was neither asleep, nor in the shower; she was in fact fully dressed and sitting quietly at the motel room desk. The television is off, ensuring that deathly quiet envelops her as atmospherically as the light from the single lit table lamp does.

"Hey," I say, softly closing the room door behind me.

"Hello, Dawn." She glances at me, and at the same time reaches to switch on the other desk light.

"I came back to check if you were awake."

"Yes. I'm awake." Her delicate tone seems directed at the lamp.

"Ok." I walk up to her. "I'll go back with you and stay with Jack until the end of visiting hours."

It seems as if the invocation of Jack's name snaps her out of her doldrums. She rotates the watch face on her left wrist and says, "It's only five. I'll be ready to go back in about an hour – to start the night shift." Her laugh at this point rings oddly hollow; I guess she's still tired. "Let's sit awhile, Dawn. Let's just hang out and chat, ok?"

"Of course. So, how was your day? Did you get some rest?"

"Oh, thank you sweetie for asking. Yes. I slept a lot, checked in with friends and family in Ohio, and even watched some TV. How was your day?"

I go over to my bed, sit and begin to take off my shoes. Mrs. Shaw rotates in her chair to see me as I tell her, "It was…good. Jack is feeling strong and happy that Linc is right by his side." I don’t mention my picnic lunch yet; what matters to his mother is Jack's wellbeing.

I scoot around and kick my legs back, lying belly-down on top of the bedspread. Propping my hands under my chin, I invite her to join me. "Come on, let's have a slumber-party-type chat session!" I reach across the walkway gap between our beds and smack her mattress.

Now she smiles and climbs on her coverlet to match my pose. "This is fun," she calls out. "Just wish we had some popcorn!"

"Yeah…" I had to agree. "That would be cool." Now that she's showing signs of relaxation, I feel I can make my 'confession.'

"Do you know what that crazy Jackson kid did today?"

"No, what?"

"He snuck up a ton of food, some blankets from this motel, and tossed me a picnic. A rooftop picnic, on top of the hospital!"

"It wasn't too cold?"

"No. With the sun warming the roof all morning, it was just perfect. He got his timing right, that much I'll give him."

Mrs. S. mumbles cryptically under her breath, "He sure did."

I let it pass in favor of becoming serious a moment. "Can I ask you a private question?"

"Yes, dear."

"I just wonder what you said to Hamish and Christie 'behind the scenes' during their Christmas visit."

Jack's mom rolls on her side to face me with a raised hand to rest the side of her head on. She's honest with me. "I told them it's not too late, and that I and their dad – even Jack – love them. I doubt that Christie wanted to make that statement on her own, but she's always looked to Hamish as a father figure. She was only ten when her dad…passed."

"That must have been difficult, but still, to target Lincoln, and do it just because – "

"Yes, Dawn. It's difficult to fathom. But, as their mother, I think I've gotten to see them as the true people they are – perhaps the true them below the personas they wear like armor."

"Like – how do you mean? What do you see?"

"I see that Hamish inherited his mother's tough, level-headedness; it's a brand of cool detachment that allows for rational assessment of situations."

"And Christie?"

"She got her heart – and I know the girl's got a big one – from me as well."

"And Jack?"

"Jack got my heart too, but mostly he got his father's ability to love – that's his dad's living legacy – Jack's purity of spirit."

Her eyes grow lax and a dreamy roundness tells me she's witnessing a memory replay itself on her mind's field of vision. "Christie would crawl into her father's lap while he was reading at the end of the day, and Hamish would get up from his TV show just to squeeze into the lounge chair with his dad and sister. Some nights, when I was still nursing Jack, I'd find them all fallen asleep like that."

Now it's my turn to go dreamy. "I've never really had a strong desire to settle down and have a family right away, but that story makes it seem, seem…"

"Rewarding?"

"Yes. Very rewarding."

"It is, Dawn. Don’t give up your ambition and dreams to follow it, but also don’t wait too long and miss out on it either." She chuckles, breaking her overly stifled mood. "Listen to me! A mom till the end, sorry."

"No, it's ok. It's nice to hear about it. You loved him, didn't you?"

"My husband? Yes, very much. He was the only man for me. You know, kismet or whatever."

"That's awesome."

"And he loved Jack so much, the whole time he was missing, I just felt his father was with him, keeping him safe."

She becomes grateful, and seems to hope I'll be able to grasp her next statement. "I'm guessing you can't relate, but that gave me so much comfort – comfort and strength to be patient."

"I can relate, and I certainly admired your calmness throughout that ordeal."

Maybe it's just the emotional bareness, or perhaps it's simply me being dumb, but I blurt out, "Do you think Jack will make it?"

Suddenly the light in the room dims as if an ominous cloud had rolled high over the motel; I feel like a fool, an obtrusive one.

"I don’t know, Dawn. It's touch and go, isn't it? But Jack is fighting, and that's what matters."

"Yes, you're right. Of course you're right, he's fighting and that's what matters. But still, poor Lincoln."

"Yes. That poor boy; how my heart goes out to him. I was a grown woman and mother when I lost my man, but… It's not fair on a young person to have to suffer such a loss."

I sniffle. "None of it is fair, but why do Hamish and Christie get to take it to that level of cruel? That, I don’t get."

Her hand reaches across the void for mine. I lend it freely.

"Look," she tells me. "Things seem dire, but when that new video came out with the sheriff, I saw regret mounting on Christie's face. That regret will be the lever to pry open her heart again to Jack. And, I agree: poor Lincoln."

I admire her wedding band. It's unusual, large and wide – an antique, perhaps – and its pink gold plainness is accented with a single diamond mounted so the top is flush with the chunky roundness of the band.

"Your ring is fantastic."

"That's funny."

"What is?"

"You and Jack are the only teens I know who have admired my ring. Yes, I think it's fantastic too. My husband couldn't afford both an engagement ring and a wedding band, so he went to a pawn shop downtown, saw this, and swapped his stereo and some cash for it." She holds it up admiringly. "I wouldn't trade it for all the others in the world. Anyway, as I was only going to get one, I wore it on my right hand until my wedding day, then he slipped it on my left hand himself. There it has remained ever since."

"How did he do it? How did he propose?"

"Spaghetti," she chuckles. "The ding dong made me a spaghetti dinner at his place and put the ring in the bowl of grated cheese. While I was scooping it out, he fell on his knees before me."

Tears come to her faraway eyes.

"Oh Dawn, I'm probably the only woman in the world who gets emotional in the presence of Parmesan."

I laugh outright.

"The damn ring smelled funky for days after that, and I loved every minute of it!"

"That's really sweet, well except for the cheese funk, but I'm no romantic."

"I wasn't either, Dawn. But, when it happens to you – when some goofy guy that you can't help loving with your whole being – drops to those shaky knees before you with a ring… Oh, Dawn… You will change; you won't be able to help it."

"Well, you did love him, very much. My folks are a bit less demonstrative, but they love each other too, and sometimes I still catch them casting dreamy looks at one another."

"Good. That's the way it's supposed to work: once in love, always in love, or else, why get married?"

Her rhetorical question seeks no answer, so I offer none. Instead, I try to ask casually, "What's your opinion of Jackson?"

"He's young," she says, mirth raising the center of her face. "But then again, you are all so young! So, let me turn the tables a moment: how was your picnic with him?"

"It was…" I pause to collect my thoughts and not let my emotions speak for me. "Nice. He had Lincoln take him to the supermarket where he loaded up on a combination of Napoleonic food."

"Napoleonic food?!"

"Yeah, you know – sublime and ridiculous."

Mrs. Shaw laughs.

I give examples: "Champagne-style apple juice vs. regular old chips; Brie and baguette vs. a tub of dip."

"It all sounds good to me."

"It was." Oops, a bit of true feeling slips through my smile. I regroup. "But don’t avoid the question: what do you think of Jackson Oliver?"

"I think he's been through a lot, what with a shaky home life and Lincoln running away, but just like his older brother, he pulled through admirably. So, I think Jackson is considerate, observant, reflective, and kind."

I'm floored. "He is, isn't he?"

"Yes, very much so." Her tone slides into slight condescension. "You're not developing a crush on him, are you?"

Heat comes to my face. A blush and a profound hurt at the belittling notion that whatever I may or may not be feeling can be reduced to 'crush' status. "What would you think if I told you he might be falling for me..?"

"I would say, explore it with him. Young love can be fleeting, but nonetheless sweet."

I sit up on the bed, trying not to be upset. "Is that all you think Jack and Lincoln have, something 'sweet?'"

She sits up too, tilting her head to the side slightly, like she has to explain a simple thing to a simple person. "I can see that Jack and Lincoln are in love, but I very much doubt that they are the 'one' for each other."

"What do you mean?" The words dribble out of my mouth in stunned shock.

"I mean, the statistics of how many teenage relationships break up versus how many lead into long-term commitments speak for themselves. The real work begins once they've had a chance to explore other people and then decide to settle for one and try to make it work. Most teens are not there; they don’t even have the capacity."

I suddenly pity Mrs. Shaw's aged skepticism. Young love doesn't settle, and if she can't see commitment at work in her son and Lincoln, then I suppose it's only because she's scared to let Jack go again, this time to a husband.

"Well, in my humble opinion," I tell her level-headedly. "If Jack pulls through, he and Linc will personally damn your statistics, because nothing but death itself is going to keep those boys apart."

"Dawn, I didn’t mean to upset you – "

"Everyone sees it. There's real love, no – true love – between them, and I imagine it was the same between you and Jack's father, only the difference is that for boys in love, they always wind up having to fight to show the world they really mean it."

She sighs: "Dawn…"

"Lincoln's no prodigal, one who seeks to cash in and run. Do you seriously think there'll come a time when Linc stands up and walks away from Jack's bedside?"

It seems I have reached her; her face goes blank, like the mention of a certain term has struck a deeply resonating chord.

I go on, "Dragged away, maybe, but never by his own choice. For me…" I touch a hand to my heart. "I already equate the feelings of family I get from my parents, and the ones I get hearing about Jack's dad, with what I see between Jack and Lincoln. It's as if it's already there, fully fledged. You see it too, don’t you?"

She doesn't answer, then appears ashen.

"Mrs. Shaw, I'm sure Lincoln would love nothing better than to sit up all night with Jack, as you do: to hold his hand when he's sick, to kiss him when he smiles."

She finally glances at me. "Dawn, may I ask you a rough question?"

I chirp: "Of course!"

"How do you feel about helping Jack run away?"

Bombshell. I'm reeled back.

"I… I…"

"You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to."

"It's just, you're asking me how I feel about it now, so in that case, I can tell you that if Jack hadn't gone to L.A., hadn't had time to meet Lincoln, I don’t think we'd still have him."

"So, you have mixed feelings about it?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Thanks for answering me."

"You don’t hate me for doing it?"

She smiles. "No, Dawn. How can I? You and I are basically of the same opinion that we wouldn't have Jack today if not for Mr. Oliver."

Here's a *hugz* moment if I ever saw one! I nearly tumble off the bed in my haste to rise from it, and Jack's mom does the same. As we hold onto each other and silently sway, I think, 'Damn, is there anything better than a mother's hug?'

I push back a little from her. "I think you're right about Christie's remorse."

"You think so?"

"I do, and I think there's a chance she'll drop the whole thing… If… If…"

"If what?"

"If you have a heart-to-heart with her."

Mrs. S. and I separate. She begins to pace slightly, one hand on her hip, and the other one going up to her lips. She stops in front of the window, and I witness a change in her mood; she presses down the sides of her skirt. "Dawn, dear – will you get my phone for me, please?"

"Yes, of course." I spy it in the pool of lamplight. I grab it and go to Jack's mom standing magnificently in front of the window.

As she takes her phone, I am reminded of the hope-filled look I saw on her that day in Ohio where the light gilded her form.

She dials and places the receiver to her ear.

"Hello, Christie. It's me."

She paces while Christie speaks. From what spillage I can make out, the girl sounds stressed.

Mrs. Shaw stands still and turns expectant eyes to me. She soothes her daughter: "It’s all right, dear. But, I think you better come out here and straighten this mess out."

There are more nervous sounds from the other end.

And then her mom coos to her daughter: "No, Christie. It's never too late."