“She’s a pediatric neurosurgeon in Oakland. After Princeton she went to Stanford Medical School and then UCSF for her fellowship and clinical training to be near me and Chap.”
“And do she and Chap ...” I don’t quite know how to ask this hugely personal question to a man whom I thought, at one point in our lives, I knew everything about.
“Yes. Rose and Chap have a close relationship. By the time she was in a position to be a mother to Chap, he was ten. He was in school and involved in sports, and his friends were all here in Sacramento, and he and I were thick as thieves. The three of us decided, with Maureen’s input, that it would be best for Chap to stay put.” Porter winks at me. Chap must have told him that we both know how invested Maureen isin the Beaumont men. “I bought a bigger house that nicely fit the two of us, with room for Rose to visit. She came up on the weekends she wasn’t on call to spend time with me and Chap.”
“And Chap still lives with you,” I establish, realizing I had been mistaking ogling Chap’s good looks, following his social media posts, and enjoying his undeniable charm for getting to know him.
“He does. Chap got himself in some trouble fall of his sophomore year in college. Lost his athletic scholarship and his way for a bit. He’s home now, though, helping Maureen out with the running club. He coaches at Regis, and he’s finishing up his degree in environmental studies at Sacramento State a class or two at a time. Slowly getting himself pulled back together. He’ll be alright.” I recognize Porter’s smile. It’s one of parental pride for his son.
“And what about your mom?”
“She’s been gone going on eighteen years now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am too.” Porter’s eyes twinkle at the mention of Delsie. “I would have loved for her to see what has become of Rose and Chap.”
“And what became of you, Porter?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I haven’t seen or heard from you since the day of graduation when you snuck out of my dorm room at seven thirty in the morning.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Present
Our entrées arrive, and we tuck into our meals in contemplative quiet. An intermission of sorts between two acts. Porter devours his New York strip like the start of this evening’s confessional has made him ravenous. I pick at my roast chicken. I want another drink to calm my nerves rather than real sustenance to settle my stomach.
As we eat, Porter’s fork snakes over to mine, twice, to pluck the cooked mushrooms he remembers I detest off my plate. His edible intrusion feels more like instinctive habit than poor table manners, and I almost hate myself for leaning in to this memory of comfort and intimacy. I want to know what Porter is thinking as he chews. If he’s working out how to tell me why he disappeared on graduation day and every day after that. But I remember well enough that to extract information from Porter, I will have to ask directly for it; he’s not going to recount his personal decisions freely.
“Where did you go, Porter? Where have you been?” I question, to the point.
“Hmmmm.” Porter leans away from his dish and rubs his left hand along his jawline, loose skin rolling through his fingers.
“You didn’t think we were just going to skip over that part, did you?” My gimlet is decidedly bone dry, and I raise my glass for another one to continue this part of the Porter saga. The part that directly relates to me. To the two of us. “Another gimlet, please.”
“And I’ll have an old-fashioned.” Now it’s my turn to offer a quick, knowing smile in Porter’s recognition of my father’s drink of choice and the need for both of us to loosen up for the most difficult part of this reunion.
“Chap tells me you’re divorced. Is that right?” Well, there’s a diversion from the question I posed that I wasn’t expecting.
“Separated. Hopefully divorced by February.” I offer the details in as few words as possible. “Takes a while in California.”
“Was it that guy from Charles’s funeral?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not as long as it’s over.”
What’s that supposed to mean?That Porter has any opinion on my marriage makes me want to fold my arms, petulantly, at his hubris. That he’s pleased I’m single makes me want to run to the restroom and check that my makeup has stayed put.
“He chose to leave me, just like you did. The two of you have a lot in common.” The minute it comes out of my mouth, I know that my statement sounds pathetic, and it is. But it’s also true. First Porter and then Thomas. It’s a wonder I even trusted Chap enough to agree to go on this fake date with him. Then again, that was a complete misreading of the circumstances, which, it seems, is a talent of mine. I was expecting one kind of evening with Chap, and I am having a very different one with Porter.
“I didn’t choose to leave you, Callie. I had no choice.”
“Well, you must be more adept in English than I am, because I don’t see the difference.”
“I am sorry I up and disappeared on you, but at the time, it seemed to be the only solution.”
