several months ago, he’d called to acknowledge that they were now in the same city. They had spoken politely about getting together but hadn’t made any plans. He hadn’t called again, and she didn’t expect he would. She had every intention of making an excuse if he ever did suggest they get together for a cup of coffee or dinner. Her memories of Jakob were not, on the whole, positive.
That evening, Amy told herself it was only curiosity that prompted her to phone her father. He had relocated to Phoenix when she was about ten, one of the reasons her visits with him had been pared to two or three times a year.
“Amy!” he said, sounding surprised but pleased. “How are you?”
They chatted for a few minutes about work, weather and a few items from the news before a pause in the conversation gave Amy her chance.
“Something came in the mail today that surprised me. I didn’t realize Mom ever went to Wakefield College.”
There was a small pause. She couldn’t decide if it was significant.
“Yes, she decided to leave after her sophomore year.”
“Because she met you?”
“No, I happened to get a job in Florence that summer. We met in May, right after she got home from Wakefield.”
Was it her imagination that he was speaking carefully, as if thinking out what he wanted to say?
“What kind of work were you doing?”
He laughed. “Construction, what else? I worked on building a new resort. Not so new anymore.”
Amy did know that her mother had grown up in Florence, famous for miles of sand dunes above the Pacific Ocean on the Oregon coast. “You don’t think it was because of you that she decided not to go back to Wakefield?”
Again he hesitated. “She said she didn’t want to, anyway. But I guess she couldn’t have gone back no matter what. Frenchman Lake is a pretty small town. I’d have had a hard time finding work there.”
They had been married that August, barely three months after meeting. Mom had only been twenty, Dad twenty-three. They hadn’t had to tell Amy she was the reason for the wedding. Accidental pregnancies often worked that way.
“Why the questions?” he asked now. “What did the college want? Money?”
“No.” She explained about the time capsule. “It might be interesting to see what Mom put in it. I could go to the opening in her place.” She hadn’t known she wanted to attend until the words were out.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Your mother values her privacy.”
She didn’t like feeling defensive. “I’m assuming whatever she put in is sealed. I wouldn’t necessarily have to open it.”
“Then why go at all?” her father asked, reasonably. “Chances are they’ll mail anything that doesn’t get picked up. You can send it on to her.”
“That’s true.” So why feel deflated? “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” His voice had relaxed. “Jakob tells me you talked.”
“Yes, he called. He suggested getting together, but we haven’t managed yet.”
Her father didn’t question the absurdity of that excuse. In three months, two single adults who were truly interested in meeting up could certainly have managed to find a few free hours. Dad had to be aware that Jakob and Amy had never had an easy relationship.
The call ended with her feeling unsatisfied by what he’d told her. If pregnancy didn’t explain Mom’s decision not to return to Wakefield, what did? Why had she never, even once, mentioned that she’d gone there?
Over the next few days, Amy wrestled with her conscience. She had no doubt at all about whether Mom would want her to see whatever she’d put into that time capsule. This was the woman who repelled the most casual question about her past. But the knowledge triggered old anger for Amy. Other people talked casually about their parents.
Yeah, my mom went to Fillmore Auditorium all the time when she was a teenager. How cool is that? She even admits she took LSD. Or, Mom says she loves Dad, but she still wishes she’d finished college before they got married. She insisted on telling me about every crappy job she ever had. In gory detail. Which I guess worked, because no way am I dropping out for some guy.
Hearing the voices of friends, Amy thought, Me? I didn’t even know where my mother went to college.
She had no idea whether her mother’s reticence had the same reasons as her own, which she did understand. Amy had spent her adult life blocking out growing-up years that had been mostly painful. She did holidays with her mom and Ken, who was an intelligent, kind man. That was pretty much the sum total of her relationship with her mother.
She’d actually been surprised when they asked if she would consider housesitting for them. It would be nice to think she was the only person they trusted, but the truth probably had more to do with the fact that, thanks to the ups and downs of her writing career, she pretty much lived on a shoestring and they knew it. They were doing her a favor. Two years with no rent was the next best thing to winning the lottery. She’d be able to save money. Maybe even do something wild and crazy like take a real vacation.
Her thoughts took a sideways hop. Speaking of money, was there a possible article in the time capsule? Of course the alumni magazine would undoubtedly be running one, but there had to be a tack she could take to intrigue readers who had no connection to Wakefield. The hopes and dreams of teenagers, captured so many years ago and now being revealed, unaltered. The reactions of former students as they were reminded of who they’d once been. She toyed with the notion that there was something dramatic in the capsule, a revelation that would provide a dramatic story for the Atlantic or the New Yorker.
She smiled wryly. Dream on. Okay, for Seattle Met, maybe.
It would be interesting to see a list of names of the attending alumni. Given the college’s reputation and national ranking, some well-known public figures had undoubtedly graduated from Wakefield.
Oh, well, she had a few weeks to decide whether she really wanted to go. In the meantime, she had to concentrate on researching an article she knew she’d get paid for.
Deciding she wouldn’t get dressed at all today—the boxer shorts and camisole she’d slept in were comfortable and cool—Amy took the coffee to her stepfather’s study, where her laptop had replaced the one he had taken with him.
A few minutes later, she was almost engrossed enough to forget the peculiar fact that her mother had, by her silence, lied about her college years.
* * *
JAKOB NILSSON DROPPED his phone on the end table and reached for the remote control. He didn’t immediately touch the mute button to restore sound on his television, however. Nothing much was happening in the Mariner game he’d been watching, and he was still trying to figure out what his father had wanted.
Dad was a straightforward kind of guy. Blunt, even. Out on a job site—he was a contractor—he could best be described as a sledgehammer. So why had he just talked in circles?
The
