Page 27 of For Eva

TWELVE

Eva

September 2008

“What?”Denise exclaimed. “I think I misunderstood. I thought you said someone fromRolling Stonecalled you yesterday, but I’m clearly delusional and need caffeine.”

“No, you are actually completely…lusional.” My mouth quirked before the corners turned back down. “It was a reporter who said he’s doing a piece on Eric.” I sucked in a quick breath. “Eric Stratton. And apparently, Eric mentioned my name as someone the guy should talk to.”

Denise gasped. “Oh my God, Eva. You haven’t spoken to Eric in what…almost twenty years?”

“Yeah.” The guilt that had settled somewhere inside me over those years bubbled up, and I attempted to force the thoughts to the unreachable depths of my mind where they belonged. “Anyway, the reporter also wanted to know if I was still in touch with Danny.”

“Danny Kincaid?”

“That would be the one.”

“Wow.” I could practically see her standing wide-eyed in the middle of her kitchen. “So did he say anything else?”

“Not really. Just asked me to call him back.” I rubbed the tips of my fingers along the creases in my brow.

I hadn’t called Denise immediately after getting the message because it had taken me all night to get over the initial shock. I fumbled through fixing dinner and helping with homework. When I climbed into bed, I was beginning to think maybe it was all some weird joke. And after waking up and dropping the kids at school, the shock had morphed into such an insatiable curiosity that I typedSimon Rogersinto every search engine in existence, coming up with the same result each time. The guy had written for more publications than I knew existed and worked forRolling Stonesince 2000. Every image showed him wearing a T-shirt with some obscure band logo, horn-rimmed glasses, and messy hair, leaving no question in my mind that he was, indeed, a legitimate music journalist.

“Well, you obviously have to call him.”

I scrubbed my hand over my face. “I don’t know if I can do that. I mean, with everything else…it’s just so much.”

“I get it, babe. I do.” Her voice softened. “But aren’t you at least a little bit curious about what Eric said?”

Of course, I was. More curious than she knew, and I wanted to tell her that. But it required more thought…more explanation than I was able to give at that moment. Or quite possibly ever.

I pushed myself off the sofa, the midcentury hardwoods squeaking as I paced them with my bare feet. “He said Eric mentioned I might be able to provide commentaryon what happened back then. But why would I wanna relive that? I left all that shit behind me for a reason.” I grabbed a pair of Drew’s dirty socks off the floor and tossed them down the hall toward the laundry room. “I am a forty-four-year-old stay-at-home mother,Denise. I’m on the goddamn PTA. I coordinate carpools and make brownies for bake sales.”

“Eva. You’re more than those things, and you know it,” she said.

“I just mean that I packed that part of my life away a long time ago.” I sighed and pushed my hand through my hair, resting it on top of my head. “He doesn’t need me to help tell his story.”

“Well, he may notneedyou to, but he clearlywantsyou to.”

I nodded. This was obviously important to Eric, and he wanted me to be a part of it. I didn’t know why, but calling the reporter was the only way to find out. Besides, I didn't have to rehash every detail. I would just tell Simon that I’d seen Eric overcome tremendous odds, and I was glad he’d been able to turn things around. The end.

“Okay, fine,” I conceded. “I’ll call the guy now. He’s got a LA area code, and it’s, what, 8 a.m. out there? So, he probably won’t even answer, and I can at least say I tried.”

Denise snickered. “You think he’s not gonna call you back?”

“Whatever. I’m hanging up. Love-you-bye.” The words spilled out of my mouth in one breath, and I dug the piece of paper I’d written Simon’s number on out of my pocket. I shifted my cell from my ear and tapped on the digits. My insides felt simultaneously frozen and on fire as my thumb hovered over the call button. I muttered a quick “fuck it,” then shut my eyes and pressed it.

Of course, he picked up on the first fucking ring.

“Hi, Simon. This is Eva Mitchell.” I paused and swallowed, my mouth suddenly stuffed full of cotton balls. “Uh, Eva Holloway.”

“Ms. Mitchell! I was about to fire up the computer to get going on this Eric Stratton piece, and here you are calling me.”His Australian twang was warm and charming, and he sounded much less serious than he had on the message.

“Call me Eva. And sorry it’s early, I just have a busy day and wanted to try to squeeze this in.” A total lie. I was doing laundry and maybe organizing the pantry.

“No worries. I have a newborn, so I don’t sleep. Wife’s got him now, though. Plenty of time to chat.”

“Oh, congrats.” I remembered those days all too well and also wanted to offer my sympathies. But I settled back into the sofa and cut to the chase, deciding small talk was unnecessary. “So how can I help with the article? Do you just need a comment about Eric or something?”

---