Page 11 of Perfect Assumption
He gives me a smile with tiny little teeth right before whacking me in the head with his airplane. I’m just grateful this one’s made out of foam and not the wood one he used the last time we had a chat. “Listen, kid. And don’t let Mom and Dad talk you out of occasionally spoiling yourself if you work hard. If you become a pilot, celebrate. Buy the airplane. Life’s too short. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t cost all that much.”
“Life lessons from Uncle Ward should be committed to memory, sweet baby boy.” Carys’s amused voice startles me. But my smile when I look at her delicate stature is automatic. Then I scowl when she adds, “Then you should check with Momma before you do anything rash like wasteful spending.”
Ben abandons me for my sister posthaste, shouting, “Momma, Momma!” as he trudges off on his still-chunky toddler legs.
She leans down, picks him up, and balances him on one hip. “An airplane, Ward? Really? You were doing really well up until then.”
I shrug before getting to my feet in my nephew’s playroom, careful not to crush any of the toys we’ve left scattered around. “Come on, Carrie. It’s not like he’s going to remember.”
She narrows her aqua eyes at me. “Do you have any memories of Mom and Dad from when you were Ben’s age?”
My sister can’t understand the savage pain her simple question causes. It’s been thirteen years since the drunk driver ran the light that killed our parents, but for me, every day I live with the fact that if I hadn’t been such a selfish bastard intent on impressing the guys, maybe they’d be here spoiling their grandson instead of me.
Due to Carys’s insistence back then, I spoke with some of the best psychologists. I’ve openly expressed my feelings of overwhelming guilt since the moment the officers left this very condo the night they came to inform us of their death. And I’ve moved on from my adolescent psychologist to the one I visited during college, then law school. Until I managed to find a balance in my life.
For the most part.
There are still moments like these where I stare down into Carys’s eyes after being scolded for something amusing where I’m transported back to those moments with my mother before I called the guys to tell them I could make the party the night of my seventeenth birthday.
The night our lives changed forever.
Leaning down, I press a kiss to my sister’s forehead and tell her, “So many you would be shocked. That’s why I know they would spoil Ben rotten.”
The admonishing look falls from Carys’s face. It’s replaced by one of serenity. “They would, wouldn’t they?” She goes to press a kiss to Ben’s chubby cheek, which he intercepts, so it lands smack on his lips.
We laugh.
“Yeah. They’d be so proud of the family you’ve built here, Carrie.” I ruffle Ben’s hair and then try to do the same to Carys’s, but she’s fast and avoids my brotherly love by ducking outside the door.
“Ha! I’m too quick. Oomph!” She backs up right into her husband’s chest.
David catches my eye before he wraps one arm around his wife and son, using the other hand to ruffle Carys’s perfectly styled hair. “David,” she screeches in laughter. “Stop!”
“Stop what?”
“Stop ganging up on me with Ward!”
“You might be able to negotiate that, Counselor.” He smiles down at her as he lifts their son off her hip onto his own. As he does, he brushes a kiss on her lips. “Hmm, that’s a good start.” He turns and walks down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “Dinner’s ready!”
Carys is staring after her husband and son, unmoving. I loop an arm around her shoulders. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Sometimes I just like to count my blessings. You know you’re one of them.”
“Carys,” I begin, but she interrupts me by wrapping her arm around my waist and squeezing.
“Come on. I want to try to get my hands on my baby sometime tonight.”
“Your husband or your child?” I deadpan.
“Oh, you.” Carys begins tickling my ribs which means I have to retaliate. So, just like when we were kids running up and down the halls of this very home, we arrive at the dinner table out of breath and laughing.
And once again two people are waiting for us with smiles on their faces. Just like our parents did when they were still alive.
* * *
Hours later,the elevator opens directly into my penthouse condominium in Tribeca. I move forward without seeing the framed photos on the wall, each one priceless because they were taken by my mother not because of any gallery’s assessed value. They’re certainly not like the collection of Quentin Blakes I gifted Carys when Ben was born, nor are they like the soul-wrenching Holly Freemans that hang in the gallery down the hall I scored after her first showing at the Met.
Shrugging off my coat, I toss it over the mahogany coat tree before heading into one of the three rooms I use in the ridiculous space I let my Realtor talk me into buying when I went house shopping years ago. “It’s perfect for a man with your reputation in the community,” she cooed.
