The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [51]
“Where? What’re you talking about?”
“Twenty-third Court. Ellis . . . he’s . . . I think Ellis is at my house.”
39
Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign—you may now move freely about the cabin,” the flight attendant announces as I stare through the egg-shaped window and watch Florida disappear beneath the cotton candy clouds.
All around me, seats are empty. Still, all three of us sit separately, just to keep it safe.
Checking over my shoulder, I peer ten rows back at my dad, who’s fast asleep with his head sagging forward. After everything we’ve been through, he needs some rest. So do I. Across from him, I look for Serena, but her seat’s empty. I glance back at my dad. Don’t tell me she snuck over to—
“Calvin,” a female voice interrupts, “would you mind if I joined you?”
In the aisle, Serena stands over me, her back leaning on the edge of the seat behind her, as if she’s trying to steer clear of my personal space. I’m tempted to keep her there, but I can’t risk letting anyone overhear.
She slides into the aisle seat, with the empty middle seat between us, then crosses her legs Indian style. It’s then that I see she’s barefoot. “I appreciate the kindness,” she says.
“I didn’t offer any.”
“You were about to, Calvin. Your eyes said so.”
I’m ready to vomit right there. “Listen, Serena—I don’t know you very well, and I don’t know Lloyd much better. But when I look at his expensive silk shirts . . . or his unscuffed shoes—I know my dad has a big need to impress. And as I know from my clients, desperate men are the most easily mesmerized by new-agey, yoga-filled nonsense—especially when it comes from younger, sexed-up women who lock pinkies with them in hopes of getting whatever it is they think those men can get for them. Now I realize this isn’t a complex analogy, so to stay with that theme: Go flap your lashes somewhere else.”
She looks at me in silence for what seems like a full minute. “I’m sorry I made you angry.”
“No, angry’s what you get when someone dings your car. This is the cold bitter rage that comes when someone kicks around in your personal crisis.”
“Calvin—”
“Cal,” I growl at her.
She’s still unfazed. “Cal, I’m not sleeping with your father.”
“Then what’s with the pinkies and the hand-holding?”
“He was shaking, Cal. In all your anger, did you not see that? I was trying to calm him—refocus his energy.”
“His energy? Oh, Lord. Listen, even as a stranger, I can tell he’s clearly in love with you.”
“And I love him, but as I’ve told him, it’s solely as a teacher. When we first started doing meditation—”
“Whoa ho ho—my father couldn’t meditate if—”
“He’s doing it right now,” she says, calm as ever.
I turn back to my dad, whose head is still down. His eyes are closed. I thought he was sleeping, but the way he’s swaying forward and back . . .
“The key is breathing through your nose,” Serena adds. “Each breath needs to reach down to your diaphragm.”
I stare at her across the empty middle seat. She nods and smiles.
“Serena, why’re you really here? And please don’t insult me by saying you came all the way to the airport and potentially risked your life just to wave good-bye and teach my dad how to breathe and realign his energy.”
Most people turn away when you ask them a hard question. Serena continues to look straight at me, and her yellow blue eyes . . . I hate to say it . . . there’s a real depth to her stare.
“He helped my brother. Andrew,” she finally says.
“Who? My dad?”
“You almost had it right before, Cal. Your dad—he’s Andrew’s sponsor,” she explains. “And my brother—been in AA for years—always relapsing. A few months ago, the judge sent him back, and your dad—it wasn’t anything heroic—but your dad was nice to him. They connected. Really connected. Whatever they had in common, Andrew was Andrew again.”
“So all this—coming to help my dad—it’s just a thank-you?”
“Oh, no. I’m not just helping your dad. I’m helping myself,” she says as easily as if she’s telling me her shoe size. Reading my confusion, she adds, “Two weeks ago, they