Meet Cate (5 page)

Settled on the train, Cate sat with the catalogs. She spent her time happily marking items in twos and threes. Warm flannel and jeans were bought in groups. She picked out colorful t-shirts for layering; bright hoodies and sweaters for warmth; thick socks and quilted coats. Adding mittens, scarves, gloves and hats from a second catalog−this one a smaller company but still American-made−Cate felt almost done. She checked her list, nodding, going back to look for raincoats and rain boots. These were necessities, Cate felt, ones that strapped momma bears often couldn't consider.

While she was shopping, she'd add an
order for Millie's twins, Hannah and Harriet. The adorable two-some would be five this year, growing up in and out of Cate's homes for almost all of their lives.

Millie had almost canceled her original interview due to lack of childcare. Cate really wanted a reliable, trustworthy housekeeper. She'd had a feeling she'd found one in Millie before they'd even sat down. Cate didn't mind the extra visitors one bit, setting up a doll-sized table in front of the fireplace, leaving crayons and coloring books out on the kitchen table. It had been sweet to watch the shy girls hesitate, unsure of how much kindness they would accept from the new woman.

Millie had been grateful. Cate was in love. The two single mothers bonded and a team was built.

Cate's cart filled again with pretty woolen coats, matching mitten sets with long scarves, and stylish, warm boots.

Now it was time to move on to toys.

Cate texted Alex with a grin, to warn her there would be Christmas bills coming to The Foundation. Then Cate settled back with the thick wish book and a fat Sharpie. She circled a few shiny bikes, moving naturally to smaller, more sentimental items like dolls, crayons and trucks−both Matchbox and Tonka.

The audience always knew what the hottest toys were at Christmastime and Cate's fans loved to buy them. That left her full run of the classic toys everyone treasured.

Characters with staying power sometimes made their way into her cart, like SpongeBob or the Disney princess'. Today, Cate started with Barbie, adding the doll to her cart in several different hair colors. She also added accessories: high-heeled shoes and pink frilly dresses, a few pieces of blocky furniture and one or two career-based playsets.

Cate always bought a few floppy rag dolls (to her, they felt easier to lug around) and some plush teddy bears. Invariably, she added a stuffed dog or two−Cate was a slave to floppy ears−a few plush cats (she always picked white or gray) and one or two soft rabbits, or something else less usual. Cate glanced up and out the large window for a minute, noting another beautiful sunrise. She breathed in the beauty of it, feeling better already, then flipped the page to puppets.

She wanted every precious child to be heard. Desperately.

That was the mission of the charity: that each child had a strong voice. She and Alex wanted to guide children to be both heard and listened to. And if that wasn't happening from the adults in the child's life, the pair wanted to teach children how to listen to their voices for themselves. Cate never wanted a child to have to use so much strength surviving that they couldn't hear where they were going and what their heart said. It saddened her to know statistically just how much pain was in so many children's lives. Cate desperately hoped she was making a difference and setting a good example. If she could do it, anyone could was her motto.

Next came Alex's part. Her heart was teaching the children
how
to
hear what those voices were saying. The heart is loud when it wants to be, she was fond of saying. Sometimes it's a whisper, other times it's a growl−but it's always there.

These were all mottos they'd kicked around when Cate, Alex and Nic had started the non-profit. Nic's interest veered to music, of course. He was a role-model, making time to visit with children and leave them with the focus that they could do anything, anytime, anywhere. And he often did. He'd bring a pile of guitars, a couple of amps, his mic and a keyboard. The children would bang and strum and talk. Anyone who was interested could tour his studio. He'd offer the older, more serious children an attempt at producing, and he always gave away tickets and back-stage passes.

Nic's feeling was that people of all ages got so much out of music. He wanted them to be able to enjoy it as a life-long passion, the earlier the better. The three agreed that music healed and sought to introduce it both as inspiration and medication.

Cate made a mental note to ask him for his donation: each year he sent hand-picked classic and bass guitars. Nic also liked to donate drum sticks and a bag full of merchandise: t-shirts, hats, pictures and music. Each piece was signed by every band member. Often, Nic would involve the band, who would then purchase instruments for local schools or younger people who needed financial assistance. Cate would do a piece on her show around Christmastime, loving the inspiring feeling that evolved. She'd encourage the audience to donate if they felt they could give a little. The total was often enough to help at least one more young student of music. Nic and his band would play, making the whole atmosphere festive and celebratory. Music did that, Cate felt.

Alex texted back:
Bet you're having fun.

Cate smiled, her daughter knew her so well. Stretching languidly, she glanced back at her phone, vibrating an incoming call.

It was Tom.

What
, she stifled the urge to spit out.

Instead she answered, "Hello?" Cate needed to be firm in order to protect herself from whatever was coming. She glanced down at her catalogs, the peaceful morning shattered.

"Hello." Tom sounded gruff.

Cate waited. Questions flashed through her mind:
Where are you? What do you want? Why are you calling me?
but she kept still.

"How are the kids?" he asked finally.

"They're fine," Cate answered calmly. She pursed her lips and drew in a breath, letting it out quietly.
What is it? What do you want?

"I talked to Nic last night. Sounds like his tour is going well." Tom was uncomfortable. Cate could not risk trying to make him feel at ease, she'd only endanger her heart. She sat straight, her spine rebar.

"As it always does." Cate bit her tongue. She wouldn't apologize for the retort.

Tom ignored it. "I can't reach Alex," he said conversationally.

"Is that why you called?"

"Oh, no. I'm sure she'll call me back soon. She's very busy." Tom told Cate all of these facts as if he were catching her up on his children. His disease tended to forget the very important link she had to them. When Cate didn't answer, he finished, "I just wanted to check in."

"Where are you, Tom?" Cate asked. "Are you all right?"

There was a beat. Then two.

"I'm okay," he answered her finally, slowly. There was a catch in his voice but the message was clear:
I don't trust you. You don't need to know my business.
You'd never know they'd once been married, the closest relationship two people could have.

"Tom, Alex is prepping for the holiday season. This is her busy time. She'll get back to you soon." Cate wanted him not to pester Al; suddenly it was terribly important that he not think ill of their daughter. Maybe a very small part of her wanted to reassure him.

"Oh, that's right. Of course." He covered quickly, relieved. He didn't realize his response often mimicked hers. On a subconscious level, he gave back the response he perceived.

"Tom−"

"I have to go."

"Goodbye." And he was gone.

Cate let the cell phone fall to her lap, the call over. She stared out the tall train window, thinking, as scenery rushed by.

Tom ran through these patterns about once a season. Despite their divorce, when he felt something he reached for Cate. Now it was up to her to understand what he needed and how she could help him.

Cate never subscribed to the theory that she should walk away from Tom; he was her children's father and once upon a time, he'd been her best friend. He may have pushed her out of that role, but she still thought of him as someone she'd cared about. She never would stop feeling compassion for him, she supposed now. It wasn't even a choice.

Cate knew several things from the brief phone call: the immediate threat of their adult children flying to him for the holidays was over. Tom wouldn't admit it, but Cate knew from experience he wouldn't have called her if he considered the issue ongoing. She was also aware that she wouldn't relax for quite some time. And, she realized, Tom was in crisis and was probably holed up somewhere. He probably wouldn't be back in time to spend the holiday season with their family unless she drew him out.

She idly wondered what else he had in store for her, if he was okay, and where he'd gone off to.

Passengers around her shuffled their briefcases and bags, as Cate snapped out of her reverie and returned to the present with a foggy heart. She pushed piles of papers and catalogs into her leather carpetbag and watched the city pull into view.
Grand Central
flashed red on a sign ahead of her, as they entered the long tunnel that led to the beautiful station.

She'd have to tell the children she suspected their dad's holiday plans had been withdrawn. They'd have questions. Maybe Alex would come for a night and they could just talk. Nic would have some good, sturdy ideas for how to reach his dad.

Cate knew both children would respond with full hearts. (Even at their respective ages, she still referred to them as her children.) Nic's peace would come after helping. Alex would stay mute, loving her father through the rough patch, sharing her open heart with Cate only. They were used to his disease, and after some rebound time for their own feelings, their instinct would be to support Tom.

In the meantime, their hearts would gain another wrinkle. The only thing Cate could do was tell them gently (she wished she didn't have to, but she wanted to release them from worry for their family and for her). After that, it was their move. She always supported the two, but it cost her greatly to know this was the man she'd chosen for them: a strong man who'd been broken. Therefore she'd brought this monster, PTSD, to their door.

Cate's mood was somber as she prepared to dismount the train and begin another workday. The walk would help. She dug into the deep pocket of her bag, searching for light pink earbuds.

Mike was driving. Cate stared out the car window. In front of her on the floorboard, she'd slipped her clunky black clogs off. Now she covered one  tiny, stocking-covered foot with the other on top of the shoes. Her toes stretched up toward the heat vent.

"Cold?" Mike asked, his eyes on the road.

She shook her head and continued watching landscapes fly by.

The drive was intimate, the dark seamless. Blake Sheldon was quietly singing about being lonely on the car stereo. Heat slipped slowly around Cate, making her sleepy. She could smell the scent of strong coffee from Mike's travel mug−light with no sugar, she knew.

He slowed, looking both ways quickly at an intersection, then making a precise right. She watched the diner slide smoothly into view, noting the few parked cars and the comforting lights. It crossed her mind to touch his arm.

Let's just drive,
she'd say.
Keep going. Don't ever stop.
He'd stare at her for a minute, wondering why, but he'd do it. Mike. Her Mike.

He'd been her best friend since middle school, where they'd met in the large, open library. Cate was shelving books, feeling important, and Mike had come along to use the new computer system. He was a junior programmer, studious and intelligent. When he started showing up a couple days each week, as she did, Cate didn't think anything about it.

When he asked her out, she hesitated.

They'd dated for a few weeks at the end of that summer, the innocent, strong love only the young seem to find. Sitting on the beach, she'd leaned back against his shoulder and watched the sun set over gentle waves.

"Do you think about the future?" Mike had asked her then.

She shook her head. "Do you?"

"Yeah."

She turned to him then, a smile on her lips: "What about?"

"You," he said, watching her face.
"Us."

Cate sat up carefully, staring. Her blue eyes were wide.

"We'd get married." Mike leaned closer. His deepening voice was low and serious. "We'd have two kids: Jennifer and Bobby. There'd be a white picket fence and a swing out back."

A horn beeped as Mike sat at the traffic light, knocking Cate back to the present. He glanced up at the rearview mirror, no expression on his face.

"Whatever happened to Jennifer and Bobby?" she asked him now.

Mike rolled into the parking lot and eased to a stop. He shifted into neutral and pulled the parking brake, the lines settling with a satisfying
chunk
.

He stared straight ahead at the diner for a second, then turned to face Cate with a slight smile. "What made you ask that?"

"I don't know. I was just thinking."

"About that summer?"

"I guess."

"Cate−"

"Let's eat, okay?" She flashed a grin at Mike, opening her door and climbing up and out of the seat before he could answer.

The pair were seated by the window in a tall booth. Other diner's conversation muddled around them, mixing with the newscast from a large-screen TV.

"Cate−" Mike's eyes seemed to sum her up easily, a twinkle dancing through them.

She was reading the menu as if it were The Bible and she was late for church. Her finger marked each word even as her eyes flew across the pages. Her other hand held the menu in place like a prisoner.

"Cate," Mike said firmly. He placed his larger hands down over her smaller ones, effectively stopping her movement.

"What?" She looked up at him, lost. Tears that hadn't been there a minute ago formed over the lump in her throat. Suddenly she wanted to run.

Mike took all of this in with a patience she couldn't understand.