Living with Katrina Ch. 03

He knew the reason right from the outset. It took him a lot of willpower to say it. Consequences were not important any more.

"Kat," he said, looking straight into her teary eyes. "It was more than just a date for you as well."

"What do you mean?"

"You lost your mother when you were young, right?" he began, cautiously. "You tell me all the time how your father missed her. How he lost himself grieving for her. He never gave you the love he should have. In your words, he was your most distant relative."

"What does that have to do with..."she started before realization struck her hard. "No!"

"Yes," insisted Jake, holding her sides, "You may have been a surrogate for his wife, but even more than that, he was a surrogate for your dad."

Katrina disengaged herself and slapped him right across his face. The force made him take a step back. Covering his cheek against the next assault, he looked at her enraged face.

"I did not go out with my Dad and I sure as hell didn't just fuck him."

"I know you didn't," he said quickly. "It isn't about the sex. He gave you love, affection and attention... the way your father never quite did. All those empty evenings where he would be in his room with a picture of your mother and you would be all alone. A little part of you wants those memories remade."

"Why are you saying this to me?" she wailed.

"Because I don't want to see you on the floor crying any more," said Jake. "You deserve better than seeking the affection your dad never gave you from other men."

Kat lunged at him, but he engulfed her in a hug. She struggled, but he held on steadfastly.

"It's time to make peace with your dad. You haven't spoken to him once since coming to New York. You have to bury that hatchet, it's hurting you too much."

She forced herself out of his embrace. Her eyes had a look of distant fury and she raised an accusing finger towards him.

"Don't you dare try to pop-psych me, you cunt," she screamed, seething. "You think you know me, but you don't know shit!"

"Kat. Listen to me."

"No! I don't have to listen to you any longer."

She stormed to her room and slammed the door shut. Jake sighed as he heard the tempest exploding against the room. He went back to his room, hoping he had not damaged their friendship too much.

Jake did not get much sleep. He got up early the next morning. Kat's bedroom door was ajar. The room was in the mess he expected. Thankfully, she had not broken anything this time. In the centre of the room was a curious portrait. It was similar to the stick figure drawings of five year olds. It was a simple father and daughter in a green park, made with childish innocence, but something was different.

Normally the two figures are holding hands. Here they were at opposite ends of the canvas. There were no smiles either, just blank faces. That picture said more than a thousand words.

Jake walked to the balcony and saw a forlorn figure sitting on the ledge gazing at the glittering cityscape around them. Dawn was imminent. He sat down beside her, putting his hand around her shoulder.

"Saw the painting?" came the wistful voice.

"Yes I did."

"That silly drawing which little girls make of themselves and their daddies in parks. Green grass, blue sky and terribly drawn smiles. I never got to make that drawing. I always wanted to."

She looked at him, rivulets of dried tears marking her cheeks.

"I don't want to be alone, Jake," she whimpered. "I don't want to hate him any more."

He engulfed her in a tight hug, taking the rest of her tears on his shirt.

"So, road trip to Trenton?"

"Don't you have work?" she said.

"I just finished two weeks of double shifts. I think I can take a day off," he said, adding with a sly smirk, "Besides, my boss has ridden me enough for now."

Even through her tears, Kat broke into a smile at the last sentence.

When Katrina's father saw her for the first time the next day, he could not take his eyes off her. The guilt of being an absent father had left a gaping void in him. He had wanted to get in touch with her several times, but never could muster up the courage to make the call. They hugged in an embrace, with a warmth that they had not known between them, and then they talked.

And talked. And talked.

It would be foolish to expect that a chasm years in the making could be bridged in one day. But at least the people on either side had begun the bridging process. It would take many more words and many more trips.

But they made the start.

They reached their apartment late at night. Jake was about to turn in, when Katrina hugged him from behind.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for today."

Releasing her grip, she turned him around. Looking him in the eye, she gently held his hands.

"Your turn now."

"What?" said Jake, puzzled.

"I made peace with my family. It's your turn now."

He looked down at the floor. Somewhere in his mind, he had sensed this coming.

"Katrina," he began. "It's different for me and you know it."

"I know. It needs a stronger person to do it. Which is why you are going to."

"Baltimore is a little far for a quick trip," he chuckled, trying in vain to circumvent her intentions.

"Which is why you have a phone," she said in a sarcastic tone. "Now call up your sister."

"Please don't make me go through with this."

"You made me get over my issues, now I want to return the favor," she said, biting her lip. "I owe you that much."

"No," he said flatly, "I'm sorry. I can't."

Jake was not willing to go to that part of his mind. The mere thought of talking to his sister released a torrent of memories he had buried deep down.

Katrina persisted, "You know what happened back then was an accident. It wasn't your fault."

"I know that," said Jake, willing himself to believe his words, "but...."

But what?" she asked, bringing up a palm to caress his cheek, "What?"

"I'm scared."

There. He said it. There was no more hiding.

"You have been scared for too long," she said. "Suffered too much. It's time to let that go."

He averted his gaze, so she held his face firmly in her hands and turned it back towards her. Cradling his head tenderly, she spoke up.

"She is your only living relative," said Katrina softly. "Don't do this to yourself."

Against every bit of reason in him, and every fear he'd ever thought he'd had, Jake made the call. Several rings went by as the person on the other end contemplated whether to pick up the call or not. Finally there was an answer.

"Jake?"

"Hello. Brittany? How are you?"

"Jake. Why did you call?"

"I just wanted to talk to you. It's been a long time."

"Huh?" she seemed surprised.

"A guy needs a reason to talk to his big sister?"

"Jake. I don't know what you're playing at here. Do you have something to say?"

"Yes I do," he said firmly, looking at Katrina in the eye. She urged him on. "You have held this grudge against me for twenty five years. Twenty five years. I was only eight years old and I made a mistake. Why can't you move past it?"

Silence on the other end as Brittany Gallagher seemed too stunned to say anything. The tone that followed was shaking with anger.

"How dare you say that? What you did deserves a fucking lifetime of hatred! I will NEVER EVER forgive you. Mark my fucking words. I have no brother."

The depth of anger in the words rendered him speechless. She went on in a cold voice.

"Now if you will excuse me, I no longer have time to waste. There is a multi million dollar deal I need to sign. In case I need you to do the accounting for my company, I will have my secretary call you up. Don't contact me again."

The line went dead. Jake looked up at the forlorn face of his roommate.

"Can't win them all."

* *

Jake looked at The New York Times next day and read.

RENOWNED CRITIC DEAD

The body of well-known art critic Dr Dean Hamilton was found in his private study last night. The cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his temple. A suicide note was found in which he said that he finally had everything he wanted from life and saw no point in prolonging it any further. He also professed his undying love for his late wife.

Shortly before dying, he did some very curious things. He recanted a particularly scathing review he had written a few weeks earlier on the gallery opening of an obscure artist. Then he emptied all his savings accounts and purchased a landscape titled "Orchard View" for a price far exceeding anything the artist's work had previously attained. In his last act as Chair of the Art Department at Hofstra University, he requested that the painting be hung in the main gallery as a "contemporary classic". This has stirred some interest in the other works of the artist in question, who coincidentally turns out to be the one from the recanted review.

Dr Hamilton left no surviving relatives. Funeral arrangements are presently incomplete. Since he is survived by no heirs, the eccentric spending of his money in his last hours is expected to go unchallenged.