Only once had the four of us ventured out on the boat together, and after that, it was just my dad and me. I was always up for a sail. I liked the bluster of the wind, even when it was too biting for comfort. I liked the spray that kicked up as the boat galloped over wakes. I liked the nuanced adjustments we’d make as soon as the wind shifted direction.
But that following winter had been a rough one at home. That was the winter my mother took a breather from the rest of us, holing up for a week in the family condo in Tahoe. Maybe the Catalina was one of the things she took issue with. Maybe my father simply knew what it would take to bring her back home. I don’t know when he sold it, only that the Catalina was gone by the time the following spring turned to summer. And when Blake was born, not long after, the subject of a replacement sailboat was effectively tabled.
I had always planned to buy one of my own. It was the reason I had saved my babysitting profits throughout high school and on into college. I imagined myself living out of the little cabin as I sailed up and down the west coast, stopping off at small, natural harbors to camp along the shoreline. I would rent a small apartment near the marina in San Rafael—or in the town of Tiburon if I was really lucky. And while other people spent their weekends pressed up against city crowds, I’d shove off and sail away.
Don’t get me wrong. I know I wasn’t the first person to land far afield of a childhood dream. Most people probably do. And the fact that I had never followed through on my plan wasn’t a daily hang-up. I had a nice house in an appreciating neighborhood in Oakland, a secure government job, friends and family nearby. It was a fine life to be leading—even if it wasn’t the one I’d imagined, back when I was saving for my own Catalina. Of course I wondered whether things would have turned out differently if I’d bought one, but how can you know that? How can you know where a few random turns might take you? A few random turns might have changed everything. But I hadn’t taken a turn off my straightaway for a while by then.
“I should go,” I told my mother. Thinking of the Catalina always made me moody.
“We’ll see you Saturday then?”
“Saturday?” I asked. “Oh, yeah. Of course.”
“You forgot Saturday?”
“No, I remember.”
“It’s only our thirty-fifth anniversary. It would be nice to have our children present.”
“I said I remembered. I’ll be there.”
“Come early if you want. You should spend more time with your father,” she said.
“He could spend more time with me,” I pointed out.
“Don’t be like that. Not after what he’s been through.”
I sank a little. She was right. My father had spent the first part of the year battling an aggressive form of lymphoma. Now, in August, he was officially in remission. I had a hunch that my father’s illness had a lot to do with my own malaise. The timing didn’t feel like a coincidence, but I hadn’t wanted to think too hard about it. I just wanted my focus back.
“What about your brother?” my mother asked. “Do you know if he’s coming? I haven’t been able to reach him.”
“Kurt?”
“Well, I can track down Blake easily enough. By the way, don’t forget to congratulate him when you see him next. He’s over the moon about making drum major. I don’t know if Kurt even knows about that yet.”
“I think he’s been focused on the move and the new job.”
“So focused he couldn’t manage an RSVP to his parents’ party? Martina managed an RSVP. What sort of children have I raised?”
“Speaking of Martina, I really have to go. I’m meeting her in an hour.” It was true, but it was also a good excuse.
“How is that lovely girl?” Predictably, my mother softened. Martina wore skirts and dresses. Martina got manicures and waxed her brows. Martina followed fashion trends and kept old copies of Vogue and Glamour around for reference. Depending on her mood, my mother referred to my look as “messy,” “tomboy,” or “oblivious.” She was always happy to hear that Martina and I were still friends.
“Martina knows that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” my mother was always reminding me. Maybe that was true, but who wanted to spend her life with a collection of flies?
Chapter Four
ON FRIDAY MORNING, I MET WITH MY SUPERVISOR, Fred Collins, to discuss the phone calls I’d continued to receive. By then, there had been six. Three livid, two indignant and one whiny. All referring to the poor man I’d wronged. All refusing to provide additional details—except to note that he was a much better person than I was.
“So you’re looking for your better half,” Fred said, smiling.
“It’s not funny,” I protested.
Fred seemed as flummoxed as I, though he took pains to assure me that the calls wouldn’t be recorded as complaints in my employee file. “And none of them have made reference to a name or a town? Maybe an address?” he asked.
“None. Believe me, I’ve tried to ask. They always end up hanging up on me.”
“So how can you be sure they’re calling about the same taxpayer?”
I thought about that. Auditing was based on facts, probabilities and calculations. This was just something I felt, something I was nearly sure of, but without the proof.
“I’m not,” I ventured, “but it sounds like it. It’s always the same tone. How he’s so generous and that he’s had such a hard year. They say that he’d never do this to me. Only, I don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Put it aside if you can. How’s everything else?” Fred asked. “In your work? In your life?”
I didn’t want to get into it, especially not with my boss. “Fine,” I said.
“You’ve been here what, ten, twelve years now?”
“Six, actually.”
“Only six?” Fred sounded surprised. “Doesn’t it seem like longer?”
When I first joined the IRS, I hadn’t planned to travel the career track. It’s funny what you can wind up doing if you show an aptitude. If I’d been able to choose my talents, I’d probably have chosen something physical. I’d have been a gold medalist on the uneven bars. I’d have sailed solo down the Pacific coast at age twelve. But kids tend to develop talents noticed and nurtured by their parents. Given that my father was an accountant, it was my knack for numbers that was coddled, and it was just as well—I was too tall for a serious career in gymnastics and the Catalina was long gone. Now, at thirty-one, that knack for numbers had elevated me into the position of senior auditor. Plunk into the middle lane of the career track.
Still, I found myself irked that Fred thought I’d been there for so much longer. Did I have the callous look of a lifer?
“Are you saying that I’ve been here too long, or that I mesh well with our corporate culture?” I asked.
He laughed. “What do you think?”
Suddenly, I wondered if he had spotted my ungainly stack of unfinished audits. But Fred was the one who seemed distracted just then. He was gazing at the framed photograph of his wife that he kept atop his desk.
“I should probably be getting back to my cubicle,” I said. A show