Legally Blind Luck

Chapter 2

Chapter 2My mother's younger brother, a big-game veterinarian, had lived in South Africa for the previous two years, protecting a rare species of elephants from extinction. After the first year's commitment, Uncle Zach sent his teenager to live with me, citing little time to focus on his son's welfare. Ulan had been in my care for six months when he flew to Disney World with my parents and daughter for Spring Break. Uncle Zach had arranged a surprise appearance at the Orlando airport—where he'd subsequently return with the family to our Pennsylvania hometown—while things would theoretically be under control at the elephant camp. Unfortunately, after Uncle Zach had deplaned and rented a car, an explosion in the short-term parking lot permanently changed those plans.

A lot of rumors had surfaced about Uncle Zach's demise. Truthfully, it wasn't clear to any of us. A taciturn FBI or Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agent—we weren't certain at which government institution he worked—had tracked us down at the hospital just as we'd brought in my sister-in-law to recover from a lunatic who'd shoved her off a cliff. As Natasha hovered between life and death, a family friend and psychic, Constance Garibaldi, hysterically darted into the hospital waiting room to inform us that her tragic predictions weren't over and that we still faced impending doom. None of us could've anticipated she'd foreseen Uncle Zach's death.

The government had been following Uncle Zach because they thought he'd stolen a priceless tribal figurine before leaving South Africa. Upon finding no traces of it in the remains of the car or his luggage, they concluded he wasn't guilty and abandoned their investigation. Although we were all grateful Natasha had survived the tumble, and we hoped she would regain the use of her legs, saying a permanent goodbye to Uncle Zach had wrecked us. Nana D holed up in her farmhouse for days, refusing to talk to anyone but me, and even that came in limited quantities. Unfortunately for the authorities, she demanded answers and summoned the big guns to apply pressure. My grandmother wouldn't believe the randomness of his accident, noting Uncle Zach had not been himself in the days preceding his flights to the US. “My son was afraid of someone. This is an unequivocal fact. He all but said the words,” Nana D had insisted when she crawled out of her temporary recluse, eyes swollen and hair torn astray.

Was my uncle's death truly the result of a clerical error—that someone had forgotten to repair a leaky fuel line on his rental car? Or had someone else followed him, secretly engineered the explosion, and pilfered the rare African idol? Maybe Nana D had overlooked critical information Uncle Zach revealed on their calls. Poor Ulan had fixated on playing his favorite video game for forty-eight straight hours without any sleep after his father's death. While I frequently soothed my cousin, I also further helicopter-parented my own child who'd been nearby during a second explosion in the parking lot.

While pacing Braxton Elementary's designated pickup area and waiting for Emma to finish an after-school program, I dialed Nana D. We usually chatted a few times each week, but following Uncle Zach's accident, I talked to my grandmother every morning and again around dinnertime. After ten weeks, she'd painstakingly obscured her grief to the exterior world, but I knew instantly how ravaged she was by the tone of her voice. “What's the four-one-one, Nana D? I hope your current agency temp made it through the full week.” Since her previous assistant had run off with a foreign husband, she hired and fired the woman's replacement weekly as an outlet for her heartache.

“Canned. She had the nerve to ask if I needed help with the latest updates on my iPhone.”

“Isn't that what assistants do?” I rolled my eyes and bent forward to hug Emma as she approached the car.

My daughter assertively shook her head and stepped to the side so I couldn't reach her. With one hand on her hip and the other scolding me in a waving motion, she also gave me the stink eye. What was her problem? Luckily, when she tried to escape, I snagged the back of her hoodie and pointed to the door. After I whispered, “Nana D,” she relented, and her playful espresso-colored pigtails bounced in unison with her lengthy stride as she climbed into the backseat. If she grew any taller—one of the beneficial traits she'd inherited from her mother, along with flawless olive skin and impeccable bone structure—she'd surpass Nana D's five-foot stature. Emma's dark-brown eyes mushroomed like giant bugs as she formulated a strange half-smile and half-grimace. I'd ask her about the mini tantrum once the call ended with Nana D.

In the background, my grandmother operated a blender on a low enough speed that we could still hear one another. Margarita Fridays with Eustacia Paddington had become a tradition at Danby Landing the previous month—nothing like alcohol and humor as one's emotional therapy. “That paper-pusher rudely hinted I'm too ancient to do it myself. Goodbye. Adios. All feet are insane.”

That line perplexed me. “Do you mean Auf Wiedersehen? The German words for goodbye?”

“Pish! I know what I said. Her crazy feet can do some walking!” The blender stopped chopping ice long enough for her to invite me over for cocktails and to express her pent-up anguish. “I miss my son, Kellan. Mothers aren't equipped to send their children out of the world. Only to bring them into it. This is unnatural.”

When I heard Eustacia consoling her in the background, I gently declined the invitation. “I won't pretend to understand, only support you as best I can. Your great-granddaughter wants to say a brief hello while we drive home. But first, how was your day?” As Emma snapped her seatbelt, I pulled away from the curb.

“I suppose I'm coping,” replied Nana D before notifying me that Eustacia had spilled a third drink on her blouse and torn off her bra. “We're making plans to visit South Africa. I want to find out what my son was up to before he got on that plane to Orlando. I need to do something to process my feelings. I've got survivor's guilt.” The bleak crack and lilt in her voice were heartbreaking on multiple levels.

Losing one of her kids in the prime of his life, fifty-two, had devastated my grandmother. Parents weren't supposed to outlive their offspring. Besides him and my mother, Nana D had also raised two other children—Deirdre and Campbell—both of whom lived outside Braxton. Aunt Deirdre had gotten married and given birth to her first baby the prior year, and she and her husband continued to reside in England and occasionally travel to the US. She wrote romance novels, and he was the CEO of a major corporation, Paddington Enterprises. Campbell was a more complicated story for a different day.

“One day at a time. Book nothing until we coordinate schedules. I told you I'd take you there when things subside this summer.” I convinced Nana D to behave herself and to focus on connecting with the rest of her children.

Between Uncle Zach's shocking death and Natasha's paralysis, my entire family barely held it together. Hampton had managed his wife's company, ReedWell Corporation, since the tragic murders earlier that year. My grouchy older sibling would soon meet a potential buyer, which could generate a positive trajectory for their future. Leading the business, watching over his partially incapacitated wife, and caring for their four young children had undoubtedly taken its toll on him. Even though we rarely got along, I did all I could to comfort him in his misery.

“The facts don't add up at the rental agency. They were too eager to offer a settlement and close the investigation.” Nana D hollered something at Eustacia about not plugging in the hair dryer near the sink. “Help! She's gonna burn down my house, Kellan.”

“Please do not electrify yourselves. I've had enough issues this year.” I agreed that the car company's responses were strangely generous. Even our sheriff had dug into it but failed to elicit anything valuable in her conversations with the local police. When we finished speaking, I handed the phone to my daughter so she could comfort Nana D. “You're in charge, Emma. Make her listen to you.”

“Of course, I'm always the boss. My teacher says so!” she stated, snickering in response before addressing her great-grandmother. “You should see Daddy right now. He's a hot mess!”

After Emma hung up with Nana D a few minutes later, I asked why she'd run away outside the school. “Eh, embarrassment, Daddy. You must've had a rough week.” During the remainder of our drive home, Emma informed me about her day, culminating with a strange request. “Now it'll cost fifty dollars to join the new club. Nana D said you better cough up the dough, or she won't bake you any pies.”

I parked in the driveway and unloaded our belongings. “That's nice, honey. Don't listen to Nana D anymore. Her brain has extended its hiatus.” Obsessed with hazarding guesses over Emma's puzzling comments, I sidestepped her appeal for the funds. I'd recently bought a rundown Victorian, newly renamed Garzenwyck, and renovated both the interior and the exterior. Money was tight. Upon entering the front hall, I swooned at my appalling reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Despite my classic baby blues, high cheekbones, and radiant dimples, a few disastrous problems refused to be snubbed. Not only were Cain's tea stains showing on my crotch, but I must've dropped catsup from my fries at lunch down the front of my shirt, and my wavy blond hair rivaled a ransacked bird's nest. No wonder my eight-year-old daughter had done a double take and darted away in the parking lot. “Fine, you win. I'll pay for your new club. What was it again?”

“Yippee! Archery. I get to shoot arrows at real targets.” Emma immediately dragged Baxter, our black-and-tan shiba inu dog who harbored a tendency to eat socks and randomly growl at the basement and attic doors, outside for playtime before dinner.

“Please don't kill anyone I know. Or me!” I dropped my satchel on the floor and sighed with exasperation. Ulan had already returned home to prepare our meal. Latching on to cooking and baking had temporarily centered his concentration on something other than his father's death. I approached while he obsessively stirred a pot that smelled amazing. “Hey kiddo. What's on tonight's menu?”

After shaving his hair earlier that year to support a friend who'd been diagnosed with cancer, a bunch of brown sprouts clung to Ulan's oval-shaped head. His swimmer's build and chocolate-brown puppy dog eyes often lit a fire in the hearts of all the girls at Braxton High. I'd fended most of them off during his dad's funeral service, at his request, so he could focus on his own emotions. “I didn't hear you come in. Ummm… a variety of seafood dishes. My dad's favorite. I invented a bunch of sauces, and I've got a shrimp boil simmering on the stove and a dozen parmesan-baked clams in the broiler.”

Ulan would turn sixteen during the summer, and I knew he missed his father terribly. For every prior birthday, they'd taken an excursion to a remote island to study its wildlife. New Zealand had been on tap for later that year. It would no longer happen.

I wrapped one arm around his shoulder and nudged him closer to my chest. “Your dad would be proud of you. Let's consider a trip to South Africa in August with Nana D. It won't be the same as your past explorations, but it might offer some closure.”

He sucked in a whoosh of air while turning off the burner. “It would be really cool to show you where we lived. I could plan a safari too.” With his head a little wobbly and his eyes glistening, he swallowed a heavy lump in his throat.

“Only if you're ready. I mean, we have to go at some point, but I've talked to a contact who's checking on your dad's apartment.” I'd only been a parent to Emma for eight years—a learning experience every single day, especially since I'd raised my little girl by myself for most of her life. Mentoring a teenage boy on the cusp of becoming a man—indisputably sooner than necessary—was a scarier and more arduous task.

Ulan poured the pot's contents through a colander in the sink, carefully keeping most of the broth for his sauce. Steam enveloped us, mirroring the fuzziness manifesting inside our brains these days. “You've been awesome, Kellan. I don't know how I could've gotten through this without you.” He'd regularly assured me that being around family prevented him from crumbling over his father's death, but he rarely expressed the fullness of his devastation. Ulan's mother died in childbirth, and it had been just himself and his dad from that tragedy forward. The woman had been estranged from her family for many years. Ulan and Uncle Zach lived in various cities around the world, which meant he hardly called a single place home. “I'm only supposed to stay here three more months, but are you gonna… I mean, do I have to… leave?”

My heart excruciatingly disintegrated into pieces. I wasn't the most touchy-feely guy, especially being the middle child in the Ayrwick family. I'd mostly felt lost and ignored, so I kept to myself—bookish nerd met prankster met Curious George. I transferred the shrimp pot from Ulan to the counter and pulled him into my arms. Then I hugged him as though I were preventing the force of gravity from stealing my soul. “You don't have to go anywhere. I've seen what happens when a kid's mother passes away, but I can't imagine what it's like to also lose your dad at such an early age. I won't ever replace your parents, but you're welcome to live with me as long as you want.”

During the preceding months, I'd gained someone else to mentor—an orphan within a large extended family. Ulan desperately needed an advocate in his corner, someone to steer him on the proper course. Was I really in a position to function as a stable pseudo-dad to him? When Nana D and I had discussed the topic over some freshly baked Snickerdoodle cookies the previous week, she encouraged me to let Ulan decide his fate. “Trial by fire,” she'd declared while huffing heaps of cinnamon. “Got three years before he graduates from high school and becomes an adult.”

When Ulan pulled away, I shared how much Emma also loved having him around and how Nana D thought we should handle decisions incrementally. “We need you just as much as you need us.”

“Meaning, if I'd like to live here sometimes, I can. And if Nana D wants company, I could stay there too?” Ulan wiped his cheek, clarifying he wasn't afraid to weep in front of me. “My dad taught me it's okay to cry, even for a man. I wanna do him proud, Kellan.”

“You couldn't disappoint him no matter what, kiddo. You're his greatest achievement.”

Uncle Zach and I had briefly chatted a day before he left South Africa. I'd thought the conversation was odd, especially when he asked if I would keep Ulan permanently should anything happen to him. But I was so wrapped up in my own dramas, I hadn't understood any potential veiled messages. I'd thought Uncle Zach was keen to ensure his son had a guardian in case he suffered a freak heart attack or plane accident. Was my uncle worried something awful like murder could fell him? Had I disregarded a significant clue?

Ulan confirmed he was eager to stay with me for the immediate future. “Once we figure out what truly happened to my dad, we can talk about next steps, okay?”

I hesitated before responding, unwilling to let his strange comment linger without an explanation. “What do you mean, figure out what truly happened? The Orlando Airport's official statement confirmed your dad's death was related to a fuel line issue with the car. The insurance company has agreed to settle, and you will get a lot of money from them, Ulan.”

Emma wandered back inside with Baxter and kneeled on the floor to remove his leash. I smiled at her, uncertain how to react to Ulan's mystifying expression. All I wanted to do was snap my fingers, travel back in time, and reroute Uncle Zach's plane to anywhere else.

“I'd give all the money away if I could uncover the real facts, Kellan. I've been thinking about it a lot today. His girlfriend called during my lunch break. She convinced me to trust my instincts. To seek the truth. I've made a major decision.” With his back toward us, Ulan spooned dinner onto our plates.

I wasn't aware Uncle Zach had begun dating a new woman. “I'm unsure I understand what she has to do with your dad's accident or your newfound instincts.” In that precise moment, my ringing cell prevented me from further responding to his bold announcement. “Hold that thought for one minute.” I picked up the phone and strode in the opposite direction. “Hey, gorgeous. I'm thrilled you're back.”

April Montague had just returned home from an out-of-town convention for state law enforcement personnel. “Me too. I can't wait to see you. Give me thirty minutes?”

As the sheriff of Wharton County—a hidden gem located ninety miles south of Buffalo, New York in north-central Pennsylvania—April oversaw the police force for four primary towns. Fully surrounded by the Wharton Mountains and Saddlebrooke National Forest, our welcoming haven boasted a residency of ten thousand citizens. Woodland was the most affluent of all the municipalities, followed by Braxton. Both claimed well-respected colleges and regularly competed against one another. Lakeview and Millner Place had smaller schools and populations but proffered stunning escapes from urban life. Between Crilly Lake and the central downtown shopping district, the entire area represented an oasis of beauty and a balance of all the natural elements.

I slipped into the mudroom, ensuring Ulan couldn't hear me. I quickly told April what he'd revealed less than five minutes ago. “We should hold off on getting together tonight. I need to find the underlying cause of this shocker while he's keen to talk about it.”

“Not a problem. I could use the sleep.” April graciously offered to swing by first thing in the morning. “You owe me one, babe. I plan to collect on it too. Don't forget… I can be a creative woman.”

Once we hung up and my body cooled down, I approached the kitchen and squeezed the back of my cousin's neck. “So, that's a lot to digest. Care to explain what's going on?”

Ulan rotated one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and gawped directly at me with renewed confidence. He spoke in a startling, emphatic voice. “My dad's girlfriend convinced me that he was murdered. Renee claims to have proof, and she's on her way to Braxton to beg you to find his killer. I think we need to seek justice. You'll fix this, right?”