An Unfinished Story(42)
“You’re joking, right? Are you really taking me to Orlando? Like the two of us going to Harry Potter World? I’ve never been to a theme park.” Orlando paused.
Whitaker reached for the second book and kept going, shredding through pages. He could see Kevin as if he were sitting there next to him, a man waking from a dream, connecting with a paternal instinct long lost, realizing that by giving to this boy, he was feeding himself too. Though Whitaker was a long way from recognizing any paternal instincts, reading about Kevin was almost like looking in the mirror.
Kevin was a disaster of his own unique making, though, playing online poker at work, stealing coworkers’ food from the community fridge, gulping down cable news and screaming at the talking heads. Whitaker roared with joy when Kevin hit bottom, bingeing on Desperate Housewives while pounding wine spritzers.
The typist paused. Should he accept the project, Whitaker knew he’d have to get to know David’s life more. What were his quirks? Had he pulled these ideas out of thin air or had they morphed from his own decay? Whitaker would have to get to know Claire more as well. How had she affected his life?
David had clearly done extensive research on the foster system, and Whitaker wondered where that knowledge had come from. If he did tell Claire yes, that he’d finish the book, he’d need to dive into his own research. He was completely unfamiliar with the life of a child ping-ponging through the system, but he was more than intrigued to learn more.
Getting back to reading, Whitaker wondered if the middle of the story would fall off. Often, writing the first part was easy, but it was keeping the middle alive that made or broke a book.
Whitaker took a few bites of the second half of the sandwich and washed it down with more Coke. He kicked his feet back up and dove into the second book. After another great scene, Whitaker sat up and said, “I’m going to get paper cuts, David. I can’t believe how good this is.”
And then . . .
I have to write this book. There it was. The decision. I want to help this book come to life. Whitaker looked at his arms and chill bumps had risen. A story had literally landed on his lap, and he couldn’t believe he’d almost ignored it. What if he hadn’t read it? What if he’d stuck with the lie to Claire? He thought this book might have the answers he was looking for. Might he be so bold as to say Claire was right? He was meant to finish this book.
Sure, helping Claire appealed to Whitaker. Between her persistence, vulnerability, and, let’s face it, beauty, she was a hard woman to say no to. Despite the complication of this book being written by her deceased husband, he couldn’t deny the attraction he felt toward her.
But it wasn’t just Claire that fueled his sudden desire to finish the book. Or David’s story and the potential satisfaction of helping this dead man come back to life, as Claire said, giving him this final gift. Ultimately, it was because Whitaker saw himself in Kevin. Two selfish fools navigating the world with broken compasses. The only difference was that Kevin had located the Dog Star and found his way back home.
Whitaker craved a way back home, and he wanted to be a part of this journey.
If he had to name one issue with accepting the project, it was that he felt slightly scared. What if he couldn’t do it justice?
Deciding that being scared was not always a bad thing, he continued reading. Wanting to know if Kevin could truly save the boy, Whitaker threw himself right into the third and final composition book. Knowing this story would end prematurely broke Whitaker’s heart. Claire was right. This story needed to go all the way to print.
Whitaker’s heart hurt when Orlando and Kevin got in their first argument. Unable to forgive Kevin, Orlando disappeared, running away from the group home. Kevin spent days looking for him and feared the worst. With only a few pages left, Kevin finally found a clue, hearing that Orlando had returned to his old ways, running with young criminals bound for prison or the grave.
Whitaker had a terrible feeling that either Kevin or Orlando was going to die. And he wasn’t sure he was emotionally prepared.
Then it was over. Whitaker flipped through the blank pages that filled out the rest of the composition book. “You have to be kidding me.”
He dialed Claire’s number, noticing the clock on the cable box read 8:18. In shock, he glanced outside. The teasing colors of dusk confirmed he’d completely lost track of reality.
When she answered, he said, “Where’s the rest of it? Don’t tell me it really stops here, in the middle of the third book.”
“Yes, that’s why I’ve come to you.”
“Have you looked everywhere? He couldn’t have left it like this.”
“Yes, of course, I’ve looked. So you read it?”
Whitaker’s heart was racing. “Yeah, I read it.” He paused, collecting himself.
“And?”
“It’s magnificent, Claire. It really is. I’m so sorry I put you off this long. I’m thoroughly invested.”
He could hear her choking up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said through the crying. “I’m just . . . just happy.”
“You should be. He left you a great story. Are you sure you’ve looked everywhere? I mean, are there other drafts? He wouldn’t have thrown away the first two.” Whitaker stood. “I have so many questions. Did you know he was writing it? Had you read any of it? Do you know the ending?”