Except, somehow he did. Bailed out by one of his acquaintances and fellow like-thinkers. Someone with deep pockets.
Mason hugged Shelby tighter than he had planned. He had mourned enough over his son; their disassociation haunted him as intensely as the tragedies that had taken the lives of his parents and injured his wife; Gabriel’s loss (for how else could he see it?) had opened up his ribcage, creating a void, a wounded chasm just as deep.
He couldn’t dwell on that now. He had one child that loved him, one that respected him and was grateful to be alive. That, in itself, was a miracle. He took his wife’s hand as he continued smiling at Shelby.
“I want to hear all about your British wanderings, about Spam and Stonehenge and all that, but I just need to do this little speech thing first.”
She nodded, then signed: Blow ’em away, daddy.
“Bloody right,” said Lauren.
Mason smiled. “Bloody right.”
O O O
A half hour later, after the uncomfortable acceptance of Pamela’s introduction, and after some initial stumbling, Mason made good on his promise to keep it short, and to thank those who needed thanking, especially his brilliant producer. The Oscars ceremony this definitely wasn’t, with only a few camera flashes going off, a few journalists, and one video camera with a feed that might find its way to the archives of the Meteorology Society. But it was just right as far as Mason was concerned. His favorite two people in the world were here, smiling in the front row.
He had the award in his hand, and raised it up one more time after his speech, to mild applause, and he posed for a quick picture. The flashbulb still searing his vision, he caught sight of someone in the back, someone standing up quickly before the others.
Mason squinted. Something about that figure. The man was young, all in black, with a starched fancy black suit. Clearly out of place among these journalists. Head bald, or shaved. His face however, was too unclear in the after-spots of the flashbulb.
Blinking rapidly, Mason leaned forward. The oddest thing about that man … he seemed to be holding a cane, or a stick of some kind. Mason took a moment until the spots cleared and the cheers subsided, and then sought out the man again.
Above the waving hands and the friends and coworkers coming to congratulate him, their eyes made contact. Eyes that were a fierce blue, almost like cobalt or quartz mined from the California hills. Deep and reflective of the profound depths from which they had arisen. So blue …
Just like his mother’s.
Mason couldn’t breathe, and it took several attempts to expel air from his constricted lungs, but he managed to push out one word.
“Gabriel.”
O O O
The next ten minutes were some of the longest of Mason’s life. Shaking hands, sharing trivial stories and memories of his career: his start in Seattle and cutting his teeth on the complex weather patterns in the upper northwest, the blizzard of ’99, the floods and mudslides of ’05. Through it all he kept stealing glimpses to Lauren and Shelby, where they were perched off to the side of the stage, signing to each other and smiling, laughing like two chatty high school girls after class.
Finally, in a short break he got Lauren’s attention and made the sign for “Gabriel,” and motioned to the back.
Lauren smiled, nodded, and then Mason understood. They had known all along. She signed back: he called last week and asked if he could come. Go. Talk to him, it’s important.
Wondering what else his wife had been keeping from him, Mason excused himself from the current crowd of journalists, and from Pamela, who snatched up his award at the last moment.
“Let me see that. Nice. Not as nice as mine for Producer of the Year, but it’s okay … for you.” She gave him a lopsided grin and a pat on the back, then noticed his eyes, and followed them to the back of the room. “Who’s that? Paparazzi?”
Mason eased past her. “Worse.”
He made his way down the aisle, walking with legs that felt heavier with ever step, acutely aware of the lighting in here, the sounds at his back diminishing to mute whispers, the bulbs flickering, the air cooling. Gabriel had been leaning against the wall. He pushed off now, using the cane, a lacquered cherry wood stick with a golden tip, and took three quick, energized and certainly not feeble, steps