Chapter 22

Bright Yellow Gloves

Some time later, the sun streams in through the slats, bright and intense. It’s going to be a lovely day.

Mark has fallen back to sleep and Mom is lazily rolling over in bed when she and I both hear her phone chirp. She reaches over toward her bedside table and fumbles for the phone.

Staring at the screen, she sits up, one hand holding the bedsheet up over her chest. It takes her a moment to register whatever it is she sees there.

Mom reaches over and puts a hand on Mark’s arm. “Get dressed.” She climbs out of the bed, reaching to grab her bath towel off the floor. Walking over to the dresser, she flings open a drawer and pulls out clean clothes.

Mark wipes his eyes, and props himself up on one elbow. Once he sees how urgently Mom is getting dressed, and the worried look on her face, he gets up out of bed.

By the time Dad and the kids come in through the front door, Mark is in the back room near the bookshelves. Mom has taken many bottles out of the refrigerator, and they are all over the counter. She has bright yellow gloves on her hands, and her hair is in a bun up on top of her head.

“Hey, Vicky,” Mom calls out. “Once you get unpacked, can you come help me a minute? I’m cleaning out the fridge, and I want to check the expiration dates on everything.”

Victoria walks in, backpack slung on her back. She takes a quick glance over at the study, and sees Mark measuring a shelf. He does not turn from his work to say hello. Victoria surveys the mess on the counter. “Sure, Mom.”

As Victoria exits, she passes Dad, who is just entering the kitchen. Gretel follows his every step, sniffing his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just cleaning. You guys are back earlier than I expected.”

“Yeah. They asked me to take a late shift today in Boston. So I’ve got to get going.”

Dad turns, and finally sees Mark. He must have seen the black truck parked outside. But I can tell from the way Dad’s eyes light up for a moment in astonishment that he was not expecting to see Mark.

Dad seems genuinely shocked. I can only assume he thought it was Vincent who was here.

But Mark is different from Vincent. Vincent is a neighbor with a wife who has cancer, and a construction business, and neat hair and glasses, and three children.

In contrast, Mark is an unknown factor, at least to Dad. All Dad can probably see is that he is younger and taller and wears casual clothes and has black hair that he does not brush. He is a stranger taking up room in the family house.

Dad’s look changes. Slowly. It darkens into an expression that is hard for me to interpret. But it is not friendly.

Mark must feel Dad’s icy stare on his back, because he makes a partial turn and nods at Dad. Mark’s black hair is even more of a mess than usual, falling long to skirt his eyebrows.

“Hey.” His voice is flat. I think Mark is trying to sound casual, but to me, he sounds angry. Mark turns back to the bookshelf.

At first, the tone in his voice catches me off guard. I have never heard Mark sound cross before. But of course, it makes sense. It is as natural a reaction as anything else on this earth.

Mark has claimed Mom for his own, spending the night immersing himself in her touch and the sound of her voice. He has put his scent all over her. And now, here is her former mate. Naturally, he bristles at the sight of Dad.

I even heard Mark tell Mom he loved her. But then she said she still loves Dad. No wonder Mark feels threatened, and not in the way he did when he was worried about Dad’s gun.

There are many things here that Dad, being a perceptive person, must have noticed by now.

1. It is a Sunday morning. When most humans do not work.

2. I believe the garage doors are not open, as I never heard them go up or down.

3. Mark is wearing a T-shirt and shorts and sneakers, not his usual jeans and work boots. He does not have wood shavings on his clothes.

4. Nor does he have tools in his hands. Just a measuring tape, which may be useless considering the doors to the shelves have already been cut and are ready to be installed.

5. Vincent is nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, Mark!” Charlie’s cheerful voice pierces the silence. He smiles and waves with a grin. “Mom, are there any donuts left?”

Mom points to a box sitting by the toaster. Charlie walks over to pull a powdered donut out of the box. He grabs a paper napkin on his way back out of the kitchen.

Gretel, who has been circling Dad, finally trots over to Mark, her tail wagging. Mark glances at her, but does not extend his hand, as if he is afraid to show her affection. But Gretel is not deterred. She sits next to him, looking up at Mark with sad eyes, waiting for a hello.

Dad’s brow furrows for a moment, and then his face goes blank. All expression drains from him, and he almost looks calm.

Almost.

“You know, Kate, I don’t have to be in Boston for two hours. So I have a little time. Why don’t we go out and grab some brunch? We could all go. And your contractor could keep working in peace.”

Charlie comes running back into the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking as he comes to a halt. “Really, Dad? Oooh, yeah. Blueberry pancakes. I could go for that.”

Mom and Victoria exchange a quick, awkward glance.

And suddenly, I realize: It was Victoria. Victoria must have sent a message to Mom to let her know they were coming.

“Yeah,” Kevin chimes in, rubbing his hands together. “Sounds awesome. I’m starving. C’mon, Mom. You’ve gotta come too.”

Victoria clears her throat. “No. No, that won’t work. Mom promised to take me to get my hair cut. I need to go now, because I have dance squad later. You promised, Mom. Please. I’ve been begging you for weeks.”

Dad is suspicious. “Since when do you have dance squad? I thought you quit last year.”

“Yes,” Mom says matter-of-factly. “You’re right. I promised Vicky we’d go. Just let me put these things back in the refrigerator. But you boys can go to breakfast.”

“It’s all or nothing,” Dad threatens. “Everyone or no one. We’re not going to go without you guys.”

“Fine,” Mom says with a sigh.

But she doesn’t mean: Fine, I’ll go.

What she means is: Fine, I accept that the plans are falling through.

She turns her back to Dad and starts rearranging jars on the counter.

“Okay.” Dad clears his throat. He looks over the mess: two tomatoes here, a bottle of mustard there, a carton of eggs on top. He watches Mom’s hands, constantly moving. For a moment, his eyes soften, and he looks like he is going to say something more. But then he takes a quick glance at the back room, where Mark is still working, and bites his tongue. “I’m gonna get going.” His voice has gone very quiet. “Bye, guys.”

Mom stands up and watches Dad walk down the hall. The front door closes with an almost imperceptible whoosh behind him.

As soon as the kids are upstairs unpacking their bags, stomping from room to room, Mom strips off the yellow gloves and throws them in the sink. She walks over to the study and leans in the doorway. Mark glances back at her. They stare at each other, as if unsure of their next move.

I am almost expecting Mom to apologize for Dad’s behavior. But instead, she sighs.

“Mark,” she says, “Look. I’m sorry. This is my mistake. I have three children here. Three older children. And so I can’t . . . I can’t bring any instability into this house right now. I can’t take things one day at a time. I can’t wait and see where this goes. I can’t have men stay over just because I feel like it. It’s not going to work that way.”

Mark’s face gets red, and it takes me a moment to realize he is annoyed. Maybe more than annoyed. I think he is angry. He straightens up, hands on his hips, the way I have seen Dad do before when he’s about to start yelling. He gives her a look of frustration. “Where the hell is this coming from? Are you kidding me right now?”

Mom reaches over, and closes the glass door behind her so they will have some privacy. I scamper under the rocking chair to get out of the way. Mom makes a grand gesture with her arm. “Why didn’t you leave when Jeremy got here?”

“You told me to pretend I was working. I just did what you told me to do. You wanted to make it even more obvious that I slept over? Why would I leave, if I just got here?” He looks incredulous, and puts his hands out in front of him to plead with her. “Besides, I’m not leaving you alone with him. There’s something . . . not right with him. Don’t you sense that?”

“He’s fine. I’ve told you before. He’s not happy about the divorce, but we’re perfectly safe with him.”

“No, Katie,” he interjects, leaning toward her, “No, I don’t think you are. And I didn’t want to leave. I just got done telling you this morning that I’m not a toy you can play with and put down at your convenience. And here’s another thing: I don’t appreciate being treated like a big secret around here. I know you have three children. I’m an adult. And I remember what I agreed to last night. But I think Kevin and Victoria know perfectly well what’s going on. And, frankly, Jeremy did too. By not talking about it, by not talking about anything, you’re just creating a situation where the kids think it’s not okay to—”

Mom’s forehead creases with anger. “This is my family, and these are my kids. Not yours. You aren’t a parent, so you don’t understand. Don’t tell me—”

Mark freezes and glances behind Mom, startled. He suddenly cannot look her in the eye. “No. I’m not.” He swallows, and looks frantically around the room, as if he’s lost something and can’t find it. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Mom takes a small step forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean anything by it. That is, I didn’t mean to remind you.” She swallows. “You are a parent. You’re Hannah’s dad. You remember what it feels like to worry about her. I just meant that—”

“No, no, no, you’re right. You need to put your family first. For a minute I forgot where I was. I forgot what the hell I was doing.” He raises a hand and drags it across his mouth, and then wipes down his wrists too, where the bee stings once were. He starts pacing the room, like he’s trapped.

“Mark.” Mom hurries to him and puts her hands on his arms, forcing him to look at her. “Mark, I’m sorry.”

He lets her drag him over to the couch. “It’s okay,” she goes on, “It will be okay.”

She pushes Mark down so he sits on the couch, and she climbs right into his lap, as if the weight of her will comfort him and keep him grounded. Her hand flies to his head and she runs her fingers through his hair until his body relaxes.

I get the feeling Mom has been through this before, calming a man down. I wonder if Dad was the same way when he was younger.

“I don’t want to take it one day at a time, Katie,” he explains, sounding tired. “This isn’t a trial run, or whatever you think it is for me. I want to be with you. For real.”

She shakes her head. “You’re younger than me. You need to start a family of your own. You need to start over.”

“Maybe I don’t.” He puts his arms around her and his eyes soften. “I don’t want to go through that again. I don’t want to start over with a new family. I mean it.” He glances up at the way she is wearing her hair on top of her head. I can see he is incapable of staying angry at her for very long. I think Mom knew exactly what she was doing when she climbed in his lap. “Don’t you think I know what I want?”

She studies his face. “I’m not sure.” She hasn’t taken her hands out of his hair. “I know what you want right now. But you might feel differently tomorrow.” With another sigh, she says, “We can talk to the kids today if you want to. We can tell them that we’re seeing each other.”

“Okay, good,” he says, “That’s good.” He nods, as if everything has been settled. “We should start with Charlie. He’s the only one who doesn’t really know. And I think he’ll be okay with it. He seems to like me.” And with that he pulls her toward him, burying his face in the crook of her neck and holding her tight.

Yes! My heart soars. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. Talk to Charlie. And don’t stop talking to him until you get some answers.

I hope Mom knows what she’s doing. Because if she decides she doesn’t really want Mark, I don’t think he’s the type who will find it very easy to let go. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who could just walk away.

And I realize: Dad is the same way.

Just then I turn to see Gretel watching us from the other side of the glass door. She isn’t begging to come in. She’s just watching, curious. I feel a little sorry for her, because she must be confused.

I walk up to the door, my tail high in the air, and stare back at Gretel through the glass.

What do you think about all this? Do we need to worry?

And in the way Gretel cocks her head, I could almost swear she understands me. Almost.