Chapter 29
Very Unkind
Mark hands a small cup to Charlie, who is wearing a red apron. Charlie digs the cup deep into a tall bag. When he slowly and cautiously lifts his arm, I see the cup is overflowing with white powder.
“Here.” Mark hands him a knife. “Use this to even out the top.”
Charlie slides the knife over the top to knock powder back into the bag. He glances up at Mark for approval, who nods.
I can see Charlie stands a little taller when he’s next to Mark. He feels comfortable.
“Victoria is going to be so impressed when she hears you helped with the birthday cake,” Mom gushes from her seat at the kitchen table. “You’re making a red cake?”
“A blue cake with red frosting,” Charlie answers with a grin. “Just like the one she asked for when she was in Kindergarten.”
Mom laughs. When Mark walks over closer to her, she wraps her hands tighter around her mug and beams up at him.
“So, how was work today?” he asks. “How was little Emma?”
“Ohhhh.” Mom sighs. “Not good. She spilled the glue again. And after lunch, one of the teachers caught her cutting up her dress with scissors.”
Charlie gasps in horror, but Mark laughs heartily. “Ah. Good old Emma.” He puts a hand on his stomach. “That kid is lucky she’s got you to look after her.”
Mom’s cheeks redden, and she looks down at the table. I think she is pleased.
“How’s the coffee?”
Mark made the coffee for Mom in a special new machine that he brought for her last week. At first, she eyeballed the machine suspiciously as he showed her how to use it. It sounded complicated.
Mom nods. “It’s very good.”
On different days, Mark has brought Mom a book, a painted dish, and a bracelet. She always smiles but puts these things quickly aside. To her, they are just things. Her needs are much more immediate. She wants to look at him, to hear his voice, to touch his hand.
“Stir the dry ingredients together, but not too fast or the flour will go everywhere,” Mark says over his shoulder. Charlie nods and grabs a wooden spoon. Charlie holds the glass bowl handle with one hand while mixing with the other. Mark turns back to Mom. He pauses before blurting out: “Did your friends say anything about last night?”
Last night, two of Mom’s friends showed up with a bottle of wine. It was their first time meeting Mark, and they all went out to the deck. The women cooed and clucked over him, and the later into the night it got, the more cooing and clucking they did. Mom did not drink the wine, preferring a glass of iced tea, so that is what Mark drank too. But he was very talkative, and by the end of the night everyone was in good spirits. Mark referred to them as his “new friends,” which made the women laugh for some reason. As they were leaving, they patted his cheek and tapped his elbow and made him feel greatly admired. Mom had to practically shove them out the door to get them to leave.
“They liked you,” Mom says, raising an eyebrow. “Of course.”
Mark gives Mom his crooked smile. “Good.”
“Yes, it’s good. They approve. Well—it’s not that I care if they approve. I should say: They understand.”
Mark’s smile fades. He scratches the back of his neck. When Mom doesn’t say anything more, he walks over to her and takes her hand. “Katie. I know this must be hard for—”
“They understand. They do.” Her eyes flicker over to Charlie, but he’s busy pouring milk into a new cup.
Mark sighs. He suddenly looks tired. I know he didn’t sleep well.
I heard Mark tell Mom that he woke up in a sweat in the dead of night. Mom listened with horror when he explained that he has nightmares, which always involve finding very sick babies in the strangest places, like under the kitchen sink. This is one way I know Mark is not yet at peace. His arms still feel empty from where he once held his warm baby.
Mom studies Mark’s face and frowns. “Charlie,” she calls, “We’ll be right back, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve got it under control.” Charlie pours a brown liquid into a spoon. Some splashes onto the kitchen counter, but he quickly mops it up with the edge of his apron.
Mom takes Mark just a few steps into the hallway, past where Charlie can see them. She puts her arms up around him and rests her head on his shoulder. One hand reaches up to play with his hair and she brushes her lips against his neck. Mark closes his eyes for a moment.
I think this is true: She wants Mark as her mate. Mom likes having a physical connection with him, and feels safe in his arms. She is learning to let go of Dad.
This is also true: Mark needs her.
Mark was brokenhearted, and then Mom came into his life unexpectedly. Now he is dedicated to her. He needs someone to talk to about his fears and disappointments. He tells her stories of his old life that make him laugh in disbelief, and to me, he sounds like he is describing someone else, instead of himself. He manages to say and express more in one conversation than Dad probably did in a month. He needs someone who will listen, and not judge. For him that person is Mom.
Mom wants Mark; he needs her. They are different things, want and need. Want can make humans do crazy things. Yet I think need may represent something deeper.
It is enough to draw them together.
Charlie looks over at me as I stare down the hall. He mouths: What is going on over there?
No worries. It’s all good. Mom is fine. Keep mixing.
I think Mark overwhelms Mom sometimes. But when he leans back and smiles at her, she looks happy.
And when I finally hear her whisper, “I love you,” while standing there in the dark hallway, there is nothing about it that feels wrong or forced or out of place.
If I were her, I would love him too. In fact, I believe I already do.
* * *
There is one day when Dad lets himself in the front door with his key, and wipes his feet on the mat. He tips his head and breathes in deeply. A serene look comes over his face. He is at peace. But I know it won’t last long.
Mark is in the kitchen cooking strawberry muffins. I watched him take a tray out of the oven. When he bakes in our kitchen, the cakes create a smell that all of the humans love, and it is this scent that Dad responds to as he stands at the front door. It does not appeal to me personally, but the humans gravitate toward the kitchen when Mark is baking.
Right now, the children are in school. Mark is alone in the house.
Earlier, from a kitchen chair, I watched Mark carefully wash and trim the strawberries. He cut them thin, one at a time, and then fanned out the slices over the top of each muffin.
Mark takes his time when he is baking, and never appears flustered, the way Mom gets when she is rushing to cook dinner at the end of the day. He gave me a small piece of soft cheese once everything was in the oven.
Mark appears at the end of the hall to see who has entered the house. When he sees it is Dad, he slowly comes down the hall, a wary look on his face.
“Sorry,” Mark says. “She’s not here. She went for a run.”
“A run? You mean running? Like, actual running? Around the block or something?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t blame Dad for being confused. Mom is usually at work, but today Mom took the day off, which is unusual for her. She also has never gone running in the past. It is something new she is trying out.
“So you live here now?”
“No.” Mark seems reluctant to say more.
“It’s okay,” Dad says, squinting at him. “I understand. You’re the rebound guy. That’s how Kate and I are going to refer to you in six months, when you’re gone. The rebound relationship. Whatever.”
Mark seems skeptical. He raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says carefully.
Dad stares at Mark, and the hostility seems to slowly seep out of him as he stands there, hanging his head and closing his eyes for a brief moment. “So, Mark.” He stops, and wipes the back of his knuckles against his mouth. “Um, so. Okay. What has Kate said about me, exactly?”
Mark folds his arms across his chest and gives a disinterested shrug. He stares down at his work boots, which he tends to wear most days even when he isn’t working on Mom’s project. The ground is muddy now that the snow is melting and the spring rain keeps the dirt moist. And I can see he just doesn’t put too much thought into what he wears. “I don’t know. Not much, I guess. Nothing personal.”
My whiskers twitch. I suppose it’s true Mom doesn’t talk too much about Dad with Mark.
Yet I have heard her say a few things.
I did hear her say she still loves Dad.
But that was a while ago. A full moon ago. Most of the work on the study is done. Yet Mark is still here.
Dad rolls his head back to stretch and take in a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay.” I can see he doesn’t believe that for a minute from the look on his face. He rubs the palms of his hands together, as if he’s cold. “I’m trying, you know. It kills me to think that the kids are unhappy. I know I’m not their favorite person lately.”
Mark holds himself tighter, and he nods, but doesn’t respond.
“I wish there was more I could do. But I’m doing the best I can.”
I meow! to let Dad know I appreciate what he is saying. He glances at me and looks amused. When he winks at me, I wink back at him.
When Dad is looking right at me—and really seeing me, not distracted, or in a fog—he has a very friendly look. I can imagine him looking at Mom in the same way, the way he used to before he went into the hospital, and I can see why she loved him and why she might still love him and why it’s hard to let him go.
Mark clears his throat, which gets Dad’s attention.
“Maybe you didn’t really appreciate having a family,” Mark finally says, quietly, almost to himself. He stares at the floor, lost in thought. “Until it was gone.”
I listen to the words Mark has said, how they quietly hang in the air.
I know what Mark means. Mark had a family, and he lost it. He knows firsthand how quickly and easily everything is lost. His baby, his wife, his house—lost for good. It was a terrible shock to his system.
But watching Dad’s face change, I think perhaps he is taking what Mark is saying in a different way. He feels Mark has made some kind of hostile accusation. His face goes blank.
“I see.” Dad leans back on one foot and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “I see. Okay. That’s interesting. So now, even though I’ve been a dad to three children for years, nursing them when they were ill, holding their hands when they were scared, drying their tears when they cried, working every day, putting my life on the line more times than I can count, getting injured in the line of duty, trying to recover, doing my best, suffering in silence, doing what the doctors ordered, this is all my fault. I did not appreciate my family. Hmm. That’s an interesting theory.” He rocks back on his heels. “And now, according to you, I have lost them. They’re gone.”
“No, what I—”
“Your words, not mine. ‘I didn’t appreciate them until they were gone.’ That’s what you said.” Dad’s voice gets louder and more aggressive. “I blew it. It’s over for me. My life as I knew it is over. So now you’re going to love and take care of my family for me. Is that it? Is that what you mean? You. A part-time contractor. To me, you look like a deadbeat trying to take advantage of my wife and her needy emotional state. Not to mention freeloading off her steady job, cozy home, and premade family.”
Mark’s mouth drops open. “No. No, that’s not at all what I—”
“Did anyone mention to you that I got shot?”
Mark frowns and squints at Dad. “What?”
I don’t understand. Dad got shot? What does he mean?
With a gun?
Dad lifts up his shirt to reveal a scar on his lower stomach. I’ve seen that scar before. I didn’t know what it was from. I never thought much about it at all.
“Oh, yeah. On the job. While at work, so I could take care of my family, a drug dealer shot me. I was in the hospital for three days. I took the drugs they prescribed for me, and if I got hooked, well . . . That’s just how it goes sometimes. You know. Tough luck, buddy. You’re screwed. Better luck next time. Too bad you still have to get up for work every day and work through the pain.” Dad drops the shirt. “Kate flushed my pills, and I’m glad she did because I don’t want to be a loser drug addict like the guys I chase down every day. But now I sometimes need a drink. That’s not against the law. Okay? It’s not the end of the world. I’m sorry if she thinks that ruins life for everyone.” He clears his throat. “But listen. Whenever you start thinking about how superior you are to me in taking care of a family, remember where I’ve been.” He glares at Mark until the younger man must look away.
“Jeremy,” Mark says to the floor, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I have to go,” Dad blurts out. He turns to slam open the screen door. He walks quickly down the front steps and out to his car.
“Wait,” Mark calls after him, but Dad is already opening his car door.
“No, no. I’m leaving. You’re right,” Dad yells from the driveway. “You’re the better man for the job. My turn is over. Good luck with it.” He shakes his head, disgusted, and gets in the car.
Mark watches from the doorway, halfway in and halfway out, as Dad drives away. He takes in a deep breath and it comes out in a sigh.
Finally, Mom comes jogging up the street. Her cheeks are pink from the exertion.
She smiles at Mark until she sees the expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
Mark opens the door wider, so I can step outside, and he follows me. He gently closes the screen door behind him. “Jeremy was here.”
“What?” Her eyes open wider. “And? What happened?”
Mark takes a step out into the bright spring sunshine, and has to shield his eyes. From the top step, he looks down at Mom.
“I think I made a mistake. I said the wrong thing.”
Mom swings around frantically to look back down the road, to check if she can still see Dad’s car, but he is long gone. There is nothing to see but the canopy of trees overhanging the road on one side, the tall marsh grass that grows right up to the edge of the crumbling pavement from the other side, and a thin layer of dust hanging in the air. “What do you mean? You said something?” Her voice gets higher as she asks more questions. “What did you say? Was he upset?”
Mark stands there, averting his gaze from the direct sun. He has his hands on his hips, and doesn’t look at Mom. “Am I taking advantage of you?”
“What?” She runs right up to the bottom step and looks up at Mark, her hands outstretched toward him. “What are you talking about? What did you say to Jeremy?”
When Mark finally lifts his head to look at her, he is weary all over again. It’s that flash of sadness I sometimes recognize. Most of the time, he hides it well. But right now the light washes him out, and the grief is plain to see.
“I love your house, and your family, and your life. I do. But that’s only because I love you. I’m not trying to replace Jeremy. How could I possibly replace him? I didn’t mean that he has no place here, or that your whole family has given up on him.”
“Mark. Is that what you said to him?”
“No, but . . .” He brushes his hair off his forehead with his hand, but it just falls back down where it was. “I’m so stupid. Vincent is right. I’m a walking disaster. I ruin everything I touch.”
“That’s not true.” Mom stands as stiff as a board. Her voice is stern. “That is one hundred percent not true.”
He looks at her, bewildered. “I don’t get it, Katie. Why do you want to throw away one broken person for another? What’s the point? You think I’m going to be any better than Jeremy? I’m starting to question if I ever could be better than him. There’s a lot about him I didn’t know or understand.”
“Stop. Just stop it. Right now.” Mom’s hands are pink, and she squeezes them tight by her sides.
“I’m sorry. Maybe you should call him. Maybe you should take him back.” Mark walks right by Mom without touching her. Mom’s eyes follow him, but he doesn’t look at her.
Oh! I don’t like this one bit. Everyone is being very unkind.
Mom watches him go, and starts shivering in anger. I can tell she is upset, the way her pale face lights up in surprise.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mom yells after him. “HEY. What is wrong with you?”
Mark, whose hand is already on the door handle of his truck, whirls around. His eyes flash, his nostrils flair, and he looks furious.
I don’t like this at all. Both Mom and Mark seem to be itching for a fight, and I’m not sure why. I think Dad being here has made them both anxious.
“Let me go,” he growls. “I just need to think.”
“What do you mean, maybe I should take him back? Why in the world would you say that?”
Mark rubs his face with his hand, way too hard, like he is trying to wipe off his freckles. He looks tired. “Why do you think I would say that?” When Mark sees Mom has no reply, he goes on: “Why didn’t you ever tell me Jeremy got shot at work? You never explained that part, how he got hooked on painkillers after getting shot in the stomach. That seems like something that could happen to anybody. Do you just . . . throw men out when you get tired of them?”
Mom’s head jerks back slightly. “What?” She almost gasps in surprise. “Yes. Okay. He got shot. But that’s not when Jeremy started drinking. That’s just when it got SO MUCH WORSE.” Her voice catches on these last words. “Why do you assume you know what I’ve been through? You don’t. We’ve been struggling with this for a long time.”
Mark turns, so he is not facing Mom anymore. For a moment he stands there looking sideways at her, as if weighing what he should or should not say. And, as he does, the anger in his face fades away. It is replaced with something worse. He looks disappointed.
“MARK,” Mom persists. “Say something.”
Now he finally looks away, toward the woods at the side of the house, and seems to fix on something between the trees. But I know he is seeing nothing. He chews on the inside of his mouth.
“You’ll get tired of me too,” he says quietly. “I’m the same as Jeremy. I mess everything up. Everything I touch falls apart. You just don’t see it yet.”
Mom doesn’t know what to say. Before she can think of something, Mark opens the door and climbs into his truck. I am worried he is going to drive off with a dark look on his face, like Dad did.
I trot over to Mom and throw myself against her legs. She picks me up and holds me to her chest with two firm hands.
From how tightly she squeezes me in her arms, I can tell Mom is shaken. She is probably not sure whether she should be worried more about Dad or Mark. I am concerned about both of them.
I mew! Just a pitiful: mew!
“Lily,” Mom coos soothingly to me.
I glance over, and sure enough, Mark is looking at me.
Mew! I try to make myself sound helpless.
Mark rolls down his window, and his eyes soften a bit. He hasn’t started the truck engine yet. He is watching me and Mom.
MEW! I call out, louder. Can’t you see she’s holding me all wrong? Won’t you come and help me? I squirm around and wiggle my butt to show him that I am uncomfortable.
“Lily, it’s okay,” Mom says.
And then I see: His eyes are tearing up.
And I think—
I am quite sure—
“Mark,” Mom finally calls out. “Please. Don’t leave.”
Ah! He climbs down out of his truck and walks over to us.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers to Mom, looking down at me with a concerned look on his face. I give him an innocent blink. He reaches out with two hands, and Mom stares at him, not understanding. When she finally realizes he wants to take me, Mom carefully hands me over. I am once again flipped upside down and nestled into the crook of his arm. Ah, much better. Mark gently rubs my tummy with his free hand, and I am content. I feel his body relax as I start to purr.
As Mom turns back toward the house, Mark gives me a quick shake of the head and raises an eyebrow. It is as if he is saying: I know what you’re up to, sweetheart.
But we need you here! Mom needs you. Charlie needs you. I need you. You must stay.
I’m pleased with myself. I can’t help it.
When he carries me inside and the screen door clicks shut behind us, I am overwhelmed with the scent of the muffins once again, and it smells wonderful. Like home. Thank goodness Mark came back!
This much is clear to me: Mark belongs here now. Mom and Mark must work this out. Our house would not be the same without him.
But also . . . I cannot deny the truth. I want Mark to stay for selfish reasons. I do think Mark may still help Charlie. But now that Charlie is getting older, and I realize how he feels about Ronaldo, I wonder how much longer I will be his best friend. And once Mom knows Charlie is being bullied, might she not send him away, the same way I was sent away when my leg was broken as a kitten? And then what will I have left? Will I be sent away too? Or if not, what will my life become without my sweet Charlie?
All of my fears, even ones I have been pushing out of my mind for a long time, surge to squeeze my heart in pain. I close my eyes and nuzzle my wet nose against Mark’s soft shirt. He whispers into my ear, but I don’t hear the words. The words don’t matter. The arms matter. And they hold me tight.