26

Drawing the Line

Father sits in the dining room, the afternoon sun filtering through the sheer curtains to give the room a golden glow. The window is cracked open, and a sweet, spring breeze flows through the screen. A few weeks have gone by, and Father’s cast is off. He is incredibly relieved to be rid of it.

Occasionally I see him limp a little out of habit, but he now puts weight on his leg again, and he moves around without pain. He especially loves jogging up the stairs to bed at night after he’s walked Jasper.

I know he loves the feeling of the new sheets on his bare legs and feet, now that the cast is off. Every morning he wakes up and stretches against the downy flannel. I do too. We lie there in bliss for a few minutes, loving the softness of the bed.

The nights are getting warmer. It’s actually almost time to switch to the cotton sheets. I wonder if Father knows to do that. I suppose when he’s sweating at three in the morning and has the ceiling fan cranked on high, it will occur to him to go dig the cotton sheets out of the closet.

Now, he has his jeans on and an old T-shirt, with bare feet. He sits in a dining room chair with something on the table in front of him. I jump up on the window seat to see what it is. It’s a pad of blank, unlined paper, and Father holds a pen. Finn is asleep in his car seat on the floor, which is where Father sometimes parks him at nap time because Finn seems to like the security of the way the seat wraps around him. It gets him to sleep faster than the crib.

Mary walks in. She was doing homework upstairs and has come down for a break. “What are you doing in here, Dad?”

Father stutters at first, but then explains he’s going to write Mother a letter.

Mary sits right next to him, interested. “You mean . . . You mean, like the one she wrote you?”

Father presses his lips together. Maybe he forgot that he mentioned the letter to Mary late one night, a few months ago, after the holidays. “Yeah, kind of like that.” He scratches his head. “It’s just . . . She doesn’t want me to call her too much. But I really need to talk to her. And this way, I can think about what I want to say.”

“Oh.”

Jimmy walks in, puzzled, holding a bottle of water. “Why are you guys in here?” He tips back the bottle to finish it off.

“Dad’s writing Ma a letter.” Mary turns to him. “Why, Pops? What do you want? I mean, why do you need to talk to her?”

Father puts his hands in his lap and stares at the blank piece of paper. He pauses as if he has no idea how to answer that question.

Finally, he explains that he needs to figure out what’s going to happen next.

“Happen next?” Jimmy sits across the table from Father and Mary.

The grandfather clock clicks off the seconds as my family sits and thinks about it.

“Pops, what is it that you want to happen next? I mean, you don’t still want Ma to come back, do you? Is that what you still want? I mean, no, right? Because you’re with Charlotte now?” Jimmy runs his fingers over the label that is peeling loose from the empty water bottle still in his hands. “You want Ma to come back?”

There is a hint of hope in Jimmy’s question.

I understand. We’re talking about his mother.

Father shakes his head. He says he knows that Ma isn’t going to come back. He thinks maybe it’s time they all moved on.

Mary sits up straighter and puts her hand on Father’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Daddy. It’s okay to feel like that. So, tell her. If you want a divorce, tell her. She can handle it.”

Father looks at Mary and makes a face. He is skeptical. I can see he doesn’t know if that’s true at all, that she can “handle it.”

“Robert will be there,” Mary suggests. “How about you give the letter to him? And he can give it to her. They can read it together.”

I can see Father doesn’t love that idea either by the way he winces at Robert’s name. He hunches over the paper and stares at it again.

“Pops.” Jimmy leans across the table. “You want me to call her?”

“No.” Father is adamant. “No, Jim. I’ve got to write it. You see, it’s my fault that—”

Jimmy throws his hands in the air. “JESUS, POPS. FOR THE LOVE OF OUR GOD IN HEAVEN STOP SAYING IT WAS YOUR FAULT.” Jimmy runs his hands through his hair and then rubs them over his eyes and face. “Mary and I have been here the whole time, and there is nothing that was your fault in particular. You guys fought all the time. It just happened.”

Father takes in a deep breath.

“Pops. Pops,” Jimmy continues. “I am not letting you say that it was your fault again. I DRAW THE LINE.” Jimmy dramatically draws a huge imaginary line in front of him in the air.

It is so much like something Mother would do that I hold my breath in awe.

Father is startled also.

In fact, I think Mother literally spoke those words—“I draw the line”—in one of her last fights with Father.

And she made the same exact gesture. And everyone saw it.

Father suddenly starts breathing very hard. I think he is having the same kind of panic attack he had months ago in front of the fireplace when he first read the letter from Mother.

Mary stands up quickly, hunching over him as he gasps to try to catch his breath. Father presses his hand to his heart and winces with pain. Jimmy is also alarmed and moves around the table to the other side of Father.

“Are you okay?” Jimmy asks, sinking into a seat, his hand lightly on Father’s back. “Dad. You’re not having a heart attack, are you?” Jimmy looks scared, his face pale and his confidence drained away.

“Should I call 911?” Mary demands.

Father shakes his head no, vigorously, and slowly he catches his breath. A long minute goes by where my siblings wait and make sure he can breathe. My whiskers twitch as I watch.

“I’m okay. It’s just anxiety. I’m fine. Just—I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

Mary slowly lowers herself back down into her seat, frowning. “You don’t look fine.” She rubs her fingers together, a nervous gesture. “Dad. Seriously. I don’t think you’re fine.”

Father takes a deep breath. “I am. I’m okay. I’ll live.” He looks from Mary to Jimmy. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. But I want to tell you guys something.”

It’s quiet in the room. I listen carefully. The big clock in the hall counts off: tick-tick-tick.

Father tells my siblings how when their aunt Shannon died in that drunk driving accident—right after their uncle got sentenced to five years in jail—Mahmee started asking Father if he and Mother might have another baby. Mahmee was depressed and missed the daughter she had lost and the son who could no longer be with her. She had expected to have many grandchildren, and she was starting to realize that her dream was never going to come true. Father thought about it more and more, until it was all he could think about. He missed his brother and sister too. And he decided another baby was a good idea.

He thought maybe it would make things better with Mother. He was worried that Mother was thinking about leaving him. All they did was fight, and make up, and then fight again.

Father’s right. I remember. Mother either passionately loved or absolutely hated him, and there wasn’t a lot in between.

Mother was against it, but Father pressured her, and she finally said okay and got pregnant. But then the baby doctor said he thought Mother should stop taking all of her pills. The doctor handed Father a brochure that explained all the horrible things that could possibly go wrong if a pregnant woman took medication. It was a small risk, but still. A risk.

But Mother wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t even consider it.

So Father took the medication for her bipolar disorder and threw it all away. And he knew. He knew what was going to happen. He knew how terrible and empty and scared she was going to feel.

Mother was angry at him, at first. And then she sank into the lowest form of misery and hopelessness. She just wanted to die. “The highs could be upsetting,” he explains. “But the lows were worse, and she spent more time that way. You remember how bad she got. I kept telling you guys it was okay, but it wasn’t okay.”

Father saw how she couldn’t get out of bed. At the same time, he was scared for the baby and he didn’t let her take any more pills. He didn’t want something to go terribly wrong with the baby and then they’d live their lives never knowing if it was because of those medications she took.

And then, of course, the baby was born and it made no difference that she’d stopped taking the pills, because Finn was born with a problem anyway. He was deaf, which would have happened whether she took those pills or not.

Mahmee had never mentioned that she had an uncle who was born deaf. It wasn’t until Finn’s doctors started asking questions that Mahmee told Father for the first time about her uncle, who was sent away as a child.

So Father felt he had made Mother suffer for nothing.

And, Father tells them, “This poor kid didn’t have to be born at all. It was my idea. And now he doesn’t have his mother anymore and he needs her so much. He’s just a baby. It’s my fault she left.”

And: “Sometimes I don’t know if I can do it, take care of this kid for the rest of my life. Because he reminds me of how your ma suffered, and I know he’ll suffer too without her. I can’t live with the guilt.”

Father puts his hands over his face, his elbows on the table.

There is a moment when Jimmy looks down at the rug, thinking. And then he takes his hand off Father’s back.

“I can’t believe you just told me that.” Jimmy looks confused. “What is wrong with you? Why would you even tell me that?” He stares at Father, appalled.

And then Jimmy stands up, tall and imposing and angry. “I hate you so much for doing that to Ma. And saying that about Finn. What kind of a person are you?” He paces back and forth for a moment, thinking.

And then, unexpectedly, Jimmy starts to cry.

It washes over him like a wave and catches him by surprise. His body, tense since Father’s panic attack, now folds in and crumples as the tears well up in his eyes. He begins to shake and puts a hand up on his eyes.

I realize, as I watch him, that I never saw Jimmy cry after Mother left. He has been calm, and resigned to the way things are, and even upbeat on many days. Maybe he hasn’t really allowed himself to think about it too hard, until now.

Mary cried many nights, and cut up things with scissors, and dyed her hair, and did what she had to do. But Jimmy never fell apart like this.

Jimmy walks a few paces away from the table. Father drops his hands from his face but doesn’t look at his son. He just listens, staring down at his lap.

“What kind of person does that, Dad?” Jimmy whispers. A tear rolls down his face. “You pressured her to have a baby? That was the last thing we needed. You took her medicine away from her knowing she was going to get worse? While she was pregnant? What if she had . . . ?” He winces, and I can see he doesn’t want to allow himself to complete that thought.

Mary frowns at her brother. But she doesn’t correct him.

Jimmy turns around in a complete circle, hands on his hips, as if searching the room for something that’s missing. “What if she had hurt herself?” he finally blurts out.

“I’m sorry,” Father whispers back, his throat hoarse.

“Yeah. Great.” Jimmy frowns, gasping to catch his breath. “I offer to go to community college and stay here and help you, and you don’t say one goddamn thing to stop me. Knowing this is partly your fault. You let me think it was all her fault. You let me think she did this herself.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jimmy’s face is red as he cries harder. “Jesus, Dad. Dad.”

Father doesn’t move. He can’t watch Jimmy cry. He can’t face it. Jimmy looks like Mother, and talks like her, and there is only grief in it. Father is helpless in front of his son.

“You are incredibly STUPID.” Jimmy says this knowing it was Mother’s favorite insult, knowing how much it is going to hurt. “And careless. And mean.”

Father turns his head away from Jimmy, unable to face him. He speaks softly, his voice now a whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want her to leave. But I messed up. She left anyway. I love your ma. I tried to take care of her. But I screwed up. And I’m sorry. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all.”

“I hate you.” Jimmy stands very still.

Please, Jimmy, I think. Please don’t do this.

“Jimmy,” Mary scolds him, a sharp tone in her voice. “Stop.”

Mary’s voice seems to snap Jimmy out of his tirade. He finally sighs, a heavy sound, and rubs his forehead. “All right. Okay. Fine. The truth is, it’s not all your fault. Don’t forget she left me because of me too. It’s my fault too.”

Father immediately turns and looks at Jimmy. He gets up and walks over to his son, grabbing his shoulder gently. “It has nothing to do with you. You should never think that it did. Why would you think that?” he wants to know.

“She didn’t like me either, Dad. I messed up too.” A thought washes over Jimmy, and I can see the shock in his face. “Oh my God. I made it worse. I didn’t help her at all. I drove her crazy.” Jimmy convulses in tears all over again.

“Jimmy, none of this is your fault. Your ma loves you. Don’t—”

Mary is still sitting at the table. She finally leans toward them and interjects. “Guys. Please stop. Please, come sit down.”

A bird calls loudly from a tree branch just outside the window. The air drifting in is warm, fresh, and light. It’s like nature is reminding our family to start over.

Jimmy thinks about it. He looks at Mary. The tears still well in his eyes, but he takes a deep breath, in and out. He and Father come back to the table and sit.

“Okay.” Jimmy is drained now, his face mottled and pink. He wipes off his cheeks. “I said what I had to say. I said it. So that happened.” Jimmy glances over at Mary, and they exchange a look. “But now. Now, Pops, you can—”

“Apologize,” Mary finishes the sentence. “See, now, Daddy, yeah, that’s horrible. You were horrible. Maybe we all were. But now you can apologize, and write Ma this letter, and wish her a happy life with Robert. You see, that’s what you can give her now. You can do this.”

Father puts his hands over his face. He takes a deep breath and then forces himself to sit up straight. His eyes are very red, and he wipes his nose with the back of his wrist.

“I’ll get you a bottle of water,” Jimmy offers, and gets up. He shakes his head. “No wonder you feel guilty. No wonder you’ve been acting so . . . Jesus, Pops. I don’t know who’s worse, you or Ma.” He walks out to the kitchen.

Jimmy is angrier with Father than Mary is. Regardless of how Mother treated him, Jimmy is the oldest child and he is very close to her.

But Jimmy’s a good boy. I believe that by tomorrow he will have slept on it and have decided to forgive his dad. That’s just how he is.

Mary leans her head on Father’s arm. “It’s okay, Daddy. We all love Ma. And we all wanted her to come back. Yeah, you did a bad thing, but so did she. She didn’t have to run off and live with Robert.”

Father glances down at her.

“She hurt you back already, right?” Mary turns so her forehead is right up against Father’s shoulder. “She already got even. You said she was thinking about leaving anyway, no matter what you did. And if she had taken her medication while she was pregnant, maybe Finn would have been born with more problems than just being deaf. Who knows. There’s a lot of what ifs.”

He kisses the top of her head. Father says he’s sorry because she and Jimmy and Finn are the ones who are paying for it now, with their mother gone.

Mary closes her eyes. “She can see us anytime she wants, Daddy. Anytime. How often she sees us is her choice now. Just let her go, Dad. That’s exactly what you can do for her. Let her go and live her life. And you know we’re going to help you with Finn. Finn is going to be okay.”

When Jimmy comes in with the water, Mary exits. Jimmy sits in the same seat, right next to Father, turned to face him. Father dries off Jimmy’s cheek with his thumb. Jimmy just looks exhausted now, his eyes swollen.

Mary comes back with a book and sits in the window seat with me. She strokes my back.

“You need any help writing that letter, let me know,” Mary offers to Father, sitting in a spot of sun. I get up, stretch my legs, and climb in her lap.

Father looks at me. My eyes start to close as I soak up the sun.

Write it, I think, hoping he can read my thoughts. It’s a good idea.

He taps his pen to the paper.

“Start with Dear Carrie,” Jimmy jokes, wiping his face again.

Father returns a sad smile and starts writing.