23
John awakens and for one second tries to think where he is. Then he remembers: Sadie missing. Sadie home. The relief at seeing her safe, the horror at realizing the extent of the danger she was in. The way he and Irene peppered her with questions after Ron left, and how all that seemed to do was shut her down, turn her more and more in to herself.
“She’s in shock,” Irene said, after Sadie had gone to bed and the two of them were sitting and talking in the kitchen. “She can’t talk about it now because she hasn’t even realized what happened—or might have.”
“I think she does realize that,” John said. “But for some reason, she’s not willing to talk to us about it.”
“But why would that be?” Irene asked, and her eyes were full of confusion and sorrow.
“She’s not ready,” John said. “Maybe we just have to give her time.” He did not add that he thought Irene’s questions were too loaded with her own emotions to give Sadie room to respond. He felt that Sadie was balancing a precarious load, but she was balancing it; it was not up to her parents to shout instructions from the sidelines. Rather it was up to them to let her know that she was loved, and supported, and safe. They had to let her know that they were here when she needed them, and they had to deal with the fact that she might not need them, at least not in the ways they expected, or thought she should.
Just before Sadie went to bed, she told her parents that she had answered a million questions at the police station, that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, it was done, it was over, she just wanted to forget about it now, and go on with her life.
“A life that includes a sudden marriage after having been kidnapped,” Irene said, and her voice held too much anger to get the response John thought she was hoping for.
Sadie turned to Irene and said, “I don’t belong to you, Mom! I am my own person. My life belongs to me, including everything that just happened to me. It’s mine to do with as I want or need to. Just back off!”
“Fine,” Irene said, when it was anything but.
John sat in silence with Irene for a while, then told her about an experience he had had when it had been his fault that a child was injured. When he was nine, he’d talked a playmate into riding his bicycle along a retaining wall, something John did often, despite the fact that he’d been told numerous times not to. When his friend, Paul, had tried it, he’d fallen and fractured his leg, which had never healed properly. “You know how long it took me to apologize?” John asked Irene. “Twenty years. Twenty years!”
“But … why?” Irene asked.
“I was so guilty,” John said. “The guy ended up with a million complications; he walked with a limp afterward, he couldn’t play sports anymore, other kids made fun of him, it was awful. I just didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to start the conversation. I ran into the guy at O’Gara’s one night. We were both drunk. Then I apologized.”
“It’s not the same,” Irene said.
“It’s the same in this way,” John said. “I had to wait until I was ready to talk about something that was really hard to talk about. I think Sadie’s … Maybe she is in shock. But I think she’s a little embarrassed, too.”
“Embarrassed about what?” Irene asked. “She didn’t do anything!”
“She got into the car,” John reminded her.
Irene nodded. “Yeah. Remind me to yell at her about that.”
“You think she doesn’t know it was stupid?”
Irene said nothing, just sat there, rubbing her knuckle with her thumb. Finally, she said, “I’m losing her more every single day.” And then she went to bed.
He turns on the bedside lamp to check the time: 3:18; 5:18 in St. Paul. He closes his eyes again but then decides to get up. There’s no use trying to go back to sleep; whenever he awakens like this, he never can. He sits on the edge of the bed, wondering if he’d wake Irene if he went into the kitchen. He’s hungry. There’s a sandwich left over, lying on the counter. He can grab it and the milk carton without turning on the light or making much noise. There are chocolate chip cookies in the tall glass cookie jar, too; Irene always has cookies in the cookie jar, one of the things he liked about her.
He goes into the hall and pads silently down the bare wooden floor. When he passes Sadie’s bedroom, he hesitates, then quietly cracks her door. Her bedside light is on, but she is sound asleep, facing him, one pillow beneath her head, another held tightly against her. He looks at her bent knees, her tousled hair, the familiar, straight line of her eyebrows, her dark lashes below. He watches for the rise and fall of her chest just as he did when she first came home from the hospital. Ah, Sadie.
He starts to tiptoe in to turn out the light but then wonders if maybe she intentionally left it on. One of the things he asked her was if she still felt afraid, and she flatly denied it. Still.
He wishes she’d let him come to the trial; he’d like to see the man who caused his daughter such distress. Well, he’d like to murder the man who caused his daughter such distress, actually, and that’s one reason Sadie told John not to come: she didn’t want to have to worry about her father when she was trying to take care of herself. She wanted only Ron to come with her. John had seen Irene’s face when Sadie said that, and the message in it was perfectly clear: We’ll see about that. It was perfectly understandable that Irene would want to go with her daughter to the trial; in fact, John thinks she should, and hopes that Sadie changes her mind on this point. But if there is any lesson Irene and John are beginning to understand, it is this: Sadie is eighteen. She really can do what she wants, now.
In the living room, he is stealthily moving past the sofa bed when Irene sits up and gasps.
“It’s me,” he whispers, then adds, unnecessarily, “John.”
Silence, and then he can hear a muffled laugh.
“John Marsh,” he says. “Your ex?”
She turns on the light, blinks in the brightness. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Oh. Want some nachos?”
“Yeah! Do you have some?”
“I’ll make some.”
“I don’t want to wake Sadie up. I’ll just get the leftover sandwich.”
“She never wakes up once she goes to sleep. And anyway, I threw that sandwich out.”
“Why?” It used to make John crazy, the way Irene wasted perfectly good food. He’d put something in the fridge that he fully intended to eat later, and she’d throw it out. Over and over. He’d ask her where the sandwich or piece of pie or leftover pasta was; she’d say it was rotten and she threw it out. He’d say no, it wasn’t rotten; she’d say yes, it was. Over and over and on and on. “I would have eaten that sandwich,” he says.
“Well, in full disclosure, I only threw it out after I took a bite. From each half. Plus I sucked the jelly out.” Irene sits up and reaches for the bathrobe at the foot of the bed, slips it on. “Anyway, nachos are better.”
He follows her into the kitchen, watches as she wraps an elastic around her hair to make a ponytail. Next, he knows, she will don a bib apron, then wash her hands. Irene, cooking. A pleasant memory. One of the few.
“Do you still make them the same way?” he asks.
“Tons of cheese and jalapeños, yup.”
“Good.”
She opens the oven drawer and pulls out a cookie sheet, and as she is turning to place it on the counter, she drops it.
“Shit!” she says.
They both freeze, waiting to hear a sound from Sadie’s room. Nothing.
“See what I mean?” Irene says. “Sorry for the swear.”
“ ‘Sorry for the swear’?”
She shrugs. “I’m trying to quit.”
“Quit swearing?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh,” He slips into the banquette, picks up the salt shaker and inspects it. “You need more salt in here.”
“Up there,” Irene says, and gestures with her chin to a cupboard.
Joh
n gets the salt, and fills the shaker over the sink. Irene is close enough that he can smell her shampoo.
“How are you, Irene?” he says, not looking at her. “I mean, really. How are you?”
She laughs. “You mean because I said I’m trying to quit swearing?”
“No. I don’t mind your swearing.”
“Yes you do. You told me once it embarrassed you.”
“Only because you used the f-word in front of my biggest client.”
“I didn’t know he was your client. It was a big party. A lot of drinking going on, too. I didn’t know he was your client.”
“Anyway,” John says, “it wasn’t that big a deal. The guy was a jerk. Now I’m glad you did swear in front of him, but then … it was a little embarrassing, yes.”
She reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a grater. “Want to do the cheese and I’ll do the jalapeños?”
“Sure.”
She takes a package of cheese from the fridge and hands it and the grater to him.
“This isn’t Monterey Jack,” he says, looking at the label.
“No, I use queso fresco now. It’s really good.”
“I always liked Monterey Jack.”
“Well, I use queso fresco now.”
“Okay.” He sits at the table and gets to work.
For a while, it is quiet but for the sounds of John grating and Irene chopping. It’s nice. Irene used to always invite him to help her in the kitchen but he never really wanted to. Now he understands that it wasn’t the help she was asking for; it was the companionship. She gave up early on asking him to help; she used to turn on NPR to keep her company.
He finishes grating the cheese and tastes it. “You really like this better than Monterey Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, really?”
She turns around from slicing peppers to look at him. “You know, John?” She’s peeved; her hand is on her hip, her brow furrowed.
“What? I’m just asking if you really like it better.”
“As opposed to pretending to like it better?”
“Jesus Christ, Irene.”
“What?”
“I only meant that maybe Harold influences you and—”
“Who’s Harold?”
“That guy you work with. The food guy.”
“Henry.”
“Oh. Right. Henry. I just thought he might be influencing you or something. Not that … I mean, I know he’s a nice guy and all. Sadie is nuts about him.”
“I see,” Irene says. “So according to you, I can’t even make a decision about cheese that isn’t suspect.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“And since Sadie is nuts about Henry, he’s a nice guy. Well, he’s not such a nice guy, John. He’s a temperamental ass a lot of the time. A lot of the time.”
John puts down the cheese, leans back in the banquette.
“Irene, what are you so pissed off about? Can’t you just … Why are we even talking about cheese? Do you realize what’s happened here? Do you realize we could have lost our daughter? My God, Irene, she could have been killed!”
“And you’re blaming me!”
“I’m not blaming you!”
“Yes you are. You are! You think I have a terrible relationship with her and that this never would have—”
“I don’t think you have a terrible relationship with her!”
“Oh, yes you do, and don’t you dare deny it! You’re always putting on that long-suffering attitude, trying to pretend you’re not telling me what to do with her when you are telling me what to do because you know best, right, John? You always know best! But you don’t know! You’re not the one here with her! You’re not the one who sees her the most!”
“And whose fault is that, Irene? Huh?”
“Stop yelling.” Her own voice is quiet, now.
He repeats the question, and she comes to sit opposite him. “It is not my fault that we got divorced, John.”
“No?”
“No. There were two people in our marriage, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, there were three people affected by it, Irene. Okay? In case you hadn’t noticed. And I don’t think you did notice. Or care.”
Irene twists her face up, starts to cry. “What the hell do you know about what I care about? Nothing!”
“Doing really well with the quitting swearing,” John says. “All right, look. Let’s just focus on Sadie. Okay? Let’s just take care of her. I’m thinking … I might as well tell you, I’m thinking about taking her home.”
“What are you talking about? She is home.”
“No she’s not. You took her away from home.”
“She doesn’t even like Minnesota.”
“In fact, she does. But I wasn’t talking about Minnesota.”
“What were you talking about, then? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about me.”
Irene stares at him.
“I’m her home,” John says.
“And I’m not? Are you crazy?”
“Why don’t you ask Sadie?” he says. He gets up from the bench. “Good night.”
He walks back to the bedroom. That was a low blow. That was unfair. He doesn’t care. He climbs into bed, pulls the covers up. “Bitch,” he mutters.
From the kitchen comes the sound of the garbage disposal. She’s probably throwing out the cheese because he grated it. He closes his eyes.
After a while, he hears a knock, and then the door opens. Irene comes over and sits at the bottom of the bed, stares into her lap. “Guess what, John. You’re not Sadie’s home. I’m not, either. That boy is.”
She looks over at him, shrugs. “She named a successor. I guess I don’t blame her. You know why I think she didn’t tell either one of us about Ron Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is? Because she didn’t want us to ruin it. That’s her experience of what we do with relationships that are supposed to be loving. We ruin them.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m going to bed. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I really am. From now on, we’ll take care of our daughter. And that’s all. Good night.
“Oh! By the way? Henry doesn’t use queso fresco. He uses queso panela. But I use queso fresco, so … Good night, John.”
“Good night.”
“Are you warm enough?”
He sighs. “Yes.”
She moves out of the room soundlessly. Like an apparition. Like the spirit of something dead and gone.
24
On Wednesday morning, Sadie hears a knock on her door. “Sadie? Can I come in?”
Her dad. She gets out of bed to let him in.
“I’m just off to the grocery store. Do you want anything?”
“A get-out-of-jail-free card?”
“Come on, you can understand why we need a little time with you. Is it really so bad being here with us?”
She shrugs.
“We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Right,” she says. But she regrets the coldness in her tone. Her father looks like hell. She doubts he’s slept much, but then who has? She imagines they’ve all been going over and over the events of the last several days.
“Granola,” she says. “And raspberries.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Hey, Dad?”
“Hey, Sadie.”
She smiles. “It’s not bad being with you.”
“Okay.”
After her father leaves her room, closing the door gently behind him, Sadie flops down on the bed. Last night, when the three of them had dinner, Irene spoke gently to Sadie, saying that she thought she understood why this happened, but Sadie would come to see that the idea of getting married, although perhaps a natural reaction, was a mistake.
“Why do you call it a natural reaction?” Sadie asked. “You think this is all a rescue fantasy? You think Ron is my white knight because he called the cops?” Privately, sh
e wonders if there isn’t some truth to that.
“I do kind of think that,” Irene said. “But even if it isn’t true, you are far too young to be married, Sadie. And I want you to know that Dad and I will help you out of this.”
“Mom. I love Ron.”
“I’m not disputing that.”
“But do you believe me?”
Her mother sighed. “Look. Ron seems to be a very nice boy, and thank God he called the police. But you shouldn’t have married him. You don’t realize how much you’ll miss by being married, Sadie! You’re so young, you’re entitled to live a young person’s life. You need to explore, to try out things that marriage will prevent you from doing.”
“Try things out,” Sadie said. “Such as other men.”
“Well, frankly, yes. But that’s only a part of it. You need to be free, Sadie, to let yourself go in the direction you need to. Let us help you out of this, it will be pretty simple to do.”
Sadie laid down her fork. “So you don’t believe I love him. You can’t conceive of me loving a man. You know why, Mom?”
“I didn’t say that, Sadie!”
“But that’s what you think.”
“All right,” her father said then. “Just … Let’s everyone settle down.”
“Wait a minute,” Irene said. “Wait a minute! Let me talk.” She looked at Sadie. “I believe you are fully capable of loving a man. Although to me, Ron is a boy. But let’s just put that aside. Let’s say he is a man. I believe you are capable of loving him. I believe you do love him. But what does that mean, Sadie? Does it mean you should be married at eighteen? What’s the rush? Honestly, I’m just asking the question.”
“You can’t understand,” Sadie said. It was true. “It’s a waste of time for me to try to explain it to you guys.” For one moment, Sadie thought about revealing Ron’s illness to her parents. But she didn’t want to. It didn’t belong to them. They would distort it, use it as another reason for her not to be married. She could just see it, Irene saying, “His doctors could be wrong! He could relapse! Do you want to be a widow?”
“You never give me enough credit,” Sadie said.
Once Upon a Time, There Was You Page 17
