by Nicola Marsh
He laughs at my disgruntled response, like he can see right through me and knows how I really feel about having him back home. I watch him move around the kitchen with ease, like he’s never left, and that damn lump in my throat returns as he makes quick work of fixing a sandwich.
He’s aged, with new lines fanning from the corners of his eyes and mouth. He’s leaner too, like he’s taken up running. It pains me that I don’t know what he does these days, for work or recreation. Is his favorite food still barbecue pork ribs? Does he still favor light beer over full-strength? Is his penchant for dark chocolate over milk as strong as ever?
He’s forty soon and I wonder if that has something to do with his sudden reappearance, some kind of midlife crisis that manifests as guilt for his appalling abandonment of his marriage and his child. Or has he caught wind of the impending sale of the company and expects a slice of lucrative pie?
With his upcoming milestone birthday, I can’t imagine having four children in their forties when it only seems like yesterday I’d been that age myself. How fast time has passed and how much has changed. I’d had it all figured out back then, how my life would turn out. Pity I got it so wrong.
“Is it okay if I stay here?” He sits opposite me at the immense dining table, his sandwich untouched, as if he made it as a means to delay conversing rather than hunger. “It’s fine if it’s not, I can go to a hotel—”
“This is your home, of course you can stay,” I snap. “But I need to know what you’re doing here and why, after all this time.”
He shrugs, finally picking up his sandwich and eating half of it before responding. “I had this insane urge to see my family.”
A blatant lie. I see it in his inability to meet my gaze when he’d always been one to look me in the eye. My brash, confident boy who never backed down from anything.
“By family, do you mean us or Ria and Shelley?”
“Both.” He ignores my sarcasm but nudges his plate aside, the other half of the sandwich forgotten as tension brackets his mouth. “I stopped by Ria’s on the way here.”
“And?”
“It didn’t go well, but I didn’t expect it to.” He huffs out a sigh, the grooves around his mouth deepening. “Not that I blame her.”
“She’s a good woman and an excellent mother,” I say, wondering if that’s the real reason my prodigal son has returned. A sudden hankering to see the daughter he callously abandoned five years ago? A way to make amends? To seek forgiveness?
As to how Ria will react, I can’t speculate. She always adored Grayson but he’d broken her heart and she never spoke of him, even on the few occasions when I tentatively broached the subject to ascertain whether there’d been any contact between them. “Don’t mess up her life, okay?”
“I have no intention of doing that.” He shoots me a scathing glare so reminiscent of the strong-willed child he’d been that my breath catches in my chest. “I doubt I’ll be staying around long so I won’t disrupt their lives.”
“Then why did you come here?” I fold my arms and survey him with the eyes of a mother who doesn’t know this man-child anymore, if I ever did. “There’s been a lot going on lately and we’ve got enough to deal with.”
“What do you mean?”
Wariness creeps into his eyes as if he actually cares. Harsh, but my inherent cynicism insists there’s more behind my youngest child’s reappearance after all these years than any real caring for his family.
“There are big changes afoot in this family and it’s not a good time for you to show up out of the blue, without any real explanation.”
His raised eyebrow mocks me. “What about the rest?”
“Like?”
“Ria told me Ashlin had a car accident, you were almost run over by a cyclist, and Shamira ended up in hospital after being poisoned.” His mouth compresses into a grim line. “You’re all okay?”
“Obviously.” I wave my bandaged wrist at him. “I’m fine, Shamira’s okay, and Ashlin sustained minor injuries and is home now, though I’m looking after her girls until she’s back on her feet.”
His other eyebrow rises. “Where’s Justin?”
I hesitate, not wanting to divulge too much about Justin’s divorce to a son I can’t trust. I still don’t know the real reason he’s turned up and until I figure out why, I need to be circumspect.
“He’s extremely busy at the moment.”
A wry grin twists his mouth. “Isn’t he always?”
“He’s been a rock for this family,” I say, wondering if Grayson feels at all guilty for leaving us. “We’ve got enough going on without adding your hidden agenda to the mix.”
He doesn’t refute my accusation, which only proves my gut feeling is right. He has a reason for coming home but won’t divulge it to me.
When I eyeball him, daring him to come clean, his gaze slides away to fix on some point over my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be out of here in a few days, max.”
He sounds lost, like the little boy who’d once run to me when Justin’s teasing became unbearable, and I relent. “Stay as long as you like. Just don’t stir up trouble with Ria.”
He studies me with open curiosity. “You’re awfully protective of my ex-wife.”
“She’s the mother of my grandchild and I care about them.”
He doesn’t call me on the use of ‘care’ rather than ‘love’. Then again, none of my children have ever heard me use the L word. I’m not prone to grand gestures or emotional declarations. I’m not hardwired that way. Growing up as an only child with parents who barely tolerated each other, followed by my own matrimonial disaster, ensured I don’t love anyone much. I like, I care, and that’s where it ends. Unfortunately, my kids know it too.
“Is my old bedroom still available?”
I nod. “You don’t have a suitcase?”
“I travel light.” He hefts a small duffel bag and once again, his gaze shifts, evasive, and I wonder what secrets my last-born is hiding. “Thanks for letting me crash here, Mom. See you in the morning.”
He lays a hand on my shoulder, a brief touch that has me leaning toward him a little, before he leaves the kitchen quickly. I hear him clomp up the stairs, the unfamiliar tread of heavy male boots. I’ve missed him, even if I’d never admit it. Though his sudden reappearance is baffling, yet another odd occurrence within my family.
I need answers but have no idea how to get them.
35
Shamira
If I was sick of Trent’s attentiveness when I initially got out of hospital, his constant hovering a day later is driving me nuts: the endless cups of tea, the repetitive asking if I’m okay, the offers to make me a snack. He’s being the perfect husband and I should be grateful, but I’m not used to this much attention and it makes me suspicious, like he’s trying too hard to make up for something.
“How about a foot massage?” He sits at the end of the sofa and touches my feet, and I grit my teeth against the urge to shuffle away.
“You’ve been amazing but I’d really like some me-time, so why don’t you head off to bed?”
He must hear something in my faux solicitousness because his brow furrows like I’ve offended him. But I can’t take it any longer. His over-the-top smothering is at complete odds with the way he reacted to my revelation about my past and I can’t get it out of my head that someone, probably close to me, tried to poison me to teach me a lesson.
“If you’re sure?” He stands, towering over me in a way that makes me oddly uncomfortable.
“I’m sure. Thanks.” I blow him a kiss but he leans down to brush his lips against mine, but he doesn’t linger and I don’t prolong the contact like I normally would.
“Don’t stay up too late and wake me if you need anything.”
I force a smile. “Shall do.”
His knuckles graze my cheek in an affectionate gesture he does often. I usually love it. Tonight, I try not to flinch. It’s crazy, this feeling that I can’t trust him. He’s ne
ver done anything to make me doubt him before and even now I can’t truly believe he had anything to do with slipping those painkillers into my drink. But I’m on edge and feeling vulnerable. I need some space to think this through logically.
“Goodnight,” I say as he heads to the bedroom and he raises a hand in acknowledgement.
I wait until he closes the door before flopping back on the cushions. The bed creaks as he settles and thirty seconds later I hear his soft snores. He always falls asleep the moment his head touches the pillow but I’ll wait an extra half hour before I go to bed too. I can’t face him any more tonight.
My cell buzzes on the side table next to me and I’m surprised to see it’s a text from Christine.
R U HOME?
She’s never texted me before so I pause, wondering what she wants, before replying.
YES.
IS TRENT STILL UP?
Her response is odd, like she doesn’t want to see her brother. In fact, why hasn’t she texted him instead of me? It doesn’t make sense. I fire back.
NO.
I’M OUTSIDE. NEED 2 C U. URGENT.
This is weird. Christine and I don’t socialize apart from family gatherings, so the fact she wants to see me and not Trent at this time of night is bizarre. Not to mention turning up here without warning. All the Parkers have impeccable manners and would never lob on someone’s doorstep without prior notice.
I pad to the apartment door and open it, stunned when Christine staggers in, weaving left and right before she props up against the nearest wall. She’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, matching boots and beanie, when I’ve never seen her in anything other than designer gear. But her dark outfit isn’t as shocking as a burgeoning black eye, a cut lip and bruises that look scarily like fingermarks circling her neck. Her eyes shock me the most: dull, lifeless, like all the fight has drained out of her.
I swallow back the obvious, “What happened to you?” and settle for closing the door before slipping an arm around her waist to help her inside. She leans against me and I lead her to the sofa I’ve just vacated, where I ease her onto it. She groans, her face contorting with pain as her hips sink into the cushions.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say, scurrying to the kitchen to fix her a chamomile tea and adding a side glass of brandy to the tray.
When I re-enter the lounge room she’s tucked into the sofa like she’s trying to disappear, her eyes darting everywhere, scared of her own shadow.
“Here, get this into you.” I lay the tray on the coffee table, not surprised when she downs the brandy first.
I wait, not wanting to pry but needing to know how I can help. After what seems like an eternity, she begins to talk.
“I guess you want to know what I’m doing here looking like this?”
“It had crossed my mind,” I say, with a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to but perhaps you’d feel more comfortable talking to Trent—”
“No.” Her objection is quick, vehement. “I’m sick of the bloody Parkers judging me.”
Ah, so that’s why she’s come to me. She figures the hippy will be more accepting of whatever or whoever has caused this.
“Do you need medical assistance—”
“No.” She shakes her head, before letting out a heartfelt sigh. “Back home, I go to the same people all the time. Vetted guys with regular clientele dealing in high-end stuff.”
She announces her drug addiction calmly, like she expects I already know. I don’t, but I’ve done worse than pop pills or snort coke so I can’t judge. Now I understand why she’s come here and hasn’t gone home—she doesn’t want her mother to see her like this—and why she asked if her brother is in bed. Luckily Trent sleeps like the dead so won’t hear us talking, and wake. Christine would clam up in front of him.
“I know this is a lot to dump on you when we’ve never been close, but this happened nearby and I thought I could clean up before heading home…” She trails off, shame staining her cheeks crimson. “I’m in for one mother of a lecture from Mom.”
Her smile is lopsided but I don’t buy her flippancy. She’s hurting and considering what I’ve been through in my past, I can identify.
“You can stay as long as you like.” I touch her arm, offering reassurance. “We’ve all done stuff we wish we could change.”
“You’re not judging me?” She sounds hesitant, embarrassed, with an underlying hint of defiance.
“I’d never do that.” I shake my head and offer her a genuine smile. “Not my style.”
“Thanks.” She sighs, then winces, wrapping an arm around her middle. I assume it’s for comfort before realizing she could be in more pain than I think.
“Are you sure you don’t need medical attention? I can get a doctor to do a house call—”
“I’ll be fine.” She stares at me for a few moments, as if trying to fathom why I’m being so understanding, before she gives a slight nod to indicate she trusts me. “I’ve had worse.”
My eyes widen and she barks out a sharp laugh. “I got into the whole drug scene early, in my late teens. I was stupid then, didn’t do careful research like I do now, so ended up mixing with the wrong crowd and copping the odd beating when they robbed me. These days back home in New York I only go to regulars so the risk of this happening,” she points to her bruised face, “is minimal.”
“So what happened tonight?”
“I’m checking into rehab tomorrow so I wanted one last hurrah tonight.” She cringes and defeat makes her slump further into the cushions. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” She shudders, her eyes darkening, hiding a world of pain, and I want to hug her. But we’ve never been close and I’m not sure if she’d appreciate any kind of touch right now.
“I just wanted one last chance to feel good, you know?”
She’s trying to justify her behavior but she doesn’t have to do that with me. I’m the queen of explaining away the things I’ve done in the past. Not that she knows it, though I did hint at it a few moments ago by saying we’ve all done stuff we’re not proud of. But the less the Parkers know about me the better. Because I have a bone-deep dread that if they start digging around, they won’t just discover the truth about my past, they’ll find out what I’ve done in an effort not to have a child.
I risk a quick pat on her hand and as expected, she flinches away. “Stay here as long as you like. No questions asked.”
Her eyes fill with tears and she dashes them away with the back of her hand, embarrassment tingeing her cheeks. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Not really.” I shrug, but her praise buoys me. Apart from Ria, who’s always been nice to me, the rest of the Parkers don’t really acknowledge I exist. I’m the kooky, hippy weirdo to them, someone to be tolerated because I’m Trent’s wife. They never see the real me, never have. It has suited me because I don’t want them delving deeper into my life, but it’s nice to have Christine acknowledge I’ve helped her. “I know what it’s like to live with secrets, so take as much time as you like to recover.”
She studies me but doesn’t ask what I mean, which I’m grateful for. Instead, she snaps her fingers. “You must think I’m awfully selfish. I haven’t even asked how you are.”
“I’m fine.” I gesture at the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Your brother has been doting on me all day.”
“He’s a good guy.” She shifts a little, as if trying to ease the pressure on her back. “Out of all of us, he’s the only one.”
Her audible bitterness surprises me. “What about Justin?”
She makes a scoffing sound and a tiny frown slashes her brow. “Justin is a selfish, egotistical narcissist. All he cares about is the Parker Partnership, like Mother. Ashlin may be a cow but I don’t know how she lives with him.”
“Not anymore.” The words pop out and I instantly regret it. The last thing I want is to discuss anything concerning Ashlin.
Christine’s eyebrows rise in surprise.
“You know about their separation?”
I nod, hoping she won’t ask how. I don’t want to reveal that I visited Ashlin in the hospital and why. “They haven’t looked happy for a long time so I think this is best for both of them.”
“How often do you see them?” Her head tilts slightly to the side as she studies me with open curiosity. Damn.
“Every three to four weeks, depending on how often May summons us to keep up the appearance of one big happy family.” I hate the Parker functions but put on a brave face for Trent, who loves seeing his family. “She can be very persuasive.”
Christine grimaces and this time it’s not from pain. “Why do you think I moved to New York as fast as I could after finishing college? I couldn’t wait to get away from her.”
I feel awkward discussing her mother, disloyal somehow, though I’m not remotely close to May. I get the feeling she tolerates me after being married to her son for years.
“She’s always been accepting of me,” I feel obliged to say. “Despite where I grew up she’s never made me feel second-best.”
“That’s because she knows she’s superior to everybody.” Christine sighs and tries a gentle stretch before collapsing back on the cushions. “I know I sound awful, but that’s the way Mom is. She loves for appearances’ sake and tries to help if it affects the company. She only cares about maintaining the prestige of the family name.”
I ask the obvious. “Why did you stay on after her birthday party if you feel this way?”
She shrugs and winces again, gently rolling her shoulders a few times before her grimace eases. “I don’t know. Mom never asks me to stay so when she asked this time I did.” She shakes her head. “I thought things might be different, but she wants to put me into rehab so she can control a problem she’s not been able to resolve.”
“She’s your mom,” I say, like that explains everything, when in fact I can’t imagine living under the same roof as May.
