by Kate Meader
* * *
—
Packing up, I turn at the sound of a knock on my bedroom door.
“Mom!”
She looks behind me as if she expects to find I have company. It’s only Cat Damon, who mewls away at the sight of a visitor. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” I stand aside to allow her to walk past me. She takes a seat in an armchair while I sit on the bed.
“Well, well, well, all this drama!” She flicks a hand dismissively. “Your father yet again making it about him.”
“I’m sorry you were embarrassed at the party. I know that’s the worst thing that could have happened.”
She looks at me quizzically. “Worse than my husband leaving me for Kathy in Human Resources all those years ago? Worse than finding out my daughter has been carrying this pain and chose not to tell me?”
“Mom, we’re not that kind of family. I’ll be honest and say you’re the last person I would ever confide in.”
A brief flash of something—pain, perhaps?—shadows my mother’s face, but she quickly schools it like the pro she is. “Do you ever wonder why I did not encourage the mother-daughter confidences? Why I have sent you out on your own and expected you to fly without my help?”
“It had crossed my mind.” My voice is shaking.
“Because I have always had faith that you would be the woman I could never be. Independent, strong, unconcerned with propriety. You were my miracle child, and—”
“I was your what?”
“We all know your father is eminently fertile. Did you ever wonder why we had no biological children of our own?”
Because…she couldn’t. I’d always assumed she just wasn’t all that maternal. My heart catches hard. “Why didn’t I know this?”
“It was not necessary. Or…” She pauses, tilts her head. “We just didn’t talk about these things. These days, everyone is so willing to share on Facebook and the Tweeter.” She waves a Gallic hand. “But back then we didn’t have the same outlets. I was new in the States, friendless, a pariah for stealing the heart of a married man. They all looked down on me, those women at the country club. Your father was useless, didn’t want to see a doctor. Didn’t see the importance of it when we already had the boys. And then came you.”
The words gush out of me. “I was forced on you. Dad’s mistake, the defining symbol of his infidelity. How could you even stand me?”
Her eyes shimmer. “Perhaps I have not been as outwardly loving as I should have been. I did not want your father to think he had won, I suppose. The boys were always so needy—they are boys after all—but you, Aubrey? So independent, always striving. Determined to make it on your own. I admired you for it, and perhaps resented you for being the woman I could never be. So unconcerned with what anyone thinks.”
“I cared what you thought!” But do I still? I stand, needing to be upright to express this. “I’ve always cared and I thought I was a constant disappointment to you. You hated that I became a lawyer—”
“A divorce lawyer, Aubrey.”
“You hated that I married Grant.”
“I thought it dangerous. The man is obsessed with you.”
In a way Dad was never obsessed with her. “Is that the problem? Are you jealous?”
“Green with it, petit.” She smiles as if this excuses everything. Before me is some sort of shape-shifter, a chameleon inventing new arguments for whichever wrong she feels should be defended in the moment. None of it makes a cohesive defense, and dammit, no one knows the laws of emotional baggage like I do.
“You can’t do this. You can’t wipe away years with a confession about the baby you couldn’t have and that I somehow failed to adequately replace. You can’t tell me you wanted me to be independent and in the next breath tell me my makeup isn’t right or I’m not wearing the right fucking gloves. And you certainly can’t tell me that you don’t like my husband because he loved me too much. No. Nah-ah. Not going to fly.”
She lets out a breath. “Nothing I say is what you want to hear.”
“How about an apology?”
“You are right. I—I didn’t know what to do with you, this beautiful girl who proved my husband wasn’t the problem. He found a woman to give him a child, and then he expected me to clean up after his mess.”
“Me. The mess.”
“Yet…” She looks thoughtful, as if the word she just uttered wasn’t in any way hurtful. “I loved you the moment I met you, all while hating myself for my failure. And if I was to be your mother, then I would mold you into the child I wanted. But you resisted. Always.”
Tears threaten; my throat is tight. “My childhood felt like a battlefield. Torn between trying to please you and seeking Dad’s wandering attention. I didn’t know about your loss. But I understand that it must have been awful to have to raise the child of your husband’s mistress. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but it wasn’t fair of you to punish me for it.”
“I took it on, but perhaps not as wholeheartedly as you deserved.” She squeezes my hand, but it can’t make up for how small I feel. How inadequate I’ve always felt. One conversation filled with excuses and halfhearted apologies can’t absolve a lifetime of feeling like crap.
I withdraw my hand.
I haven’t always felt unloved, however. Libby made those early years bearable. And then I met a boy, a wonderful southern boy who gave me his heart on sight. Who never doubted me even as I doubted myself.
Grant has always treated me with such reverence and love, it breaks my heart to realize I don’t deserve him. But this knowledge has an upside. Having experienced a relationship built on love and respect, I know I can help my mother.
“Mom, you deserve so much better than Jeffrey Gates. Let me help you put an end to this and get back your self-respect.”
“Aubrey, that’s not nec—” She catches herself, perhaps recognizing that her stale denials will no longer stand up in a court of law. I’ve seen something in her—something redeemable—and there’s no stuffing it back in the bottle. “You shouldn’t have to concern yourself with that. I will resolve it.”
“I want to. I want to give you the benefit of my legal expertise and life experience. You don’t have to go through this alone.” I hug her, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, she squeezes back, an acknowledgment of our new and fragile bond. One that I hope will strengthen as we learn how to be honest with each other at last.
Chapter 22
Grant
“About time you showed your handsome face!” My mother grabs my jaw and pulls me down to kiss her. “Heck, you’ve gotten taller than a Chicago skyscraper.”
I stopped growing at sixteen, but Sherry tells me this every time I see her. “Somethin’ in the Windy City water.” I say that every time, too.
Jake appears behind my momma and reaches around to offer his hand. “Grant. Good to see you.”
“You, too. Happy Thanksgiving. Sorry to get in so early. Or late.” It’s two in the morning, and I was lucky to catch the last flight out of Boston. “I just had to…” I shake my head.
“Hon, what’s wrong?” Momma is all concern, her blue eyes shimmering. “Is it Aubrey?”
“Yeah, but there’s more. Where’s Bug?”
“She’s staying over with friends. We thought you weren’t coming in until later this morning. She’ll be furious she’s not here to greet you.”
“Might be better for the moment. Momma, I need to tell you something.” I drag in a ragged breath. “I need to tell you why Aubrey and I fell apart.”
Eighteen minutes later I’m knocking back my second beer and cringing at my momma’s tears. Thankfully Jake’s there to do his job and soothe.
“You should have told me,” she sobs.
“I know. But I though
t I was protecting Aubrey. She’s so contained, and while years with me has opened her up some, she’s still this girl with the Yankee code. Get on with it. Don’t dwell. It’s not healthy, but it’s how she was raised.”
Jake rubs my mom’s back and says to me, “Thanks for telling us, Grant. I know it must be hard for you to talk about.”
“It is, but it’s been getting easier. Aubrey and I hashed it out, finally. I thought we were getting somewhere, but it’s two steps forward, five steps back with her. When it happened, I tried to operate on her level, but it just—it just came out of me one day when Libby called. I’d been holding it in.” I grasp Sherry’s hands. “I’m sorry I confided in another woman instead of you, Momma. I was trying to be strong for my wife, and then one phone call, and it came tumbling out.”
Sherry won’t hold it against me. The woman wouldn’t know a grudge if it packed a punch. “I’m just glad you shared it with someone, hon. No one should have to bear that alone.”
That’s how I’d felt, flying solo in this grief bubble made for two. And now I’m angry all over again that my wife would put me through that. If she had told me the truth—not just that it had happened before but that she was going through hell—then maybe we could have figured this out.
“Aubrey’s still in Boston,” Jake says. “So where do you two stand?”
Back to square one. Though that’s not entirely true. We made some strides these last few days, but I don’t know what it means for us. I just know I had to get away from her before I said something I couldn’t take back.
“She thinks she can’t be enough for me. Because she failed once—twice—and I know she doesn’t want to go through that again. But I could’ve told her that was never the goal.” She was the goal. It was always her, and everything else was gravy.
And now? I have no idea.
* * *
—
“Do you like it?”
I regard the bracelet comprised of shocking pink and neon orange beads my sister has just made for me and pull on the elasticated band to test its strength. Unfortunately it holds.
“Love it, Bug.”
She gives me a sly smile. “Time you tapped into your feminine side.”
Little huckster knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Suits you,” Jake says with a laugh as soon as Zoe heads into the kitchen to help my mom.
“It’s my own fault for getting her a jewelry-making kit.” I take a draught of my beer and turn back to the Falcons game. We’re getting our asses handed to us, which fits my mood just fine.
“Can’t believe how big she’s getting,” Jake muses. “Seems like only yesterday I was changing diapers, terrified if she shed a tear, afraid to go to sleep in case something happened to her and I couldn’t be around.” He catches my eye, his expression changing from nostalgia to concern.
“It’s okay,” I say, allaying his worry that he’s stepped in it. “I can talk about babies and not fall apart.” It’s Aubrey I can’t reckon with right now. For two years, I’ve lived with the guilt of how I might have contributed to her miscarriage. Two years of misery without her. When I tried to talk to her, she kept the pertinent details to herself—we have a name for that in the law. It’s called nondisclosure of exculpatory evidence. My then wife elected to keep the fact of her prior miscarriage to herself.
I’d like to have known to make myself feel better.
But mostly I’d like to have known so I could make her feel better.
“Mind if I ask you somethin’ personal?”
Jake’s expression says he minds big-time, but he merely mutters, “Go ahead.”
“My momma’s a pretty independent woman, so I’m guessing that might have given you some trouble when you started this.”
Jake’s frown turns to a smirk. “You could say that. She’d lived her whole life doing it her way. Insisted we split the bills at restaurants. Wouldn’t let me fix her damn toilet without calling around first to find out the going rate for a plumber so’s she could pay me that and then some. Hell, when she got pregnant, and I asked to marry her, she said no. Twice.”
I smile because I’ve clearly hit a sore spot. “How’d you get through to her?”
“She had to come at it from her own angle. Figure out where we fit together and what we could do for each other. It took a while for her to let her guard down. Open herself up to me.” He sips from his beer. “Your Aubrey’s a tough nut to crack, I’m guessin’.”
“You guess right.” But we were getting somewhere in Boston. Everywhere she was surrounded by slings and arrows: cute-as-button nieces and nephews, Janice hassling her about having a baby, her mother’s condescension, her father’s immaturity. I’m supposed to be her rock, yet here I am, miles away.
Did I bail too soon, not give her the chance she deserved? But what about the chance I deserved, the one she refused to offer to let me heal her? Christ, I hate feeling like this. Bitterness is most definitely not my jam.
My phone pings with a call from Lucas. I really should ignore it, but having my brain sandblasted with his inanity seems as good a distraction as any.
“Think this is about work,” I tell Jake as I head into the parlor for privacy. “Yup?”
“Well, cheerio to you, too, mate!”
I growl. “Not in the mood, mate.”
“Listen, I had a call from one of your clients.” He launches into a lengthy monologue about how a client needed a shoulder to cry on in my absence and how he now thinks I ought to be giving him some sort of holiday bonus. I reckon this ridiculous convo has some purpose, but I don’t have the energy to cut him off. He’ll get there in the end.
Significant cough. Finally. “Max told me about the baby, Grant. I’m really sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks. It was a long time ago, though.”
“Yeah, I know, but I imagine it’s still pretty raw this week now you’re hangin’ with your ex. I wish you’d spilled. I could’ve helped, if only to make you laugh. I’m told I’m quite amusing.”
“You mean, like you opened up about Lizzie?” His twin sister died a few months ago after being bedridden in a nursing home for over a decade. I’ve known the guy for seven years and found out about her existence a month ago.
“Touché,” he says easily, which makes me feel guilty for snapping at him. “But now I talk about her all the time. Trin can’t shut me up.” He takes a breath. “I can recommend a therapist.”
“The only person I’ve ever wanted to talk about this with is the one person who can’t. Who insists on following her own blueprint for grief. I can’t make her open up about it. I’ve tried.” Things were starting to turn in my favor this last week, a small step toward my dreamed-of future. “How did you get over it, Lucas? Losing this person who was such a big part of you?”
“I didn’t,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t want to. I want to keep her here.” After a pause, he adds, “I’m touching my chest in a most heartfelt manner, by the way.”
I laugh, wondering at how little I truly know him. You spend all this time with someone, but their interior workings remain hidden, too complex to navigate properly.
“See, I am exactly what you need, mate!”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“That’s the spirit! Listen, Grant,” he says, his tone lower, graver. “This thing about Aubrey insisting she follow her own blueprint for grief—that’s okay. There isn’t one way to mourn. Everyone handles it differently, and it isn’t always linear. Sure, shrinks will tell you that there are stages, and maybe you’ve reached acceptance and Aubs is still stuck in depression. Or every now and then you go back to anger because this person was taken away from you and it’s just so bloody unfair. Not just because you’ve lost them, but because it forced you to change how you feel. That’s a lot for someone as cont
rolling as Aubrey to handle.”
He’s right—and whoever thought I’d say that about Lucas? Aubrey’s emotions have always operated on an even plane, a defense mechanism she’s employed to control her life. I’ve usually had an easier time tapping into my inner resources. Comes from having a mom who was constantly asking me how I felt about stuff. We’re that close, that I’d be more likely to tell her than not. But Aubrey? Losing our unborn child forced her to acknowledge feelings she’d been trying to suppress forever about her neglectful father, her cold mother, and all the pain she’s kept inside about her upbringing.
Lucas is still talking because that’s what the man does.
“Now that all the feelings are out in the open—they are out in the open, right?”
“Yeah, they’re running around naked and taking big bites out of the scenery.”
“Mega! So it’s this big mess of shit that’s spewed all over everything. Stinking up the place. It had to get really ugly, it had to break out of its confines, it had to—”
“Lucas, could you get to the point? If you have one?”
He tuts. “You are testy, mate. What I’m trying to say is that you needed to blow it up before you could heal the rift. But it won’t be the same, Grant. It can’t be.”
I think on this. “I just want it to be ‘us’ again. Grant and Aubrey. What we had.” In this I think Aubrey and I are in agreement. We want to return to the certainty of “before.”
“Maybe this is your new normal. Instead of thinking that you have to land on the big X that marks your previous state of happiness or what you thought was your perfect life before this big event, maybe you just acknowledge that life is too messy for such clear-cut compartmentalization.” He chuckles. “Bloody ’ell, say that ten times fast!”
I want to accept this wisdom even though it doesn’t fix my current problem: Aubrey and I are miles apart, physically and emotionally.
And I fucking hate that.
“Hey, thanks. For calling, for listening, for—you know. Being an annoying friend.”
