by Rice, Luanne
“Never,” Serge said, the word forceful and passionate.
May believed him. She knew about mistakes made in a moment that shadowed all the moments to come.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his eyes glittering with tears.
“Because you’re Martin’s father,” she said. “Because you’re so important to him.” The blue notebook testified to deeper reasons, but she couldn’t tell him.
“Did he say that?”
“He doesn’t have to,” May said.
“He hates me.”
May stared at his hand. If the guards weren’t standing there, she would have taken it. She cleared her throat. “I thought I hated my father,” she said. “For a few minutes, I guess I actually did. By the time I realized I’d made a mistake, it was too late. I couldn’t see what was right there until he was gone. I don’t want that to happen to Martin.”
“What’s he missing?” Serge asked. “What doesn’t he see?”
“I’m not sure yet.” May was struck by the question, reminded of something Kylie had said to Dr. Whitpen. “He won’t talk about it. Maybe this summer, when the season ends—”
“Martin keeps everything inside,” Serge said. “He always has. When he was little, he got hit in the head with a puck. Didn’t tell me, didn’t tell his mother. We found him bleeding from his ear when we tucked him in that night. Later he told us he thought we’d be mad at Ray Gardner—his best friend—for hitting him, or we wouldn’t let him play the next day.”
“Were you mad at Ray?”
Serge shook his head. “Of course not. Ray was like a brother to Martin. Still is, from what I can tell. But Martin did have a concussion.”
“A concussion?” May asked.
Serge exhaled. “The first of many. That’s hockey for you. You’ve seen his scars, the scar tissue around his eyes. From what I read about him, he’s in the line of fire every game. He nearly lost his eye a few years back, in a fight with Jorgensen. He talk about that?”
“Nils Jorgensen?” May asked. “Yes—his enemy.”
“They hate each other, those two,” Serge said. “I know how it is, eh? When Martin’s mother divorced me, I took it out on a guy who played for Boston at the time. I couldn’t wait to play the Bruins. So I could beat the hell out of their right wing. The divorce was my fault, bien sûr, but I couldn’t see it that way at the time.”
“Why blame anyone, right?”
“Non! I thought it was Agnes’s fault, her father’s fault, even Martin’s fault. Everyone’s but mine, believe me. I was a mess. The Boston player was damned easy to hit—the rest of the time I tried to prove my worth at the roulette wheel, the craps table. See, I thought if I was lucky there, I must be a good person.”
“How do you mean?”
“I believe in le bon Dieu, May. I believed that if I won at gambling, God was tipping the odds in my favor. He wouldn’t do that for a bad man.”
May smiled.
“I was a bad husband,” he said. “And father. I was trying to change that, though. When Natalie came along…” his voice cracked. “I promised myself I’d be the best grandfather I could. I’d be there for Martin, help him not to make the same mistakes I did. I’d baby-sit, I’d love that little girl.”
“You did love her,” May said. “I can hear that.”
“I let her die,” Serge said, his eyes washed in terrible grief and pain. “No matter what else I felt or did, that part’s true.”
“But you didn’t mean to.”
“Non,” he said, bowing his head. “I did not.”
A bell rang, and people began to move. “Time!” a guard yelled. The crowd was restless, and tension rose. People trying to embrace were thrust apart by guards. May wanted to hold Serge’s hand, kiss his cheek. He was her father-in-law, and she could feel his love for Martin and Natalie across the space that separated them.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said, wiping his eyes.
“I wish I didn’t, too.”
“You have a beautiful daughter, très jolie. I have seen her pictures. I’m certain—” he trailed off.
“What?” she asked as a guard gestured for her to leave.
“I’m sure she brings Martin joy. He loved having a daughter.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” she said, staring into his eyes. She thought of her own father, who would be just about the same age as Serge. If only she could have one last minute with him, say whatever she wanted…what would it be?
“Martin’s balance, is it okay?” Serge asked suddenly. “I watch him on TV, and sometimes it seems to me he’s off a little—that he favors his right side, as if he’s having problems with his left.”
“It seems fine to me,” May said, surprised.
“Maybe he needs glasses,” Serge said. “After all those hits to the head.”
May nodded. Her heart hurt; the guards were telling her to leave. She had his postcards, the blue notebook in her bag. She couldn’t believe the visit was over.
“Tell him something for me, will you?” Serge asked.
“Of course.”
“Tell him I love him,” Serge said.
“I will,” May promised, her voice breaking. Her father-in-law had just taken the words out of her mouth. Because she couldn’t think of anything better to say, she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. A guard stepped forward to hurry her out. Serge protested loudly, but it didn’t matter.
He went back behind one thick steel door, and May, looking over her shoulder, walked freely through another. She had intended to check her notebook, look up the words Kylie had said to Dr. Whitpen last summer, but in the emotion of the moment, she forgot.
May returned home and couldn’t wait the four days for Martin to get home from his road trip. Driving down to Black Hall, she worked extra hours, helping Tobin prepare and send out a huge Bridal Barn mailing. While Aunt Enid baby-sat Kylie, they worked until midnight, watching Martin’s game on TV.
“When I came in yesterday, Enid told me you had an unexpected trip,” Tobin said, stuffing brochures from one stack into envelopes from another.
“I went to upstate New York,” May said.
“Something to do with Kylie?” Tobin asked.
“Why?” May asked, surprised.
“I’ve seen you looking at the diary lately. The dream notebook. I thought you had finished with Dr. Whitpen.”
“I had,” May said, looking over at Tobin. Going through the notebook, she had found the entry from last July: “Some people can’t see with their eyes,” Kylie had said to the doctor. What could that have to do with Serge asking “What doesn’t he see?” Probably nothing, but the connection left May feeling unsettled. May wanted so badly to tell Tobin everything. The barn was dark except for one circle of light over their work space and the TV’s violet glow. The owls were busy, hunting the fields outside. May leaned on the table, feeling tired.
“You can tell me, May,” Tobin said.
“I know,” May said.
“Have things changed that much? We never talk the way we used to.”
“Kylie still has dreams,” May told her, letting go. “She still talks about angels.”
“Your imaginative girl,” Tobin said warmly.
“Dr. Whitpen thinks,” May began slowly, “that Kylie’s sightings are all connected. The thing is, some of it involves Martin and his family.”
“I know you think you shouldn’t talk about Martin to me, but you can,” Tobin said. “I swear you can. My marriage has been rocky before; maybe I should have talked to you more.”
“We’re not rocky,” May said quickly.
“I didn’t mean to say you are.”
“It sounded…”
“Just, I want you to know that you can trust me.”
The two women spoke fast, their words tumbling over each other as they tried to get the ideas out.
“I do trust you,” May said finally, taking a deep breath. “You know I’ve been keeping track
of Kylie’s thoughts in the blue diary, and for so long—” May began.
“For so long, you’ve worried about her.”
“I have,” May said.
“What did Dr. Whitpen say?”
“That she wants to bring Martin and his father back together.”
“The father’s in prison,” Tobin said, shivering. “John showed me an article in Sports Today. It must be horrible, trying to face everything that happened. For Martin and for you and Kylie.”
May fell silent. She knew Tobin meant to be supportive, but suddenly, her defenses rising, she felt protective of the Cartiers. Wanting to tell her best friend about her meeting with Serge, the battle she knew she would have with Martin, May couldn’t find the words.
Just then the camera panned to Martin, and May saw his face on the TV screen. She stopped in mid-thought, squinting as she tried to see what Serge had said about Martin favoring his right side.
When the camera zoomed in on Martin’s face, she saw the wild rage in his eyes and she shivered as she wondered where it began and ended. Tears flooded her eyes, and she knew she couldn’t talk more about his private demons. It would betray some essential trust between them.
May heard Tobin make a sound, a moan of disappointment. Glancing across the table, she saw her best friend bowing her head.
“Tobe,” May said, knowing that she had hurt her deeply.
“When you’re ready,” Tobin said, her voice choked up, “I’m here.”
“I know,” May said. She turned to watch her husband on TV, feeling a sense of dread building in her chest.
Four days and nights passed after her visit to Estonia. After midnight, lying in their bed, with the windows open and the spring breeze blowing through the room, she heard his key in the lock. May pulled on her robe and walked downstairs to meet him. He had played a game in Montreal that night, been traveling for hours, and he looked exhausted.
“Martin,” she said, walking into his arms.
“Je t’aime, je t’aime,” he said.
Dropping his hockey bag, he kissed her deeply, and she could feel that they were both breathless. When they stopped, he wouldn’t let her go. She saw him staring at her hard, as if he’d missed her more than he’d expected. The lines around his face and mouth made him look tired, and she took him by the hand.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “Want me to make you a sandwich? Some soup?”
“Let me look at you.”
“Why?” she laughed.
“This trip seemed really long. We won all our games, and I wished you were there.”
May swallowed, looked away. She knew she could have gone to all or some of his games, but her trip to Estonia had prevented that. Her secret felt like a stone lodged in her heart.
“Come sit down,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”
“It’s late,” he said, laughing and pulling her close again. “Forget talking—I want to take you upstairs.”
His embrace was hot and rough, and May felt his hands sliding down her back, his arms wrapping around her. The secret scraped her insides, but she knew she could wait until tomorrow to tell him.
“I’ve been waiting days for this,” he said.
“Me, too,” she whispered.
He grabbed his bag, stopping by the hall table to drop off his car and house keys. As he did, he noticed May’s small travel case sitting on the chair. She had been carrying it the day they’d first met: she always took it with her on trips because it held her plane tickets, guidebooks, and maps so conveniently.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, grinning as he glanced up. “No,” she said. He hugged her greedily, and the stone in her heart grew hard and hot. Not telling him was one thing; lying was another. “I went somewhere,” she said.
“You did?”
May nodded, and Martin saw the truth in her eyes. She felt so guilty for going behind his back, but at the same time so hopeful for what she knew could happen between him and Serge. “Martin,” she began.
He stepped away, shook his head. “I don’t want to know.”
“I have to tell you—”
“I am tired, May. It is time for bed, eh?”
May grabbed his hands and shook them, forcing him to look her in the eyes. His gaze went all over the entry hall: at the paintings on the wall, the keys on the small table, a package of invitations for Kylie’s birthday party. May was shaking, and she jogged Martin’s hands hard.
“Listen to me!” she said.
“Non! ” he said, his blue eyes cold. “Ecoutez! You listen to me. I want you to burn his postcards, put all thoughts of him out of your mind. Don’t tell me anything more. I don’t want to know.”
The truth was right there for them both to see. Fate had brought them together on that plane a year ago. Love was their destiny, and they had lessons to teach each other. The rift between Martin and his father had brought May closer to her own past, and she felt the healing of love, truth, and forgiveness. She had to find the words, she had to make Martin see. It’s so easy, she wanted to tell him. It’s so incredible, so simple!
Instead, she forced her thoughts to slow down and she made her voice gentle and steady. “I have a message for you,” she said. “From your father.”
“No,” Martin said, his eyes bright and intense.
“He wanted me to tell you he loves you. He—”
But Martin didn’t stick around to hear the rest. Grabbing his hockey bag and keys, he bolted outside. The door slammed behind him, so loud it sounded like the metal doors in prison. “That’s what you don’t see,” she cried after him. “How to understand and forgive!” May listened to the echo of her own voice, and she wondered if Kylie had heard it in her sleep. She stood rooted to the floor, wanting to run after him, knowing she had to stay with her child.
May waited for Martin to turn around and come back home. When that didn’t happen, she waited all night for the phone to ring. She waited in the hallway, shivering in her nightgown while the sun came up. She fixed Kylie’s breakfast, dressed her for school, tried to act as if everything was fine. She told herself Martin was just angry, that he’d be home as soon as he cooled down.
She made herself go to work. Aunt Enid asked whether she was sick, coming down with something, and when May went to the bathroom she looked at her face in the mirror and saw the dark circles under her eyes: She looked as if she’d had the fright of her life.
The entire day passed without any word. Driving home to Boston, she was sure there would be a message on the machine, or even that Martin would be waiting in their bedroom. Was what she had done so unforgivable? Couldn’t Martin see, finally, that she had done it for him, for them?
But he wasn’t there, and he didn’t call. May made dinner for Kylie, read her a story, put her to bed. She sat on Kylie’s bed long after the child had fallen asleep, after the sky grew dark and the city lights came twinkling on. Her heart racing, she started every time she heard a car door slam.
When the phone rang at one in the morning, May knew it was Martin. She was terrified of what he was going to say. She hoped she was wrong.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” he said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m—” he paused. “I am at a hotel.”
“In Boston?” she asked, feeling pressure in her chest, as if her heart had just dissolved.
“Yes.”
“Come home,” she whispered.
“No, May.”
She saw the lights outside the window. Beacon Hill sloped down to the Common, with thousands upon thousands of lights glowing in houses, offices, and hotels. Martin was somewhere out there—within sight, within walking distance. Her eyes filled with tears.
“You wouldn’t listen to me,” he said. “I tried to tell you how I feel about my father, eh? What he did was unforgivable, yet you’ve been determined to force something.”
“Force?” May asked, wanting to laugh. The word was so hard for what she had been trying
to do. Ease, maybe; heal, soften.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’m staying here now. It’s better, I think, that we are apart. You couldn’t be happy with me, with things the way they are.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “We were trying, learning together—”
“But you refused to accept me as I was,” he said. “You had to go see him. You wouldn’t believe me when I told you that I consider some things unforgivable.”
“I’ve learned that about you tonight,” May said, gulping back tears.
“Tonight?”
“Yes,” she said. “You can’t forgive me for reaching out to your father, so now you’ve left me. You’ve closed the door on me, like you closed it on him.”
“May—”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll come pick up my things tomorrow while you are out. Goodbye.”
May let out a cry, but Martin had already hung up. Holding the phone, she stared out at the lights of Boston and wondered which one was Martin. She asked herself why she hadn’t listened to him, how she had let this happen. And she realized that perhaps she had forced something, that maybe some of this had been a test.
Her worst fear—and Kylie’s—had been that if Martin could write off his father, who could say he wouldn’t do it to them?
He was gone now; he had written them off. She had thought the bond they had felt from the beginning would protect her, protect their love.
She had been wrong.
Chapter 16
MARTIN SLAMMED THROUGH THE NEXT few games, a tornado of human fury. He scored hat tricks in every one, and the papers called him a winning machine. Ripping face masks, slashing his stick, pounding every opponent into the boards, he was berserk. He wanted blood, and he got it.
His skating changed. He would run—not glide—down the ice. In practice, the Bruins goalie told others that Martin looked inhuman, like a movie Cyclops with one eye closed, the other lit up, flashing and glowing, as he flew toward the net with the puck on his stick.
Ray tried to talk to him, and Martin snarled at him. Coach wanted to discuss his increasing time in the penalty box and Martin stalked away. He swung at a reporter who wanted to discuss May’s absence from the latest home games, and his picture appeared in the next day’s paper, looking like a killer.
