Oceans Apart (Kingsbury, Karen)

by Kingsbury, Karen

  She took a step closer. He was holding something to his chest, something Michele couldn't make out in the shadows. Probably a favorite toy, or stuffed bear. A special blanket even. Something to remind him of home. She let her eyes adjust to the light in the room and imagined how the boy must feel.

  His mother had been taken from him without warning. In the days since, he'd been forced to live full-time with a baby-sitter, and then hop on a plane—the same kind of plane that had taken his mother's life—and travel across the ocean for a visit with a family he'd never known existed. Perfect strangers, really.

  Yet if she was honest with herself, he was handling the situation better than she was. She stared at him a moment longer. Something made her want to go to him, brush the lock of hair out of his eyes, and whisper to him that everything would be okay one day. That no one blamed him for the strange circumstances they were in.

  But she stopped herself.

  Nothing good could come from letting herself feel for the boy. Merely looking at him, connecting with those green eyes and that beautiful complexion, was enough to make her sick to her stomach. Not because of anything he'd done, obviously, but because his mother had managed to seduce the only man she'd ever loved.

  Michele swallowed a lump in her throat. The woman she detested was the same one the boy cherished every waking moment.

  She turned and left the room. What good could she ever do the boy when she felt that way about his mother? She padded down the hallway and into her bedroom. It was dark, but light from the hallway spilled halfway across the floor. Enough to see her way around, and with silent steps she went to the mirrored sliding doors that hid the closet she shared with Connor.

  The mirrors were kind, the way only a few mirrors were.

  When she needed to feel good about the way she looked she avoided the bathroom mirror and the one standing in an oak frame at the corner of their room. The mirrors in their foyer were no better. But the sliders … the sliders were far more friendly, making the too-curvy parts of her body look long and slender and almost beautiful.

  She went there now and scrutinized her image in the semidarkness, first the side view, then the full front image her body made. Her pants stopped short above the ankle, Capri pants, they were called, a way to dress for the increasingly warmer weather without showing her legs. She angled her head and took in the way they made her legs look. The effect was supposed to be slimming, but was it? Really?

  And what had happened to her plans to lose weight before the camping trip? Back in February she'd written out yet another eating plan, one she'd put together from the dozens of diet books she'd read over the years. Eggs in the morning, tuna salad and an apple at lunch, chicken and vegetables for dinner. She'd written it all out, calculated that if she followed that type of a plan and ate only a handful of raw almonds or a piece of string cheese when she was hungry between meals, she should lose at least two pounds a week. Maybe five pounds early on, since the first week always showed the most impressive loss.

  Michele smoothed the material where it covered her hips. The fleshy feel of her body beneath her fingers actually turned her stomach. What had gone wrong? She hadn't only planned out the meals and written a list of the things she wouldn't go near—Oreo cookies in the afternoon and ice cream after dinner—she'd made a schedule about what to eat and when to pray for strength, and what she'd weigh week by week in the time leading up to the camping trip. If she'd stayed with it, if she'd eaten no sugar and no white flour, and kept her calories at roughly twelve hundred or less each day, then by now she'd be back to her wedding weight.

  Thirty pounds lighter.

  She thought back to the days after she'd made the plan. Days one and two were strong, doable, the way they often were. But by the third day she'd felt a strange sense of confidence, as if somehow handling the rest of the scheduled diet days would be a breeze now that she'd gone forty-eight hours without sugar.

  The memory became clearer in her mind. They'd been at an open house for Elizabeth's class. One of the parents had made oversized chocolate chip cookies, and the entire room pulsed with the smell.

  “Be sure to try Mrs. Edwards's cookies,” the teacher advised them. “Her recipe won first place at the Palm Beach County Fair last year.”

  And there it was. A reason to try the cookies—just a taste. She joined the others gathered around the tray of baked goods and slipped three cookies into her napkin. One for Susan, one for Elizabeth, and one for Connor. She took a piece off Connor's cookie just to say she'd tried it, then offered him the rest.

  But he only shook his head and flashed her a smile. “Thanks, hon, but I'm okay. Too much dinner.”

  Michele gave a light shrug and turned to the girls. Only Susan accepted a cookie. The other two Michele folded into a napkin and set in her purse. But throughout the night she broke off and ate small pieces, and by the end of the evening, she'd eaten both cookies.

  After that she noticed that the tray still held more, so when Connor was busy talking to one of the other parents, she worked her way back to the table, took two more cookies, and wrapped them in the napkin in her purse same as before. That way if Connor or the girls saw her, they'd think the cookies were the same ones they'd turned down. Not Michele's third and fourth cookie for the evening.

  By the time she went home that night, she'd eaten six cookies, and was suffering from indigestion and a bad case of regret. So bad that she'd beaten herself into the wee morning hours, confirming everything that had ever been true about her and her struggle with weight. She was a wretch for not being strong enough, a weak-willed carbohydrate addict who would easily trade a thin future for a handful of chocolate chip cookies. She would never be thin, never lose the extra weight, never wear the clothes she wanted to wear.

  The tape in her head played for hours, and the next day she simply hadn't had the strength to try again. Forget diets, she'd told herself in the morning. Eat healthy food, healthy amounts, and eventually the weight would come off. By that evening when she was eating ice cream with Connor and the girls, the critical voice in her head was little more than a distant memory.

  Michele turned sideways and stared at herself again. How many years had she wasted worrying about her weight? And why had she let a handful of cookies stop her from meeting her goal? Up a few pounds, down a few. The same rut she'd been caught in since being pregnant with Elizabeth.

  Back then, Connor offered to help her, work out with her, or help make sure the house held only nutritious foods. But his offers only made her feel unattractive and self-conscious, as though he was watching every bite she ate. Finally one day after she'd gone shopping for clothes four sizes larger than before, Connor pulled her aside.

  “What can I do, Michele?” The concern in his eyes had been genuine. “You're still beautiful to me, but I can see how miserable you feel. Tell me how to help and I'll do whatever you need.”

  Michele had leveled her gaze at him, hoping he would see that her anger wasn't directed at him, but at herself. “Stop talking about it.”

  His expression went blank. “Stop talking about it?”

  “Yes.” She reached out and took his hand. “I have to figure it out, okay? Every time you say something I think I'm … I don't know, ugly in your eyes.”

  He lowered his eyebrows and came to her, taking her in his arms and holding her for a long while. “I've never thought that a day in my life, Michele. You're the most beautiful woman I know.” He kissed her. “So what if you've gained a little weight? No one would ever call you heavy or think you had a problem.”

  “Well, I do.” Tears filled her eyes. “Obviously, I do. You know how I used to look.” She sniffed hard and pulled back enough to look into his eyes. “I'm just saying it would be better if the changes came from me, without you talking about it.”

  “At all?”

  “At all. It'll be my thing.”

  The memory broke into fragments and disappeared.

  That had been nine years ago. Nine yea
rs and not once had she made good on her promise to Connor. Every plan she'd ever tried had ended in failure, while she survived by justifying her eating habits.

  She would tell herself that she didn't need to diet because she'd stayed about the same weight since having the girls, or she'd remind herself that occasionally she'd still pass some man on the street and feel him smile appreciatively at her. She was still nice looking, still knew how to dress to make the most of her strong points, her long legs and thick, dark hair. As long as she wasn't gaining ten pounds a year, why fret over it?

  But nothing she told herself changed the overwhelming truth.

  She hated being overweight, hated having a closet of clothes that didn't fit her. She frowned at her reflection again and felt her stomach turn. In nine years she hadn't once been successful in her battle to lose weight.

  No wonder Connor had slept with another woman.

  A thought flashed in her mind. Maybe it wasn't her weight; maybe it was something more, something deeper. Something she had done that might have pushed Connor away.

  But the thought was gone before it could take root. She'd done nothing more than eat too much. And that was damage enough.

  Michele slid the door open, flipped on the closet light, and walked to her section of summer clothes. Four pairs of Capri pants, three pairs of shorts, and a handful of short-sleeve blouses. Tomorrow she'd have to draw from that collection in order to pack for the camping trip.

  She pictured how the scene would probably play out.

  Connor would be glued to Max, teaching him how to bait a hook or ride a jet ski, all the while no doubt seeing the boy's mother every time their eyes met. Whoever she was, Michele was certain she'd been thin and striking. Otherwise her husband wouldn't have been tempted to sleep with her.

  Michele stared at her reflection again. And what about her?

  She was about to spend a week with Connor, knowing that every time he looked at her he was likely wondering why she was still wearing bigger sizes, not the petite sizes worn by the flight attendant. The thought of that left her trembling with fury.

  The clothes hanging before her looked like prison issue outfits she'd be forced to wear as punishment for not taking matters into her own hands and doing what she'd said she would do. She backed away, stepped out, and turned the light off. In the time it took her to do that, she made up her mind.

  They could go without her.

  Elizabeth and Susan had been looking forward to the trip for months, so they could still go. But certainly it didn't matter if she didn't come along this time. She could go to her sister's house, sort through the remains of what once was a wonderful life, and see if any sort of salvage was possible.

  God would be okay with that, wouldn't He?

  She would take time to herself at her sister's, read the Bible the way she'd been meaning to since hearing the news about Connor's affair. Maybe if she was away from Connor she'd be able to hear God's voice above the skirmishes in her heart.

  She headed out of her room and down the hallway again. Yes, a little time away from each other would be good for all of them. After all, she wasn't the one who'd been unfaithful. Let Connor sweat a little, let him wonder whether she was leaving him for a week or forever. Connor could handle all three children by himself.

  The girls were wonderful campers, fully capable of putting up the tent, rolling out their sleeping bags, and fishing on the edge of the lake. They'd been able to swim and jet ski since they were kindergartners, and they weren't adventurous enough to stray from Connor.

  The boy? Well, he was Connor's problem. Single parents took kids camping by themselves all the time. With every passing second the idea looked better. Why walk around camp feeling self-conscious all week, worrying if Connor was dreaming of a woman he'd been with some long-ago August? She'd rather not go and avoid the comparison.

  Once her mind was made up, she expected to feel better, expected the ache in her heart to ease some. Instead it felt worse, and that left Michele disoriented and nauseous, able to see something she hadn't seen until that instant.

  There would be no shortcuts climbing free of the tangled web her life had become, because the idea of spending a week away from Connor hurt just as much as spending a week with him. All of which meant that even if she hated herself for it, even if it made her feel desperate and trapped and hopeless, at least for now one truth remained. It was a truth that surprised her.

  She was still in love with her husband.

  NINETEEN

  In the end, Connor did everything he could to talk her into going on the trip.

  Though they missed the service, he met with the pastor Sunday afternoon. He explained the situation and how his night with Kiahna had been a mistake. “The thing is”—Connor leaned forward in the chair opposite the pastor and took hold of the armrests—“it could've happened to anyone. It was a series of bad choices, and it's in the past.”

  “Not for Michele.” The pastor was in his early seventies. He preached only once a month, handing over the pulpit most weeks to his younger associate. His voice was scratchy and unhurried. “For Michele it happened two weeks ago.”

  “I realize that, but I messed up just once. Now she's questioning everything, our entire marriage.”

  The pastor stared at him for a while. “Why are you here, Mr. Evans?”

  “I need help.” Connor raked his fingers through his hair. “We leave for vacation tomorrow, and she doesn't want to go with us. All because of Max.”

  “I suspect she's troubled by more than Max.”

  “Look.” Connor glanced at his watch. He'd come to the man for a quick fix, advice that might clear the fog of confusion and make everything right again. “I can't do anything about the past. And she doesn't want to talk about it, anyway.” He exhaled in a short burst through his teeth. “Her attitude's bringing all of us down. I know she's hurt, but that woman meant nothing to me. It was an accident and it's long over. Everything's been fine for years. How can I make Michele forgive?”

  “Only God can do that, but I can give you a hint …” He settled back in his chair, his gnarled hands folded across his lap the way he might look if he were praying. “It'll start with you.”

  With me?

  Anger filled Connor's senses. He clenched his jaw and then in sudden defeat he gave up and released a soft chuckle. The pastor obviously hadn't heard a word he'd said. “With me?”

  The man gave a slow nod. “Yes. With you.”

  “Okay.” Connor chuckled again. “Whatever.”

  They exchanged a few more words, but the conversation was over. Michele didn't understand him, and neither did the pastor. He'd have to figure a way out of the mess he was in without anyone's help.

  As he left the church office, Connor shot a look at the scattered clouds above him. “God … looks like it's You and me on this one.”

  The statement was only half serious, and Connor heard no audible answer, no strong sense of knowing deep within him. If God had been listening to his prayers, he never would have run across Kiahna in the first place. Connor climbed in his car and strapped on his determination.

  He would get home and do what he could to convince Michele to come with them.

  When he found her in their bedroom half an hour later, he reminded her that their time with Max wouldn't be an actual trial run if she wasn't there; and he added that Elizabeth and Susan would certainly find it strange that their mother had taken a private vacation instead of joining the family at the lake.

  By Sunday night, he resorted to begging.

  “Please, Michele. Come with us.” He found her standing at the rail on the balcony off their second-story bedroom, but still she kept her back to him. “I need you there.”

  She lifted her chin and stared at the dusky horizon, beyond the row of houses that made up their neighborhood. “I can't.”

  Anger splashed itself against the moment. “I've never asked much of you, Michele. But just this once—”

  “Wha
t?” She spun around and faced him, her eyes wide. “ You've never asked much of me?” She laughed in that new, acid way he'd come to expect. “You asked me to wait at home for weeks on end while you flew from Los Angeles to Honolulu … nine months of that, Connor. You asked me to care for our girls, keep up our home, and never stop praying that you'd get reassigned back in Florida. On top of all that you asked me to be faithful, and guess what? I was, Connor. Sure, it was lonely, but always I knew that someday you'd be coming home for good.” She lowered her voice. “Let's talk about what I've asked of you.”

  He took a step backwards, knowing what was coming, knowing that listening to her spell it out was part of his punishment.

  “Just be true to me, Connor. That's all I asked. Go to work and come home still in love with only me, forever and ever.” She hesitated, seeming to gain some sort of control over her anger and hurt. When she spoke again, her voice was a quiet kind of steel. Gentle, but utterly unbendable. “Don't ask me to go, Connor. I can't.” Her eyebrows relaxed some, and she turned once more toward the railing. “I won't.”

  She spent the night with one of the girls again, and made sure they were packed. He took care of himself and Max, and when it came time for bed, he tucked the boy in with a smile that took every ounce of his effort. “Excited about the trip?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy pulled the covers up to his chin. Neither his tone nor his expression gave away any of what he might be feeling.

  Connor sat on the edge of the boy's bed and pursed his lips. “Max …”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You don't have to call me sir anymore.”

  A layer of formality faded from Max's eyes, but he said nothing.

  “ Sir is for strangers, and the two of us … well”—Connor cocked his head to the side and grinned at the boy—“we're more like good friends who never got to meet until this week. Okay?”

  Max made a little gulping sound. He nodded his head a few times. “Okay.”

  In the moonlight, the boy's face, the angles and curves of it, were so like his own, so like his father's. He'd been too busy handling Michele to take time simply to study the child and marvel at the fact that the boy was his.