Bones are Made to be Broken

by Anderson, Paul Michael

She watched the car peel away from the curb, then brought her hands around from behind her, forced the locked fingers to loosen and open. The flesh of her palms was bruised. Two or three bloody crescent moons, black under the streetlamp, looked up at her.

  “See you, then,” she muttered.

  Karen listened to the others—to Edna, who still visited her abusive, senile mother in the nursing home; to Robert, who sometimes couldn’t help wondering if it’d been worth it to be disowned by his family for coming out, only to have his partner die of AIDS a year later.

  It was like church—members providing the stories and psalms, and Roberts coming in to show how they were applicable. Like the others, she noticed, Robert didn’t look at anyone for too long, favoring instead to look at the alley beyond, to study the shadows beyond the reach of the house lights.

  Karen would never know the pain of not being able to stop visiting an abusive parent who could no longer remember her name, let alone what had been done to her, never comprehend the monstrous guilt that came with the thought Why did I bother after watching her lover painfully shuffle off the mortal coil, but that hardly mattered. These people had scars, like she did; wounds that had “healed” in the technical sense, but, like an old bone break throbbing during wet weather, had never really stopped hurting.

  These were people confused and unsure, guilt-laden and shame-filled with the decisions they’d made or the actions they’d taken. There was comfort in shared pain, even if everyone’s pain was different and singular. St. Jude’s message was both true and not true: They weren’t ever alone. They were always alone.

  Only two meetings and it felt like she’d been coming here forever. She listened to the others cut into themselves and fumbled for the right word. Home. This was home. A home for her pain. A home for her guilt over her parenting and her failed marriage and, yes, even her childhood. A home for the shame that came tagging along with the guilt.

  (home’s not with your child apparently)

  (i just don’t like this it’s not safe)

  She watched Roberts pace the circle. Nick held court within her mind. Nick leaning against the car, Nick looking at her with that way of his that always seemed to say You know I’m right, right? Nick saying he didn’t like the idea of their son walking city-blocks alone just to come home to more of the same.

  (hey—welcome to the fears of parent glad you could join us)

  (think about it though he might be better with us)

  She exhaled and refocused on Roberts.

  “—this is the thing,” he said, “this is the crux of who we are. All of our hopes and dreams and desires, they’re built upon a foundation of fear and guilt and shame, of old pains and hidden, horrendous beliefs. We couldn’t get to the good without the bad things propelling us forward. Action and reaction. But we’re taught to ignore that bad, deny it exists, leading us to be surprised when it comes roaring back at a weakened moment.”

  She looked down at her hands, rolled loosely into fists on her knees. She wore a button-shirt, like always, but the cuffs were undone, revealing the evidence of her cutting. Two weeks and they were almost healed, but she could still see the cuts that had been there, the worm-like scabs, could still remember the instantaneous shout of fresh pain that would momentarily push aside everything else.

  “No one ever gets better,” Roberts said. “You only gain distance.”

  She saw Kevin walking the two blocks home from the bus stop. She thought of the traffic of Butler Street. She imagined white windowless vans and shadowed alleys, of Kevin passing by them.

  (welcome to the fears of parenting)

  The throb of being unsure, of wondering if the decisions she’d made would harm her son. Parenting was painful, and not in that Hallmark-y, I-have-to-let-my-child-go bittersweet way. Every action could lead to Kevin being hurt or worse. Every decision could harm his future in both a literal and metaphorical sense.

  Her actions. Her decisions.

  (what kind of mother are you?)

  (just think though—he might actually be better with us)

  (but what would i be then?)

  Like the others, she lowered her head as Roberts talked. Her hands clenched into tighter fists. It hurt.

  Of course it did.

  This was the place for such a thing.

  The phone rang, startling Kevin, sitting on the loveseat and eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch as the local NBC affiliate led into the Today Show.

  Karen leaned out the bathroom door, a makeup sponge in her hand.

  The phone rang again. Not an accident or wrong number; someone trying to call her. Kevin glanced at her, as if to ask, Are you going to answer that?

  “Who calls at this hour?” she asked, setting the sponge down and walking into the kitchen. She ignored the leaden quality her heartbeat had taken.

  The phone rang again—you answering me, lady?

  She picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Mizz Dempsey?” the male voice on the other end asked and, although she’d only heard it once before on the answering machine, she instantly placed it: Alan Ladd of Mamatas, Braunbeck, and Morgan.

  (just think though—he might actually be better with us)

  Her stomach churned.

  “Yes,” she said and her spit was acidic.

  “I’m glad I could reach you?” Ladd said. “I was worried I would have to call your … place of employment?”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Ladd?” She kept her words clipped, out-of-patience. She wanted to close her eyes as a knot of pain in the center of her head throbbed, but didn’t want to miss Kevin coming in.

  (why?)

  Stating his name fumbled him a bit. What the hell had Nick told the man? “Ah, yes, I’m calling about your son? The custody situation concerning your son with my client?”

  “Yes?” With her free hand, she massaged her forehead, smearing the makeup she’d already applied. “What about? We’re in the process of getting ready for the day, sir.”

  “I was hoping to meet with you—and your son—”

  “No.” The word came out as a whip-crack. She realized that she could no longer hear the clack of Kevin’s spoon against the cereal bowl. He was listening.

  A slight pause. “Yes?”

  “Unless there’s something official, you don’t need to speak with him,” she said. “This is between me and your client.”

  “Ah, yes? Right?” This wasn’t going the way Ladd had intended—you could hear it in his voice.

  “Sir, I’m trying to get ready for work, and my son ready for school,” she said in a let’s-move-this-along way.

  “Yes?” he said, slower still. “Well, I was hoping to schedule a meeting with you and—well, you and my client?”

  “When?”

  “That’s entirely up to you?” Ladd said/asked.

  “I can’t before five any day this week,” she said.

  Ladd chewed on this a moment. She heard Bryant Gumbel segue to Faith Daniels for the day’s top stories. She should be leaving now. Kevin should be dressed now. Goddammit.

  “I have an opening on Friday, then?” he said finally. “How does six work for you?”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll have to arrange for someone to watch my son, but I’ll be there.”

  “Wonderful, Ms. Dempsey—”

  “Goodbye,” she said, and hung up. She waited to see if it would ring again, but didn’t. Why would it? Ladd had gotten what he wanted.

  “Everything okay, Mum?” Kevin asked as she came back into the living room.

  “It’s fine, hon,” she said. “C’mon, we’re running late—get dressed, kiddo.”

  He nodded, setting the bowl on the end table, and pulled at the folded clothes she left on the arm of the loveseat. She saw how wide his eyes were, the darkness of the bags under them. Jesus, had he slept at all the night before?

  (what kind of mother are you?)

  She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, at the fading bags under her own
eyes, the sharp contours of her cheekbones, the pallor of her skin. She rolled her shoulders and began reapplying makeup. Her stomach still churned.

  (just think though—he might actually be better with us)

  3

  Cracked

  The four of them—Nick, Moira, Alan Ladd, and Karen—stared at each other from opposite sides of the long, shiny conference table. She’d waited for over a half hour before an assistant had led her in, and now they stared at her, three to one, like a tribunal with hanging on its mind.

  (Lisa at the kitchen table: “They’re gonna sweat you, kiddo.”)

  (Karen drinking a cup of coffee. “They can try. This is nothing official.”)

  (Lisa nodded, but her eyes never left Karen. “They’ll try to make it seem as official as possible.”)

  (“Lisa, I’ve faced Nick before—both in court and out.”)

  (“Just don’t let them catch you asleep, kid. I’m gonna be entertaining King Kick-Ass but thinking about you the entire time.”)

  (“Nick doesn’t scare me.”)

  But, oh, that felt like a lie now. Tension built in the center of the table, all the things not-yet said, sucking out the air. Karen kept her hands folded in her lap, but the tendons in her forearm stood taut, and her gut churned. For the first time in weeks, long after the scabs had finally healed, her right arm itched.

  “I’m glad you could join us, Ms. Dempsey?” Ladd said/asked. He was a lean, older man who wouldn’t have looked out of place wearing white seersucker. His silver mane was professionally swept back from his brow. “I trust you found us easily enough?”

  “Easily enough,” she said, watching Nick and Moira. Nick looked back with barely concealed antagonism; like he had tried to play nice before, but now that they were here, he had no reason to pretend.

  (who called the lawyer nick?)

  Beneath the table, her hands worked against each other, like wrestlers.

  Moira’s open expression unsettled Karen because she couldn’t place it. Her red hair gleamed beneath the room’s recessed lighting, her dress suit a brighter color, making Karen feel every uneven stitch in her TJ Maxx outfit.

  Ladd said, “We’re here to discuss the custody situation for your son, Kevin, to see if there might be any possible solutions?”

  Karen’s teeth ground together. “To need solutions, there has to be a problem.” She looked over at the lawyer. “And I don’t see a problem with the current custody situation.”

  Nick grunted, “Jesus,” and she turned back to see him roll his eyes dramatically. Moira put a hand on his arm, but never looked away from Karen. It was like watching a mannequin move.

  “Yes?” Ladd said. “My client doesn’t seem to agree with that assessment?”

  “At all,” Nick muttered.

  Karen opened her mouth but Ladd said, “But I wanted to call this meeting to get your perspective, Ms. Dempsey?”

  Karen eyed Nick as hard as he eyed her. This took her back; they’d faced more than a few divorce meetings like this. Of course, then, she knew that his anger had stemmed from his shame; she’d filed for divorce when she’d discovered his affair with Moira. The divorce had been calling him on his shit.

  But what was he angry about now?

  (what are you hiding this time?)

  “I’m sorry you felt Kevin couldn’t attend?” Ladd said.

  “He doesn’t need the unnecessary stress and confusion.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “No, you save that for every day, don’t you, Karen?”

  “Is there something you want to say, Nick?” Karen said, and fought to keep her voice even. “I’m all ears. I have been all ears, since the divorce, but you didn’t want to talk. You wanted to call the lawyer.” She flapped a hand at Ladd. “This is what you wanted.”

  Nick’s face reddened. He opened his mouth when Moira put her hand on his arm again.

  “Karen,” she said and her voice was like woodsmoke, “regardless of how we might feel about each other, we’re only doing this for Kevin. For what might be best for Kevin.”

  Karen forced herself to look at her ex-husband’s new wife. “You say that, but the evidence says otherwise.”

  Nick stiffened, but Moira kept a hand on his arm. “We might have handled this in not the best way,” she said, “but this is just a meeting. This isn’t a custody suit—”

  “Yet,” Nick said.

  Karen spun on Nick. “Watch it, Nicholas. You really don’t want to go down that road with me.”

  “Why is that, Ms. Dempsey?” Ladd said.

  She turned to the lawyer. “If a custody suit were to happen, it would be noted that, when we divorced, Nick wanted less time with his son—said he wasn’t available as much as he could be. I had to force him into the schedule that we currently have. Also, when we divorced, I was unemployed, uneducated, and living in a worse neighborhood than I do now. Where was the concern, then?”

  She realized her gut wasn’t churning, anymore, her hands weren’t fighting each other.

  “If we go to court,” she said to Ladd, who wrote quickly on his sheaf of papers with a fountain pen, “this would all come out. It would be noted that I now have an education—”

  “An associate’s in court reporting,” Nick murmured.

  She ignored him. “—live in a better neighborhood, and, aside from the recession killing my position as an assistant at a videography firm, have maintained employment since the divorce.”

  “You gloss over the whole haven’t-worked-in-a-year part,” Nick spat.

  “Why not?” Karen said, facing him. “You did.” Still looking at Nick, she told Ladd, “We discussed this when I was laid off. I went to him to discuss this. A year ago. Not a peep since then. Not until I get a call from a lawyer.”

  Nick’s upper lip curled and he made a sound in his throat like a snarl—but she saw the flicker in his eyes, just the same.

  (what are you hiding by being angry nick? i used to know you so well)

  “We made a mistake,” Moira cut in, “in not speaking with you first.” She glanced at her husband, whose face was a thundercloud. “For letting it lie, so to speak.”

  “You’re still making a mistake, Moira,” Karen said. “Nick’s too stubborn to admit it, but the facts stand that all the things that would’ve made living with you better stopped being relevant after we divorced. A judge would note that, along with the fact that Kevin is healthy and happy right where he is now.”

  Moira nodded. “You’re a good mother, Karen. I never thought otherwise. Whatever else is between us, I know you want to do what’s best for Kevin. What you don’t seem to believe is that so do we.”

  Karen studied Moira—the earnestness on her face; the way she kept a hand on Nick’s arm, like a leash on a biting dog—and found herself believing the woman. Yes, Nick and Moira wanted what was best for Kevin. Not just that, but Moira legitimately wanted Kevin; in her home, a part of a family she and Nick created.

  When she’d met Moira, the woman had struck Karen as your standard 1980s-career woman. The idea of this type of person wanting a child as anything more than a status symbol was laughable. But what changed?

  Was it just time? Time watching Kevin grow? Was it her own maturity as an adult, a distant throb of maternity that, to Karen, was more like the beating of her own heart?

  (then why not have your own?)

  But that thought brought its own revelation. It’d been four years, and Moira wasn’t old; they were all in their early-thirties, and, in the world of Murphy Brown, that was young.

  (you can’t have children can you?)

  It was all right there, right on Moira’s face. Moira wanted to be a mother. Moira could not. But her husband was already a father. It put that whole “you can call me Mom” incident a year ago into a brand-new light.

  (but if you take my child what am i)

  As quickly as empathy came, anger replaced it. Kevin wasn’t her son. What they were trying to do was steal her son for their own gain. Her son
.

  All this passed through Karen’s mind in the space of a second, a rapid series of epiphanies that, a part of her knew, wouldn’t have been possible before St. Jude’s. Maybe she’d missed cues all along in how Nick treated her and Kevin in the past year; maybe she should’ve been able to see this coming long ago.

  But she’d missed it.

  (because what kind of mother are you?)

  (just think though—he might actually be better with us)

  The thought of St. Jude’s made her squirm, returned the roil of her guts and the itch along her arms. She needed to get out of here. She needed to get away from this. She needed—

  (to see my son)

  (to go to st. jude’s)

  “I do,” she said to Moira, and her voice was rough. “I never doubted that, but you played things this way and this is the outcome. If you had talked a change to the schedule with me, this would’ve been different. But you didn’t—not then and not even now. We’re here exploring the possibility of a custody suit.”

  “Now, Ms. Dempsey—” Ladd began.

  Karen turned towards him. “Don’t bother.” She turned back to Nick and Moira and stood. “I have to go pick up my son because this is running late enough, but keep this in mind—a custody suit is going to put a lot of unnecessary stress and upheaval on Kevin and his life. But it all could’ve been avoided if we had talked before this. Like I tried to.” She locked eyes with Nick.

  Another flicker in Nick’s eyes, another glimpse behind the angry mask he wore—

  (is that it? is that what you’re hiding? do you feel you failed being a father nick?)

  And with that came a more painful truth:

  (he thinks i failed our son am failing our son)

  (it is all your fault dear he’s dead because of you)

  Her guts churned and churned and churned.

  (get me out of here get me out)

  The three people stared at her, were still staring as she let herself out.

  The great oceanic roar of dead television stations filled her head as she got her car, paid, and faced the main avenue from the garage exit. A right-turn would take her east, back to Lisa had Kevin. The dashboard clock read seven-forty-five; she both accepted and absolutely rejected this. It felt like she’d barely been in that meeting. It felt like she was still in that meeting. A left-turn would eventually lead her to Harmarville and St. Jude’s.