Keep Happy

by A. C. Bextor

  “What’s that?”

  “There was a pink bow settled next to the victim. Positioned on his chest. Clean as the day it was made.”

  “He’s aiming toward being a serial killer,” I voice my bigger concern.

  “We’ll get him. And if I hear anything, I’ll pass it along. Expect you to do the same.”

  “See you soon.”

  “SITTING THERE, YOU LOOK LIKE you did when we were kids,” Connie comments at my back, running her hand over my ponytail and giving it a gentle pull. “Only at our age, the view outside your bedroom is different.”

  “It really is,” I return, remiss.

  All morning I’ve been sitting in my old house, fumbling through my old things.

  Initially, I thought by bringing the girls to explore the person I used to be, maybe we’d all find desperately needed common ground. I wanted time at peace with them before Thomas and I all but ripped their worlds apart.

  Averie has taken to the task as I thought she would. She’s been ecstatic in going through my yearbooks and mementos. She found odd humor while studying my old pictures. She’s laughed at my hair, my clothes, and critiqued my makeup as a mother would. She’s even taken a few jabs at Connie when she’s found her pictures, too.

  She also came upon one of my old journals. My favorite. The beat-up outside leather is now tattered and threadbare. The inside pages worn from my reading them so many times. And the drawings of hearts, stars, flowers, and whatever else I thought to doodle have faded.

  When Averie came across the name “Mason” written in big, bold script, she giggled. Thankfully, my youngest daughter has no idea who the Mason in my journals is. And luckily, I caught her before she could read further.

  “God, I miss being eleven,” I remark. “Life was so much easier when all you had to worry about was who you were going to sit next to on the bus.”

  Connie laughs. “Oh, but if I knew then what I know now,” she smarts. “I would’ve made a slutty play for all of Grace’s crushes.”

  I smile out the window, knowing without a doubt Connie would do exactly that.

  “I’d start rumors about the bitch, too,” she adds.

  “I’d help,” I reply honestly.

  Casting another glance through the windowpane, I note how much the neighborhood landscapes have changed. Yet, the houses are all the same.

  Mrs. Hendry, our once elderly neighbor who lived across the street, died years ago. In place, a large family of five is outside wrestling with their dog on the lawn.

  Dad’s car, no longer the family-sized black sedan I remember, is now a sleek and sporty red convertible.

  “She’s still so angry,” I tell Connie in regards to Amelia. “Not just at Averie or me, but at everything.”

  Amelia hasn’t had the same reaction Averie’s had in coming here. Rather than make an attempt to mend our strained relationship, she’s been continuing to mood downstairs. The television is turned up so loud, no one can hear their own thoughts.

  Neither of my girls have any inclination that their parents are planning to divorce. The truth, when Thomas and I decide to tell them, will hurt them in a way we’ve always, always worked so hard to avoid. But by waiting, the knowledge of finding out their parents lived unhappily together for them would hurt even more.

  Connie takes a seat on the pillowed bench at my side and turns to face the view. “The girls will get over this.”

  “Maybe.”

  “They’ll adjust. Divorce happens. You and Thomas still care about each other.”

  “We do.”

  “But, honey, it’s not only the girls I worry about,” she explains.

  “I know.”

  “I worry for you.”

  Dutifully, I return. “Thank you for that, but I’ll be fine.”

  “I worry for Cole, too,” she admits. “This will shake him too. He’ll feel guilt.”

  He shouldn’t. Of course, he had a hand in interrupting my marriage, but I held the control. Coming here, remembering my life before Thomas was ever in it didn’t matter. Because in all my boxed up memories, I found Mason was always there. I had control in that, too.

  “We should go get ice cream,” she suggests. “I think your dad is ready to take his house back.”

  “Where is he?”

  When I told Dad I was packing the girls and coming for a visit, I heard the hesitation in his answer.

  Though he agreed, I also knew there was more he wanted to say. We haven’t spoken about what he thinks he saw in the kitchen the night Mason brought Amelia home. Truth is, my dad and I haven’t spoken much at all.

  My life is falling apart around me. Yet, other than wanting a man I shouldn’t, while my husband has an affair with whomever he may please, I’m the one being punished.

  Connie smiles. “Last I saw of him, he was in the garage searching for earplugs. Between Averie’s constant giggling and Amelia’s moods, he’s also probably looking for a stiff drink.”

  “My moods?” Amelia tersely queries, causing our heads to turn.

  She’s standing in the doorway, hands to hips, wearing the dirty red and black flannel pajama pants she refused to change out of before being forced to come here. Her hair is a mess of tangled curls and her face is pale. My daughter has lost weight, and it’s weight she couldn’t afford to lose.

  “This isn’t a mood,” she clips again, this time her eyes narrow at me.

  “Honey, Connie didn’t mean—”

  “Fuck that,” she hisses, dropping her hands from her hips.

  “Amelia Terese!” I call when she turns to leave.

  Twisting back, she holds the doorjamb tightly. Her venomous expression isn’t one I’ve ever seen, and one I already hate.

  “Explain yourself, honey,” Connie bids quietly.

  “Okay, I will,” Amelia spits back, stepping into the room on bare feet. She takes in the floor littered with my memories, moves her hands about them and asks, “You two are sitting up here, doing what?”

  “Amelia, I don’t—”

  “You brought me and Averie here to do what?” she questions further, so angry.

  Connie stands, walking toward Amelia. “Let’s all go downstairs and talk.”

  Connie doesn’t get far before she stops midstep to gasp.

  As shrill as I’ve ever heard Amelia’s voice, she screams, “Dad is fucking Grace Aldean, and it’s like you don’t even care!”

  Oh, my God.

  The room silences, and I blink. It’s the only action I can muster. A blink. In that one blink of an eye, I’ve learned my daughter’s life has already been rocked. She’s come to realize her family isn’t what it should be.

  Taking a breath, she goes on, this time only slightly calmer. “He’s been sleeping with her forever, and you say nothing!”

  “Oh, honey,” I call, my eyes now shining with my regret.

  God, I’m so fucking tired of regret.

  “No, Mom!” Amelia protests. “Don’t ‘honey’ your way out of this. You’ve been wanting to know what’s on my mind, well there it is.”

  “Shit,” Connie utters, looking down and covering her face with her hands. “Yes. There it is.”

  “My mother is weak,” Amelia declares. “Instead of fighting for us, our family, you’re sitting in your old room, wishing you were what? Eleven again?”

  “That’s not what I was doing.”

  Sharply, to serve her point, she glares. “It’s exactly what you were doing.”

  “Amelia, please come here.”

  If I can touch her, hold her like I did when she was young, I may be able to help. This could be a futile effort, but I have no other choice. At least none that my fifteen-year-old daughter would consider.

  With nothing for it, I stand and extend my arms.

  Amelia looks down, clearly still distraught but with some of her anger ebbing.

  “I don’t understand,” she shakes her head to tell me. “Does Dad love her more than he loves us?”

  R
ushing to her, I grab her arms and kneel. Her tears start to fall as she slams her eyes closed.

  “Look at me, Amelia,” I order. When she doesn’t respond, I give her a small shake and repeat, “Honey, please look at me.”

  “I found out at school,” she explains, as her eyes open slowly—painfully. “The other kids, my old friends, make fun of you.”

  Christ.

  “Those rotten little bitches. I oughta…” I twist my gaze to Connie, which thankfully shuts her up.

  “They say Dad never loved you,” Amelia goes further, “maybe not Averie and me.”

  Gathering Amelia in my arms, I hold on tight. She doesn’t return the gesture, but she doesn’t push me away. Too much time has gone by since I’ve held my oldest like this. Reasoning with this, I fight the urge to cry.

  “There are a lot of things to explain,” I start, my voice breaking. “But none of this has to do with you or Averie. None of it.” Pulling her from my hold, I grasp her shoulders and search her face. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Sure,” she returns. “I’m too young to understand.”

  “No,” I correct. “Because you’re young. This isn’t for you to worry about.”

  “No?” she rallies back. “Weird, ‘cause this is my life too, Mom. And Dad is shitting all over it.”

  “Mouth,” I punish. “You’re angry with him, I get it.”

  “I’m not angry with him,” she hisses. “I hate him.”

  The last thing I’ve ever wanted was for either of our girls to have anything but love for their parents. I’ve resented my mother my entire life for leaving as she did. I hated her absence and loathed the memory of her I never had. All I’ve done as a parent is to ensure my children never felt as betrayed as I once did.

  Lashing out, thrashing herself between us, Amelia releases herself from my arms.

  She makes her way toward the door. When I call her name, she turns, pins me with disdain, and states, “You’re not blameless, Mom. Not at all.”

  “Oh no,” Connie utters.

  “Amelia, what did you say?”

  “I saw you that night he brought me home. I saw how you glanced at him. Dad maybe fucking Grace, he may love her even,” she tells me. “But there’s more. You and Cole…”

  “Shit,” Connie murmurs, turning around to give Amelia as much space as she can.

  “He talked about you like he knew you.”

  “Amelia, come talk to me.”

  She glances at Connie’s back then brings her angry gaze to mine and she shakes her head. “Never mind. Nothing I know matters anyway, because I’m too young to understand.”

  Letting her go, I watch Amelia clear the door. Only then do I look to the ceiling and pray to God my father doesn’t hear me cry.

  Past…

  STANDING ACROSS THE GRAVEYARD, NESTLED beside an old oak tree, I watch Mason shake hands with a few of those left in attendance, bidding them a small smile, a brief thank you, and a casual goodbye.

  Mitchell Aaron Cole lived his life as a shut-in alcoholic. He wasn’t much of a father, or a person as far as I could see. So, like me, the mourners who came today weren’t here to say a prayer of peace on his behalf. They were here as support for his only son.

  During the service, I stood directly across from Mason on the other side of the casket. There, I could see he was tired. Anyone could. The dark circles beneath his eyes and the wrinkles forming around his mouth served as scars for the loss of a man who never loved him at all.

  He noticed I was there and his expression didn’t change.

  My dad had told me what he’d heard through rumor: Mitchell was home alone when he died, and no one had noticed he passed until the smell of his rotting corpse caught the attention of his neighbors.

  He also told me Mason had been contacted and was making all the necessary arrangements.

  I was sad not to hear from Mason at all, not letting me in during such a sad and tragic time. But I wasn’t surprised. Too many years have passed since I saw his face or heard his voice. But it hasn’t been time passed without him in my thoughts.

  Fair to my husband or not, I still think about him every day.

  I took a chance in coming here, a chance that enough time had gone by, along with enough heartbreak, that we’d be able to finally come to terms with where we’ve ended up.

  The lump in my throat and the break of sweat on my fevered skin says, at least for my part, I was wrong.

  As I study him across the way, I’m relieved to see him holding up as I expected he would. He’s getting through this as he does everything else. With a strong sense of dignity and self-respect.

  When the last of the mourners pass him on the way to their cars, Mason turns in place and looks down to his father’s casket in the still open grave. He slides his hands inside his suit pockets but doesn’t step away.

  His thick, dark hair is much longer than I ever remember it being, now just passing the collar of his jacket. The definition of his body hasn’t changed. He’s still built in a way that I remember touching.

  I wonder if his heart is still as pure. The same it was when he loved me to sleep and kissed me in the morning before sending me back to my family. To the life I made without him.

  Mason looks up, turning his head to find me. A sad smile comes and he walks in my direction. I didn’t only come here to support the man I once loved as he buried his dad, I also came here to see my Adam.

  “I was wondering if you were gonna wait around after the service. Should’ve figured you would, just to be a pain in my ass,” Mason playfully berates, bending down to kiss the apple of my cheek. Grabbing my hands and squeezing them tightly, he whispers in my ear, “How are you, baby?”

  I smile as he pulls away, then glance up at his towering height. “I’m good, Mason. I’m sorry about your dad,” I tell him, lack of anything else to say.

  “My dad was a sick, selfish son of a bitch,” Mason notes, looking toward the open grave behind him.

  “He was still your dad.”

  “That he was,” he thoughtfully but quietly returns.

  Silence falls and we stare at each other, as if seeing one another for the first time.

  Mason feels it, too.

  He smiles, and asks, “You keep happy, Katie Mae?”

  “Yes,” I return. “I’m happy.”

  I have two healthy, happily growing, beautiful daughters. A home I care for and a close-knit group of friends who know me well enough.

  I also have a husband who loves me in ways he’s able.

  We’re never passionate, because whatever pulled us together before has long since gone. Marriage and family have become just another responsibility.

  “Are you happy?” I ask Mason, hoping he lies.

  I’m not sure I could handle hearing he’s miserable and not being able to do anything about it. I also don’t think I can handle hearing he’s happy with someone else.

  “Good enough,” he answers, without answering at all.

  “When do you leave?”

  “I’m not leaving,” he informs, and I twist my hands to free them. My heart tatters in a frantic rhythm, and my mouth opens for needed breath as he continues, “I’m stayin’ in town. My mom’s good in San Diego. She got remarried. He’s a great guy. He loves her, which is all she ever wanted. My sister has her shit together. So, I’m not leavin’. I’m stayin’ here.”

  My stomach twists, aching with recognizable pain.

  Mason will be here. In this town. With me.

  But worse.

  He won’t be with me. He’ll continue to be out of reach.

  “Where will you stay?”

  “Gonna gut the inside of my dad’s cabin and rebuild. It’s paid for and it’s quiet.”

  “So you have a plan.”

  “I do.”

  Reservation digs deep. Unwanted images of Mason and a woman living in the cabin he rebuilt for them. Kids. Bicycles. Swing sets. A daughter. A son. A happy home made for the
promise of a happy family.

  “Mason…I—”

  “Adam’s here, isn’t he?” Mason queries.

  “Yes,” I return.

  Selfishly, another pit of sadness forms, wondering if Adam would’ve liked Mason if he’d had the chance to know him.

  “He’s on the other side of that hill.” I point. When I give him my eyes, a cold rushing breeze covers my cheeks. “He’s buried next to Thomas’ grandfather.”

  “Want me to go with you to see him?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I went before the service, but thank you.” Thinking further, I manage the courage to tell him, “I got your sympathy card. It came in the mail the day of his funeral.”

  Mason’s lips curves, his eyes shine as he asks, “How’d you know the card was from me?”

  “Your card was the only reason I smiled that day.”

  “Glad for that,” he tells me. “I wanted to come back for the funeral but wasn’t sure—”

  Cutting him off, I express, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  Mason nods. “I should get going,” he tells me. “I have a lot of shit to get done.”

  “Okay.”

  As he starts to turn and walk away, he doesn’t touch me, but our eyes never lose contact. Our shoulders brush and I reach out to grab his wrist before he’s able to pass.

  Standing next to one another, with our bodies facing opposite directions, we still.

  Silently, but able to convey so much.

  Together, but both feeling consequently alone.

  Each lost in our own life’s chaos, but tethered to one another in this moment with quiet understanding.

  “Same hotel,” Mason whispers to my confusion. “Crimson Eyres.”

  “What?”

  “Same room…” he continues and my body tenses, “407.”

  “Mason, I don’t think—”

  “I can’t be alone tonight, Katie,” he tells me.

  Guiding me by my shoulders, Mason turns us back to one another. His finger traces the high of my cheek. He studies this with fascination.

  Mason’s voice is shaky, but he gets out, “Just to talk. I need your voice.”

  Oh, God. But I can’t.

  “I’ll be in our room all night.”