“My poor mother. I don’t want her to see Paula this way. I don’t know if she’ll be able to handle it.”
“You need to get Paula some help.”
“It’s not enough that her fuckwit boyfriend is three sheets to the wind in my mother’s house right now. He isn’t helping.”
“Marshall doesn’t seem drunk. I was talking to him earlier when you were with your sister.”
“He looked like death warmed over.”
“I think he was engrossed in his football match. Can you blame him?”
“What do you mean?”
He winked. “Muscle guys in tight uniforms, body contact, and slapping each other’s asses.”
I laughed. “Only you’d think of sex at a time like this.”
“What better way to alleviate stress.”
I smiled. “I love your sense of humor. I’m glad one of us has it.”
“Come on. I’ve got fish and kale to sauté and you’ve got a sister who needs her loving brother.”
Chapter 26
Over my sister’s ramblings of “I’m sorry,” and “I’m a fool,” I could hear Philip’s infectious laughter in the kitchen, my mother telling him to cook the fish “tender so the flesh is flaky and moist around the edges.”
Their friendly banter made me feel better, pulling me out of my rut.
My sister’s urgent pleas to accept her apology forced me to face her. I was frightened to look her in the eye. At that moment, she wasn’t my sister but a stranger, someone I didn’t want to know. I winced at her bloodshot stare, red nose, and the trail of broken capillaries on her face.
“Paula, this may be hard to hear, but you need help,” I said.
She turned away, ignoring me, her head falling backwards, eyelids rolling closed. She rocked back and forth on the edge of the bed, nervously, her foot tapping the floor.
“Sis?”
She nodded. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”
I set my hand on her lap. She didn’t respond to my touch. She sat immobile, stiff against my hand.
“I don’t want you to hurt either,” I said.
She started to shake, her body shuddering as if a cold draft blew into the room; her erratic movements under my hand sent chills up and down my arms.
“Paula.”
She twitched, her body quivering to the effects of the drugs.
“Do you want to go the hospital?” I asked.
She shook her head aggressively, pulling away from me, wringing her hands. “I don’t want to hurt anymore. I want all of this to end.”
I reached out to her. “Paula, listen to me. You can’t let Mom see you this way.”
She tried to stand, but was overtaken by something out of her control. Wobbly, she leaned back on the bed, and fell into me.
She was wounded and scared and cried in my arms. “Lie down. Put your head down on the pillow,” I told her.
She complied, rolling onto her side, her breath reedy and fast. “I’m fine. Just…stay with me.” I got up to get her some water from the bathroom. She drank the lukewarm water from the small Styrofoam cup, spilling some of it down the front of her shirt.
I looked at my sister, balled up in a fetal position as if in pain, her hands curled up under her chin. What would Dad say? I thought, my mind pulsing with anger.
I heard my father’s praise in the back of my head: “You’ve always been my favorite child.”
I smiled at the recollection. What about Paula? I had asked.
His unwavering stare communicated to me how he felt about needy, oversensitive Paula.
Another self-deprecating grin as I turned to Paula, who was out like a light beneath the soft, gentle caresses of my hand up and down her back.
I touched her forehead: clammy, but not feverish.
I stayed with her for a few more minutes, telling her that everything would be all right, even though she couldn’t hear me. “I know we’re all coping with Dad’s death differently. But I worry about you, the measures you’ve taken to escape and numb the pain,” I said.
Paula was fast asleep under my embrace.
Chapter 27
I joined Philip, my mother, and Marshall at the butcher-block island for dinner. Marshall seemed to be sober and more alert than earlier.
“Where’s Paula?” Marshall asked, a forkful of red skinned mash potatoes hovering at his gaping mouth.
“Sleeping,” I said, reaching for my glass of red wine.
“That’s…odd,” he said, filling his mouth with Philip’s hearty cooking.
“It’s not surprising,” my mother piped up, looking at Marshall sitting across from her. “You’ve known her for, what, five years, give or take? On and off?”
Marshall shifted in his seat, placing his fork on the table, and glancing over at Philip and me staring down into our heaping plates, unresponsive.
“I, um—” He mumbled, tongue tied, and reaching for his coffee cup.
“Um, um.” My mother glowered at Marshall, her eyes ablaze, her voice adopting a mocking tone.
“I don’t—” Marshall started.
In a surprising gesture of fury, my mother slammed down her fork, folded her hands, leveling her elbows on the tabletop, a gesture my mother would have chastised me for as a child, and raised a quizzical stare at Marshall. “You don’t honestly believe that I haven’t noticed the two of you tonight?”
“What?” he said.
“What?” My mother’s sarcastic humor was biting. “You should be ashamed. Both you and Paula, coming into my house, during these unfortunate times, inebriated and high as a kite. I’m really disappointed in both of you.” She reached for her wine. “It shouldn’t surprise me, the way Paula carries on, like a spoiled little school kid, always going on and on about herself.” She set her glass down heavily and pointed at Marshall, who seemed nervous, shifty, about to piss his pants. “But you, Marshall Boy. You’ve got no excuse, do you? Occupying my home at the most inopportune time, when my husband dies, and looking disheveled, as though you’ve been dropped off at my front door like a stray dog no one wanted.” She leaned into him. “You’re sitting stupidly in front of the TV, taking over my couch, eating my food. Your hair is uncombed, and looks like it hasn’t seen a bottle of shampoo in over a week. You wear your pants like the school kids, hanging down as far as your ankles, and exposing too much for my taste. It’s disgraceful.” She paused mid-rant to breathe. “You, sir, may think you wear the pants in your relationship, but you don’t in this house. Even through Paula’s foolishness and naiveté, she’ll tire of you quickly.” She sat back and reached for her long-stemmed glass. She drank the rosy ruby liquid down in one gulp. “You and Paula won’t be together much longer. She’ll wake up and realize what a douchebag you really are.”
I looked at Marshall, who glared at my mother, stunned, wide-eyed, and speechless, mouth hanging slightly open. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“Let me give you some advice, Marshall,” she said. “Grow up. Don’t be an idiot.”
He stared at her bewildered. “Huh?”
She smiled. “I rest my case.”
I stifled a laugh tugging at the corners of my mouth. Philip stiffened at my mother’s machine gun retort, his shoulders square, somewhat amused.
“I’ve always been there for your daughter,” Marshall said, defending himself.
“Only to have your laundry washed and your sexual hungers satisfied.”
Marshall paled.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Lori said. “Paula confides in her mother. A mother knows what her children are up to.”
I couldn’t hold it together any longer: I burst out laughing, spraying wine across the room in a light red mist.
“Do me a favor,” my mother told Marshall, wiping the counter around her with a clean, but crumbled napkin.
I wiped my mouth, pleased, watching my mother disciplining the little boy in Marshall. He stared back at her, on the verge of tears, his bottom lip shivering.
&nbs
p; When my mother got under your skin, she stayed there, unflinching and determined.
“What do you want me to do?” Marshall asked.
“Get out of my house.”
Marshall brushed a hand across his face, deep in thought. He slid off the chair, shaking his head. “I didn’t do this to your daughter,” he said half turning to look at my mother before he left out the front door. “She did it to herself.”
Lori poured wine into her glass before choosing her next words. “You were my daughter’s real big mistake.”
Agitated by my mother’s stinging exclamation, Marshall tucked his big hands into his pockets and rolled up and down on the balls of his feet. He tossed my mother a weighty glare.
I thought I was going to have to intervene, become a referee. But my mother surprised me in her dogged retaliation. “Your free-loading days are over, Marshall. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” Under her breath, she added, “Gadfly.”
Marshall heard her because he whirled around and shot my mother a fuck-you look, his lips pursed; hard stare, like a knife sawing through bone.
The room reeled with an uncomfortable heaviness. I looked to my mother, then to Philip, and over at Marshall. He stood motionless, a passive, furious expression on his face. Then he surprised me with a thoughtless grin, a straight red line for a smile.
He turned and sauntered into the living room. He stopped, turned towards the hallway, staring in the direction of where Paula lay sleeping, dead to the world. He bowed his head, as if saying his final goodbyes, and turned and clipped towards the door, swinging open the screen and disappearing into the bright light of late afternoon.
Seconds after Marshall staggered out into the front yard, seething, and mumbling to himself, my mother raised her glass, emptying it clean. “He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, is he?”
We heard the truck’s engine rev and Marshall pull away, burning rubber in the streets.
That was the last time we had seen or heard from Tiny Dick Marshall.
Chapter 28
The second to last talk my mother and I had took place the following morning. We were up before light and birdsong and Adam Bellingham banging around in his garage, packing for places unknown.
We drank strong coffee, the way my mother made it for Dad every morning when I was home. It was too bitter for my taste buds, but I drank it anyway. My mother’s company made up for it in spades.
“Promise me you and Philip will be good to each other and live a long, happy life together,” she told me, more a demand than a question.
“We will.”
“I mean it, Christopher. You two are very special to me. I don’t want to have to lecture my sons later on about the meaning of life and what you should be doing to better each other’s.”
“You’re getting too sentimental.”
“Good. I should be. I’m your mother. I love you. I want what’s best for you.”
I reached for her hand. She took it in hers, smiling.
She went quiet for a long period of time, staring out the kitchen window, her face expressionless, mind rolling in deep thought.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked, raising my dad’s favorite coffee mug.
She sucked in a breath. “How much I miss you and Philip. We’re so far away.”
I set my mug down. “That’s why Philip and I decided to stay for another week.”
She looked at me with earnestness in her eyes, the smile gone, grief shrouding her aging face.
“What’s wrong, Mom? Do you want us to stay longer?”
She didn’t react.
“Is it Paula?” I asked.
She batted a wrinkled hand at me. “She’s always been a lost cause. Both your dad and I talked about it last time we visited you and Philip in Milestone.”
“I also spoke with Paula when she was at the house. She told me about Marshall, and how they seemed to be drifting apart.”
“Your father and I warned Paula about him. He’s bad news. A drunk. Pot smoker.” She curled her hands around the warm edges of her mug. “Now it looks like Paula is picking up the same foul habits.”
“Not to disappoint you, but I think Paula has been down that road one too many times already. We can’t blame Marshall for her actions.”
“You don’t think he influenced her?”
“He very well might have. But Paula made her own decisions. She has always blamed other people for the bad choices that she’s made. She has to grow up and be an adult now.”
“You’re right. You were always sensible.” She stared into her coffee cup.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“You.”
I hugged her. “What can I do to make things easier for you, Mom?”
She turned to me, her eyes hazy.
I held her as she cried. I stared across the room to the hearth, to the urn, to my father’s final resting place.
Chapter 29
The next morning, Paula and I ate breakfast outside on the screened-in veranda. Philip and my mother spent the morning and early afternoon running errands, mother and son-in-law bonding time, she had said.
I orchestrated the breakfast so I could spend quality time with my sister. We both had things to get off our chests and into each other’s heads.
Over the steady hum of a lawnmower and the faint laughter of neighborhood children, I watched my sister push her scrambled eggs around her plate with a fork. She set the utensil down, looked out onto the sunny fenced-in yard, overrun with Mom’s daylilies and azaleas. She twirled her hair, a nervous habit.
“Have you spoken to Mom?” she asked, gazing, lost in thought, absorbed by the warm, hazy day, anywhere but on me.
“About?”
She turned to me, serious looking. She crossed her arms over her chest. Head angled: You know what.
I leaned back, reached for my third cup of coffee that morning. “Your name was mentioned in the conversation.”
It was a small bruise to the ego. “What did she say? That she wants to disown me? Ship me far away from her and Marshall as she possibly can?”
“Sis—”
“You’ve never sugarcoated anything with me, Chris. Give it to me straight.”
“Fine.” I leaned back. “Mom is worried about you, as am I.”
She rolled her eyes.
“That’s her major concern,” I said. “Your behavior.”
“What are you talking about?” Defensive, she wanted to argue, I could see and hear it in her demeanor, her sharp tone.
“The eye roll, the dismissiveness in your voice. You need to start taking things seriously.”
“Do you think I’m a fuck-up?”
“How much cocaine did you do last night?”
She twitched, squirming in her seat. She combed her fingers through the hair and looked out over the sun-kissed backyard. “None. I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
She whirled around, her eyes darting around the area, glassware rattling under her jittery hand. She looked up to me, her eyes pinpricks of anger; she shook her head. “I didn’t do any drugs last night.”
“How long have you been doing drugs?”
She placed her head in her hands, shaking violently. “I didn’t do it! I left it there on the counter. I was too…tired. I was angry.” She began to calm down at the urgency in her voice. She heaved a sigh, sat back, and wiped tears from her face. She closed her eyes. “What should I do?”
The buzzing racket of a nearby lawnmower died down. We were engulfed in relaxing silence. I didn’t hear the laughter of the children anymore. A fat hummingbird fluttered next to the feeder by Mom’s quince tree, its wings vibrating like a motorized toy.
I drank more coffee. I had never lied to Paula about anything, ever. We’d always been open about our lives and our relationships, through the good and tough times. I had to be real with her now, too. Even if it meant I damaged her spirit.
I took a deep breath, finished
my coffee, and poured another cup from the carafe. I turned to her. “Get rid of Marshall, even though I don’t blame him for your own stupidity. You’re an adult. You can make your own decisions.” I paused. “Then after, check yourself into rehab.”
She looked away, and I could tell I hurt her feelings. Tears fell down her face and glistened in the morning sun. But she held up better than I thought. She wiped her face with a finger and composed herself. Sitting up straighter in the chair, she turned to me. “We’ve always worked through the bullshit, you and me.”
I nodded. “Life is a mess right now.”
“I know.”
“Life. Family. Memories. Everything goes by so fast.”
She stared down into her breakfast plate, absorbed in things other than me.
“When you called me about Dad’s death, I remember the fear in your voice,” I said.
She raised her head, eyes set on mine.
“Your panic scared me,” I said.
“I was terrified of losing him.”
“I’m scared of losing you.”
Our gazes met; hers was transfixed, mine was blurred with grief.
“I’m not very good at dealing with death,” she said, her voice choking up. “Or reality.”
There was a pause in between her words.
“I don’t know how to live without Dad,” Paula said. “It’s the hardest thing.”
“Ruining yourself with drugs will not bring him back.”
“I know.”
I reached across the table for her hand. “I don’t want to lose you, too, sis.”
Chapter 30
Later that day, before the golden sun dipped beneath the distant horizon, I walked Paula home two blocks down on Steiner Street.
Her single-story home was ominous against the background of late afternoon. Overgrown shrubs and a garden gone to seed.
We stood at the front door, Paula fumbling with her keys, her hands shaky. I watched her struggle and volunteered my help.
She declined, shaking her head, and fingering the right key and sliding it into the slot. Maybe she was embarrassed from our talk that morning, but she never made eye contact with me. Strands of her hair fell across her face.
The Light Between Us Box Set Page 21
