He chuckles and gets to his feet, pulling me up with him. “Then let me get you home right now. The sooner you get your thoughts readjusted to thinking of me as a lover instead of a brother, the sooner you’ll be back here, where you belong.”
At home in my bed, I’m restless, unable to fall asleep. The warm, lazy feeling the brandy brought on has dissipated and been replaced by a yearning I don’t quite understand. I’ve been alone for so long, by choice, but I’m suddenly feeling lost and bewildered, like an exile in a strange land. I sit on the side of the bed, my hands clasped in front of me, and listen to the familiar night sounds of my house. But it’s cold, and I slide back into the comforting cocoon of blankets I pushed aside. Closing my eyes, I try to will myself to sleep, to stop the jumbled thoughts that won’t let me be. Maybe I should’ve stayed with Rye, snuggled next to him on the big antique bed that dominates his bedroom. Falling asleep in his arms would’ve brought me the solace I seek, surely. Our lovemaking would be gentle and loving and ever so sweet. We would sleep afterward, a deep and dreamless and peaceful sleep.
His number is programmed into my phone; without turning on the bedside lamp, I press the number and hold the receiver close, on my pillow. He answers on the first ring. “Clare?” I hear the rustle of sheets but not the click of the lamp. Like me, he’s in the darkness of his bedroom, except he’ll have the double doors of the balcony flung wide, bringing in the stars and the quarter moon and the salt-sweet smell of the bay. “What is it, honey?”
“I can’t sleep.” I don’t say that I’m cold and lonely and loss-haunted, and that some nights I miss Mack so badly it leaves me stunned, like a fish pulled out of the water and left gaping for air.
“Me, either,” he murmurs. “Want me to come over?”
“Could you just talk to me for a minute?”
“Of course. All night if you need me to. But the sound of your voice alarms me. You sound … sorrowful. Not your usual sassy self, like you were earlier this evening.” After a long silence, he asks, “I didn’t upset you tonight, did I?”
“It’s not you. It’s me. Or rather, it’s Mack.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He lets out a long, weary sigh. I picture him rubbing his face with his long slender fingers, a gold signet ring on his left hand. Mack wouldn’t even wear a wedding ring. Rye sleeps in fine cotton pajamas that I’ve seen his housekeeper set out for him. I know that he has a cashmere robe because it hangs behind his bedroom door, and his butter-soft leather slippers await on the antique Persian rug next to his bed. Mack slept in the buff and never owned a robe or a pair of slippers in his life.
“Listen to me,” Rye says firmly. “We both loved Mack. But he’s gone, and he’s not coming back. One day he left us. He went into the woods, and he never came out. I don’t know if he was drunk or in one of his dark funks. Maybe the coroner was right and he tripped over a tangle of vines. When he reached out to stop his fall, the gun went off. None of us will ever know. But you’ve got to let go of him.”
“Oh, God, don’t I know that! I’ll go for days without thinking of him, and my life will be full and satisfying and meaningful. Then, when I least expect it, Mack will show up again. I’ll walk into the kitchen, and he’s at the table, waiting for his breakfast. In his study, he sits with his back to me, expecting me to cross the room and put my hands over his eyes. In our bed, I wake up through the night with his arms around me.” I take a deep breath and release it with a sob. “It’s not that I can’t let go of Mack. He won’t let go of me! I don’t think he’ll ever let go of me.”
He’s quiet for so long that I wonder if he’s still there. “Rye?”
“I’m here,” he says finally. “I’m here.”
“You are, aren’t you? You’ve been with me all along, and I want you to know how grateful I am. How truly grateful.”
“I can’t be Mack, though,” he says, surprising me with the abruptness of his tone. “I can love you, and cherish you, but I can’t ever be Mack. I can’t be a substitute for him.”
“Do you think …” I pause to take in his words, stricken. “Oh, my God. Is that what I’m doing, calling you like this? Is that what this is about?”
“I don’t know,” he says with a sigh. “It’s been my worst fear, but it’s something only you can answer.” He hesitates and seems to be choosing his words carefully. “Clare? I’ve gone over and over the day that Mack died, trying to figure out how it happened like it did, and why. But I don’t think you have. You’ve blocked it out, haven’t you?”
“I’ve had to. I know I need to go back, but I can’t make myself do it. It hurts too bad. And I’m afraid of what I might find.”
Rye is silent a long time, before he says, “After all these years, it seems to be screaming to get out. You’re going to have to go back, whether you want to or not.”
Haley was eleven when she came to live with Mack and me, and bringing her into our house turned our lives upside down. As Zoe Catherine had predicted the afternoon she took me to see the terns, Mack made no move to reclaim the child he thought he’d rid himself of. Although he’d taken full responsibility for her support, working long, hard hours at the backbreaking labor his job demanded, he still couldn’t face up to his daughter’s existence. In the beginning, he shut me out and absolutely refused to discuss her sudden appearance in our lives. He was in such obvious anguish, however, that I hounded him until he told me the terrible truth.
Breaking down and burying his face in his hands, Mack admitted that he’d heard several years ago, from one of Shirley’s friends in Gulf Shores, that she’d blown the money he gave her and not had the abortion. She’d had his child instead. He swore that’s all Shirley’s friend told him; whether or not she’d kept the baby, no one knew. The only thing known for sure was that Shirley’s drug habit had gotten dangerous. Mack was horrified by the story and the part he’d played in it. He’d abandoned a girl who was young and pregnant with no skills to support herself. He’d paid her off with a large sum that she had no idea how to manage, and she’d ended up on the streets. At that point, hearing about the baby, he could have taken steps to redeem himself and possibly saved Shirley and the child. Instead, he’d done nothing. As with his other demons, Mack dealt with it by not dealing with it, even when it tore him to pieces. When he and I lost Daniel and the other babies, he saw it as a fitting punishment, and his guilt drove him to the closest bar night after night.
I had my own demons to deal with. Zoe’s words haunted me: “And Mack—he’s as not strong as you are, and you know it.” I took Mack’s child into my house and heart, not only because it was the right thing to do but also because Mack lacked the strength to. I didn’t expect to come to love her, and I doubted I’d be able to love Mack again. I knew only one thing for sure: Raising Mack’s child was something I was supposed to do. I’d lost my babies, but for reasons yet unknown to me, I’d been given another chance.
I was wrong the night I told Mack I didn’t know if I could accept his child or love him again, as it turned out. I not only came to love Haley with a fierce and protective love that amazed and humbled me, I could no more stop myself from loving Mack than I could stop breathing. During the remainder of our years together, I came to see love as an ever evolving thing rather than the static, unbendable sentiment I’d always thought it to be. Love changes form and motion and shape like the red substance in the Lava Lamp Haley picked out and proudly gave me for my first Mother’s Day while Mack struggled to keep a straight face. I met his laughing gray eyes over Haley’s blond head, so like her father’s, and knew that at some point in our years together, he’d become an essential part of me, like an arm or leg. If I lost him, I would always be incomplete.
When I look back, it still astonishes me how effortlessly Haley became a part of me as well. The night Mack and I brought her into our home, neither of us could’ve imagined that I’d be the one to embrace her so fully, or that Mack would always be on his guard with her. It took me a while to come to the shocking re
alization that in spite of my initial reluctance to do so, I’d taken her in much more easily than her own father had. It wasn’t that Mack didn’t love his daughter; it was his inability to express that love, ironically mirroring the way he’d never allowed himself to love and accept his own mother. As I feared, Mack’s horror and guilt at rejecting his child ate at him like poison, and their relationship was destined to be mired in remorse and shame. Mack couldn’t look at his daughter without being reminded of the way she was conceived, of how he’d tried to rid himself of her, and of the horrendous relief he’d felt when he put Shirley on a bus for Naples, her purse bulging with what he came to think of as blood money. Most of all, he couldn’t face the fact that he’d heard about Haley yet failed to act, and the first years of her life had been terrible ones.
As Haley and I grew closer, Mack pulled further away from us. Falling into old patterns of behavior, he tried to deaden his feelings with drink. On the surface, our life together appeared to have everything. I was in the process of opening my practice, and Mack’s restoration skills were so much in demand, he couldn’t keep up with all the business that came his way. In our care, Haley blossomed, turning into a sweet-natured and lovely young woman who made us proud. Because Mack was a binge drinker, he was able to go for weeks, sometimes months, without a drink, and during that time our life was good, wonderful and fulfilling for all of us.
Only those closest to us knew what was going on. On a binge, Mack would often go away, hiding out and drinking himself into oblivion at the fish camp, or at a hunting cabin owned by Son’s family, deep in the woods near Bon Secour. At home, he’d close himself in the den with the television tuned to a ball game and the blinds pulled. Haley stayed away during that time, at Etta’s house with Jasmine. Etta was very much aware what was going on in our household; she knew more than Rye or Dory or anyone else. When Mack sobered up, I’d bring Haley home. Whenever I told her that something had to be done about her dad’s drinking, she’d panic. She’d finally found the father she’d always known was out there, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Eventually Haley and I became united in our efforts to shelter and protect Mack, another bond between us. The difference was, she was a child, and I was a trained therapist. I knew better.
It wasn’t that I didn’t try to help Mack; instead, I let my feelings for him override everything else. When he’d go on a binge, I’d give him an ultimatum: If he continued to destroy the secure and loving home that we’d brought his daughter into, then he’d do so without having Haley and me to witness it. Both of us loved him too much, I’d tell him, to stand by and watch him self-destruct. Repentant, Mack would beg forgiveness. He’d put up a flawless front for whatever momentous occasion presented itself: Papa Mack’s funeral; the grand opening of Casa Loco; all the sporting events we attended for Dory and Son’s boys; Haley’s graduations from high school and college; her engagement and marriage to Austin. But Mack’s destructive pattern was like a runaway train. He’d sober up, get his act together, and life would be good again. Once I even got him into a long, torturous detox program, and while he was away, I told everyone he was on a restoration job in Mississippi. Long, happy months of sobriety followed, and Mack was himself again, content and carefree, loving me and bent on making things right with Haley.
Two years later, the blinds were pulled in the den once more, and I found a stash of empty bottles in the back of his closet. I collapsed to the floor in tears. Had one of my clients been where I was, I’d have advised her to face the futility of trying to save anyone else, and to concentrate on saving herself and her family instead. But I was unable to take my own directives. It seemed I could help everyone but myself.
Ten years after Haley came into our home, she left us to marry Austin and start her own life. Although it shamed me to admit it, I harbored the hope that once Haley was gone, Mack would straighten himself out. Without her presence to remind him of his failure as a father, maybe he’d stay sober at last. And it seemed as though he would, for the longest period of time yet. Then came the night in the late fall when Mack didn’t come home, and I knew his period of sobriety had come to an end. The next day Haley called, breathless with excitement. She and Austin had just had it confirmed: She was pregnant. But not a word to her dad, she pleaded—she wanted to tell him herself. Could she come over?
Because I couldn’t bear to spoil her happiness, I stalled her. Oh, hadn’t I told her that Mack was away working? I asked innocently. The minute he returned, I’d call her, I promised. After hanging up, I swore I’d track him down if I had to, but by God, he’d be home and sober to share in his daughter’s happiness.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to go out looking for Mack. I came downstairs early Saturday morning, the day after Haley’s call, to find him sitting in the kitchen. I had no idea when he’d come home; nor had I heard him come in. It frightened me, having someone come into the house so silently while I slept unsuspecting in my lonely bed. But when Mack raised his head, he looked so awful that I forgot my fear and everything else, and I rushed over to kneel in front of him. “Mack? My God, what’s wrong?” When I took his hands in mine, I was shocked to feel how cold they were.
“I don’t know,” he said faintly. “I’m scared this time.” His eyes, those dreamy gray eyes I’d loved since the first time I saw him, were as dark as a tomb. In their depths I saw a despair I’d never seen before. If he was drunk, I couldn’t tell it. He appeared to be dead sober.
“You’re freezing,” I cried. “Where’s your coat?” Without waiting for an answer, I ran to the den and grabbed a throw from the back of his chair, the one where he’d sit to drink until he passed out. I came back and wrapped the throw around Mack’s shoulders, then knelt in front of him again. “Are you sick?” I pushed his hair back from his forehead, concerned not only by his pallor but also by the clamminess of his skin.
Rather than answer me, he stared his dazed stare, and something in his look made me think of a cornered animal. “I’m so fucked up,” he said finally.
I pulled a chair next to him, keeping his cold hands in mine. “We’ve had this discussion plenty of times before. Yes, you are fucked up. You are bad fucked up, and you have been for years. But I can’t help you. I’ve tried. I’ve done all I can do. You’re the only one who can save yourself. You’ve got to let me take you to the hospital.” He shook his head vigorously, and I tightened my grip on his hands. “Okay, not here. It doesn’t matter where—just someplace where you can get help.”
“I’m not going to one of those places,” he said tonelessly. “I’ll never go back. It’s like being in a straitjacket. I’ll go to the woods and never come out before I go there again.”
Letting go of his hands, I leaned back in my chair. I couldn’t do this anymore. My voice rising, I said, “You’ll let me take you somewhere to get help, or so help me God, I’m through with you. I’m washing my hands of you.”
Moving quickly, he grabbed my arms in a death grip. For the first time that morning, a spark of the old Mack flared in his eyes. “Please, Clare! Don’t send me away to be locked up again. If you’ll help me, I swear I’ll sober up this time. I swear it!”
Prying his hands from my arms, I pushed back the chair and got to my feet. “No, Mack. You’ve had too many chances. I—” But I stopped myself, squeezing my eyes closed and sighing in resignation. We’d had that argument before. Next thing, he’d accuse me of not loving him, of forsaking him when he needed me most, and I’d go over all the chances I’d given him. I wouldn’t do it again.
“This time is different!” he cried, getting to his feet and grabbing my arms again. “I’m going to get sober, but I can’t do it without your help. You know that. I’ll never be able to without your help.” The throw I’d placed around his shoulders fell to the floor, and Mack kicked it out of the way. Stepping away from him, I leaned over to pick it up and held it close to me, needing its warmth.
“Please leave.” I stood before him, clutching the blanket agains
t me like a shield. If I didn’t get him out of my sight, I’d weaken, and I couldn’t do that. Whatever it cost me, I had to yank away the crutch of my support and make him stand on his own. “And when you go, I’m having the locks changed so you can’t come here again.”
What little color he had drained from his face. “You’d do that? You’d lock me out of our house? Our house, the one we made together?”
“I’m going upstairs to get dressed. I have a lot of work to do today. When I come down, I don’t want to see you here. I mean it, Mack. I want you gone.” Although my legs were weak and my heart thudded painfully, I turned to go, walking past him toward the stairs.
To this day, I don’t know what made me turn around. When I did, the sight of him standing there, his arms hanging at his sides, tore me apart. With a stifled cry, I went back into the kitchen and threw my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest. “I love you, Mack,” I said. “And I always will. Wherever you go, take that with you.”
His arms tightened around me, and we clung to each other for what would be the last time. “Clare, please help me …” he said hoarsely, but I pulled away from him and ran upstairs, this time without stopping to look back. Hardly realizing what I was doing, I locked the door of the bathroom and stepped into the shower, where I stood shaking and sobbing while the steaming-hot water poured over me and washed my tears down the drain.
It was later that afternoon when I went to Mack’s study. He’d been gone when I got out of the shower and went downstairs, but I felt no relief, only a resigned and profound despair. Because I needed something to occupy my mind, I spent the morning doing what I’d promised myself I’d do for ages, converting Haley’s lilac-sprigged bedroom into an all-purpose guest room. She’d taken what she wanted to her and Austin’s apartment a few years before, but I had yet to change the room. I’d asked Mack to, but even during his times of sobriety, he hadn’t. Finally he admitted that although he’d gone into the room dozens of times planning to, he hadn’t been able to do it. It was as though he believed if he didn’t change it, Haley might return, and they might find what had eluded them during their years together.
Queen of Broken Hearts Page 36
