by Annie Stone
“Go home, Mac,” Shane says the day before Carter’s scheduled to come home.
I look at my watch. It’s almost eleven. “Oh, yeah. I lost track of time.” Slowly, I sort through the documents in front of me.
“What’s up?” Shane asks gently.
“What do you mean?” It’s always good to answer a question with another question, right? Sign of a quick wit, surely.
He smiles faintly and sits on the other side of my desk. Interlocking his fingers behind his head, he stretches out his legs. He looks laid-back, like he’s really comfortable. Here in my office. Here with me.
“Kid, I remember the day you walked in here for the first time. You were this timid little thing, but really angry! Incredibly angry. You stomped around here in your Chucks, not wanting anyone to tell you what to do.” He grins like he’s reveling in the memory. “You thought you started to heal when you found us. But you had this fire in you. You’ve always had it. Flames were shooting up ten feet in the air above your head. All we did was show you how to harness your power. You did all the rest yourself. Then and now.”
I sit back in my chair and stare at him.
“It was fun to watch you turn from an angry firecracker into the woman you are today. At least, the woman you were until about a week ago. Because the Mac I see today has lost her luster. It’s like you’re hiding it on purpose, like you’re standing in the shade because you’re afraid to step out into the sun.”
“I didn’t know you were such a poet, Shane,” I joke, because I don’t know what else to say. Obviously, he’s right.
He just grins. “Mock me all you want, kid. We both know something happened. You don’t have to tell me what it is. You don’t even have to acknowledge it yourself. But please make sure all your hard work was worth it.” He gets up and comes to my side of the desk to kiss me on the head. “Night, kiddo.”
I watch him go.
He’s right. I can’t let them control me like this. Not now, not ever again. I take a deep breath and hope my old strength, my old fire, will miraculously start burning again.
But when I get home, I’m happy the house is quiet. Because I’m still such a coward.
He’s coming back today. I’m counting down the hours, constantly checking my phone to see if he’s texted. But there’s nothing. Nothing at all.
So I fall back into my regular pattern: burying myself in work.
I talk to a few women who have been coming to our studio for a while now, and also a new one who just joined. Work always gives me a deep sense of satisfaction, but most especially when I can see the results of it all as clearly as I do in the last talk of the day.
When Tori first came to see me, she was all bruised, not an ounce of meat on her bones. She looked more like a beaten puppy than a grown woman. But now, she sits in my office, smiling, laughing, and looking healthy and utterly beautiful. She’s made it.
Her ex-husband is behind bars, and she’s started a new life. A new job, a new love. She’s the reason I’m here. She’s it.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Mac,” she says. “I wouldn’t be here without you, Shane, Jean, and the others.”
I can feel my cheeks going pink. “You would have made it on your own, too, Tori. We all know that. But we’re glad we got to be part of your journey. You get all the credit for what you’ve achieved.”
“Maybe I took my the steps myself, but my friends, family, and therapists gave me the strength to take them.”
After she leaves, I think about what she said. She’s right. I took the steps myself, too, but because Shane was there, I had the strength to take them. And with Carter there, I’ll get through the situation with the boys.
My phone dings with a text—Carter’s on his way home from the airport. His message isn’t exactly brimming with emotion, but then again, they never are. Still, I know he’ll be happy to see me again. So I gather my stuff and step out of the office.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Sheila calls. “You’re leaving early!” She laughs. I guess she’s noticed my recent obsession with overtime as well.
“Carter’s just getting back from a trip,” I say with a grin. After a few days of rain, I can finally smile again.
“Ah, time for a little fun.”
“Oh, yeah,” I shoot back, raising my eyebrows, which makes her smile.
“What’s going on here?” Jean asks in a mockingly strict voice.
“Mac’s getting some today,” Sheila says loudly.
“Sheila!” I hiss. It’s one thing to talk to her about this kind of thing. But putting it all out in the open? It makes my cheeks burn.
Jean, for his part, just shrugs. “Happy you’re having sex, shortie.”
Sheila laughs. “Oh my God, Jean! You can’t just say something like that! You sound like her stalker!”
That makes me laugh, too. Jean winks at me. The old fox. “Great, so we’re all happy,” I conclude.
“About what?” Shane asks from behind me, throwing his arm around my shoulder.
“About Mac having sex,” Jean says.
Shane looks at me. “Definitely raises morale of the group.”
I elbow him in the ribs—almost. He twists away too fast. Damn Marines!
“You’re too slow, kid,” he mocks me. “Try again.” He hops from foot to foot like a boxer, punching the air in front of him and looking mighty silly for such a big man. It makes me laugh so hard I have to squeeze my thighs together to keep from peeing myself.
“You’re all crazy people!” I say once I can speak again. “Nutjobs!”
“As long as we make you laugh,” Jean says, pulling his woman toward him. She snuggles up against his side. I love knowing that they can rely on each other. That they’ll get through whatever comes their way. That’s what I want. And I have it. With Carter.
Don’t I?
I say goodbye to everyone and head home to find out.
When I get there, Carter’s sitting on the couch with his sons and—
My eyes widen, threatening to pop out of my skull.
Sitting on the couch in this house, the house I just moved into, is Carter’s ex-wife. And she’s glaring at me.
When Carter sees me, he hops up, giving me a strained smile, and kisses me briefly. “Lauren, this is Mackenzie,” he says, guiding me to the couch he just vacated. I sit obediently, my knees shaking.
Lauren is still glaring. “Excuse me,” she says my way, “but this is family business.”
I’m already standing when Carter puts a hand on my arm and pushes me back down. “She’s staying, Lauren. She’s family to me.”
So much love courses through me then that I have to fight back an imbecilic smile.
Lauren gives me a look down her nose, and I suddenly know where her sons get that look. “Is your toy even legal to drink yet?” she snaps at Carter.
I’m not surprised she’s asking that question, because I can smell the booze on her breath and I remember the boys calling her a mean drunk. Meanwhile, Carey smiles, and Hunter’s face is stiff, locked in place, as usual.
“You’re in my house, Lauren,” Carter says. “Talking to my girlfriend. About something you want something from me. How about showing a little respect?”
“Are you talking about our house?” Lauren says. “The house we were happy in together?” She turns toward me. “Tell me, honey, are you happy here?”
“Stop it, Lauren,” Carter says quietly. He’s not the type to get loud. No, it’s when he his voices gets quiet that you know something’s wrong.
“Fine,” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “Let’s get back to it. They can’t stay here.”
I don’t know whether to feel relieved or suspicious that their mother wants them back. Either way, I’m happy for them, because it can’t have been easy to know their mother would sell them for a chunk of change from their dad.
“We’ve been there, Lauren,” Carter snarls. “I’ll pay out more alimony, and the two of them will move ba
ck here.”
“But they’re my babies,” she whines. “You and your little toy brainwashed them! They want to be with their mom like all kids do.”
“They want to live here,” Carter says, and I wonder if it’s a good idea to have this conversation in front of the boys. One look at their faces shows it’s not.
“Maybe it’s better if you two have this conversation on your own,” I suggest.
“You stay out of it!” Lauren hisses.
“Leave her alone, Lauren,” Carter grumbles.
She looks over at her sons. “You want to live with your mommy, don’t you?”
Not even Hunter, master of the poker face, can hide his discomfort. His warring emotions are clear in his face. He doesn’t want to hurt his mom, but he wants to do what’s best for him and his brother. Carey’s face shows his pain even more clearly. He hasn’t learned to hide his emotions yet.
“They want to live here,” Carter repeats firmly.
I’m glad he’s doing the talking, but his sons shouldn’t be here. Even if they’re almost adults, they shouldn’t see their parents fighting like this. I can see it in Lauren’s eyes—she won’t fight fair.
“Carey, you want to come back with mommy, don’t you, baby?” she asks in a wheedling voice like chalk screeching across a blackboard.
His face shows all his angst and pain so clearly, and he seems so vulnerable right now. God, I feel sorry for him. I grab the armrest of my end of the couch to stop myself from getting involved.
“Mom,” Carey says, his voice breaking.
She switches targets. “Hunter—honey—come home with me,” she begs.
Hunter closes his eyes. How can she do this to her own children?
“Lauren, stop it,” Carter interrupts. “I’m telling you they want to stay. That should be all you need to hear.”
“You’re trying to take my children away from me!” she lashes out.
“They want to live here. Here, where their friends are.”
“They have friends in Miami, too,” she says, putting her hand on Hunter’s leg. “Come home with me, baby.”
Seemingly working up all his courage, Hunter says, “Carey and I want to stay here in San Diego. With Dad.” His heart is breaking, I can see it. The usually overconfident young man is now just a little boy.
Lauren grimaces. “What?” She shakes her head. “You ungrateful little shits!” she screams. “I sacrificed my youth for you, and this is how you repay me? You want to stay with your dad, who ruined our lives? Who broke our family apart? You scumbags! You bastards! You’re just like him! I hate you!”
8
Hunter
I’m petrified when Mom starts swearing at Carey and me. When she starts calling us names, I can’t even say anything. She’s my mom. She’s supposed to love me. The one person in the world I can trust to love me unconditionally.
But no. Instead she’s screaming that she hates me.
Even my natural instinct to protect my brother fails me in that moment. Mom’s a mean drunk, but I never expected her to get like this, to lash out at us so suddenly.
“Losers! You’re just like your father!” she wails. “I should have had an abortion!”
Her words hit me like machine-gun fire.
“I’ve given you everything, and this is how you thank me? Bastards! You’re scum!” Before any of us has gathered our wits, Mom stands up, leans across the coffee table, and slaps me across the face.
It doesn’t hurt. Not really. What gets me is the shock. Because my mom has never hit me. Not ever.
She raises her hand again, but Mac darts in front of me, and Mom’s hand ends up across her face instead. Mac doesn’t miss a beat. “Who do you think you are?” she shouts angrily. “Don’t you dare talk to them like that! You don’t have the right!”
Mom’s getting red in the face, like she’s about to have a stroke. “They’re my sons!” she thunders. “You stay out of it!”
“If they’re your sons, then why don’t you treat them like it? What kind of a role model are you? You’re not just verbally abusing your kids anymore, and I won’t have it!”
Mac’s standing so close to me, her legs are touching mine. I can see her fists clawing at the fabric of her skirt. For a moment, I wonder why Dad didn’t protect me, but then I see it in his eyes: he’s just as shocked as I am. But it’s time someone besides Mac grew a pair. Slowly, I stand up, but then everything happens too fast.
Mom raises her fist and punches Mac in the face. As Mac sways, I reach for her, and Dad finally wakes from his state of shock. He pulls Mom backward as she screams and waves her arms, trying to hit Mac again.
My arms are wrapped around Mac, supporting her as she regains her balance. Even holding her nose against what I imagine is pain, she’s still fuming. “Children deserve their parents’ unconditional love!” she yells at Mom. “Parents should never make their kids fear! It’s not these boys who are scum! You’re the scumbag here!”
Then Dad starts shouting at Mom, and Mom starts shouting at Dad. Mac turns to face us, reaching for Carey’s hand and pulling him up. He’s been sitting there looking completely lost. She grabs my arm, too, and pulls us out the front door.
“Get in the car,” she tells us, and we do it like we’re in trance. She drives—fast—to a hill overlooking the ocean. When we get to the top, we get out silently. All three of us stare at the wild beauty of the Pacific.
“Whenever I’m about to pass out with rage I come up here,” Mac says all of a sudden, “and scream. I scream at the wind, the waves, the emptiness in my chest.”
She steps off to the side a little and screams at the top of her voice, “It’s not my fault you never loved me! I deserve to be loved!”
Tears run down her cheeks, and I can’t help wondering what her story is. Whatever it is, it still haunts her. Suddenly I want to know everything about her. I want to know how she’s managed to get so strong, and why she can step up for others but not for herself.
“I-I hate my mom when she drinks!” Carey yells suddenly. I can see tears in his eyes, too. “She’s supposed to love me!”
Mac sees his tears, too. She stands behind him, wraps her arms around him, and holds him tight as he falls apart. He cries and screams, fighting her embrace, but she keeps holding him. She doesn’t let go. He grabs her hands, pressing them against him more tightly, until he sinks to the ground, taking her with him. He turns toward her, wraps his arms around her, and cries on her shoulder.
I’ve never seen my brother this desperate. I don’t know what to do until Mac stretches her hand toward me. I grab it, and she pulls me toward them, then wraps her free arm around my shoulders.
Tears are running down my cheeks now, too, and I should feel embarrassed. Embarrassed that my little brother is—that they’re seeing me cry. But I’m not embarrassed. She’s crying, too, sharing her pain with us, and we’re sharing ours with her.
Our shared pain is creating a connection between us, and I don’t know what’s going to become of it, and whether this will be enough to form any kind of relationship for the future, but right now, all three of us realize that we have something in common.
I put one arm around her, the other around Carey, and we hold each other.
“Why doesn’t she love me? What’s wrong with me?” Carey whispers hoarsely.
Mac strokes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s not your fault. You deserve to be loved.”
Closing my eyes, I wonder how she can say that to us when we’ve treated her like shit since the moment we met her. We’ve been assholes. Real assholes. Still, she’s putting her own feelings away to help us.
“But the things she said—”
“It’s her, not you,” Mac interrupts. “She has issues. Don’t take the blame. Everything she said is about her. Don’t let it define who you are.”
I untangle myself from them and stand, looking down at the water. Maybe it really does help to scream out your rage here.
“She was the best mom ever, and now she sucks!”
Not bad. It feels like a small weight has been lifted off my chest.
“I hate the fact that our family’s broken!” Another little knot dissolves.
Carey gets up and yells, “I hate that Dad didn’t give her a second chance!”
Mac stands, too, and brushes the dust off her pants. She takes a deep breath and yells, “I hate that my mom wasn’t strong enough!”
“Why didn’t Dad love our mom enough?” I scream into the wind.
“Why didn’t he love us enough to keep our family together?” Carey’s voice gets stronger.
“I miss you!” Mac screams, and I only fleetingly wonder who she misses.
“I hate the fact that Dad didn’t fight for us!” I yell.
Carey is shouting as loud as he can. “I want to hate Mac, but I can’t!”
She looks at him. He’s shouting at her, and right now, he looks like the little boy who’s still so fresh in my memory. She holds out her hand, and he hesitates before he grabs it. Then she looks at me and holds out her other hand. I grab it. For a long time, we stand on top of the hill, the wind pulling at our clothes, Mac’s dark hair flying around her head.
At some point, Mac says, “Let’s go get ice cream.”
When get in her ugly pink car, some silly music blares out of the speakers, and I fiddle with the stereo until I hear Green Day’s “Basket Case.” She surprises me by singing along.
Carey holds his ears and screams, “Fuck, you’re a horrible singer!”
She shrugs, grins, and keeps singing. Punk bands are not exactly known for their harmonious voices, but Mac’s singing is truly horrible. I stare at her a moment like she’s lost her mind, but then I shrug and join her for the chorus. She laughs, and together we sing much too loud and completely out of tune. Carey laughs his balls off in the back seat before finally joining in.
