by Jo Leigh
“I never once thought of asking myself what part I played in our little drama,” she said. “It was easy to blame you. It couldn’t be random, not that kind of pain. How could it be? It had to be someone’s fault. Your fault.” She closed her eyes. “How insufferable I've been. How self-righteous. No wonder you stayed away.”
“I stayed away for my own reasons.”
She looked up again, surprised at his calm tone. “Did you? I don’t know anymore. I can’t see straight.”
Suddenly, her legs weren’t strong enough to hold her. She sagged, grabbing on to the side of the dryer. Then she felt him next to her, holding her so she wouldn’t fall.
She let her head rest on his chest. She didn’t want to think anymore.
“You okay?”
She looked up at him. “I don’t think I'll ever be okay again.”
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”
She placed her fingers on his lips to stop him. “Don’t. You don’t have to. I was the one who hurt you.” Fresh tears came, and she fought them back.
“We hurt each other.”
She shook her head. “I blamed you. I did. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t your fault. I was so scared. I know that’s no excuse.”
“I should have understood.”
She studied his face, the strong jaw, the high cheekbones. The deep chocolate eyes that showed her nothing but compassion. “I don’t know how you can even look at me. Not after...after everything I've done. You have every right to hate me.”
“I'm too tired to hate you. I just want, I don’t know, to move on. To put all this behind us. I've had enough.”
“I feel like I've been living someone else’s life. My God, no wonder I didn’t see that Sam was feeling so bad. I didn’t see much of anything.” She let go of him and stepped back. “It was all my fault.”
He laughed. “Sorry, that position has been taken.”
She couldn’t smile because she knew he really meant that. It was no joke to him. She’d done one hell of a job convincing him that he was to blame for all the pain they’d gone through. Could she ever make up for that? Were there enough words to make him believe that he’d done nothing wrong?
A chill ran through her, and she realized where she was. She had no recollection of coming down the stairs. She didn’t like it down here. It was too cold and creepy. Looking up to the small window, she saw that it had been completely covered in snow. For some reason that made it even worse down here.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said. He was leaning against the clothes dryer. His shirt was damp from her tears. He looked big and reassuring, with his broad chest and muscled arms. She could lean on that man, and he wouldn’t fall. But who could he turn to?
For three years, all she’d done was point her finger at him, diagnose his problems, analyze his behavior. All because she hadn’t been able to look at herself.
She felt her cheeks flush with heat. So much hurt. Too much, for such flesh and blood creatures.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” he said.
Even his voice was forgiving. She didn’t deserve it, but she was grateful all the same.
She led him up the stairs and into the kitchen. It had grown very dark outside. The storm had turned into a blizzard, whipping the snow into a frenzy. She shivered again, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Why don’t you light a fire,” she said, “while I fix the coffee.”
He nodded. “You gonna be okay?”
She managed a smile. “I think so.”
As he passed her, he touched her arm, squeezing it gently. She watched him walk away. A new sadness settled on her like dust; the realization of how much time they’d wasted wounding each other, when they should have been helping each other to heal.
She moved slowly, each step an effort, and filled the kettle with water. Her teacup, from a thousand years ago, was still on the table. Her whole universe had changed in an instant. Nothing was the same. All she knew for certain was that she had to fix the coffee. He liked his with sugar and milk.
It was good to concentrate on the simple task. To focus on something outside herself. Of course, she was only putting off the inevitable. She had to look, and look hard, at who she was and what she’d done. He’d jolted her with the truth, and she couldn’t turn back.
The whistle of the kettle startled her, and she got busy again. A few minutes later, she took the two mugs into the living room.
The fire was blazing and Mike was sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the lines that bracketed his mouth were deep. Even so, he was incredibly handsome. She’d always thought so, but right now, he was more than just good-looking. His eyes made the difference. The shutters that had kept them hidden and suspicious for so long were gone. With a start, she realized she was really seeing him for the first time in years. She’d fallen in love with those eyes, once upon a time.
She handed him his mug, then curled up on the opposite end of the couch. She didn’t want to be too close to him, not yet. There were some hard things to say coming up, and she needed room to say them.
The fire crackled and she spent a moment staring at the dancing flames. Where to begin? So much had happened, it was impossible to know what to say.
“Remember when we went to California?”
She hadn’t expected Mike to speak. Putting her mug on the table, she turned more toward him. He wasn’t looking at her though. His eyes were focused on the past.
“When we took the kids to Sea World? That was a good time,” he said. “It was all perfect, remember? The kids, us. Everything was funny. God, how we laughed. I think that’s the last time we all laughed like that.” He turned to her. “Until last night. It felt like the old days for a minute there.”
“For me, too.”
Again, they fell into silence. She found herself thinking of that magical vacation. A smile crept up on her as she pictured Sam and Amy and Mike in that big king-size bed at the hotel. Mike had them all singing a horrible song about eating worms that the kids thought was the funniest thing in the whole world. “I think Amy would feel awful if she knew what had become of us. I think it would hurt her feelings.”
Before he had a chance to respond, she reached over and touched his hand. “Why did you stick around so long?”
He met her gaze. “I'm not sure. I guess I got used to it.”
“Being mad at me?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought I knew you,” she said. “I thought I understood everything about you. But I don’t. We're strangers, aren’t we? We've been strangers for a long time.”
He shook his head. “It’s this place. Being trapped up here. It makes everything feel different.”
“No. If anything, this place has given us a chance. In a way, I'm glad. Not that Mojo is out there, but that we were forced together. I doubt this would have ever happened back in the real world.”
“Probably not.”
“We would have gone on, chipping away at each other, for years and years.”
He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I feel like we've been up here half our lives.”
“I haven’t changed my mind about going home, you know. I realize we can’t leave in this storm, but as soon as it’s over I want to leave.”
“We'll see,” he said.
She took a sip of coffee, then got her nerve up. “Are you sorry?”
“For what?”
“That we made love?”
Now she dared a glance. The look on his face was more important than his answer. She could see he didn’t regret it.
“I'm sorry we only did it once.”
She laughed, more with relief than anything.
“Are you sorry?”
She shook her head. “No. But I've learned something. We've both changed. A lot. I made love with the memory of who you were, who we were. I can’t do that again.”
He sighed. “I suppose so. B
ut damn. It was a good memory.”
She uncurled her legs and moved over on the couch until she was sitting next to him. His arm went around her shoulder, and she rested her head against his chest.
There was a long road in front of them. Today had only been the first step. She didn’t know if they would be together when they reached the end. But she hoped so.
* * *
Mike grabbed for the phone by his bed, anxious not to wake Becky. “Yeah.”
“Mike?”
It was Sully, the bureau chief. Something was wrong. “Where’s Cliff?”
The silence that followed clinched it. Mojo wasn’t in custody and he wasn’t dead. He had escaped.
“Cliff is dead.” Sully’s voice seemed to come from far away.
The floor dropped out from under Mike. “No,” he said. It wasn’t possible. It was some kind of sick joke. Cliff would be on the line in a second, and he would laugh. “That isn’t funny.”
“I'm sorry, Mike.”
He swore only once. What he wanted to do was bash something, tear the room apart. “How?”
“Mojo.”
“Tell me he was killed in the crossfire, Sully.”
“He escaped. He’s still got the woman. The kid is dead. We believe Mojo is headed back into Colorado.”
“I know exactly where he’s headed. Get us out of here, Sully. Now.”
“I'm trying.”
“Don’t tell me you're trying. Do it.”
“Have you looked outside? It’s the worst storm in Colorado in fifty years. Air transportation is grounded. Cars aren’t moving anywhere. Half the state is immobilized.”
“You think the storm will stop him? You're out of your mind.”
“Look, if it’s this tough for us to get to you, Mojo is on the same boat. He can’t drive on these roads, either.”
“He'll get here. He'll figure out a way. Dammit, don’t you see? You can’t stop him. Nothing can stop him.”
“Calm down. The safest place you could be is right where you are.”
“Wrong. There is no safe place where that bastard is concerned.”
“You have ammunition? Weapons?”
“Yeah. Not that they'll be enough.”
“I'm doing everything humanly possible to send help. I won’t let him get to you.”
Mike stared out the bedroom window at the furious wind. This was not where he intended to die. He thought about Cliff. And his wife. Mike cursed again. “Have you told Ellie?”
“Yeah.”
“God.”
“Hold tight, Mike. I'm sending the cavalry.”
“Just get them up here. I don’t care how.”
Sully hung up, and Mike lowered his phone to the cradle. Cliff was dead. It was an unbelievable notion, like thinking the ocean was pink. He couldn’t be dead. He had a family. His wife was a year younger than Becky. His kids were all in grade school, and Terry, his oldest, was Sam’s age.
Another partner had died trying to protect him. It wasn’t right. Why should he still be alive, and those two men dead? He went over to the closet door and laid his forehead against the cold wood. Nothing made sense anymore. He’d thought, for one minute there, that things were going to get better. That he and Becky had a shot at starting over. That there was a future.
He curled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the door. Pain radiated up his arm, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to smash through the wood, to tear the cabin down around him. He wanted out.
* * *
Becky fought to stay asleep. She didn’t want to be awake, to remember. She shivered and opened her eyes. The fire was still burning, so why was she so cold? She felt as though she would never be warm again. She would never be in her own home. That she would never see another spring. Everything would happen for the rest of her days in snow and ice.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging her legs to her chest. Where was Mike? He’d been here, comforting her. His kindness bewildered her. How could he be so nice, after what she’d done to him?
But that was Mike, wasn’t it? The man she had married. He’d been a sweetheart back then, a gentle and considerate lover. Before she’d turned against him. Now there was something to be proud of.
No, she wouldn’t go down that path. All it would lead to was more hurt, and like Mike had said, they’d all had enough of that. What was important now was to start over. To learn to be kind again, to Mike, to Sam, to herself.
Someday, she might understand why she’d done those terrible things. Why she’d found it necessary to hurt him so deeply. But for now, she would just stop. Stop pointing fingers and stop the blame.
It was nearly five o'clock. She’d slept for a long time. How could so much have happened in one day? She’d had a year’s worth of revelations, a lifetime’s worth of sorrow. Enough. That’s what Mike had said. Yes. Quite enough.
She got up and stretched. Her muscles ached and her neck was sore. There was a bathtub in Mike’s room. Maybe later she would soak for a while and try to get out the kinks. In the meantime, Sam had been upstairs alone all afternoon.
She took the stairs slowly. Her legs felt heavy and sluggish. His door was open, and when she walked in, she saw he was on the bed playing on his computer. Didn’t he ever get tired of that thing?
She shouldn’t complain. It was probably good for him to have someplace to go. So what if it wasn’t the real world? The real world wasn’t all that hot sometimes.
“Hey, kiddo. How you doing?”
He looked up at her, a little startled by her voice. “Hi. I'm on the fifth level. Only one more to go.” Then his gaze went back to the screen.
“The fifth level? Wow.” She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, but if he was impressed, she would be, too. She walked over to the bed and looked at the screen. It was a jumble of lights and figures, streaming beams and flashing icons. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
Then she turned her attention to Sam. His fingers were moving with unbelievable swiftness, his eyes darting back and forth as he followed the game. She loved him so much it was hard to breathe.
Had he known? Had he watched her turn against his father? Had he seen the accusing stares, heard the bitter words? Is that why he took refuge in a machine?
She reached a tentative hand out and touched his hair. What she wanted to do was take him in her arms and hold him, but she simply ran her hand down the curve of his head, and then let go. He didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Not a smile or a frown. It was the game that had him transfixed, she knew that, but it didn’t make her feel any less alone.
She turned and went to the window. A maelstrom of wind and snow and tree branches smashed against the glass. What was that poem, about the world ending in ice? She could believe it. Her world had ended. Her belief in herself, the very foundation of her existence had been swept away in a gale of cold words and colder truths. She had thought of herself as a decent person most of her life. Now, all she believed was that she was afraid.
“Dammit!”
Becky turned quickly, startled at Sam’s outburst. “What?”
“I got killed. Two more men, that’s all I needed. I was so close.”
She tried to get her pulse to slow. “I'm sorry you didn’t win. Next time, win or lose, you need to find another word to express yourself.”
He looked at her, puzzled. “What did I say?”
She laughed. “Never mind. Anyway, you've been playing that thing too much. Put it away and come downstairs. I need some help with dinner.”
“I'm starving.”
“No wonder. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“Yes I did. I fixed myself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Earlier. You and dad were downstairs.”
Had he heard them? She dearly hoped he hadn’t. He didn’t need one more thing to worry about.
He started typing again. She guessed he was saving the game for another time.
/>
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“I'm really sorry about this morning.”
“Don’t sweat it, kiddo. Just don’t do it again.”
His fingers stilled. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She rushed over to the bed and sat down next to him. “Did you hear me crying in the basement?”
He nodded, making sure he didn’t look anywhere but straight in front of him.
She put her arm around his shoulder and hugged him. “That wasn’t about you. I promise. I was crying about a lot of things, honey, but not you.”
“You sounded...bad.”
“I'm sure I did. But it wasn’t bad. Sometimes crying can be a good thing. It can help you express feelings that are deep inside. I was very sad for a long time, but today was the first time I could cry about it. So it seemed worse than it was.”
“Okay.”
She touched his chin with her finger and turned him so she could see his eyes. “You mean it?”
He nodded.
She kissed him on the nose. “Thanks for caring, sweetie.”
His cheeks got a little pink, and he turned back to his computer. She watched him hit a number of keys, then the screen went black. He shut the cover. “Mom, what’s for dinner?”
“How about spaghetti?”
“Yeah.”
She stood up, and Sam scrambled off the bed. He was out of there and clomping down the stairs before she reached the door. She was pretty sure he believed her, but tonight, before bed, she would check in with him again. Reiterate that he hadn’t done anything to upset her. She would have Mike say something to him, too.
Speaking of Mike, she thought, where had he gone? He wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. Maybe he was napping.
Sam had already started setting the table. He seemed okay to her. But then, she’d thought he was fine last night, and all the nights before. How was she ever going to trust her judgment again?
She got out the big pot and filled it with water. After she put it on the stove and started the fire beneath it, she turned to Sam. “Can you finish setting the table by yourself?”
“I'm almost done.”
“Don’t forget glasses. Use the chair to reach them. I'm going to go talk to Daddy for a minute.”
