by Glenn Beck
I didn’t mind the time alone with Dad, even if it was somewhat uncomfortable. He was always tired from work, his eyes heavy-lidded and his shoulders slumped, and though he tried to make conversation with me, it felt forced. But the day I cleaned the living room I anticipated his homecoming with an almost giddy excitement. I was sure that he would love it—that he would see what I had done and understand what it meant: I was ready to move on.
When I heard my dad’s car in the driveway, I pushed myself up from the couch and smoothed the cushion where I had been sitting. Everything looked crisp, and I placed myself at the very center of it all so I could see his reaction when he came up the stairs. I held my breath as I heard the front door open and close, followed by three quick thumps as he took the steps two at a time.
The moment his head peeked above the half-wall between the living room and the entryway of our split-level house, Dad froze. “What have you done?” His cheeks were tanned and leathery from all the days he’d spent in the sun, but even beneath the glow of his dark skin I could see that he had paled.
“I … I cleaned the living room,” I stammered. “Everything is spotless. It’s rearranged …” But, of course, he could see that with his own two eyes. Nothing remained the way that it had been. Nothing.
“What have you done?” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard me. “Where are your mother’s magazines? Where is our family photo?”
“I kept everything,” I said. “I just moved it around. Got rid of some of the clutter.”
“Where is the jar of sand that your mother had on the coffee table?” Dad surged into the room and circled the coffee table almost frantically. “Where is it? Your mother got that sand on our honeymoon. She carried it all the way back from Oregon in a plastic grocery bag!”
“It’s on the counter,” I whispered, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “I didn’t know where to put it.”
Dad disappeared in a couple of big strides and emerged from the kitchen a second later with the jar of sand clutched in both hands. “Put it back where it belongs,” he said, and I was surprised at the anger in his voice. “Put it right here.” He slammed the jar down on the table so hard I thought the glass would crack.
I swallowed, tried to make amends. “I was just trying to—”
“Erase your mother?” He interrupted me so abruptly I was left with my mouth gaping open. “Look at this place! It’s as if she never existed. Do you know why she had the couch at that angle?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “So she could stretch out and watch TV. Or why she liked the window closed? So that we had some privacy.” Dad stomped across the room and shut the window with a bang.
I wasn’t used to being yelled at by my dad, and I was stunned to find that it didn’t affect me quite the same way that Bev’s shouting always had. Maybe it was because I was sick and tired of being screamed at. Maybe I just felt strong after the hours I had spent purifying my home and my heart. Either way, when my dad raised his voice at me, I raised mine right back.
“I’ve been cleaning for hours!” I shouted. “This place is a pigsty!”
Dad looked taken aback at my tone, but instead of backing down he only dug his heels in deeper. “Clean all you want,” he said, “but don’t you dare touch your mother’s things. Have a little respect.”
“Respect?” I choked. “You want me to respect her?”
“Of course I want you to respect her! She’s your mother, for heaven’s sake.”
“Well, she wasn’t a very good one.” I was sobbing now, but my tears were born of fury, not sorrow. The injustice of all the years that I endured her verbal and emotional assaults was hitting me with the force of a train. I was breathless and shaking.
“How dare you?” My dad’s words were indignant, but his tone was splintered by pain and disbelief. “How can you say that?”
“Dad …” I held out my hands, questioning. “She hurt me. You know that.”
He shook his head. “All mothers and daughters fight.”
“This was different, and you know it.”
“Your mother was an amazing woman.”
“She was an alcoholic.” I didn’t really know what an alcoholic was, but I had heard more than a few people whisper it at the funeral. They said that my mom was drunk when she died, but that Dad wouldn’t let the hospital do a tox screen, whatever that was. And whether or not I could define the terms I heard floating around like debris from the wreckage, I was certain that they revealed much about my mother. They helped me to understand a bit of the whole. They carried an indelible weight.
Dad must have felt it, too. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said through clenched teeth. “Your mom went through a lot. She suffered a lot. And it’s not fair for anyone else to judge her. Especially you.”
“I’m not judging her,” I cried. “I just want you to admit the truth.”
“What truth?”
It was such a simple question, but with those two little words I knew that no matter how hard I tried to convince him, Dad would never accept who Mom was or what she had done. For reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom, he felt a deep-seated need to protect her, to gloss over the messy parts of our past. The places where my mother’s ghost still haunted me. What truth? he asked. Before that night, I thought there was only one. My mother was abusive. But Dad loved her because he knew why.
“Forget it,” I whispered. I pushed past him and would have run to my room, but he caught me by the arm and stopped me.
“I want everything back the way that it was.”
“Fine.”
“And Rachel?”
I didn’t want to look at him, but I knew my dad wouldn’t continue until I met his gaze. “What?” I said, raising my tear-swollen eyes to his.
“I know you don’t believe it, but your mother loved you.”
He was right: I didn’t believe it. But it was obvious to me that he did. How could we both see the same woman through such different lenses?
As I closed and locked my bedroom door behind me, I considered for the very first time that sometimes truth is in the eye of the beholder. My mother abused me. True. My mother loved me. True? Would I ever know?
Probably not. But there was one thing that was certain: My dad and I had two very different versions of the truth. And I didn’t know if I could ever forgive him for refusing to concede that my childhood up to that point was the battleground where my mother chose to fight her personal demons. That night, a chasm split the earth between my dad and me. A separation that, in the years to come, would lead us further and further apart. That would lead him right out of my life.
Or maybe I walked out of his.
CHAPTER 12
MITCH
December 24, 3:00 P.M.
Mitch has a headache. It’s dull but persistent, a thick band of pain that begins somewhere at the base of his neck and extends all the way up and around where it throbs in his forehead.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Mitch mutters. There is a man across from him, hand poised over a sheet of lined stationery. Words fill the paper with the dip and sweep of careful penmanship, the sort of writing that is a dying art. They don’t teach kids cursive anymore. At least, Mitch doesn’t think they do. But the man with the defined jaw and delicate hands writes beautifully, and it seems as if he’s waiting for Mitch to say something before he goes on. The tip of the fountain pen is a hair’s breadth from the paper.
It irritates Mitch, the way the man looks up expectantly. “You were just telling me about the first time you met Bev. About the diner…?” The man reaches for a piece of stationery that is lying facedown beside him. He scans the page before he finds the right spot. “Here: ‘She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. But she had built a wall around herself. She had a reputation for being hard, heartless even, but I knew that she was hiding something. I took one look at her and knew that she was scarred. I saw her. And I loved her. What else could I do?’”
Mitch star
es at the man.
“You’re kind of a poet,” the stranger says, smoothing the page. “A true Renaissance man.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mitch feels dizzy, and angry. The anger boils up from somewhere deep inside of him, a place that is dark with confusion and things left unresolved. He doesn’t know how to respond, or why this man is looking at him with such sorrow and pity mingled together.
“It’s okay,” the man says. He takes the thin stack of papers and taps them against the table so that all the edges line up. Then he folds them together and tucks them inside an envelope. He seals it. Dates it.
“What is that?” Mitch growls.
“A letter.”
“Who’s it for?”
“Someone who I hope will appreciate it very much.”
Mitch knows that people usually don’t appreciate what they’ve been given until it’s too late. But he doesn’t say so. Instead, he pushes back from the table, suddenly desperate to get away from the man who still sits across from him. There are memories that linger in the air between them. Things unspoken. Mitch grasps at understanding, but it slips through his fingers like mist. It’s exhausting, and he wants nothing so much as to be far from this man and his antiquated penmanship.
“I’m going to my room,” Mitch announces. “I want to be alone.” But he stalls a few steps from the table because he does not know where his room is. The atrium where he is standing is vaguely familiar. He feels more or less safe here, like he should know it well. And he also knows that he has a room somewhere nearby, a place he can escape to. The problem is, he can’t remember what it looks like or which direction he should go to find it.
“I’m down the hall from you,” the man says, appearing beside Mitch. “We can walk together.”
Mitch can’t fight the tremor that shudders through him at the proximity of the man. He knows this person, or should know him. It’s a sick, terrifying feeling to accept that he’s forgotten something that should be second nature. He feels defeated, betrayed by his own mind.
“I’m Cooper,” the man says quietly. Reminding him. “Let me walk you to your room.”
Although he wants to grumble and fight, Mitch forces himself to step back and allow Cooper to take the lead. Cooper does so graciously, moving away without a backward glance, sparing Mitch’s pride as much as possible. He can’t imagine anything quite so humiliating as being led around like a puppy on a string.
Mitch’s room is down a long hallway in the middle of a dozen matching doors. Cooper lightly touches the frame with his fingertips and nods without turning around, then he continues to the very end of the corridor and disappears into his own sanctuary. Mitch watches him go. Once he is alone, he stands on the threshold of his room and peers inside, curious and more than a little afraid that it will be as foreign to him as everything else.
It is. The room is small and sparsely appointed. There’s a narrow bed tightly made with neat, hospital corners, a faded rocking chair, and a table under a wide window. The bathroom is just inside the door, and it smells of bleach and industrial soap. It could be anyone’s room, but while Mitch doesn’t recognize it, he does know that it’s his. There is a picture of a little girl propped against an anemic-looking plant on the table, and his reaction to it is almost visceral. It’s her. And he belongs here.
Mitch shuffles into the room and closes the door firmly behind him. He looks for a lock, but there is none, and he battles an impulsive desire to push the table against the door to ensure that he won’t be bothered. But it seems like more work than it’s worth, and besides, he’s not sure he could move the table on his own. He’d only be setting himself up for more indignity if he was bested by a piece of furniture.
The room is cool, and Mitch notices that there is a robe hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. It’s ratty and off-white, but he pushes his arms through the sleeves anyway as he makes his way to the table, where he picks up the photograph. It’s dog-eared and curled at the edges, but her face is still as fresh and sweet as ever. Mitch presses the picture to his chest with one hand and extracts a snowflake from the pocket of his cardigan with the other. For some reason he knows that the glittering ornament is there, and that it belongs beside the image of the ginger-haired little girl.
There. It’s a reunification of sorts. A tattered, mismatched memory that evokes nothing in him so much as a bottomless yearning, the sort of ache that could easily swallow him whole.
Mitch lies down on the bed with the photo and the snowflake, one clutched in each hand, and stares up at the ceiling. He feels hollow and empty, his chest caving beneath the weight of a regret that he cannot name. But it is real and razor-sharp. He can’t ignore it. He can’t wish it away or pretend that it doesn’t exist.
When the nurse’s aide slips quietly into the room, Mitch doesn’t stir. But he’s not sleeping, and she seems to know that instinctively. She speaks quietly to him, and he tunes her out until she’s standing right beside the bed.
“Your medication, Mr. Clark?” It’s phrased as a question, but she is holding out a tiny paper cup, waiting for him to sit up and take it.
“What is it?” he asks.
“The same medication you’re given every afternoon.”
“What is it?” Mitch repeats. He wants specifics.
“Something to help you calm down. To help you sleep tonight.”
Perfect. If she offered, he’d gladly take a painkiller, too, but he’s not sure that an analgesic would take the edge off the pain that he’s feeling. Mitch pushes himself into a sitting position and places the photograph in his lap so that he can accept the paper cup. Inside is a single white tablet, and he tips it onto his tongue. There is a bitter sting in the place where it rests until the nurse offers him a glass of lukewarm water and he washes it down.
“Good job.” She smiles and nods as if he is a little boy. “Would you like to take a nap before supper? Should I put this on the table?” Her fingers brush the edge of the photograph, and Mitch snatches it away.
“No,” he says forcefully. A part of him wants to shout at her for even daring to touch it, but he’s too tired to be combative. Instead of fighting, he falls back. He doesn’t even argue when she pulls the blankets up to his chest.
Mitch hears soft footsteps and the click of his door falling closed. Then the only sound in the room is his own heartbeat in his ears. He is utterly and completely alone. Abandoned. He’s sure that he’s never felt so lonely in all of his life, and yet he doesn’t even know who it is he longs for. Her, he decides, clutching the photo to his chest. Mitch wishes she would walk through the door, ponytail swinging, a half-smile quirking the corner of her perfect mouth.
But even as he wishes it, he knows it is an impossible dream. She’s not coming. And in the dim shadows of his sterile room, Mitch begins to cry.
CHAPTER 13
RACHEL
October 22
Cyrus was gone for ten days. Ten glorious, drama-free days during which I hardly gave him a second thought. Lily and I flung open the windows to let in the brisk, autumn air, and lived like we didn’t have a care in the world. It was pizza in the living room for supper and a box of doughnuts leaning against the counter for breakfast. I even caught Lily drinking orange juice straight out of the container one afternoon. She gave me a guilty look when I stuck out my hand for the juice, but she dissolved in giggles when I put the jug to my lips and took a few long gulps myself.
Our afternoons with Max took on an almost lazy air, since we were halfway done with the order and it wasn’t even November. Instead of working, working, working, we made sure our hands were busy, but we also talked and laughed, and one day Max surprised us by taking a new bolt of cloth out of the back room. We were used to the dark, rich fabrics that would become Max’s suits, and the soft pleats of Elena’s dress material that still hung around the shop served as a reminder of the woman we were missing. But this cloth was entirely different.
It looked vint
age, though it had to be new. The subtle pattern spun swaths of cream and mint in a swirl that even at first glance I could tell was tailor-made for Lily’s exquisite coloring. It seemed as if God had blended those colors just for her.
“What’s this?” Lily asked when Max handed her the bolt of cloth.
“It’s not much now, but it’s going to be a dress.”
“For me?” Lily couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice.
“Yes, for you. I thought you and your mom would enjoy working on it together.”
“It’s kind of a summery fabric,” I said, taking a corner between my fingertips. It was smooth and breezy, light as air.
“So it will be a warm-weather dress.” Max shrugged. “Take your time. We have plenty of it.”
I wasn’t so sure that he was right about that. Our secret weeks together were a reprieve, a sabbatical from a life that was steadily strangling me. It was wonderful and unexpected, filled with the sense that there was something looming just out of sight. Something that made my fingers tingle and my heart beat fast, but the more practical side of me felt sure that this interlude would come with a staggering price tag—it would cost me dearly. And the day of reckoning was surely just around the corner.
The night before Cyrus came home, I had a premonition of his return. I woke up well past midnight, hot and shivering at the same time. “It can’t last,” I said out loud. My voice seemed to boom in the empty house, and I clapped my hands over my mouth as if I had uttered a curse. It felt like a curse to me. I didn’t want Cyrus to come back.
When I woke up that morning and went downstairs to take a shower, my husband was standing in the kitchen. He looked rumpled from travel, and he was rubbing his neck with his fingers, trying to get the kinks out. His back was turned to me, and I watched him for a moment, searching for the man that I had married in the lines of his broad shoulders.
