Things Worth Remembering

by Jackina Stark

I laugh at the absurd statement. “You’re making this up, aren’t you?”

  “What is it you and Maisey used to say? I’m ‘embellishing’ a bit. I am returning the dress, though; the hem is coming out, and I don’t think I should have to put a hem in a brand-new dress. And I have decided to buy something else. You should go with me. It might do you good to get away for a few hours.”

  “I don’t really want to send you off by yourself, but I think I’d better hang around here. I have to fix something for dinner tonight. The kids aren’t going to be here long, you know. We have what’s left of today and tomorrow. Friday hardly counts, so much will be going on.”

  “Well, I’m off, then,” Paula says, standing up and stretching.

  “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come?”

  “I’d better not.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “And still you came. I don’t deserve such a good friend.”

  “Oh, but you do,” she says as she heads around the house to her car. “You really do.”

  Maybe I should have gone with her. Marcus and Luke went to check on tuxes shortly before the girls left. For one who enjoys blocks of silence, I suddenly feel more lonely than alone. I should have asked someone to find my book and bring it to me before they all disappeared. Instead I sit here, defenseless.

  Wouldn’t I love it if he were playing in the pool?

  Wouldn’t I love to hear him shouting, “Mom, watch this dive!”

  He would be nine years old now. He might have been in Paula’s fourth-grade class next year. I think he’d be pretty gangly at nine, and I imagine him having my dark hair and Luke’s brown eyes. I suppose he’d be too old to be a ring bearer in his sister’s wedding. But perhaps he could have escorted his mother down the aisle in his new black dress coat and sat beside me, holding my hand, whispering, “Don’t cry, Mom.”

  Maisey

  Until he calls my name, I don’t see Marcus on the floor of the living room when I walk in.

  “What are you doing down there?” I ask.

  “Looking at your albums.” One is in his lap; another is on the floor beside him. “Kendy was looking at them when your dad and I came home. All three of us sat here and looked at them for a while. I’m not sure where your parents have gone, but I said I’d put them away because I wanted to look through them some more. They’re great. I have to say the baby one is very cute. And the basketball one records in amazing detail what a star you were.”

  “I told you that,” I say.

  “Yes, and I’ve seen your prowess with my own eyes, watching you and your dad play. But this album tells the complete story, Most Valuable Player and all. It has some great pictures too. Why haven’t you shown these to me?”

  “That seems a little narcissistic, don’t you think? Do you make me sit down and look at your albums or home videos?”

  “If I had some, you’d want to see them. Besides, you have looked through our family photo albums, even though everyone had about quit taking pictures by the time I came along.”

  “Well, that’s different.”

  “I don’t see how. In fact, you’re the one who stole my second-grade school picture and put it in your billfold, so don’t pretend this stuff isn’t important.”

  Marcus slides the albums back into the cabinet, stands up, and stretches.

  I change the subject. “Were the tuxes ready?”

  “They were, and they’re in my room, safe and sound, except for your dad’s.”

  I must look distressed.

  “His is safe and sound in his room. That’s probably where he and your mom are.”

  “Good.”

  “Relax, honey. Everything will be fine. You’ve checked and double-checked every detail.”

  “Do you know what we’re doing for dinner? I thought we could go to a movie and share a tub of popcorn for dinner.”

  “I think your mom’s making a salad.”

  “They won’t mind if we go.”

  “It’s okay with me, but let’s see if your parents want to come with us.”

  “They won’t,” I say.

  Marcus looks at me like I’ve said something inconceivable.

  “Let’s go up to your room,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “We’re talking.”

  “Privately. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

  I walk up the stairs with Marcus behind me. As soon as we go into my room and shut the door, his face and body language verify what I suspected downstairs: I am not going to like this private conversation. We walk over to my bed and sit on the edge of it.

  “Maisey,” he begins. This is the first time his saying my name has made me apprehensive.

  “What?”

  I suddenly wish Marcus and I were in the kitchen or on the porch talking to Mom and Dad about our fabulous lunch with the girls. I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. I feel the urge to clean my closet or reapply my nail polish, but I make myself sit here and wait for Marcus to explain his weirdness.

  He takes my hand. Why would a principal do that? I look into his gorgeous brown eyes and feel slightly better.

  “I just want to know what’s going on,” he says.

  That could have been my line.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Something’s wrong between you and your mom.”

  I gasp as though he’s slapped me.

  I can’t believe he has uttered those words. Spoken aloud, I can’t believe the impact they have on me. Out of the void, he has given form to what should have remained, at most, only a vague suspicion. And I hate it! If I’d known he was going to say such a thing, I would have put my hand over his mouth to stop him. If I could, I would shove the words back into his mouth. My face feels hot, and my heart is racing.

  “Are you crazy?” I ask as calmly as I can. I want my hand back, but if I jerk it away, he’ll read who knows what into it.

  “You know I’m not.”

  “What has she said?”

  “She hasn’t said anything.”

  “What has she done?”

  “She hasn’t done anything. You have, Maisey.”

  Now, there’s a bit of irony.

  I pull my hand away now—he can make of it what he will.

  I get up from the bed and walk over to my windows and look out at the familiar scene: patio, pool, field, woods. I can see, but only because I know it’s there, my old tree house on the edge of the tree line. On our first trip here together, I walked with Marcus across the field and showed it to him. I wish I were bewitched like Samantha and could transport myself there now with a twitch of my nose.

  Marcus comes up behind me and puts his arms around me. “I don’t want to upset you,” he says.

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Well, Maisey, we both know that’s not true.”

  I move out of his arms and turn to look at him. “So now you’re calling me a liar?”

  “Not really. There’s a difference between what I said and calling you a liar.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. I think you do too. You’re avoiding more than you’re lying.”

  This is too much. I thought I was marrying a lawyer, not a psychiatrist.

  “I just want to know why you treat your mother like you do.”

  “This is our wedding weekend, Marcus. If I had an answer for you, if I wanted to answer your question, I most certainly would not want to go into it now.”

  “I want to go into it for that very reason. I love you, and I want you to be happy.”

  “I’m very happy. I’m about to marry the love of my life. I’ve just started a great job. You know I’m happy. Good grief—I’m absolutely ecstatic!”

  “That’s true,” he says, smiling for the first time since he asked to speak to me privately. “But, Maisey, you’re happy and not happy at the same time. You can’t be happy treating your mother the wa
y you do.”

  Even though I’m sure love is motivating Marcus, I’m suddenly as angry as I am agitated. “That ticks me off, Marcus. I treat my parents as well as you treat yours!”

  He looks at me and I hear his words again, though they’re unspoken this time: That’s not true.

  But it is true—as far as Dad’s concerned anyway. Him, I adore, which should be obvious. Of course, even in my growing state of delirium, I know this does nothing to build a case for my defense.

  Marcus knows it too. “I wouldn’t say you deliberately try to hurt your mom, but you shut her out. You all but ignore her most of the time.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous. You fooled around so we couldn’t make it for dinner Monday night, and when we finally got here, you hardly spoke to them before you went upstairs to bed.”

  “You know I was tired.”

  “I know you slept three of the five hours we were on the road.”

  My room has been transformed from a safe haven to an arena. I stand frozen in the sand, waiting for the lions to be released.

  “Marcus, I don’t want to talk about this now. Why are you insisting we talk about this today, for goodness’ sake?”

  “Because I was embarrassed for your mom.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I felt sorry for her when you made it clear this morning that you didn’t want her to join our team.”

  “Our team?”

  “Our team, in the pool this morning. It would have been fun. I really don’t get it. The girls didn’t seem to notice. Maybe you do that sort of thing all the time, but I noticed. And Kendy noticed. I saw her face.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re so concerned for my mother.”

  “I’m concerned about both of you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible. And, Maisey, what’s wrong is wrong whether I point it out or not. There are more examples, you know. It has finally occurred to me that you’ve shut her out of the whole wedding. Why was she sitting here alone looking at your albums this afternoon while you went off with the girls to check on their dresses?”

  “How would I know?”

  Before Marcus can come up with a response, I grab my purse from the doorknob and stomp out. I feel bad leaving him standing there alone, but I have to get out of here. I will not talk about this any more.

  My car is filthy. I need to take it to a car wash. But first I must get down these stairs and out of this house.

  And I will, I really will—if I can just keep from dying of sadness.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Kendy

  “Ummm,” I say, “that was nice.”

  “Yes,” Luke says, tugging a strand of my hair playfully, “it was very nice.”

  We were simply going to put away Luke’s tux, and the next thing I knew he was closing the door and then the shutters, and I was throwing the decorative pillows off the bed and folding back the duvet. We were being wildly impulsive, and didn’t it feel good? Impulsive isn’t our strong suit. It’s been a while since we’ve made love in the middle of the day. Well, it’s almost six, not quite the middle, but still. Not to mention the fact that we have a guest in the house. I should not be smiling!

  Luke said no one would miss us and that the important thing was that he was missing me. My goodness, it seems I was missing him too. One of the greatest pleasures of married life is the ability to comfort each other in this tender way. Today, sex provided comfort even more than pleasure or pure relief.

  Luke says we’d better get going, but I am not ready to leave this place, and he sees that. “I’ll shower first,” he says, and I roll over and watch him as he heads to the bathroom. I thank God that this handsome and good man, who has grown into a sensitive and emotionally generous man as well, is my husband.

  Poor Mother.

  Well, where on earth did that come from?

  Until this very moment, I have not once pitied my mother.

  I doubt anyone else has ever pitied Carolyn Belk either. Why would they? She has good looks (even now, at her age), class, money, drive, intelligence, and a prestigious position in a respected company.

  What she has never had, however, is a husband. And though she has always seemed glad of it, it suddenly strikes me as sad. She made a bad mistake once (enter Kennedy Marie Belk), and she did not intend to make another.

  It’s quite unfortunate she met my father her first year at the university, worse still that she fell in love with him. Head over heels, as they say. He too was good-looking and intelligent, with the added bonuses of rich and amusing. Too bad she didn’t notice he was also full of himself. Mother said if my father had a fan club, he would have been president and CEO. Mother sort of laughed when she said that, but I think she meant it. Mother is confident, but she has never been arrogant or self-absorbed.

  She has been absorbed by her work, but that may be just one more result of having loved Craig Tanner. He never considered marrying my mother. In fact, by the time she found out she was pregnant with me, he and his deceptive charm had already moved on. When she was completely sure a baby was on the way, she asked him to meet her for lunch at a local café and told him she was pregnant. “Bummer,” he said and popped another French fry into his mouth. I’m sure he must have said more, but nothing any more comforting. Mother got up and walked out, leaving him to finish his fries and to pick up the check.

  He called a few days later and said he knew of someone who could take care of her little problem, and she told him she’d take care of her “little problem” herself. To my knowledge, she’s never spoken to him since.

  She did take care of it but not exactly by herself. She gave birth to me the summer between her freshman and sophomore years of college and needed help in order to finish her degree on time and get on with her life. My grandmother had been in her early forties when my mother came along, which was uncommon then. Yet at sixty-two and sixty-five, her parents took the news of Mother’s pregnancy well, offering no reproach—“mistakes happen.” They wouldn’t allow a church baby shower, wanting no controversy, but they welcomed everyone into their home to see the baby when I was born and proudly took me to church when I was a mere five days old. They told Mother they would be happy for us to live with them and happy to help her with me until she could finish her degree, so she moved back home, commuted to a nearby college, and graduated on schedule.

  Mother appreciated her parents, and though we did move into an apartment of our own as soon as she graduated and got a job, we did not move from Texas to St. Louis until her parents died within a year of each other when I was in the fourth grade. I was grown before I realized how good it was that Mother understood and appreciated her parents’ sacrifice and love, and how good it was that she took a job near them, even though she had many, and perhaps better, offers in distant locations. They had not said “Bummer,” and she would not deprive them of their only child and grandchild.

  I doubt Mother would have told me most of these things, but I had bugged her once too often about my dad, and on top of that she had just buried her father. She apologized later.

  “That was pretty brutal,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” I said. And it was okay. Brutal or not, I wanted to know everything I could about my dad, good or bad. However, as upset as she was the day of that conversation, I still didn’t get a name out of her.

  “When you’re older,” she said.

  “How much older?”

  I’d really wanted a dad.

  But at least I had had good grandparents. Grandpa used to hide my Hostess Sno-Balls from me, and Grandma used to take me to the park to feed the ducks. Their picture is on a shelf in our living room. Mother rarely visits their graves, though she makes sure they’re being cared for. She says their pictures are their memorial, and she visits it every day.

  Mother’s parents were not good at saying loving, even positive things; that was not their way, and
as old as they were when she was born, they surely weren’t the type to play with her or attend any school events. But when she came home, they were always there, keeping her safe and warm. They gave her a stable foundation, which accounts, I think, for the strong qualities that have made her a success in the business world. What would her parents think about her becoming the CFO of such a prestigious company?

  Though she has certainly never said so, I think working hard and accomplishing goals was something Mother could control. I heard her say once she never planned on “being stupid” again. Once I was married, I concluded that Mother could work with men well because her job required it, but she never desired another personal relationship with a man. She did not want to be vulnerable again.

  So she let ambition victimize her instead.

  I was horrified, then, when I realized my husband had an ambition not that different from my mother’s. Luke and I weren’t married long before his working on Saturday was more the rule than the exception. And worse than that, at least early on, his job included consulting that took him away for days and, on occasion, weeks at a time. The traveling may have been required, but as far as I was concerned, working on Saturdays and until seven many evenings was not.

  Luke has a father who enjoys his work, but he is not driven. Where did Luke’s ambition and competitiveness come from? Perhaps his playing competitive sports in school and his living and studying with an aggressive group of college friends are responsible; otherwise, I don’t know how to account for Luke’s determination to be a partner by the time he was forty.

  When he was home, he was wonderful. That was never a complaint. He was kind, pleasant, and attentive in the scarce time we had together during those years. But to find myself lonely so often took me back to Saturdays in the condo, waiting for Mother to finally come home, exhausted and ready to chill in front of the gas fireplace with a book until she couldn’t keep her eyes open and told me it was time for bed.

  My sophomore year I threatened to move in with Margaret and Hugh. Mother started to laugh until she saw my face and realized I meant it. “No you won’t, Kennedy. You can visit them all you want, but whether I’m busy or not, this is your home, and I will take care of you.”