Honey, When It Ends: The Fairfields | Book Two

by Lennox, Piper

  “What about the other one?” I ask loudly, making them both look at me again.

  Tim sets about straightening his desk, his jaw tight. “She might be mine. Her age is close enough to when I....” His voice trails; he coughs into his fist. “So far, though, I only know of Silas. And he agreed to drop the charges.”

  “For you putting him in the will?” Cohen asks.

  “Not the will so much as...treating him the way I should have, all these years. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

  This gets my attention. I sit up. “How long have you known about him?”

  Tim shuts his eyes like I’m giving him a headache. “Since his mother found out she was pregnant, over twenty years ago. All right?” When he opens them again, they’re focused like a nail gun at my forehead. “Yes: I knew the entire time. I visited him every month, sent his mother money, put him into private school—then one day his mother decided it wasn’t enough. Threatened to cut off all contact with him if I didn’t leave Jeannie.”

  That ruthless businesslike stare might work on employees and competition, but not me. I stare right back. “So why didn’t you? You obviously didn’t love her anymore.”

  “Of course I did. I still do.” His eyes finally move, darting between mine. “Levi, I know this hits close to home for you, because of Lindsay—”

  I get up. No way I’m listening to his excuses.

  His chair hits the window behind him when he stands, too, ready to follow me. “His mother wouldn’t let me see him. Before that, I was as involved in his life as I was in Caitlin-Anne’s. I tried to do the right thing, even though it started because of something wrong.”

  I stop in the library and rest my arm against a bookshelf. I can’t bring myself to turn around. But I do listen.

  “I’ve apologized to all of them—Silas, Cait, Jeannie...but I realized I needed to apologize to you boys, too. Especially you, Levi.”

  He pauses. Slowly, I turn my head.

  Two cigars, one in each hand, extending to each of us: it’s strange, seeing this in the form of a peace offering. Tim only passes cigars in celebration.

  Maybe, though, in a weird way, there is something to celebrate. Or there will be, if we give it enough time.

  I take it.

  “I know I let you down,” he says, when our eyes lock again, “and...I’m sorry.”

  He watches me slip the cigar into my shirt pocket. I’m not quite ready to make peace yet. Just staying open to the idea.

  “You still love Jeannie?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  Maybe I just want to believe him so badly—to get some kind of proof of everything Cohen said in the hall—that I imagine the sureness in his voice, but I think it’s genuine. Maybe faking it and ending it aren’t the only options, after all.

  Cohen and I hug him goodbye. Mine is stiff and abrupt, but it feels like progress.

  “Better?” he asks me in the elevator.

  I think a moment. “Yeah, actually.” I am better. Not perfect: I still get a flicker of rage when I think about all those rumors I deflected for Tim over the years, the way I trusted him so completely—but it’s better than that constant stream of magma in my limbs. It’s better than silence.

  “Silas Fairfield,” Cohen says, just before we reach the lobby. I look at him. “Guess we have two cousins, now.”

  “Guess so.” Oddly enough, it never occurred to me that we’re related to Tim’s secret child. I only thought of him as some disembodied disruption, the messenger himself becoming bad news. But, when you get right down to it, the guy is family.

  “Things might work out. You know, when it’s all said and done.”

  Now it’s me who glances at Cohen. I expect myself to contest this; from his expression, he does, too.

  Instead, I nod again. “They might.”

  It’s been a while since I joined my brother in the land of The Glass is Half-Full, but it comes more easily than I thought it would. I guess that’s the beauty of having no idea what will happen next. You’ve got the same odds either way, no matter where you put your money.

  * * *

  Mom’s wind chimes have arrived.

  I know it before I open the box, or even check the label: she’s doodled cacti and flowers all over the package, along with about fifty hearts. Pausing to trace the shapes with my finger, I think about all the lunchbox notes she’d write us. Every one was covered with little illustrations just like these, and her swooping, curly script spelling out “Love, Mom” in a giant heart.

  Every day, even if she was sick or we were running late, she found a way to put a note in there. From our very first day in public school...until the day I told her high school freshmen didn’t get notes in their lunches. No one in high school did. Most, in fact, didn’t brown-bag it at all, but instead bought food from the line or vending machines.

  I hurt her feelings, I knew. Mom wasn’t good at hiding her emotions.

  From then on, Cohen got notes in his lunch. I got them clipped to my lunch money, on the shelf by the backdoor. It made me roll my eyes, the first time: of course she’d found a technicality.

  For some reason, though, I couldn’t just take the money and leave the note behind. I put it into my pocket, and every one after that, emptying them into my bureau drawer when I got home. I still have them somewhere, in an old coffee can in one of these closets.

  Like a reflex, I think about Mara again. I wonder if her mom did anything like that for her. If she kept a coffee can of notes or a box of pressed flowers, something to remember the good times by, in case they ever ended. In her case, they did.

  Then I realize that, even if she did keep those things—even if she had them in the first place—they’re gone now. The fire destroyed every last thing she owned, everything that was special to her. And here I am, fighting to save a house filled with so much junk, I can’t even remember where that coffee can of notes went.

  I grab a knife from the kitchen and open the package. Mom or the vendor wrapped each one in so much bubble wrap, I can’t tell what any look like until I unwrap them.

  My hands move slowly, every motion deliberate. I can’t stand the thought of breaking them. I know Mom wouldn’t care; minor shopaholic tendencies aside, she keeps herself detached from earthly possessions. “Can’t take it with you,” she’d tell me, when I wanted to blow my allowance on sneakers like my friends wore, instead of the eco-friendly, dirt-brown shoes she bought us.

  I’m careful because of Mara. As I unwrap each one, I find myself turning the glass pieces in the light, watching them cast splashes of pink and warped green onto the coffee table.

  I remember the day of the festival. The stained glass casting a crown of color around her.

  What I’m looking for, I don’t know. I have no idea what Mara’s favorite perfumes are—if any of these brands and colors would even appeal to her. I just hope I’ll know it if and when I see it.

  The final one is the largest. It’s a two-tiered metal loop, with glittering chains and small shards in a deep, beautiful blue. The logo piece has an old-fashioned script font, which makes me think the perfume is some old lady relic from decades past. Definitely not one Mara would wear.

  Still, something about the blue glass spinning in the light, the frosted pieces clinking, reminds me of her. It sounds like snowfall, if snowfall had a sound. From every angle, it looks brand-new, the pieces catching the light differently and either glowing brightly, or dipping to a dark navy in the shadows.

  Bright, dark; cheerful, heavy. It’s all of those things, second to second. You never quite know what to expect. Just like her.

  I wrap it up carefully, one piece at a time.

  Halfway to the door, I realize how uncomfortable my clothes are. All through my visit with Tim, the tag in my shirt poked my neck; the stiff fabric of my pants pinched my legs when I sat. My shoes, especially, are killing me.

  I go upstairs and change. Denim jacket, T-shirt, jeans, and trainers I bought for a gym memb
ership I never used. I’m breaking one of the first rules Uncle Tim ever taught me: always look and act business-ready. You never know when work will come calling.

  As I tug the seams and hems, loosening the clothes until I’m comfortable, I catch a glimpse in the mirror. If work does come calling, I’m about as far from ready as a person can get.

  Perfect.

  29

  I can’t believe I agreed to this.

  Dad cornering me at work was a low enough blow; inviting me to his house when my shift ended with the promise of a gift was even worse. In the end, though, it wasn’t either of those things that made me agree.

  “You don’t deserve to carry this forever, Mara.”

  Levi had a point. I don’t deserve this anger coursing through me at the mere thought of my father. I don’t deserve a life of skipped invitations and no relationships, of any kind, because my parents—both of them—couldn’t give up a needle.

  I fought like hell to escape that life. I wanted something better. Maybe, if I can let go of even one thing, I can have the life I actually want. Whatever that means.

  “It’s a little messy,” Dad warns me as we start up his steps. I notice a large piece of plywood propped beside them on the ground, two tracks of mud swooping down the middle.

  My hand reaches past his without thinking. I run my fingers down the glossy blue paint and miss my mother so much, it douses the anger. Not for long; never for long. But enough so I don’t shove him away or bolt when, cautiously, he puts his hand over mine.

  “Just like you wanted,” he whispers.

  “Yeah,” I manage, and then it’s back: that ball of fury, searing me from the inside out. “Almost twenty years ago.”

  He doesn’t flinch when I jerk my hand away. Just rattles the keys, searching, before finding the right one.

  I fold my arms against myself, the leather of my jacket cold and rigid as I step inside.

  The entryway is nice: small chandelier, deep cherry wood, bright white wainscoting. Boxes are stacked against most of the walls.

  “What’s this?” My voice echoes inside the cut-out section of a wall to my left.

  He appears beside me almost silently. I’ve noticed that: his footsteps are much quieter, surer, than they used to be.

  “Elevator. Getting it installed next week. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No,” I say quietly. It pings around the cutaway, all the way upstairs, where I can see the top of what looks like an old closet.

  Then, for whatever reason, I change my mind. “Tea?” I ask. “Or cider. Just...something hot. And brandy, if you have it.”

  “I don’t drink anymore,” he says, giving a muted smile at my surprise. “But I do have some ginger-peach tea in the kitchen.”

  The cold gets me again; I shiver, even though his house is wonderfully warm. It even looks cozy. It’s the exact kind of place I wanted to live, growing up. “Ginger-peach. Mom and Danny’s favorite.”

  “Sure is,” a voice says. But it’s not Dad’s.

  I turn and follow it into the living room. The first thing I notice is the fireplace, made of painted brick like the house’s exterior, and the tall, orange flames kicking up inside.

  Immediately after that, I notice Danny, sitting on the sofa with an absurd smile on his face.

  And then, finally, I notice her.

  “Mom,” I whisper, but the sound tumbles out, a sob more than anything else. I cross the room carefully, the way I grew accustomed to walking when she first moved into the nursing home. You always had to be quiet.

  But right now, quiet doesn’t exist. As soon as I hug her, I can’t stop the crying, the sobs that I’m not sure are really sobs. It almost feels like I’m laughing. I’m so happy to see her. The second I saw the blue of that door, it was all I wanted.

  “Josie,” Danny calls, a mischievous tilt about his chin when he glances at me, “who is this?”

  I pull back and brace myself, wondering why the hell he’d pull some shit like this. My mother hasn’t remembered who I am in years.

  Her eyes stay trained on the floor ahead. Her mouth stays open. Silent.

  Then, when Danny asks it again, she glances at him. I hold my breath when she looks at me.

  “Mara,” she says. It’s difficult to make out, if you don’t know to listen.

  But I do. And I hear it loud and clear.

  I hug her again, pressing my face into her sweater like I used to. I smell her perfume. I squeeze my eyes shut and see that blue frosted bottle. That blue door I just stepped through.

  It’s funny: when I agreed to visit my dad’s new house, I only expected one thing—to get an apology. And I still do. Nothing hurried in a market square, no guilt-ridden one in a withdrawal haze. No sputtered message through the phone. Something real.

  I never expected I would give one.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I tell her, every word muffled. “I should have visited you more.”

  “Mara,” she says again, and kisses the top of my head. “Baby girl.”

  “I told you she remembered you.” Danny’s whisper is choked around his smile. “She just couldn’t show it.”

  Sweet as this sentiment is, I’m still skeptical. Danny’s always been far more optimistic of Mom’s progress and abilities; he convinced himself she was the same person, just trapped in a damaged body.

  In the end, I guess it doesn’t matter whether Mom forgot me, or simply her ability to say my name and look me in the eye. What’s important is that she remembers it now.

  Finally, the crying ends. I actually feel dehydrated when I let go of her and stand straight, wiping my eyes on the hem of my shirt. I look at Danny. “You brought her here?”

  “Nope.” He holds the straw of Mom’s drink to her lips and nods behind me. “Your dad did.”

  When I turn, he’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, both hands on a mug and that sad smile on his face.

  “So...so, what, she lives here, now?” I motion to the medical equipment set up behind the sofa: her leg compression machine, a hydraulic hammock still in its box. A defibrillator, I guess so he can keep her alive long after whatever powers that be decide it’s her time to go. “You think you can make it up to her?”

  “Make what up to her, exactly?” Dad walks into the room and sets my tea on the coffee table. When he stands straight, I see that steeled focus. Looking people in the eyes always came easily to him. He’s the one I got it from, much as I hate to admit it.

  “This.” My arm flies out, motioning to the wheelchair, the machines. “She’s like this because of you.”

  “Because of heroin,” he corrects, so fast and so loud, it clips the end of my sentence. When he steps closer, I almost step back.

  Almost.

  “I know you think I dragged her down,” he says, “but we were both already down when we met.” The laugh he gives is like his voice: hoarse. I remember the sound from when I was a kid. How I always wanted him to clear it, but he never did. It probably wouldn’t help, now. “We were already addicts, Mara. And that’s what addicts do. Drag each other to rock bottom, until...”

  He pauses. I glance away when I hear him swallow.

  When he looks at my scar.

  “...until one of them is strong enough to leave.” He wilts, his hands hitting his sides with a shrug. “And it wasn’t me. For that, I am sorry—that she had to be the stronger one, because I couldn’t. Not until I’d already lost you both.”

  His tears don’t surprise me. I’ve imagined them, wished for them, my entire life.

  Danny’s hand on my shoulder does.

  “He’s set up private care for your mom, right here in the house,” he whispers. “He’s trying, Mara.”

  My breath thins as I move my eyes from Danny’s shoes to my father’s, then, slowly, to his face.

  What words will come out, I have no idea. Until they are.

  “I’m still so, so mad at you.” My hands ball into fists, shaking. I cross my arms and pin my hands to my side
s to stop it. “I’ve spent my whole life just....”

  Hating him. Wanting him dead.

  Hating her, if I let myself think about it too long. It feels wrong to put any blame, no matter how much is deserved, on the person who got their punishment and then some.

  But him, what did he get? A beautiful young wife, a daughter whose test scores he could flash to every buddy in the lumberyards and warehouses. A clean bill of health, those days nothing but pinpricks in his skin. This massive house and the impossible forgiveness of my uncle.

  The chance to swoop in, all these years later, and play the hero.

  “You can keep being mad,” he says. His smile is identical to the one he gave me the day before we left Indiana. “You can feel however you want about me, and...and I’ll deserve every bit of it.”

  “You can’t make it up to her.” It feels like the floor is moving right out from underneath me. I can’t let the anger fade. It might be dramatic, it might be childish—it might even be flat-out stupid. But if I let it go, I have no idea what I could put in its place.

  “I know that. I’m not trying to.”

  “Then what is it all for? The house, the private care—why bother at all?” My voice carries through the room. I drag my palms across my eyes to get the tears out of the way: I’ve waited too long to tell him this, and I’m going to see his face as clearly as possible when I do. “You ruined our lives and don’t even have the decency to feel guilty.”

  “Of course I felt guilty.” My father’s voice rises to meet mine. He takes another step forward. “Mara...I had so much guilt when you two left, it destroyed me.”

  “Right.” I fight the urge to look back at my mother in her wheelchair, or to touch the scar along my jaw. I settle for the one under my shirt, pressing my hand against it through the fabric slowly, so no one can tell.

  “I guess it wouldn’t help if I told you I lived under an overpass for six years, huh?” He rubs a smudge off his palm. It reminds me of that day at the beach: the shells he scrubbed clean for me, even though I threw every single one back into the ocean. I sent them all home.