Something Worth Saving

by Sandi Ward

  It is not long before Mark has another accident. Luckily, he does not get injured this time.

  Unluckily, he smashes a vase when he backs up while holding a hammer in one hand. The vase gets knocked to the floor, where it shatters.

  I saw it happen. Mark got distracted when Mom entered the study. Mark always turns to face her when she speaks.

  “Ugh. Katie, I’m really sorry,” he says, putting the hammer down on the wood floor and bending to pick up the pieces.

  “It’s fine,” Mom says. “Honestly, I was sick of that vase anyway. You’re doing me a favor. Don’t try to pick up anything sharp with your hands. Let me get a broom.”

  Well! I thought Mom liked that vase, but perhaps she did not.

  I think about the fact that there are two fat, fresh blueberry muffins sitting on a plate in the kitchen. I could smell them from the kitchen floor when Mom took them out of the bag. I wonder if Mark’s gifts are influencing Mom’s attitude about that vase.

  They are cleaning up the mess when Vincent walks in. He looks distressed to see the shards all over the floor.

  “Again?” He crouches and holds a bag open so Mom can empty her dustpan. “Mark. Seriously. You are a walking disaster, aren’t you? A living occupational hazard.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s funny. I swear, I don’t have these kinds of accidents in the kitchen at the restaurant.”

  “Never burned your hand on a pan, huh?” Vincent looks skeptical.

  Mark grins. “Okay. Maybe once or twice.”

  Vincent sends Mark to take out the trash. “You’re banished to the garage for the rest of the day!” Vincent calls out behind him, winking at Mom. Then, in an aside: “I’ll reimburse you for the vase.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I was going to get rid of it anyway.” Mom stands and wipes her hands off on her hips. “Vincent, you said you met Mark at church . . . ? I know I haven’t been to church in a few months, but I’ve never seen him there before.”

  Vincent looks sheepish. “I know what you’re thinking. He’s obviously new to construction. He’s a little green.”

  Mom nods.

  He continues: “The truth is, he needed a second job to keep himself busy, and I thought I’d give him a shot. We didn’t actually meet at church. I met him in the chapel at the hospital. I was praying, but I don’t know why he was there. He might have just needed somewhere quiet to sit down. Honestly, I don’t even know if he’s Episcopalian.” Vincent chuckles. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to put anything over on you. I just don’t know how much he tells people. He and his wife lost their baby. I think he fell out with his old friends too, because he doesn’t seem to hang out with anyone. It’s a sad story. That’s why I wanted to help.”

  Mom listens to the story intently. “Yes. It is sad. He told me about the baby.”

  “He did?” Vincent is surprised. “I’ve never heard him talk about it, outside of the chapel that day.”

  “He also mentioned he’s a lawyer.”

  “Really?” Again, Vincent does a double take. “Oh. Well. Yeah. I guess after the baby . . . Maybe he needed a break. Or he got fired. I don’t actually know. I don’t like to pry, so I haven’t asked.”

  Mom frowns. “He’s been through a lot.”

  “He seems to be doing pretty well, all things considered.” Vincent shrugs. “I mean, it’s been a year now since the baby died. I think he’s recovered okay.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Mom twists her mouth into a pout for a moment.

  Vincent blinks, thinking about it. “I don’t know, maybe this job is helping a little. He seems to like our company. Having someone to talk to. He sure seems happy to come and work here at your house. He always offers to come with me or take my shift.” Vincent gestures toward the bookshelves. “So. Anyway. Let me show you something I was thinking about. I want to get your opinion.”

  Vincent starts describing different kinds of doors for some of the shelves. He explains glass-paneled doors versus solid wood. Then he talks about hinges on the side versus hinges on the top. Finally they discuss different colors of stain. Even when he has already made a plan, Vincent often has new and creative ideas that he gets excited about. He loves to throw out last-minute suggestions.

  “What do you think, Lily?” he asks, when he sees me watching him.

  A shelf is a shelf is a shelf. What’s there to think about?

  When Mark comes back into the study, Vincent has finished his explanation. He and Mom have made some decisions, and Mom is standing near the window, looking out absentmindedly. The blinds are only halfway up. Vincent asks her to pull the shades all the way up so they can go over how the new windows are going to look.

  “I’ll get it,” Mark offers and walks right over to Mom. He puts two hands gently on her waist to move her body slightly to the left. And when he leans to pull the cord, he leaves one hand on her back to steady himself. His hip nearly brushes up against hers. Mom turns to watch Mark, as if he’s doing something fascinating. I suppose it is intriguing to her: the way his shoulder rolls as he lifts his arm, the way his fingers wrap around the cord in a fist and hold it tight, the way the vein in his arm pulses against his skin as he pulls the cord.

  Mark smiles broadly when he sees Mom is looking at him. “That’s better. Now you can see everything,” he says. “The whole window.” It is obvious to me that he is talking only to Mom, not to Vincent. It’s as if Vincent is not even in the room.

  And the way Mom gazes back at him, beaming in a way that I never see her light up for anyone else, it is as if he never broke that vase. It’s already forgotten.

  And that’s when I glance over at Vincent. His brows furrow. I think he is realizing something he was not aware of before.

  This confirms it for me. It is exactly as I suspected. There is something going on with Mom and Mark.

  Mom and Vincent have been friends a very long time. Years. As long as I can remember.

  Here is one thing I know for sure: Vincent has never put his hands anywhere near Mom’s waist, the way Mark just did.

  Vincent looks down at his boots, looking a little disheartened. He rubs the back of his neck and tries to compose himself.

  Hmm.

  Mom is acting like she wants . . . But how could this be? It isn’t just that she wants Mark to be her friend. She may be considering him as a potential new mate. And he looks at her the same way. Which makes this a dangerous situation.

  Dad left not long ago. And Kevin seems to think Dad might come back. I have heard Dad say that’s what he wants.

  For now, I consider Vincent’s strange reaction. Is it a bad thing that Mom likes the new man? Wasn’t Vincent hoping she’d like him? Does Vincent not approve? He’s always wanted the best for Mom.

  My goodness! This concerns me.

  Kevin doesn’t like Mom’s attachment to Mark at all. And now Vincent doesn’t seem too thrilled.

  I have to imagine it won’t be long before Dad knows—and I expect he won’t like it either. Not one bit.

  It is dawning on me that Charlie’s injuries are not the only problem this family is facing right now. They may not even be the worst of it. I have a terrible hunch that there may be more dangerous things coming around the corner.

  Chapter 18

  The Gun

  The afternoons grow longer as spring emerges, bright and insistent. I find windows cracked open in odd rooms. The world smells fresh and salty. The silence of winter has given forth to chirping birds and clanging wind chimes from the neighbors’ porch. Mom serves the children dinner later in the day. The schedule loosens, and my heart expands with the increasing light and warmth of each day.

  One afternoon, Mom is in the back room with Vincent and Mark. They are laughing about something. Vincent is telling a story, with much animation and waving of his arms. It is as if Mark has infused him with a shot of energy, because Vincent seems more talkative than usual. I sit on the cool of the kitchen tiles, eyes closed but listening to the d
rone of their voices. My stomach is very full because Charlie gave me not one, not two, but three cat treats today.

  I am spoiled. I do not deny it.

  Charlie and Kevin are upstairs, and Victoria is not home. So no one hears the front door open.

  Gretel, who lies beside me, immediately jumps to attention. My ears twitch.

  From the heavy sound of the footsteps, I know it is Dad. He comes down the hallway uninvited, which is unusual. Gretel stands tall on all four legs, but does not run to Dad, which is also strange.

  She senses something I cannot.

  When Dad rounds the corner, he stops and stares at Gretel with eyes that are red and seem devoid of comprehension. “C’mere, girl,” he says softly, perhaps out of habit. She goes right to him, and I sense how worried she is as she sniffs his hands and legs.

  Just then, Mom laughs again, and Dad freezes. He slowly turns his head and sees the people in the back room.

  And then there is silence. I check, and sure enough, they have all turned toward Dad, having seen someone moving in the kitchen. A frown settles on Mom’s face. Her expression goes from glowing to dark immediately, like a light being switched off.

  Dad stumbles into the room toward Mom and her visitors. “Hi,” he says cautiously. “Still working on this project, huh?”

  “Yes,” Mom says, gesturing at the bookshelves. “It’s coming along really well. I didn’t know you were coming over, Jeremy. Do you need something?”

  Dad tips his head and pauses, as if trying to translate what she is saying. It takes him a moment. “Yes.”

  I wait.

  We all wait.

  While Mark and Vincent wear short-sleeved shirts because it is a warm day, Dad has on a long-sleeve button-down flannel shirt and a down vest. He seems to be dressed too warm for a lovely spring day. Yet he does not look sweaty or hot. If anything, he looks ashen and cold, like he needs to lie down. He has not shaved, so a dark shadow covers his face.

  Mark crosses his arms and stares Dad down. This must be his first time meeting Dad. Vincent adjusts his glasses, looking sheepish, as if he’s been caught doing something wrong.

  Dad puts his hands on his hips, and everyone’s eyes flicker, as do mine: When he pushes his vest aside, we see the shiny metal at his waist. The gun.

  Dad licks his lips. “Kate. Is there a reason there seem to be people here all the time? People not in our family? Every time I turn around Aidan is jumping out of a corner, scaring the hell out of me. And Vincent—that’s you, correct? The guy who leaves his shit everywhere? He’s always here. And now, this other guy, whose truck is parked in my spot in the driveway—he has to be here all the time too?” Dad makes a gesture toward the men. “I’m confused who lives here now. Why are there always people here, Kate?”

  Vincent backs up a step or two. “Sorry, Jeremy. We just—”

  “Do I know you? Why are you talking to me like we know each other?”

  Vincent swallows, and puts a hand up. “We’ve met. I live down the street.”

  “Jeremy, you’ve met Vincent,” Mom interrupts. “More than once. MORE THAN ONCE.”

  “Jeremy, I’m a friend of—” Vincent stops himself, and shakes his head. “We go to the same church. Anyway. We’re just building the bookcase. It’s taken a little longer than we expected—”

  “NO KIDDING.” Dad’s face is starting to flush red, his hands clenched in fists. He turns to Mom. “I hope they’re not charging you by the hour, for Chrissake. You’ve got to be careful or people will take advantage of you. I mean, if you don’t care about your own money, that’s one thing. But keep in mind it’s the kids’ college fund. That you’re throwing away.”

  “Throwing away?” Mom bristles. “Are you serious? We’ve been planning this project for years. You promised we’d get this done ten years ago. Who’s the one who throws away money on a regular basis every time you go down to the liquor store to—”

  “Kate,” Vincent interjects. “We should go.”

  Mom’s face falls. “Go?” She seems stunned.

  “We’ll let you guys talk. We shouldn’t be here now. For this.” He turns to Mark. “Come on,” he says quietly.

  Vincent walks away, head hanging down. Mark pauses, and tries to catch Mom’s eye, but she is glaring at Dad. Mark finally follows Vincent, who is waiting by the open door that leads to the kitchen. I listen to their footsteps as they cut through the laundry room to the garage, and shut the door. I hear a truck outside start up and drive away.

  Gretel walks them to the door, but then comes back to sit at Dad’s feet. Ears alert. Eyes wet and concerned.

  Dad sticks a hand out toward the garage. “Is that why, Kate?”

  “What?”

  “Is that why? Is it Vincent?”

  Mom scoffs. “Are you crazy? No. No, Jeremy. That is not why.” She gestures toward Dad with both arms. “THIS IS WHY.”

  Gretel starts a low whine. She doesn’t like conflict. It gets her agitated.

  “I have asked you to choose,” Mom continues. “Over and over. And you’ve made your choice. You obviously are not capable of choosing anything else. And I don’t appreciate you storming in here and scaring people. With your gun.”

  Dad scowls at her. “My gun? Jesus. I didn’t take out my gun. What are you talking about?”

  “You’re wearing your gun. Don’t you even know that? You don’t even know what you’re saying. You don’t even realize what you’re doing. You—”

  Mom freezes and looks over at the doorway. She squints, and it takes her a moment to register who it is, the dark shadow that has appeared. Perhaps she thought it might be one of the children.

  “Vincent had to go,” Mark says. “I’m going to clean up our stuff.” He enters the room and breezes right past Mom and Dad as if they haven’t just been arguing. There are tools on a drop cloth, and he gets down on the floor and starts putting them into a pile.

  Mom clears her throat. “Okay. So.” She crosses her arms over her chest and turns back to Dad. “Did you come by because you need something?”

  Dad breathes out heavily, a long sigh, the fight drained out of him. “Yes. There is something I need. But damn-it-all if I can’t remember what the hell it was.”

  When his eyes finally find Mom’s, he notices she is tearing up. And that affects Dad tremendously, I can see, because his mouth sets in a hard line and he steps toward her. Gretel stands and moves closer to Dad, perhaps not wanting him to forget about her. If I were her, I’d move closer too, to get in on any hugging or cuddling that might take place.

  But Dad doesn’t hug Mom. He knows he should not. Even I can see that is not what she wants from the way her arms are wrapped tightly around herself.

  “I’m sorry,” he says very softly, as if Mark is not in the room. “I’m really, really sorry, Kate. You know that, right? I never wanted it to be like this. Why would I? I wish it were different.” He reaches over and strokes her shoulder, and she allows it. Finally, she nods to show she has heard him.

  “I’m sorry too, Jeremy.” She looks him in the eye, and he instinctively lowers his head. “Believe me. I don’t want this. I am so, so, so sorry.”

  The grandfather clock in the hall chimes. As she looks Dad over, Mom’s face softens, and perhaps her heart does also. She reaches out and rubs his elbow.

  I feel bad about this. I know they love each other. So why can’t Dad move back in? If he is really still sick or in pain, why can’t Mom nurse him back to health, like she did when Mark was stung by the bees? Why can’t Dad just go back to the hospital to get better like Vincent’s wife? And why isn’t his special medicine working? I have many questions with no answers.

  Dad walks out, never glancing back at Mark. I think he has forgotten all about the visitors, at least temporarily.

  Once we hear Dad shut the front door, Mom moves to sit on the couch. One tear falls from her eye and runs down her pale cheek. It makes a trail down her face that glistens, and she makes no move to wipe it away.
>
  Mark stands several feet away. He stares at Mom, but she does not look at him.

  He clears his throat. “I didn’t go anywhere.” His voice is hard and angry. But I know he is not mad at her. Energy vibrates from his body, dispersing into the room. “I’m sorry Vincent left, Katie. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Mom doesn’t move. I’m not even sure she hears him.

  I jump when Mark moves forward, taking a few steps to kneel—right on the floor—at her feet. There is a small blue rug in front of the couch, and this is where he positions himself. And then he does the most curious thing.

  He takes her hand, and places it on his shoulder. He holds it there. Mom doesn’t pull her hand away.

  Rather, Mom’s mouth opens, just a bit, and she watches him. Amazed.

  I think she was so distracted by Dad that she forgot about Mark for a moment. But he is determined to reclaim her attention.

  His chest presses into her knees as he leans forward. “I don’t think you should allow him to come in here and scare you like that.”

  Was Dad acting scary? Mom doesn’t scare easily. But maybe, just maybe, Mom has felt scared, and I wasn’t completely aware of it. It’s puzzling.

  Mark now lifts her hand, the one he put on his shoulder, and places it on the side of his head. Mom startles, confused.

  But then, sure enough, she slowly starts to stroke the black, silky waves of Mark’s hair, just above his ear. Mom runs her fingers through his hair with great care and tenderness, although his hair is a mess as always. She licks her dry lips, and takes in a deep breath. This action, caressing his hair, seems to soothe her.

  Perhaps Mark knew it would.

  She is a mom, after all. It is natural for her to show affection. There’s nothing wrong with that.

  Mom stares at him, her breathing continuing to slow. I can see she is fascinated by Mark, and the strange things he does.

  “Mark,” she whispers. “It’s okay. It’s fine. Jeremy might . . . I don’t know what he was planning to do, honestly, but he just doesn’t like other people being here. So you should go.”

  “I don’t think so.”