Something Worth Saving

by Sandi Ward

  It’s a battle he’s going to lose.

  Clearly, Dad has disappointed Kevin. I think Dad has disappointed Charlie too. I’m not sure the boys realize how much they have in common.

  I leave Kevin and trot down the stairs to say good-bye to Charlie before he goes. He is sitting at the kitchen table with Mom, while Victoria repeatedly checks her phone. All is quiet. A small floor fan in the back room hums as it rotates.

  Charlie. Look at me. Tell Mom. Tell Mom and Victoria about Kevin. Right now.

  The fan swooshes and sighs. Moving right to left, and back again. Charlie’s foot taps the floor. He runs a finger over his bottom lip. He looks like Kevin, preoccupied and staring into space. But he’s anxious for a different reason. I suppose Charlie is nervous about the dance.

  Charlie! It’s a quiet moment. Tell Mom, so she can talk to Kevin privately while you are out. It will be perfect timing.

  “Aidan’s here,” Victoria announces, standing. Her chair scrapes against the tile as she shoves it back. “He’s waiting in the driveway. Let’s go.”

  I jump out of the way. And then they’re gone. The moment has passed.

  * * *

  Later that night, Victoria and Aidan open the front door quietly. Charlie and Ronaldo are right behind them, not speaking. They don’t know that Mom is not asleep; she’s watching TV in the back room.

  “Mom!” Victoria startles as she enters the kitchen and hears the television. “I didn’t know you were waiting up for us. Aidan was thirsty. I was going to give him a soda, and then he’s going to take Ronaldo home.”

  Mother gets up off the couch and enters the kitchen. She’s already in her pajamas, and looks sleepy. “Hi, Aidan. Nice to meet you, Ronaldo.” She pulls the belt of her sweater to make sure the knot is tight.

  “Hi, Mrs. Anderson,” Aidan mutters, suddenly shy, standing behind Victoria.

  “Hi,” Ronaldo says, eyes bright, stepping forward to shake Mom’s hand. “So nice to meet you too.”

  They all talk briefly in the kitchen. Victoria hands Aidan a cold soda from the refrigerator, which he chugs down. Victoria laughs and tells Mom a few stories about kids at the dance. Ronaldo joins in with a story of his own that gets Mom giggling. Charlie and Aidan stand to the side, listening. Charlie glances up once in a while. Aidan stares at the can he’s holding.

  “Okay, I’m heading to bed,” Mom says with a yawn. “Don’t stay up too late. It’s a school night.”

  “Sure.” Victoria gulps down a full glass of water. Her dark eye makeup is smudged, and her face is flushed. Charlie looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, his hair in disarray.

  Once Mom is gone, Victoria nudges Charlie with an elbow. “It was fun, right? Aren’t you glad you went?”

  “Sure,” he says. “It was good.” He can barely manage a smile. He glances over at Ronaldo, who is also waiting to hear his answer.

  “So? That’s it? Good?”

  “Yeah. It was good. Pretty fun. What do you want me to say?” Charlie turns his back to Victoria so he can reach up and grab his own glass out of the kitchen cabinet. He turns on the faucet to fill it with water.

  Victoria shakes her head. “Nothing. Never mind.” She grabs Aidan by the hand. “It’s hot in here. We’re going to talk by the car for a minute. Ronaldo, just come out when you’re ready.” She strides off, pulling Aidan in tow behind her, still full of energy.

  When we’re alone in the kitchen, Charlie hands the glass of water to Ronaldo. He leans back against the counter, but then startles. Reaching behind him, he pulls something out of his back pocket. It’s the headband. So, then, perhaps Charlie did wear it! I watch as he slides it on his head. A perfect fit.

  Ronaldo grins.

  “You had fun, Charlie.” He touches Charlie’s shoulder gently. “Didn’t you?”

  Charlie’s mouth hangs open a moment as he stares down at his shoulder, right where Ronaldo touched him. “Yeah,” he says finally, in a soft voice.

  Oh dear. Charlie drops his head to stare down at the small rug by the kitchen sink. He suddenly looks pale, like he might faint.

  “Charlie,” Ronaldo tries again, in a light voice.

  Charlie doesn’t respond. It’s so quiet, I can hear the clock ticking in the back room. He is frozen to the spot.

  A slight frown crosses over Ronaldo’s face. “So. Do you think I’m okay to ride home alone with Aidan, or should I have my mom pick me up?”

  Charlie’s head snaps up. “Aidan? Oh . . . well, yeah. He’s fine. He used to be kind of a jerk, but now I think he’s okay. You’ll be fine with him.” Charlie’s shoulders relax. “Everyone likes you. You know how to talk to people. You’ll be good.”

  Ronaldo tips his head and smiles again. “Okay.” He reaches up and touches the flower on Charlie’s headband. “Oh my God, Charlie. Your hair looked so cool tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Charlie says. Quiet. Thoughtful. Not breaking eye contact for once. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

  There’s a long pause. But then Charlie’s phone gives a ping! He grabs it off of the kitchen counter.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s Vicky. She says to come out. Aidan is ready to go.”

  Ronaldo nods. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Probably.”

  “Definitely.”

  We walk Ronaldo to the front door. Victoria comes inside and the children watch their guests drive away. Victoria is the first to bound up the stairs to get ready for bed.

  Charlie reaches down with two hands and hefts me up onto his shoulder. “Hey, Lil,” he sings softly. “Kissy, kissy.” He smooches me a few times on the face.

  Ewww. Not my favorite gesture of affection. But when he gives me a squeeze and leans his cheek against my shoulder, I feel the love and start to purr.

  It is clear to me that Charlie had a wonderful time at the Winter Ball.

  “Sweetie.” He sighs again. He leans back to smile at me. “Sweet baby doll. Did you have a special night? You’re the most beautiful cat in the world, have I told you that lately? You’re the best, the sweetest, and the greatest. I hope I haven’t forgotten to tell you. Your fur? So soft and stunning. Your personality? Amazing. Everyone loves you. You’re so funny and nice.”

  Oh, boy. Are you talking to me?

  I suspect he has someone else in mind.

  Yes, I’m quite sure my Charlie had a good time. I keep purring as he heads toward the stairs to climb up to bed, clutching me against him with both arms. He forgets to turn off the kitchen light.

  Chapter 29

  Very Unkind

  Mark hands a small cup to Charlie, who is wearing a red apron. Charlie digs the cup deep into a tall bag. When he slowly and cautiously lifts his arm, I see the cup is overflowing with white powder.

  “Here.” Mark hands him a knife. “Use this to even out the top.”

  Charlie slides the knife over the top to knock powder back into the bag. He glances up at Mark for approval, who nods.

  I can see Charlie stands a little taller when he’s next to Mark. He feels comfortable.

  “Victoria is going to be so impressed when she hears you helped with the birthday cake,” Mom gushes from her seat at the kitchen table. “You’re making a red cake?”

  “A blue cake with red frosting,” Charlie answers with a grin. “Just like the one she asked for when she was in Kindergarten.”

  Mom laughs. When Mark walks over closer to her, she wraps her hands tighter around her mug and beams up at him.

  “So, how was work today?” he asks. “How was little Emma?”

  “Ohhhh.” Mom sighs. “Not good. She spilled the glue again. And after lunch, one of the teachers caught her cutting up her dress with scissors.”

  Charlie gasps in horror, but Mark laughs heartily. “Ah. Good old Emma.” He puts a hand on his stomach. “That kid is lucky she’s got you to look after her.”

  Mom’s cheeks redden, and she looks down at the table. I think she is pleased.

  “How
’s the coffee?”

  Mark made the coffee for Mom in a special new machine that he brought for her last week. At first, she eyeballed the machine suspiciously as he showed her how to use it. It sounded complicated.

  Mom nods. “It’s very good.”

  On different days, Mark has brought Mom a book, a painted dish, and a bracelet. She always smiles but puts these things quickly aside. To her, they are just things. Her needs are much more immediate. She wants to look at him, to hear his voice, to touch his hand.

  “Stir the dry ingredients together, but not too fast or the flour will go everywhere,” Mark says over his shoulder. Charlie nods and grabs a wooden spoon. Charlie holds the glass bowl handle with one hand while mixing with the other. Mark turns back to Mom. He pauses before blurting out: “Did your friends say anything about last night?”

  Last night, two of Mom’s friends showed up with a bottle of wine. It was their first time meeting Mark, and they all went out to the deck. The women cooed and clucked over him, and the later into the night it got, the more cooing and clucking they did. Mom did not drink the wine, preferring a glass of iced tea, so that is what Mark drank too. But he was very talkative, and by the end of the night everyone was in good spirits. Mark referred to them as his “new friends,” which made the women laugh for some reason. As they were leaving, they patted his cheek and tapped his elbow and made him feel greatly admired. Mom had to practically shove them out the door to get them to leave.

  “They liked you,” Mom says, raising an eyebrow. “Of course.”

  Mark gives Mom his crooked smile. “Good.”

  “Yes, it’s good. They approve. Well—it’s not that I care if they approve. I should say: They understand.”

  Mark’s smile fades. He scratches the back of his neck. When Mom doesn’t say anything more, he walks over to her and takes her hand. “Katie. I know this must be hard for—”

  “They understand. They do.” Her eyes flicker over to Charlie, but he’s busy pouring milk into a new cup.

  Mark sighs. He suddenly looks tired. I know he didn’t sleep well.

  I heard Mark tell Mom that he woke up in a sweat in the dead of night. Mom listened with horror when he explained that he has nightmares, which always involve finding very sick babies in the strangest places, like under the kitchen sink. This is one way I know Mark is not yet at peace. His arms still feel empty from where he once held his warm baby.

  Mom studies Mark’s face and frowns. “Charlie,” she calls, “We’ll be right back, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ve got it under control.” Charlie pours a brown liquid into a spoon. Some splashes onto the kitchen counter, but he quickly mops it up with the edge of his apron.

  Mom takes Mark just a few steps into the hallway, past where Charlie can see them. She puts her arms up around him and rests her head on his shoulder. One hand reaches up to play with his hair and she brushes her lips against his neck. Mark closes his eyes for a moment.

  I think this is true: She wants Mark as her mate. Mom likes having a physical connection with him, and feels safe in his arms. She is learning to let go of Dad.

  This is also true: Mark needs her.

  Mark was brokenhearted, and then Mom came into his life unexpectedly. Now he is dedicated to her. He needs someone to talk to about his fears and disappointments. He tells her stories of his old life that make him laugh in disbelief, and to me, he sounds like he is describing someone else, instead of himself. He manages to say and express more in one conversation than Dad probably did in a month. He needs someone who will listen, and not judge. For him that person is Mom.

  Mom wants Mark; he needs her. They are different things, want and need. Want can make humans do crazy things. Yet I think need may represent something deeper.

  It is enough to draw them together.

  Charlie looks over at me as I stare down the hall. He mouths: What is going on over there?

  No worries. It’s all good. Mom is fine. Keep mixing.

  I think Mark overwhelms Mom sometimes. But when he leans back and smiles at her, she looks happy.

  And when I finally hear her whisper, “I love you,” while standing there in the dark hallway, there is nothing about it that feels wrong or forced or out of place.

  If I were her, I would love him too. In fact, I believe I already do.

  * * *

  There is one day when Dad lets himself in the front door with his key, and wipes his feet on the mat. He tips his head and breathes in deeply. A serene look comes over his face. He is at peace. But I know it won’t last long.

  Mark is in the kitchen cooking strawberry muffins. I watched him take a tray out of the oven. When he bakes in our kitchen, the cakes create a smell that all of the humans love, and it is this scent that Dad responds to as he stands at the front door. It does not appeal to me personally, but the humans gravitate toward the kitchen when Mark is baking.

  Right now, the children are in school. Mark is alone in the house.

  Earlier, from a kitchen chair, I watched Mark carefully wash and trim the strawberries. He cut them thin, one at a time, and then fanned out the slices over the top of each muffin.

  Mark takes his time when he is baking, and never appears flustered, the way Mom gets when she is rushing to cook dinner at the end of the day. He gave me a small piece of soft cheese once everything was in the oven.

  Mark appears at the end of the hall to see who has entered the house. When he sees it is Dad, he slowly comes down the hall, a wary look on his face.

  “Sorry,” Mark says. “She’s not here. She went for a run.”

  “A run? You mean running? Like, actual running? Around the block or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t blame Dad for being confused. Mom is usually at work, but today Mom took the day off, which is unusual for her. She also has never gone running in the past. It is something new she is trying out.

  “So you live here now?”

  “No.” Mark seems reluctant to say more.

  “It’s okay,” Dad says, squinting at him. “I understand. You’re the rebound guy. That’s how Kate and I are going to refer to you in six months, when you’re gone. The rebound relationship. Whatever.”

  Mark seems skeptical. He raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says carefully.

  Dad stares at Mark, and the hostility seems to slowly seep out of him as he stands there, hanging his head and closing his eyes for a brief moment. “So, Mark.” He stops, and wipes the back of his knuckles against his mouth. “Um, so. Okay. What has Kate said about me, exactly?”

  Mark folds his arms across his chest and gives a disinterested shrug. He stares down at his work boots, which he tends to wear most days even when he isn’t working on Mom’s project. The ground is muddy now that the snow is melting and the spring rain keeps the dirt moist. And I can see he just doesn’t put too much thought into what he wears. “I don’t know. Not much, I guess. Nothing personal.”

  My whiskers twitch. I suppose it’s true Mom doesn’t talk too much about Dad with Mark.

  Yet I have heard her say a few things.

  I did hear her say she still loves Dad.

  But that was a while ago. A full moon ago. Most of the work on the study is done. Yet Mark is still here.

  Dad rolls his head back to stretch and take in a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay.” I can see he doesn’t believe that for a minute from the look on his face. He rubs the palms of his hands together, as if he’s cold. “I’m trying, you know. It kills me to think that the kids are unhappy. I know I’m not their favorite person lately.”

  Mark holds himself tighter, and he nods, but doesn’t respond.

  “I wish there was more I could do. But I’m doing the best I can.”

  I meow! to let Dad know I appreciate what he is saying. He glances at me and looks amused. When he winks at me, I wink back at him.

  When Dad is looking right at me—and really seeing me, not distracted, or in a fog—he has a very friendly look. I can
imagine him looking at Mom in the same way, the way he used to before he went into the hospital, and I can see why she loved him and why she might still love him and why it’s hard to let him go.

  Mark clears his throat, which gets Dad’s attention.

  “Maybe you didn’t really appreciate having a family,” Mark finally says, quietly, almost to himself. He stares at the floor, lost in thought. “Until it was gone.”

  I listen to the words Mark has said, how they quietly hang in the air.

  I know what Mark means. Mark had a family, and he lost it. He knows firsthand how quickly and easily everything is lost. His baby, his wife, his house—lost for good. It was a terrible shock to his system.

  But watching Dad’s face change, I think perhaps he is taking what Mark is saying in a different way. He feels Mark has made some kind of hostile accusation. His face goes blank.

  “I see.” Dad leans back on one foot and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “I see. Okay. That’s interesting. So now, even though I’ve been a dad to three children for years, nursing them when they were ill, holding their hands when they were scared, drying their tears when they cried, working every day, putting my life on the line more times than I can count, getting injured in the line of duty, trying to recover, doing my best, suffering in silence, doing what the doctors ordered, this is all my fault. I did not appreciate my family. Hmm. That’s an interesting theory.” He rocks back on his heels. “And now, according to you, I have lost them. They’re gone.”

  “No, what I—”

  “Your words, not mine. ‘I didn’t appreciate them until they were gone.’ That’s what you said.” Dad’s voice gets louder and more aggressive. “I blew it. It’s over for me. My life as I knew it is over. So now you’re going to love and take care of my family for me. Is that it? Is that what you mean? You. A part-time contractor. To me, you look like a deadbeat trying to take advantage of my wife and her needy emotional state. Not to mention freeloading off her steady job, cozy home, and premade family.”