When I look at my mom again, she looks sad. She bends down to Bobby. “Make sure you’re bundled up nice and tight,” she says softly and runs her fingers through his blond hair.
“You’re not coming with us?” I ask, confused and strangely panicked, but she acts like she doesn’t even hear me. “Mom?”
When she finally looks at me, her brown eyes shimmer in the living room light. She glances down to my pink, glossy lips. The corner of her mouth curves up a little as she pulls my long hair out from underneath my scarf, then she leans in to kiss me on the nose. “You look beautiful, Machaela.” Quickly, she pulls away and stands up, hustling me out the front door after my dad and Bobby. “Enjoy the movie,” she says as we step outside.
My face stings in the cool air, but I trudge down the sidewalk, toward the station wagon. Halfway there, I turn around, surprised to find my mom still standing in the doorway, letting out all the warmth from inside. Her fallen features brighten when she sees me and she waves one more time before pulling her sweater tighter around her and stepping back inside. She shuts the door behind her.
“Why isn’t Mom coming?” I ask as I climb into the backseat.
“Because no one can stand being around you,” David sneers.
I stick out my tongue at him, more than a little hurt even if I refuse to let him see it. “You’re an idiot,” I say easily.
“Knock it off, you two,” my dad growls at both of us. “None of that tonight.”
David huffs out a breath and faces the passenger window. I see him roll his eyes in his reflection.
Dad glares at David a moment longer, then starts the station wagon. “Your mother’s not feeling well tonight.”
“Surprise,” I hear David grumble, and I worry my dad heard him until he turns around and peers out the back window as we pull out of the driveway.
The rest of the evening goes by fairly quickly. The ride to the theater is short and it’s mostly empty inside the small, stinky building, so we get the theater mostly to ourselves. Bobby and I share a popcorn and a small soda; he’s only six, after all, and doesn’t eat much, at least not compared to David. Not that David would share with me anyway. Dad lets me get Sweet Tarts so I can share them with my mom when I get home, too, since they are her favorite. By the end of the movie, the homeless dog had saved the family and they had adopted him to be their forever friend.
After bathroom breaks and my dad trying to find David, who decided he’d wait outside without saying anything, we finally all pile back into the car and head for home. Bobby and I chat about Max, the German shepherd, and how he was able to save the family from the guys who wanted to steal their farm from them.
“None of that happened, it’s not real.” David shakes his head.
“Yuh-huh!” Bobby shouts at him. “He did it.”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s just a movie.”
“That’s enough,” my dad says.
I shiver, but I’m not sure if it’s the lingering cold air in the car or my dad’s tone.
“Leave him be. What’s wrong with you?”
Bobby looks like he might cry, so I try to distract him. “What was your favorite part of the movie?” I ask. “We should tell Mom about it when we get home.” Trying to keep the peace, I do my best to keep Bobby occupied while my dad scolds David again for his mumbled insults. David’s attitude is nothing new, but the way he and my father are scares me sometimes.
As soon as we pull into the driveway, I unbuckle. “Come on,” I say, and I reach over to unbuckle Bobby’s booster seat. “Let’s go tell Mom about the movie.”
Dad opens my door for me before he walks around to help Bobby out on the other side, and I take the opportunity to rush inside. The door’s unlocked, and I fling it open. Everything is as we left it—the kitchen light is on and the TV is on Nickelodeon and muted.
“Mom!” I trundle up the stairs, toward her bedroom, looking for her. “I saved you some Sweet Tarts.” I pause at her bedroom door. It’s open but the light’s off. I switch it on and glance around before I step into their bathroom, but it’s empty, too. Thinking that maybe she’s in the garage doing laundry, I skip down the stairs again and toward the kitchen.
When I see Dad and David standing by the kitchen table, reading something, I tentatively step past them and open the garage door. She’s not in there, either.
Although I’m not sure how, I know something is wrong. The house is too quiet and I have no idea where Mom is. I stare up at David and Dad. “Where’s Mom?” I ask, leaning against the table still bundled in my jacket and scarf. Mom usually takes them off for me when we get home.
When Dad and David say nothing, I feel a wave of fear. “Daddy, I can’t find Mom,” I whisper, glancing between him and my brother. Eyebrows drawn together, my dad looks over at David. My brother doesn’t look up from the piece of paper, even as my dad walks away from the table without a word. He pauses behind Bobby, who’s already plopped down in front of the TV, oblivious and watching cartoons in his jacket. Then, my dad twists around to glance at me. He rubs the back of his head, his eyes narrow, and he makes a sharp turn and walks out the front door. Where is he going?
“David, where’s Mommy?” I can’t help the whine in my voice. I don’t know where she is or why my dad is leaving—and the look he had on his face scares me more than anything.
Like he’s been shaken from a trance, David drops the piece of paper and his eyes finally meet mine. He glares at me. “Mom left,” he snarls, and he turns away from me, hurrying up the stairs toward his room.
I’m not exactly sure what he means, but then I hear my dad’s motorcycle roar to life outside and he speeds away. He’s left us alone with David before, but this feels different. My mom has always begged him not to ride his motorcycle in the winter, and he usually doesn’t . . .
“Mac, I’m thirsty,” Bobby says absently from in front of the TV.
I nod and pick up the sheet of paper David discarded on the table. “I’ll get you some juice in a minute,” I say, and I read the letter slowly and out loud to myself. “‘Cal. I’ve tried, but I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t keep pre—’” I fumble with the word. “‘Pretending. I’m sorry.’” I glance up the stairs toward David’s room.
“Mac . . .” Bobby whines and peers over his shoulder at me. “I’m thirst—”
“Okay, I’ll get you something,” I say and walk into the kitchen. The way my mom was looking at me and my dad and David’s reactions tell me this isn’t good, even if I don’t fully understand her note. I want to cry. But where did she even go? Why can’t she live like this—like what? With us? I can’t help but wonder if we—if I—did something that upset her.
She’s coming back. I know she’s coming back—she’s our mom.
But even as I tell myself that over and over, the sadness gets stronger and stronger.
My mitten-covered hands shake a little as I pour Bobby some orange juice and walk back into the living room. I hand him his cup and lock the front door, uncertain when our dad will come home.
“You good?” I whisper to Bobby. He nods and his blue eyes meet mine. He doesn’t know that she’s gone, and Dad’s not here to help us understand—to explain any of this to me.
I help Bobby out of his coat, and when he’s curled up on the couch, I slowly walk up the stairs. The floor creaks beneath me and I wonder why I’ve never noticed it before. Taking the last step, I pause outside David’s bedroom. The absent sound of my jacket rubbing as I walk makes the quietness seem to echo.
I hold my breath, lean forward, and listen through his bedroom door. It’s silent for a few breaths, then suddenly there’s a crash and I jump back. My heart starts racing and I begin to panic. “David,” I say quietly. “Dave . . .” Against my better judgment, I crack his door open—I can’t help it—and I peek inside. My big brother, always closed off and glaring, is sitting on the foot of the bed with tears running down his face. He’s breathing heavily and he’s staring at his clenched hands.
That’s when I feel the tears in my eyes, too.
“Go away,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry.
“Where did she go?” I ask. “When will she come back?”
He looks up from his hands and his eyes narrow on me. His features harden. “She’s not coming back,” he says flatly. “She doesn’t want us.”
A flood of tears escapes at his words, and I shake my head. “Nuh-uh!” I choke out. “That’s not true!”
“Yes it is!” he bites back. “I heard them fighting the other night. She never even wanted kids in the first place. She married Dad because of me.” David briskly wipes the tears from his cheeks, and part of me wonders if he’s really talking to me or to himself. He’s not even looking at me anymore. He’s staring at the wall, red-faced and shaking his head, slowly, like he’s trying to understand. “She doesn’t want kids. She doesn’t want a family.” His head whips over to me. “Now, get out of my room!”
I linger too long and David charges toward me. He pushes me out of the doorway and slams it shut in my face before I can even protest. I begin to cry—to sob. “David . . .” I can barely hear myself over my heaving breaths.
“Leave me alone, Mac!”
I’m not sure how long I stand outside his bedroom, scared and lost and uncertain of anything that’s happening right now, but eventually I find myself in my parents’ room. I’m sitting on my mom’s side of the bed, staring at her dresser—at all of her perfumes and makeup and the pretty ribbons she has in a small basket that she puts in my hair. Everything in here is just like it’s always been. Everything is in its place. So why does everything feel so horrible?
I pick up her lotion that sits on the table by her bed and bring it to my nose. It smells like the purple flowers that grow along the fence in the backyard.
I don’t understand why she would leave. I don’t believe that she’s never going to come back. So I sit there and wait.
Seven
Colton
Mac screeches away, and my pulse quickens as I begin to process exactly what just happened. I peer down the road, expecting to see her taillights, but she’s already out of sight. A slight surge of panic sends my mind spinning. I’m not sure what I should do. My instinct is to go after her and make sure she’s alright—no one should be alone after something like that, and she definitely shouldn’t be driving.
But I’m not the one to comfort her. I wouldn’t know how.
I turn around. Cal and Mac’s mom are arguing until Cal puts his hand up. “I’m done, Katherine,” he says, and stalks back into the shop. She’s left standing there in the cold, and she clears her throat. When she notices me, she lets out a long breath, then walks toward a gray Benz parked across the street.
Everything I know about the Carmichaels starts arranging itself in my mind as I process what exactly I just witnessed. I can’t get Mac’s eyes out of my head—their luminescent green eclipsed by shadows and pain.
I barely register that it’s freezing outside until I realize I can’t feel my hands.
Feeling more than out of my element, I walk back into the shop. I’d never given much thought to who Mrs. Carmichael was, and I’d definitely never put two and two together long enough to realize Mac has always acted as the matriarch of the family.
I stop at her desk. Her computer’s on and everything is as she left it, like she’s just taking a quick break. But she’s not coming back today, not after I felt her body trembling, and definitely not after I saw that shattered look on her face.
Had I had the slightest idea of what was happening outside, I wouldn’t have followed Mac out there, but strangely, I’m relieved that I did. When I walk into the shop, I realize everyone is carrying on, completely clueless about what just transpired.
Without another option, I head to Reilly’s stall. He’s chaining a V-8 small-block engine to the cherry picker when I stop beside him.
“I know, I know. You want your socket wrench back,” he groans. “I’m almost done with it.”
“No—it’s fine.” I glance at Cal’s office a few yards away. His door is shut, but I’m not sure I want him to hear me.
Reilly’s half-smile falters and he straightens. “What is it?”
I’m not sure how to dance around it, so I just say it. “Cal’s wife just showed up.”
It takes a few breaths before Reilly’s eyes finally widen and he registers the implications of what I’m telling him. “No fucking way.” He scours the shop. “Where’s Mac?”
Eight
Mac
“Mac, are you listening to me?”
I blink myself back from the thick haze that sits heavy in my mind, and I stare into green and brown-flecked eyes, narrowed with concern. “What?”
Nick gives me a pathetic smile. “Here, have one of these.” He pulls out an empty shot glass. “It will take the edge off. God knows you look like you could use it.” He pours me a shot before I can even protest.
“I don’t want to drink that.” I don’t need my mind more muddled than it already is.
“Come on,” he goads, nudging it toward me. “Take it, bartender’s orders. You’ll thank me for it in a few minutes.”
I raise a dubious eyebrow. “Why don’t I believe that?”
Bill Stranton, a retired banker who apparently hangs out at Lick’s a lot on weekdays, chuckles from his end of the bar.
“See,” I say, “even Bill knows you’re full of shit.” It’s just the two of us, old Bill and me, hanging out in the bar in the middle of the afternoon. I feel out of place, but not so much as I did standing there with my mom and dad. I’m just relieved that Sam has Sommer, freeing up Nick so he could work here today instead of at the ranch. I considered heading to Sam’s but thought better of driving up that mountain. Lick’s was the only place I could think of where I might find a familiar, friendly face.
Nick’s lips part in a full-fledged grin this time, which means he’s on a mission. “Come on, your subconscious knows that you need a drink. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To hide. To cope. To drink . . .”
With a noncommittal grumble, I concede and take the shot. It makes the back of my throat prickle and protest as it goes down. I blow out a long burning breath, regather myself, and nod. “You’re right, the burn feels good.”
With a smirk, Nick flings his bar towel over his shoulder, and I wonder how sanitary that is. “Do you want another shot or are you ready to talk to me about it?”
My chest tightens and I hold my breath for a minute, waiting for whatever is slithering around inside my stomach to settle. When I feel like I have my traitorous emotions in order, I lean on the bar and let out a heavy breath. “I don’t know what there is to talk about.” I rest my forehead on my hands as my mind replays the past few weeks, my dad’s strange moods and irritation. Whether it was because he was having to lie or because I was getting too close to discovering the truth, I’m not sure. “My mom’s been gone for years and now she’s back. I don’t know why. And my dad’s been lying to me about it.”
“Is that what bothers you the most?” Nick’s voice is cautious, like he’s treading carefully, worried I’ll have a sudden breakdown. I won’t, though. It doesn’t seem real yet. It doesn’t make any sense.
I taste a tinge of metallic warmth on my tongue and realize I’ve been biting the inside of my cheek for too long and with too much fervor. Lifting my head, I stare off into the rainbow of liquor bottles that line the back of the bar. As dim as it always is in here, the liquor bottles always seem to shimmer, beckoning.
“Yes, I think that bothers me the most,” I finally say. Because if I don’t have my dad and brother, then what do I have left—my mom? David? I remember the night my mom left and my dad disappeared down here for hours. He’d been an utter mess for weeks, though now that I’m older I wonder how much of it was anger and the fear of having to raise a family alone more than a broken heart. And then there’s David. “I’m confused . . . and hurt, I think.” Nothing was right af
ter she left, and yet my dad’s been meeting her behind our backs? “She’s been around for like, a month.”
“Have another,” Nick says and pours me another shot. When I glance up at him, his brow is raised in question. He eyes me a moment.
I smile, grateful he isn’t trying to make sense of things for me. “Thanks.” The shot is hot going down and I glance at the label on the bottle—whiskey. “This better be top shelf,” I say on an exhale, squeezing my eyes shut as I blow out the lingering fumes, harsh enough they could probably start a fire. “The last thing I need is to wake up in a ditch tomorrow morning.”
“That will never happen.” His tone, the utter resolve in his voice and the knowledge that someone is so certain, so protective of me and loving—that makes me want to cry. “Besides,” he continues, “nothing but the best for my family.”
Nick sets the bottle down between us and leans his hip against the bar, arms crossed over his chest. He’s serious now, waiting for me to divulge more.
I clear my throat. “I don’t know much else—she could’ve explained a million things while I was standing there, but I wasn’t listening.” I stare at a chip in the bar’s scuffed, fading surface. “I didn’t bother sticking around long enough to ask any more questions.” I lean my forehead down on the bar again. I’m suddenly dizzy, but I don’t think it’s the drink. My voice cracks. “Why is she here, Nick? And why wouldn’t he say anything to me?” When he doesn’t answer, I peer up at him.
Nick braces both hands against the bar and stares into my eyes, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t know, Mac. But your dad’s a pretty level-headed guy. He must’ve had a reason for not telling you right away. Maybe she wants something and he didn’t want you and Bobby to get caught up in it. Maybe he thought he was protecting you.”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 38