Mason's Daughter

by Stone, Cynthia J

  “Thanks, but I have to work tonight,” Mike says. “Where’s your phone book?”

  She directs him to the drawer in the corner, and he waves through the pages like a traffic cop during rush hour. When his hand rests near the center of the book, he picks up her phone.

  Angelique sets her glass on the table. “What are you looking for?”

  “A specialist.”

  “I don’t know what for.” She throws her head back and glances away, arms crossed over her chest.

  I sit next to her at the kitchen table and put my hand on her arm. With a slight wince, I realize it is the same appeasing gesture Mike tried on me at the hospital. “We’re concerned about your health, Angelique. You need to get a checkup to find out why you’re short of breath so often.”

  My luck fares no better with Angelique than his had with me. She pulls loose. “Let’s all go to dinner. My treat.”

  “Here we are,” Mike says. “Cardiopulmonary.” He dials the number and drags the phone into the hallway. After a few muttered negotiations, he returns to the kitchen, phone cradled on his shoulder. “They have a cancellation tomorrow at eleven.”

  “I’m not going.”

  He speaks into the receiver, “Yes, that will be fine,” and hangs up. “Sally, Raúl is out of town for a few days. Can you take her to the medical center or shall I?”

  Angelique shakes her index finger toward Mike. “You call them right back and cancel that appointment.”

  For a split second, I peer at Mike and speculate whether he learned from my father how to finesse such bossy interference. “I can drive her.”

  Mike sits on the other side of Angelique and takes her hand in his. “Sally and I are ganged up on you this time. No more pretending or hiding your symptoms. We need you to take better care of yourself. You’re too young to–”

  At the sound of glass crashing to the Saltillo tile floor, I turn around to stare at Colton.

  He ignores the broken container at his feet and the glass shards sticking up like icebergs in a frozen pink lake. His face looks suspended, as though he fears Angelique will disappear if he blinks. “You can’t die.” His lip quivers. “You can’t leave me.”

  All their argument, the clink of stemmed glassware, even the ticking of her kitchen clock melds together into a whisper. Then absolute silence commands the room, until all I can hear is the thudding of my own heart.

  Has all I lost and suffered at his age given me a hard shell? I should be able to express those fears to Angelique, but his feelings bubble up faster than I can sort my thoughts. Maybe I tamp my own emotions below the surface, where they won’t impede my actions. If only I had spoken similar words to my mother when I was Colton’s age. Would it have made a difference?

  Mike stands up. “Colton has a–”

  “Oh, hush.” As if a young lieutenant has asked her to dance, Angelique rises from her chair and steps over the spilled daiquiri and broken glass. She puts her arm around Colton’s shoulder and squeezes him close enough to kiss him on the cheek. “You precious boy. Of course I’m not going to leave you. Don’t you worry.” She glares at Mike and me. “The doctor won’t find a single thing wrong with me.”

  Mike and I look at each other and sigh in tandem. How did a thirteen-year-old boy succeed where two adults hit a brick wall? Maybe my mother worked her spell through Colton this time.

  AFTER MIKE DECLINES HER OFFER for dinner, he leaves to make his rounds, while Angelique, Colton, and I beat the evening crowd to the Hot Crossed Buns Diner. Our favorite waitress Lois drops menus at our booth, out of habit more than the possibility we need to view the selection. Colton’s double grilled cheese sandwich, a peach half stuffed with cottage cheese, with French fries on the side, makes up his standard order for perhaps the thousandth time since he learned to read.

  “When are you graduating to chicken fried steak?” Angelique asks him.

  “As soon as I’m big enough to play football.”

  “Basketball isn’t satisfying enough?”

  “You can’t knock people down in basketball. Not without getting a penalty.”

  She cackles while they exchange more quips, and I envy their camaraderie. How did I lose touch with my son, even when he sits across the table from me? Jack’s death came between us instead of driving us closer. Changing the ruling from suicide to accident will be the best thing for us. I need no more proof.

  I sit through dinner without saying much, as they chat about their favorite TV shows. He likes “Rockford Files” and “MASH,” while she prefers “Mary Tyler Moore” and “Police Woman.” She assures him he can stay up late at her house and watch “Mannix” or “S.W.A.T.” Although she smiles at me, I dodge the issue of parental permission. It is easier to avoid Colton’s ire by keeping silent than endure his angry outbursts and huffy demeanor. Good thing the parking lot activity picks up soon. Observing people arrive gives me something to do.

  Angelique motions for Lois to bring her coffee. “Colton, are you staying with me again tonight?”

  With a grin, he nods.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say.

  His smile disappears as if I unplugged it, and Angelique twists sideways toward me, one eyebrow raised a smidgeon.

  “Why don’t you come spend the night with Colton and me instead?” I ask. “The guest room is ready, clean sheets already on the bed.” While Angelique sips her coffee, I wait. “That way, I can drop Colton at Officer Avery’s headquarters before I take you to the specialist in the morning.”

  “How come I have to go there?” His face freezes.

  “He wants to ask you some things about Dad’s final week. What you remember, what Dad talked about, how his mood seemed to you.” I can’t bring myself to mention the cash Jack took, despite that Colton overheard Jack’s conversation and probably knows more than I do about it.

  “Are you coming, too?”

  I hate to give my son another chance to reject me or take his hostility out on me. Perhaps I should tell him he will remember and talk more if he and Mike meet alone. Yet I can’t interpret the feelings behind his question. “Legally I might have to. Do you want me to be there?”

  “No.” He grows fidgety and runs his fingers along the edge of the table. “This is your stupid idea. I don’t want to go at all.”

  “You have no choice. It’s part of your probation, even if it’s unofficial. Maybe you can be part of the solution and help make things better for us. Besides, I already gave Mike permission to speak to you as a family friend.”

  He collapses against the cushioned divider and stares at his empty plate. His breathing grows shallow and labored, and for a minute I think he might vomit.

  “Colton,” Angelique says. “Why don’t you go to the bakery and pick out some cinnamon buns for us for breakfast? Get whatever you want and tell Lois to put it on my ticket.”

  He bolts from the table like a bobcat escaping from a cage.

  I sigh and wonder how long before Colton and I can speak about teenager problems and fun stuff, go to the new mall or a movie together, and decorate eggs for Easter. Will everything awful that happens always be my fault?

  Angelique emits a dainty cough while I drum my fingers on the tabletop, staring straight in front of me. I squirm. “You want to say something. Go ahead.”

  “It’s hard for Colton to feel like you’re listening to him.”

  “I hear every single word he utters.” I unfold and refold my napkin. “Especially the hateful ones.”

  “You’re only listening with your ears. What does your heart tell you?”

  “Colton is angry that Jack’s dead, and somehow I’m to blame.”

  “Quit focusing on yourself for a minute and take a good look at Colton. Do you think he feels responsible somehow for Jack’s suicide?”

  “We don’t know it’s suicide, not yet. I’m trying to find a way for us both to feel better, despite losing Jack in such a dreadful way.” I frown. “How can Colton be responsible for Jack’s action
s that night? He was in bed asleep.”

  “I don’t mean he had anything to do with it, but sometimes children believe they can or should be able to prevent something from happening to their parents.” The spoon clinks twice as she stirs her coffee. “It’s their childish fantasy, an unrealistic view of their powers. Like children of divorced parents feel it’s their fault, or that maybe they can get their parents back together again.”

  I study my fingernails, as my breathing grows shallow. I know what that kind of responsibility feels like.

  I put on a clean frock and pulled my hair back neatly in a ponytail. If my father saw how well I managed, maybe I could persuade him to bring Mother home. He already noticed I was tall for the age of ten.

  The grandfather clock in the entry hall chimed six times. I sat on the bottom step of the main staircase and waited. He’d realize that she was better off at home because I could take care of her. He’d change his mind and believe I would never again do anything to upset her.

  While my finger traced the pattern in the Persian carpet, I planned her meals and selected her clothes. I scheduled outings to our gardens, with the pond and the tempietto beyond. She would sit resting on the terrace and I’d pick her favorite flowers and lay them in her lap. She’d wear white, always white, with a wide-brimmed straw hat. I really liked it when she smiled at me and patted my cheek.

  By seven o’clock, Mrs. Gussmann bustled into the hall. “There you are, child,” she fretted. “Did you know I’ve been keeping your dinner warm for you?”

  “Sorry. I wanted to wait here for Daddy.”

  “What’s that red streak on your face?” She rubbed my forehead with her thumb. “You must have been leaning against the newel post.”

  “Is Daddy home yet?” There was a chance he might have entered the house from the side door leading to the courtyard by the garage. “It’s getting dark outside.”

  “Come along to the small dining room and have your supper. Your father won’t be home for a while longer.”

  I trudged behind her, practicing my speech under my breath.

  “What’s that?” Mrs. Gussmann’s hearing has gotten worse lately. She forgot to ask me to repeat myself. Maybe her memory has slipped as well.

  In the informal dining room, she pulled a chair out for me and I sat at one end of the huge oak table. From the kitchen, she brought a plate of roast beef with mashed potatoes and green peas and set it in front of me. I wondered how Mother would like the gravy. After my third bite, I strained my ears toward the front of the house. A door slammed, and I jumped up and dashed back to the entry hall.

  There stood my father, sorting the day’s mail, briefcase at his feet, frown on his face. He glanced at me, and I could tell he was tired by the way his mouth drooped. Without saying anything, he tossed the mail onto a table and stooped to pick up his briefcase, but I was too quick for him. Smiling up at him, I grabbed the handle and then followed him into his office.

  Mrs. Gussmann had already switched on the green-shaded banker’s lamp on his mahogany desk and I hauled his briefcase to the center and laid it flat on top. I expected him to sit behind his desk, but he chose the leather sofa instead. With the Wall Street Journal across his lap, he propped his feet on the coffee table.

  “Daddy, I already finished my homework and didn’t need any help.”

  He shuffled the newspaper.

  “Clyde says I must be getting smarter, or probably just more grown up.”

  “Maybe so.” Yawning, he turned the page.

  “I picked out my clothes for school every day this week, without Mrs. Gussmann.” I scooted around the end of the sofa and stood at the edge of the coffee table. “Would you like me to order dinner for you? I can ask one of the servants to bring it in here.”

  He shook his head. “Not now.”

  I launched into my prepared speech, but before I could get out my logical explanation, he said no. No matter how many times I apologized or said it’s my fault, his answer was always, “No.”

  “You don’t realize Mother needs me.”

  “I believe you think so.”

  “You don’t know how mature I’ve become, how capable I am. Look at me.”

  He glanced around the edge of his newspaper. “I see you.”

  “I promise never to make her cry, ever again.” I stamped my feet.

  He folded up the newspaper and tossed it to one side. Several sections slid off the slippery leather sofa and landed near my ankle. I planted both feet firmly on the floor, but he rose to tower over me. He glared down at me. “Don’t ever bring this up again.”

  If I believed I held the power to make Daddy change his mind, I must have imagined it, but I couldn’t give up. The very idea of losing was hateful and I shoved it from my mind. I kicked his newspaper under the table and stomped out of his office.

  I stare out the window into the diner’s busy parking lot. “Colton treats me like I’m the enemy. It’s so . . .” Not fair because Colton fails to realize a big difference. Unlike my father’s choice to banish my mother, I didn’t decide to cause Jack’s death. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Can you see how he feels powerless?” Angelique asks.

  “I can try to reinforce for him that he’s not to blame for anything.”

  “That’s a start.”

  I tell Angelique about the money Jack took. “Also Colton doesn’t want anyone making his father look bad. That’s why he’s been so resistant to my efforts.”

  “Mike will be sensitive as well, when he speaks with Colton tomorrow. Try to remember Colton can’t direct his anger at himself, so you’re the next best target. Moms usually are.”

  “And he chooses me because I’m tougher than dirt and I’ll love him, no matter what he does.” As I speak those words, I pray they are true and hope my battle fatigue doesn’t make me give up.

  The sound of exploding glass, followed by a high-pitched scream, hits the room like a bolt of thunder. A split second without any commotion gives customers a chance to look around for a dropped tray or a brick through the window. Then the voices crescendo as everyone speculates on the cause of the noise.

  Lois comes running toward our table, pointing to the bakery section. “Come quick,” she pants. “It’s Colton.”

  I follow her, but she moves too slowly, so I race around her before we get halfway across the dining room. In the bakery, Colton stands in front of the display case, holding a small loaf of bread.

  Everything shifts to slow motion. I can’t reach him fast enough. Blood from the back of his hand soaks into the bread and drips onto the linoleum floor amid the shattered glass.

  “Colton!” I call. “Colton, what happened?”

  “He put his fist through the glass,” Lois tells me, but she sounds far away.

  My son looks at me with his large sad eyes, dark and mysterious like Jack’s, and opens his mouth. His jaw muscles move, but no sound comes out. Then his knees buckle and he falls faint to the floor, surrounded by the shards and blood, both arms stretched out sideways like wings.

  Before I can bend down to help him, Angelique comes up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get him up and out of here.”

  Squatting on either side, we clutch him by the shoulders and try to lift him, but his dead weight proves too heavy for Angelique. Lois appears offering ice cubes in a clean white towel and wraps his hand. Two men I vaguely recognize step forward to help, and they all but carry him out to my car. He doesn’t resist when they buckle his seat belt.

  The whole way to the emergency clinic, Colton doesn’t speak. He says nothing when the doctor gives him a shot to deaden his hand, or when he stitches his flesh back together. In silence, he lets the doctor wrap a bandage around his hand, up past his wrist, and put his arm in a sling.

  After the doctor places a thermometer into Colton’s mouth, he motions me to one side. “Your son shows some signs of being in shock, but possibly not from the injury. He hasn’t spoken one word.” He fan
s the papers on his clipboard. “Something’s not right. Any idea what’s bothering him?”

  I shake my head.

  “No? Well, these episodes are seldom related to just one incident. I’m going to recommend a drug test and a psychiatric consult. We’ll need a urine sample. Sign here.”

  His words hit me like a shove to the chest. Colton on drugs? Impossible. Unless Skipper has corrupted him behind my back.

  How could the ER doctor possibly believe my son requires a psychiatrist? Does he think I haven’t done a good enough job maintaining a normal home life? I refuse to give my permission.

  He doesn’t get it, Mother. You’re the only one in the family labeled as crazy. And that’s how it’s going to stay.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Once we leave the emergency clinic, Angelique points out I can’t manage to pick up Colton’s prescriptions and get him home without her help. She stays in the car, both of them in the back seat, while I collect his antibiotics and pain medications at the pharmacy. Ignoring the total amount, I tell the cashier to charge it to my account, sign the ticket, and drop my copy in the bag. I’ll worry about the bill later, when I decide whether to buy groceries or go without heat for the next two weeks. The payment to the emergency clinic all but drained my checking account, and I feel too hammered by exhaustion to remember the balance in savings. I pray our health insurance will reimburse me for some of the expense.

  As I steer my car into the garage, Colton moans. Angelique strokes his hair and croons, “There, there, sweet boy. We’ll get you into bed right away so you can sleep for hours and hours if you feel like it.”

  It pains my heart to realize if I touched him and spoke in such endearing terms, he would shake me off and stomp away. We drag ourselves from the car and teeter into the house, with Colton clinging to Angelique as if he were blind.

  “The pharmacist recommended not waiting too long between doses of painkiller,” I say, as I flick on the kitchen light. “Besides, he said it’ll help you sleep.” For a moment, I consider swallowing one, too. No, I need to stay alert through what is bound to be an uncomfortable night for all three of us.