Keep Happy

by A. C. Bextor

  Honest to God, as dramatic and painful as the end of our relationship will be, Sabrina will have her shit out of my house by the night’s end.

  Thank fuck.

  THE AIR IN THE ROOM is suffocating.

  Something is terribly wrong.

  With my hand still holding the door knob, I take a quick glace around my dimly lit kitchen. I’d dropped the girls off at Connie’s as promised, the whole time replaying tonight’s events in my head.

  Mason with Sabrina. His eyes on her. Her hands on him. Sharing a drink and buying her dinner. The way he cared for her, pushing in her chair as she stood, helping her with her coat.

  My heart broke to pieces comparing the two men in my life, and how they treat their women over something as simple as a dinner.

  “Almost thought you weren’t coming back,” Thomas breaks through to utter.

  He’s sitting at the kitchen table, his hand wrapped around a bottle of beer. Studiously, he’s watching his fingers as they spin it in a small circle. His chest is unusually bare and his legs are stretched casually out in front of him.

  His tone deceives, he’s anything but relaxed.

  “Thomas?” I call once I enter, quietly closing the door behind me.

  As I take off my jacket, Thomas’ gaze remains steady on his drink. The television in the next room is on. At some point this evening, he’d been watching baseball.

  Thomas Dyer doesn’t watch baseball. Or any sport but golf.

  “Tell me I haven’t already lost you,” he voices, its pitch sad and broken.

  “What?”

  “Mason Cole,” he clarifies. “Tell me I haven’t already lost you to him.”

  Standing straight, I stay quiet as I flip on the light. Thomas’ face is pale. His body, once virile and strong, appears defeated. His posture, once straight and proud, is slouched.

  “Be honest with yourself,” he bids, finally looking up. His eyes are narrowed, his brows furrowed, and his jaw tight. “How long have you loved him?”

  “How long have I loved him?” I copy, ready to drown myself in guilt.

  “Christ, Kat,” he hisses. “The way you looked at him tonight…”

  The drive home was quiet, neither Thomas or I mentioning what we both saw. Thomas gave no indication he noticed I was upset, either. After we’d gotten the girls from my dad’s, I dropped Thomas at home and took them to Connie’s for a girls’ weekend together. Averie was excited. Amelia less so, but she went anyway, if only to get out of the house.

  “So, tell me,” Thomas prods. “How long have you loved him?”

  I don’t answer. If I told him, he wouldn’t understand. Or maybe he would, being that he and Grace may have what Mason and I once did.

  “Have you loved him since the beginning of us?” he questions.

  Yes.

  “Thomas, why now? Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you’re my best friend,” he states plainly. “I can’t remember a time we weren’t together.”

  I suppose it’s common that some couples romanticize their past, in order to remember it without remembering the mistakes they made. I, however, don’t romanticize anything about my marriage. Other than our girls, there’s nothing left of it that I want to remember.

  “Was there a time we were ever really together?” I query, trying to not sound as bitter.

  “So, it’s true. You are in love with him,” he whispers, his tone firm.

  “I am,” I confirm.

  “So, how long?” he prods.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever not been.”

  The pain of Thomas’ confession with Grace was so vile, I wasn’t certain I’d survive the next day. I wasn’t sure how to start again, how to move on. Months passed before I could so much as look at my husband again. Nearly a year before I let him touch me as a husband should. And now, in turn, he’s coming to understand.

  With this, he admits, “I’ve hurt you. I know I have.”

  “That’s not why this is, Thomas. This isn’t about getting even for you and Grace.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because he’s Mason. He loves me.”

  “I love you,” Thomas clips. “That doesn’t matter?”

  “You love who you want me to be. Mason loves me for who I am.”

  “That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” he decrees, his tone no longer hurt but cruel.

  To him it probably doesn’t make sense. But this doesn’t mean it’s not the truth.

  In the past, especially early in our marriage, Thomas tolerated everything about who I was. My dark hair, my comfortable clothes, my even more comfortable shoes. Everything.

  As years went on, he encouraged I dye my hair, wear classier clothes and expensive shoes. He urged me to dress our girls the same. But on that, I always refused. They were born to be whatever they wanted to be. As I was once myself.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever loved her,” he tells me with regret. “But, even now, when I’m with her she makes me feel…”

  When he trails off, I add, “Cared for.”

  Nodding small, he agrees in shame, “Yes.”

  I swallow hard. Though knowing all about the two being together, and knowing how hurt I felt at his betrayal, and also mine, hearing him talk of her as if she’s part of our marriage hurts.

  Pushing to get him to see my point, I add, “She makes you feel as if you’re everything to her.”

  He quietly tells his bottle of beer, “Yes.”

  “And no matter what you do, or don’t do, she wants you.”

  Thomas sucks back the dregs of his drink and pushes the bottle away. He rests his hands in his lap, holding one over the other.

  His broken eyes come to mine and he admits, “I live with the ghost of Katherine Dyer because Mason Cole took the heart of Katie Morris.”

  How Thomas knows Mason calls me Katie, I’ll never know. And I’ll never ask.

  Tears plague my vision. A heavy weight pushes against my chest and my stomach turns.

  “Yes, Thomas.”

  “Are the girls mine?” Thomas suddenly questions to my surprise and also to my direct insult.

  I try not to scream, but inside I’m angry.

  When I drop my bag to the floor and walk over toward him, Thomas moves his feet to the side, giving me room to take the chair next to his.

  Holding my composure, I quietly punish, “You already know both those girls belong to you—to us.”

  “I do know,” he agrees. “Wouldn’t hurt to hear at least something in our fifteen-year marriage was real.”

  “Our daughters are real. And every bit of both of us.”

  “Do you still love me?”

  Half-smiling, I place my hand on Thomas’ arm. He doesn’t pull away as I thought he would. Instead, he covers my hand with his and squeezes.

  “You know I love you for all you’ve given me.”

  Succumbing to understand, with tears threatening to break, he prods, “We did good for the girls, didn’t we?”

  “Yes,” I answer without hesitation.

  “We just didn’t do good by each other.”

  Shaking my head, I smile again. “No.”

  “Will you go to him now?”

  God. Hearing his question so bold makes what’s happening true. Our marriage is ending.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do. I hadn’t thought—”

  Thomas releases my hand, holding his up to push me quiet.

  “Don’t answer. I’m not ready to know.”

  “More importantly, what will we do now?” I press.

  There’s no documented memorandum defining how to end a marriage. Even if both parties agree what they had is no more. We’re treading on new ground and each step must be taken carefully.

  “I want the girls to stay here. This house is their home. I’ll find a place closer to the office.”

  “You don’t have to do—”

  “I have to,” he assures. “I owe you all that.”

  Standing, Th
omas bends to where I sit, brushing his lips against my cheek. For the first time in years—his touch is sincere—with meaning. And I’m thankful, even if its meaning is goodbye.

  “I’ll take the couch in the den until I can find somewhere else to be,” he tells me.

  I don’t ask about Grace. Then again, I never did. Not because the pain of their affair hurts like it used to. But because I don’t care.

  Nodding, tears fill my eyes. Not tears in sadness or remorse—but relief.

  The worst is over and it happened quickly.

  The future is mine and I’m open to possibility.

  Even as I sit in the kitchen alone, staring at the ring I’ve worn for years, after saying goodbye to all it stood for, I’ve never felt so free.

  Past…

  “MY GOD. THERE ARE SO many,” I whisper to myself, scanning the array of sympathy cards scattered on top of the dining room table.

  Flowers, of all color and kind, sit uncaringly in their ceramic pots or plastic containers.

  Food. So much food.

  Why do people assume gifting the mourning family dishes of home-cooked meals will ease their pain? Who can think about macaroni salad and cake-like brownies when a loved one has been taken so far away?

  “Kat, are you almost ready?” Thomas prods, his tone alert but kind.

  When I turn, he’s standing in the doorway of our kitchen. He’s doing a horrible job of masking his pain. His eyes are red from grief and tired from life, but as ever, Thomas remains focused. Being who he is.

  Today he’s wearing a dark suit, white shirt, coupled with a burgundy tie. His mother picked them out. I heard her making a fuss over him while I was outside. The bedroom window had been open. As I was sitting on the back porch swing, contemplating how my life would go on, my mother-in-law insisted burgundy would work better with Thomas’ complexion.

  My husband would be handsome in that suit, if we were going to a quiet dinner for two or out celebrating with friends. But we’re not. He’s standing in wait to take me to our new and only son’s funeral.

  “I’m almost ready,” I answer, turning back to the table.

  “Mom has the girls. They’ll ride with her and Dad.”

  Of course.

  Other than people roaming about our home, offering comfort where they can, Averie’s life hasn’t been overtly interrupted. At two years old, she’s kept her focus to snacks, sleep, and how much she can aggravate our dog, Duke, and get away with it.

  Amelia is five. She’s feeling the loss of her brother by association to a greater degree. One morning he was here, being changed on the table in his room, while she peppered his tiny cheek with kisses. The next day, he was gone. She recognized his crib was empty. I didn’t have to explain. She saw my tears and didn’t ask.

  No one is asking.

  No one is using my son’s name. No one is so much as saying mine. Those who’ve come to give their condolences have only nodded, some going as far as offering a reassuring touch. All their goddamn silence has stirred a dark chaos inside my chest, and it’s begging to be let free. But I don’t have anywhere to put it.

  Fingering one of the envelopes on the table beneath the others, a tear escapes.

  “Your dad said he’d meet us at the cemetery,” Thomas continues, when I don’t acknowledge. “But if you need him here now, I’ll call him.”

  “No,” I snap with irritation.

  I don’t need my dad. Or Thomas. Or the girls. What I need, I’ll never have—I need my son, Adam, to not be dead.

  My eyes move to the window facing the backyard of our home. The swing set Thomas put together last spring sits abandoned and alone. Just a week ago, I’d been calling the girls in for a late lunch because Adam had been too fussy to nap.

  Now, here I am, wearing a black dress suited for a funeral service. Connie said my dress was understated and simple. I don’t feel simple. I feel like a mother who’s lost a limb. As if my arm has been removed, I know Adam was here, in my life, but I can’t touch or feel him anymore. I only sense his ghost. That ghost is terrified, sad, and alone.

  My body is trembling. My breathing is labored. My heart has broken inside my chest, and with each robotic step I’m forced to take, the shards of my son’s memory become less clear.

  When Thomas woke me Saturday morning, I knew something was wrong. Not often does he show that much emotion. So when I opened my eyes and saw him beside the bed, close to weeping, I knew as any mother would.

  One of our beloved children was gone.

  Our new son. Our last and greatest hope of tethering our marriage together again after all we’d endured had died sometime in the night.

  The doctors couldn’t give me a sound reason to justify his passing, other than he died of natural causes.

  I found it hard to comprehend that there was anything natural about a child lost to this world after living only twenty-eight days inside of it.

  When I told Thomas I was pregnant with Adam, the relief in his eyes was astounding. He tried to convince us both that a new baby meant new beginnings. During pregnancy, I thought I believed that too. We were happy, the way a family should always be. The way we always should’ve been.

  Perhaps his death is supposed to serve as my penance for embracing a broken marriage, accepting a risk in order to start again for my family—for my children.

  Perhaps not, but nevertheless, the pain is ominous.

  “I’ll be out soon, Thomas. I need a minute alone,” I insist.

  Thomas doesn’t make a move to comfort me. He hasn’t tried at all. My estranged husband must feel what I do. But being as we’re so determined to make this marriage work, we’re both ignoring what we should be doing.

  Grieving, finding comfort and solace in each other.

  The same corner of the same envelope calls again. I pull it out from beneath the others. There’s no return address listed. The writing is bold, harsh, and messy.

  And it’s not addressed to Katherine Dyer, Mrs. Dyer, or the Dyer family. It’s address to Katie Mae.

  Just Katie Mae.

  My heartbeat hammers in my chest. Mason heard what happened. Not surprising, though. Maybe Dad got word to him. I’ve heard the two have spoken during Mason’s occasional visits here to check in on his dad. I haven’t seen him at all since he left me in that hotel room. Dad knows my reasons for staying away, and no matter how often the two have conversed, I’ve never heard about what.

  As I remove the card from the envelope, I first see the engraved, stereotypical, copy written words of sorrow and encouragement, I know before opening it there won’t be a message inside from Mason.

  As I lay the envelope on the table and use two fingers to open it, I find I’m right.

  There is no signature.

  No personal words expressing his grief as mine.

  No soft message of encouragement.

  As he told me a lifetime ago, the card itself says what he intended it to.

  And in that specific moment of space and time, I consumed his thoughts.

  And thankfully, giving me reprieve from my life as it is today, if only for a mere second, he’s consuming mine.

  God, I miss my friend.

  “GOT SOME NEWS ROLLIN’ IN,” Rob states as soon as I answer the phone.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Not sure what’s fact yet or not. Still a messy scene. Cops and crime labs are workin’ it now.”

  “Marcos?” I lead, figuring why he’d call this time of night.

  “Marcos,” he confirms.

  Sitting on my deck in the dark, my legs braced to the railing, I order, “Talk to me.”

  My partner and friend hesitates. I can’t see his face, but don’t need to to know what he’s about to say isn’t good.

  “You alone?” he questions.

  “I’m alone,” I confirm on a half-lie. Sabrina’s inside, pissed as fuck, and probably tearing down the house at the same time as packing her shit. “I’m at home.”

  “Good. S
it down,” he orders back. “You’ll wanna brace for this.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Sixty miles from here a sixty-seven-year-old farmer was out workin’ in his garage alone.”

  No.

  “Wife said he’d always go out early, putters around outside doing odds and ends before breakfast.”

  Goddamn it.

  “She said he liked to get an early move on the day, so they could do whatever they do in the evenings together.”

  “Yeah?” I push.

  “But he always came back inside before breakfast was ready. Today, when he didn’t, she started to worry.”

  Fuck.

  “She goes lookin’, then screams the fuckin’ barn down.”

  “Christ,” I hiss, knowing where this goes.

  “Old Lady Thompson, sweet as can be, found her husband of fifty years dead on top of a bale of hay.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “No blood on scene. Initial read says the old man was strangled.”

  “Piece of shit,” I hiss.

  “Took the old man’s clothes from his fuckin’ body, stole some tools, and hot-wired his truck.”

  “Marcos,” I guessed correctly.

  “He’s got wheels now,” Rob implores. “This shit just went from bad to worse.”

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “He’s gettin’ close.”

  “Fuckin’ let him.”

  This doesn’t make Rob happy. This is confirmed as he rips, “You testified against him, Cole. You stood in open court and told the room some of the shit he’d done that no one else could’ve known. That lunatic trusted you. You promised him he wouldn’t see the inside of a cage.”

  “I promised him because he was holding a knife to a raped and beaten eleven-year-old girl’s throat at the time.”

  “Like I don’t know that?”

  “He think he’s smart enough to come at me, then I’ll be fuckin’ waiting.”

  Exhaling an angry sigh, Rob let’s silence fall between us before muttering, “Christ. You’re as crazy as he is.”

  “Maybe,” I give back. “But the son of a bitch targets the elderly and young, he won’t know what to expect from me.”

  “There’s something else,” Rob tells me. “Something that makes this Marcos.”