The Summer We Fell Apart

by Robin Antalek

  Somehow she had gleaned from Richard that normalcy was a compromise, and so she never tried for balance, going right for the extreme and damn the consequences, which were, in retrospect, the lives of her children. Loving them was an abstract idea. Raising children was the more complicated task, which she had failed. She was too selfish, too young, had neither the energy nor desire where her children were concerned.

  She never held her tongue or hid an emotion or considered that she was the person her children needed protection from the most until it was too late. She smoked and drank and medicated herself with prescription drugs. She drove fast and recklessly without the protection of a seat belt, the children unbelted as well. She matched Richard affair for affair and used sex for all the wrong reasons: lust, loneliness, revenge, and, once, to get a coveted role. She told herself that one day it would all change, but as anyone who has ever deluded himself or herself about that one magic day eventually finds out, it almost never ever comes.

  “Hey, you that nervous about tomorrow?” Asa asked with his eyebrows drawn together.

  Marilyn shook her head to clear it; she had no idea how long she’d been lost in the past. “No,” she said and smiled. “They don’t even need us. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  Asa looked relieved at her response and he laughed. “That’s what I keep telling them, but,” he said with a shrug, “they seem to want to act crazy.”

  Marilyn didn’t answer him right away. She wanted to hold on to Asa, she wanted to tell him she was more scared to return to the house and face the rest of her children than she was about anything else in the world. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for everything she had ever done wrong—for anything she might do to him in the future—but of course she didn’t.

  When they returned, Amy had arrived with her boyfriend, Owen, and several of his bandmates—the cello, fiddle, and bass respectively. They were providing music, including a song Owen had written just for George and Sam, which Amy boasted about to anyone who would listen. Amy and George were side by side in the porch swing: her daughter’s feet in silver ballet flats resting on the railing while Sam and Owen reclined on the steps. The other musicians were in the backyard with Saul, checking out the space.

  Amy didn’t get up when she saw Marilyn and Asa come up the drive, but she smiled in their direction and yelled to Asa, “Hey, geek.”

  Asa seemed pleased with Amy’s greeting as Owen reached up and grasped his hand. Asa bent down and gave him a quick hug, and once again Marilyn was amazed at how generous Asa was with his affection for all of them.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Amy said in Marilyn’s direction. She was never sure if her youngest child was directly addressing her, because she hardly ever called her Mom. Marilyn tried hard not to read into it but she couldn’t help it. Before she had a chance to answer, Amy added, “Saul was great to do this.”

  Marilyn nodded quickly. Indeed, it was easier to let them think it was all Saul’s idea. They had known Saul from the beginning and had taken to him not because Marilyn acted in his movies but because that was just the kind of person Saul was—people genuinely liked him. Saul publicly claimed he inherited his likability from his grandfather, the number-one pickle-seller on Delancey Street. Marilyn was the only one who knew that Saul was entirely self-made—that his pickle-selling grandfather only existed in Saul’s imagination. Perhaps that was why he and Marilyn were so compatible. They each possessed the ability to turn figments of their imagination into reality for the sole purpose of survival.

  From behind came the sound of another car pulling into the drive. When she turned around, she saw Kate all alone in an enormous car. For a minute, she hoped that Finn would be with her. Marilyn had asked Kate to wait at the airport for Finn, to try and coordinate their arrival so that Finn didn’t have to get out to the Cape by himself. But Kate had mumbled something about time change and flight incompatibility, and so Marilyn had dropped it. In personality, she was the child most like Richard, the one who liked to be in control at all times.

  Seeing Kate’s face framed behind the glass of the windshield, flushed and grim, reminded Marilyn of the summer when Kate had just turned four and she and Richard argued endlessly about the pigtails Kate insisted he, not Marilyn, put her hair in every single day. Finn was two, and it was the year he seemed to be sick constantly with high fever after high fever, colds that turned into bronchitis, and sore throats that turned to strep. It seemed there was always a bottle of pink medicine in the refrigerator. Finn claimed all the energy Marilyn had to give, so even if Kate had wanted Marilyn’s attention, she wasn’t going to get it.

  Richard had been charmed the first few times that his daughter wanted him, but soon he tired of twisting the bright plastic double-balled hair ties that Kate demanded in her wispy flyaway hair. It was a nearly impossible task for adult fingers, yet Richard was resolute: he would teach her how to do her own hair. Except every session resulted in Kate collapsed on the floor, gulping tears along with the anguished cries of “Daddy do it now, Daddy do it now” coming out of her small, angry mouth.

  One afternoon, while Marilyn napped with Finn, Richard did the unthinkable. He took the kitchen shears to Kate’s hair and snipped until it was too short for pigtails. After that, Kate wouldn’t let anyone near her hair for over a year; to brush it was nearly impossible and often the task went undone. It wasn’t until the following fall, when Kate was about to begin kindergarten, that Marilyn was finally able to coax her into a hairdresser’s shop to rectify the mess. Kate had agreed on the condition that Richard accompany them. Even after the indignity and humiliation, Kate still adored her daddy the best.

  Kate leaned out the driver’s-side window and honked the horn several times as she yelled, “Okay if I park here?” She had pulled the imposing black SUV behind the dinged and battered van that Amy and Owen had driven from New York.

  When she saw the size of the vehicle, Marilyn couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment that Kate couldn’t wait for Finn. Having enough room was certainly not an issue.

  Owen stood. “I’ll pull forward a bit so I can get the equipment out.”

  After they jockeyed the cars around, Marilyn watched as Kate got out of the car and struggled to slam the heavy door. No one made a move to assist her, probably because they knew she would resist. She had on high-heeled sandals and a beige pantsuit, and over her shoulder a briefcase that was stuffed with multicolored files. Under the weight of the briefcase, Kate listed to the left, causing the skinny heels to sink into the sandy driveway as she lurched toward the porch awkwardly. When she finally reached the bottom step, she looked up at her mother and said, “That was pure hell.”

  George burst out laughing while Sam looked down at the ground, smiling. Amy said, “Hello to you too, Kate.”

  Kate retorted, after looking over Amy’s thrift-store ensemble, “I suppose I should have gone with bare feet and cut-offs?” She frowned, addressing no one in particular. “Is there anything to drink?”

  Amy gave Kate the finger while Marilyn sighed and took her oldest daughter by the arm and led her into the house for lemonade.

  Marilyn almost wished that Finn had arrived first. It would have been easier. The waiting only added to her anxiety. As it was, he had called and left a message saying that the plane from Seattle had been delayed in Las Vegas due to thunderstorms and he probably wouldn’t arrive in Boston until midnight, and then he still had to get the car that Saul had arranged and drive all the way to the outer Cape. Finn had only recently had his license reinstated and Marilyn was nervous about him driving. But short of going to Boston and driving him back here (something she had given serious thought to), there was nothing she could do to get him here any faster. So they went ahead with dinner, George and Sam at the head of the table, wearing tiaras that Amy had made them out of tinfoil, and Marilyn at the opposite end with Saul to her left. Saul had insisted she take the other end, and there had been an awkward moment when she had wanted to run out of th
e room.

  Dear sweet Saul still thought that if she playacted enough like their mother, it would right the past, but Marilyn knew, while looking at the faces of her children, that no matter the number of occasions she orchestrated or her willingness to be here for them, it would never be enough. And she had made peace with that, she would take what she could get. Still, the head of the table was presumptuous. But then George nodded his head in her direction and she took the seat. She didn’t want to cause a scene.

  After they ate and Owen and his friends graced them with some music, everyone drifted off to bed, including Saul, who was bunking out back in a half-finished cottage with no heat. He had tried to stay and help Marilyn clear the kitchen, but she had forced him to go. She needed the time alone to think, and besides, she didn’t want to have an occasion for sex come up, not tonight.

  When she was done, she walked through the downstairs, leaving lights on so Finn could find his way. She wrote a note directing him to his room, and when she went to tape it to the door, she smelled cigarette smoke. She nearly swooned and closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She wondered if she were dreaming until she saw the red circle in the corner of the porch attached to the hand of Kate, who was curled beneath a blanket in a wicker chair. Her bare toes peeked from the bottom of the blanket, the skinny heels abandoned on the porch floor by her chair.

  Marilyn moved toward the smoke and inhaled again. She wondered if the smoke combined with the patch would give her too strong a nicotine infusion and cause a heart attack, as all the paperwork warned, but then she decided to chance it. After all, she wasn’t smoking the cigarette, just smelling it.

  Kate said, “Saul just left.” She gestured with the cigarette in the direction of the stairs.

  Marilyn squinted down the dark driveway but couldn’t see him. “Smoke a lot, do you?” she asked as she settled into a chair next to Kate.

  Kate exhaled away from her mother. “I’m sorry, I’ll get rid of it.”

  She went to grind out the butt and Marilyn jumped out of her seat and said, “Don’t, not on my account.”

  Kate laughed as Marilyn sheepishly sunk back down into the chair. “Okay, Mom, you can live vicariously through me.”

  Kate had been the only one of her children that even knew that Marilyn had been to the doctor, was on high blood pressure meds, and needed to stop smoking. She was actually surprised that none of them had mentioned that Marilyn, whose fingertips were stained from years of nicotine use, wasn’t smoking. Either they didn’t care or the excitement of the wedding had their minds elsewhere—she preferred to delude herself that it was the latter.

  Now her daughter was asking her, “What are you doing lurking around here late at night? Trying to sneak out back?”

  Marilyn blinked rapidly as she looked at Kate. “What are you talking about?”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “Pleeease, Mother…he practically drools when he looks at you.” She paused. “How many years can you use the ‘we’re just friends’ excuse?”

  “Kate!”

  She laughed. “Hey, enjoy it while you can. You’re one of the lucky ones. In Los Angeles every guy I know looks like he’s dating a schoolgirl with double-D tits. I don’t have a chance.” She hesitated. “Saul happens to be a young guy who finds an older woman attractive…an anomaly.” She screwed up her face, searching for the right words, “To put it in celebrity perspective for you, you’re in Demi Moore/Ashton Kutcher territory.”

  “Kate…”

  “What?” She smirked. “It could be worse, you could be in love with a married man and waiting for him to leave his wife.” She coughed. “Let me tell you that it never happens. You only get one chance.”

  “Kate…” Marilyn tried again. She thought Kate was probably referring to herself, but she couldn’t be positive. She knew so little about any of their lives and the things she did know were superficial. Things they’d tell anyone. Things they let slip by accident.

  Marilyn shrugged.

  “I don’t care about any of it,” Kate said.

  “Sure you do.”

  “Why? You think everyone needs love?” Kate took a drag on her cigarette. “Love sucks.”

  “Nice sentiment to have at a wedding,” Marilyn teased.

  “No one is happy at a wedding save for maybe—maybe—the bride and groom.” She held up her hand and started to tick things off her fingers. “The wedding party is pissed they spent so much on their dresses and are jealous of the bride no matter how much they claim they adore her; the same for the guests; the couple is second-guessing their relationship no matter how blissful they think they are; the whole reception thing is a total waste of money; and the end of the night sucks because the bride and groom are so smashed that sex is probably a huge disappointment.”

  “Well, I guess you have it all figured out then. Should we warn George and Sam before it’s too late?”

  Kate waved her off. “Nah, let them figure it out.”

  “I think you’re wrong—about them anyway.”

  “Maybe.”

  Marilyn shook her head; she knew she couldn’t change Kate’s mind about anything. She studied her daughter’s profile. Did Saul find Kate attractive? She could be the younger version of Marilyn. Had they been sitting out here talking while Marilyn cleaned up the kitchen? She didn’t want to ask her daughter anything for fear that it would seem that she didn’t trust her.

  Suddenly, Marilyn remembered the reason Richard had given for cutting off Kate’s hair. She’s too old for pigtails he had said as he swept the delicate swirls of their daughter’s hair, probably not amounting to more than an ounce, into a paltry pile on the buckling red-and-black-flecked linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor. Kate’s stoic little face had peeked out at her from the pantry where she had fled when Marilyn saw what Richard had done. She had the urge to ask Kate if she remembered that Richard had cut off her pigtails. Then she realized Kate would probably only see it as a desperate attempt by Marilyn to prove that she hadn’t been that neglectful a parent—Richard had been worse. So she said nothing.

  Kate stood, letting the blanket slip to the floor as she bent and retrieved her shoes. “I’m going to bed.” She stifled a yawn and said, “You too?”

  Marilyn picked the blanket up off the porch floor and hugged it to her chest. She wanted to sit and wait for Finn, but she knew it would be hours from now and she needed to be awake and functioning for George tomorrow. She looked up at Kate. “Go on. I’m going to stay here for a minute.”

  Kate hesitated.

  “What is it?” Marilyn asked.

  “Oh, well. I made partner. Finally.”

  “Kate! Oh, congratulations…you work so hard. Too hard.”

  She shrugged like she had heard it all before. “Yes, well. About time. Right?”

  “Did you tell the others?”

  “Why?” Kate looked at Marilyn. It seemed like she wanted to say something more. Marilyn wanted to hug Kate but it just didn’t seem right and the moment passed. That’s what life with her children was now, filled with missed opportunity and awkward moments. She watched Kate pause at the front door and run her index finger along the note Marilyn had taped to the glass for Finn before she disappeared inside.

  When she woke, the sun was streaming through the windows, high enough in the sky already that Marilyn knew it was late. She smelled coffee and bacon, which meant everyone had risen before her. A light sleeper, she had not set an alarm, positive that she would hear Finn come in and then she would just stay up and make breakfast for everyone. But that never happened.

  Now she quickly washed her face, combed her hair, dressed, and ran down the back stairs that led directly into the kitchen. She didn’t want this weekend to be like it always had been, her children self-sufficient in the morning long before they’d had to be, simply because she never got up early. Just once she’d hoped to beat them downstairs for a Donna Reed moment and she’d missed it.

  She smelled burned toast and then she heard George bellow
, “Christ, Amy, didn’t your mother teach you anything? You can’t cook worth a damn!”

  Amy laughed. “Well, speaking from the position of caboose,” she paused and Marilyn heard more laughter and Amy saying, “I’d say my mother taught me one very important lesson: how to keep my legs shut.”

  This time the entire room erupted and then she heard someone comment in a dry tone, possibly George, “That true, Owen? You’re not getting any?”

  Then more laughter and, “Ouch, Amy! You’re hurting me! Someone make her stop.” More grunts and, “You can’t blame me for taking that shot, you left it wide open.”

  “So to speak,” Sam bellowed.

  Marilyn descended the last step into the kitchen then and everything stopped. Amy’s arm, raised above George’s head with a wooden spoon clutched in her fist, dropped to her side at Marilyn’s entrance.

  Someone snickered and Sam said, “Okay, I feel like I’m five.”

  Kate, hunched over her files spread all over the kitchen table, said without taking her eyes off the papers, “I got up early to get some work done. Alone. Why the hell can’t you people sleep in?”

  Asa, from his position at the kitchen counter, looked up from his plate, his mouth stuffed with French toast, and said to Marilyn, “I’ve been an angel.”

  Marilyn smiled at Asa, took the spoon from Amy, put it back on the counter, and shook her head. “Is Finn asleep?”

  George handed her a cup of coffee but she held her hand up to stop him and put water on for tea. “He’s not here yet,” he said.

  Marilyn stopped what she was doing. All she could think was there had been a plane crash or a car crash on the turnpike. No. She shook her head. Life couldn’t possibly be that unfair, could it?