They thought they were saving her. They thought they were freeing her. All of them. But they weren’t. They were cutting her loose. She felt unmoored and rudderless like an abandoned skiff.
Moving back, staying by her father’s side, being needed, she did these things because she had to. Those were the things that had made her feel she had the slightest scrap of control during this whole hellish ordeal.
Maren cursed Malcolm Vashal for taking that from her.
And before her next breath, a white-hot pain slashed through her heart. He had ruined everything. Not only had he taken away her control, he had taken away himself with his breach of trust. She felt the loss keenly.
It was more painful than anything else.
The last echo of light was fading from the November sky as she turned onto Camellia Boulevard. She had gone more than a mile, and the urge to cry had only grown. Maren barred herself against it, instead taking deep, ragged breaths and urging her quads to pump harder. By the time she reached the foot of the bridge over the Vermilion River, she was flying. Her lungs screamed and her muscles seared with lactose. As she crested the bridge at an ugly sprint, her thoughts of loss had burned away. After her mad dash, she finished another three miles in a kind of exhausted numbness. Music blared in her ears, and it was fairly easy to keep dark thoughts at bay.
Lane’s Jeep and both cars were still in the drive when she got back, so she allowed herself to head upstairs without checking in. She showered again, but it was hardly the luxurious treatment she had enjoyed when Malcolm had come to her earlier.
She angrily shoved him from her thoughts for the hundredth time as she scrubbed conditioner from her hair. There was no point in calling him to mind.
Maren dressed, deciding to climb into bed and give herself over to writing. She had begun to play with some lines in her head about a scuttled vessel when a text chimed on her phone.
Thursday, Nov. 9: 8:22 p.m.
I know I’ve upset you, and I’m so sorry. Please give me a chance to explain.
She considered ignoring the message, knowing that no response at all would drive anyone crazy, but she was too irate to deny herself with restraint.
Thursday, Nov. 9: 8:23 p.m.
Go fuck yourself.
Maren felt a reckless thrill when she hit the send button. An unruly giggle escaped her lips. It felt good to be angry. Powerful. Intact. She sent a follow-up text for good measure.
Thursday, Nov. 9: 8:23 p.m.
And if you see me at school tomorrow, stay the hell away.
Maren turned off her phone so that she would not even know if he replied, and she willed her attention back to the notepad in her lap and metaphors of a swallowing sea.
Exhausted, Maren slept harder that night than she had all week, but in her muddy dreams, sage green eyes looked into hers, tender lips brushed against hers, and strong arms held her close. These sensations were so real and stirring that when she woke up, she wasn’t quite sure where she was.
With the morning light, clarity returned, of course, and it only took a moment of searching to find that her anger was still intact. She half-expected to find a message waiting on her phone, but there was none.
As Maren dressed, she knew that she was still as confused as ever and that she still felt untethered, but she had promised her father she would go to school and sort things out, so that directive gave her some sense of purpose.
A hospice nurse was with her father and mother when she went downstairs, so she slipped through the living room to make a quick breakfast for herself. She could hear the nurse asking her father to rate his pain on a scale of one to ten, but his responses were too faint for her to catch.
After the nurse left, Maren went back into the sickroom. One look at her father, and Maren knew that Lane and Laurel would not have to experience any of the distressing episodes she and her mother had dealt with in the preceding days. He looked like the strength had completely gone from him. At this discovery, she felt relief and guilt in equal measure.
“Morning, Dad, Mom,” she said.
“Mar…en…” her father managed. At least he was aware of who she was.
She approached his bed, and he reached for her hand. Maren smiled to see the light in his eyes, letting her know that he was still with them.
“I’m going to get dressed,” her mother said, patting his shoulder. When she was gone, Maren spoke to her father.
“I just want you to know that I’m going to school today, just like I promised.”
He squeezed her hand.
“Good girl…” he said. “What about…him?”
Maren frowned and looked around the room, wondering if her father was seeing something she couldn’t.
“Who?” she asked.
Her father blinked and seemed to search for the words.
“Your friend….”
Maren felt her eyebrows bunch.
“Malcolm?”
“Yes…Malcolm…Did you talk?” he asked, weakly.
Maren bit the inside of her lip.
“A little.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She had cursed him out in a text. That was a kind of talking.
“Good….Forgive him,” he said, eyeing her intently.
Maren did not want to lie to her father, not now.
“I’m still pretty mad at him, Dad. I don’t know if I can.” She heard the edge in her own voice, and she definitely felt the emotion to back up her words.
He gave a slight, knowing nod.
“Even so….in time…”
“I don’t know,” she said again, but she didn’t want him to give the issue any more of his energy, and she didn’t want think about Malcolm Vashal anymore. “We’ll see.”
Her father nodded again.
“Get to school,” he said, smiling at her.
She bent and kissed his forehead, and he surprised her by reaching up and palming her cheek.
“I love you, Merry.”
She was struck by how happy he looked, and she wondered if the Hospice nurse had just dosed him with pain meds.
“I love you, Dad,” she said. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Her morning at school went better than she could have hoped. She managed to catch all of her professors before their first classes, beginning with Dr. Sheridan, who gave Maren’s elbow a sympathetic squeeze and told her to come to her if she had any problems with her other instructors. But she did not. All of them were only too eager to work with her. She even discovered that Helene had already told Dr. MacIntosh and Dr. St. Martin about her family’s situation, so they had known the reason for her absence all week.
Best of all, she saw no sign of Malcolm.
Dr. Sheridan had helped her to work out a substitute arrangement for her 102 class, but given the short notice, she opted to teach the day’s lesson, explain her absence to her students, and prepare them for the next week’s itinerary.
After her class, she stopped in at the bullpen and found herself clasped in a towering, blond embrace.
Helene!
“How are you doing, sweetie?” Helene asked, crushing Maren to her.
Maren just sighed. The hug felt good, and she abandoned herself to it for a minute.
Helene pulled back and studied her.
“God, Maren, you look awful,” she said, with no little drama.
Maren rolled her eyes, but she was grateful that the exclamation had chased away the tears that were threatening.
“Thanks a lot,” she said.
“Sorry! You’re still gorgeous, but you know what I mean,” Helene fumbled. “You look like you’ve been through the ringer. How’s your dad?”
“Hanging in there,” was all she could say, even if it failed to capture anything of what they’d been through since she’d last seen her friend. She just couldn’t go there. “Thanks for covering me with St. Martin and MacIntosh.”
Helene shook her head.
“No problem at all,” but then she narrowed her eyes at her friend, watching c
losely. “I also covered for you with Rob, though.”
Maren frowned, confused at first, before the memory of Saturday morning in the lab returned. It seemed like ages ago.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“He said that he asked you out, and you told him you were seeing someone,” Helene said, still raking Maren over with her eyes. “I told him that you were, that I hadn’t met the guy yet, but that you’d talked about him before—which I think is not far from the truth, as I recall.”
Maren remembered the stonewalling she’d done with Helene on the day of the now-famous Blue Moon date. Maren had protected Malcolm; she’d kept his secret, which was more than could be said for him. Anger flared again, but as mad as she was at him, Maren still wasn’t about to throw him to the wolves.
I love him too much.
Her guard was down, and the thought stormed her. It was unfair that she still loved him, still ached for him after what he’d done.
You’re such a fool.
Maren tried to collect herself while Helene surely watched the wave of emotions roll over her.
“I guess you’re still not talking about him, but I’m warning you, Maren, you’re giving me cause for concern,” Helene said, eyebrows drawing together in a look of worry.
“Well, there’s no reason to be concerned now,” Maren said, firmly. “I’m not seeing anyone. Yes, there might have been something going on, but he totally blew it, so end of story.”
Helene’s eyes widened, but she looked triumphant at Maren’s admission.
“Whoa! What do you mean? What did he do, this mystery man?”
Maren shook her head, wanting to dismiss the topic. It definitely wasn’t safe territory, but then the words seemed to flood from her.
“I can’t trust him.” She knew she probably wasn’t able to hide the sadness she felt because Helene bit her lip and tentatively reached for her arm.
“Is he married or something? You can tell me, Mare. I promise, I won’t judge,” Helene vowed.
Not married, but he’s certainly off limits.
“I’m not up for it today. Maybe in the future,” she said. “Thanks, though. I’ll be okay.”
It was almost 11, and Maren was debating about staying for her workshop class, so she texted Laurel to check in on things at home.
Friday, Nov. 10: 10:54 a.m.
All’s well. Aunt J. just got here! Yay!
Maren sent up a silent prayer of thanks. She texted back that she would be home a little after noon. With her aunt’s arrival, perhaps she really could feel okay about leaving the house. If she could make one class a day, that would certainly help her stay on top of things.
She gathered her books and headed to the workshop. Although she’d been writing more than usual for the last several days, she wasn’t ready to share anything so raw, but she was eager to read what the others had written and to think about things besides her own misery.
Rob avoided even glancing at her, which was fine with Maren, but she did feel a bit awkward for him when he had to present a poem. It was a narrative piece about a day spent rock climbing in Chattanooga. Maren did her best to provide thoughtful comments on the copy she annotated without seeming cold. She merely pointed out the lines of imagery she liked best and gave him some suggestions for syntax. She hoped her responses seemed perfectly neutral.
Because the time wasn’t spent crying at her father’s bedside, the hour was up in what seemed like seconds.
“I’m glad you could make it today,” Dr. MacIntosh told her as students rose from the seminar table. “Are you able to write at all?”
The question caught Rob’s attention, and he tuned in for her answer.
“Surprisingly, yes,” Maren answered, smiling a little.
“It helps,” Dr. St. Martin chimed in. Maren couldn’t help but catch Rob’s curious frown.
“Yeah, it does,” she acknowledged, nodding.
“Well,…take all the time you need under the circumstances. As long as you are writing, the workshopping can wait,” Dr. MacIntosh said, holding the door for his colleague.
“Thanks, to both of you.” Maren finished collecting her things, keenly aware that Rob had hung back, presumably to wait for her. He wore a puzzled expression that might have born a trace of chagrin. He walked alongside her as they left the classroom.
“Maren,…I couldn’t help but overhear…Is everything okay?” Rob asked.
The look of concern on his face was so genuine and uncalculating that Maren immediately softened toward him, forgiving him for their uncomfortable morning in the Mac lab.
“Not really, to be honest,” she said, shrugging. “My dad is dying….Cancer.”
His eyes winced in sympathy.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said, earnestly.
“Thanks,” she said, lamely, walking with him down the corridor in front of the department office.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know,” he said. Again, she could tell that there was nothing more to his kind words, no hidden agenda or flirtatiousness. She was grateful.
“Thanks, really,” she said, giving him a half-smile. “Everyone’s been great.”
Just after the words left her lips, Malcolm stepped out of the department office and nearly collided with her.
Anguish. Confusion. Panic. Maren saw each emotion pass over his features in the span of a second. She watched him take in first only her and then Rob by her side. She was able to fix a steely glare in her eyes as soon as she’d registered his presence, and Maren was sure that he caught the full force of it before he veered around them, muttering his pardon.
She’d donned her mask not a moment too soon; seeing Malcolm was absolute heartache. She felt herself pulled into a gravitational field of longing. For him. For the days before he’d betrayed her. For what she’d thought was his love.
Maren managed to mumble something about it being time for her to get home, and she said a quick goodbye to Rob. She was very grateful that Laurel had lent her the car; making the slow trip to her parents’ house on the bus would have truly sucked. It was a cold day, the sky thick with leaden clouds, and Maren shivered as she walked to the car.
Aunt Jackie was a mess. She’d visited in September, and the family had Skyped a few times, but nothing prepared her for decimation her brother had suffered in the last two weeks.
“She’s been crying for the last hour,” Laurel mouthed as Maren hugged her favorite aunt.
“Oh, darlin’,” she sobbed into Maren’s neck. “It’s just so unfair!”
Except for the slight build and dark hair that was also going gray by her temples, Jackie wasn’t much like her older brother. She had always been sassy, too energetic to sit still most of the time, quick to show her temper, and double-quick to apologize for it. Because Jackie never did anything by halves, Maren was not at all surprised that she was throwing herself into her weeping. Once the storm ran its course, she’d be the help they so desperately needed—and more.
“Have you had a chance to talk to him?” Maren asked, looking over Jackie’s shoulder to her sleeping father. It was a wonder he could sleep with the keening. Still, somehow, holding Jackie as she cried made Maren feel more composed, not less, and she breathed in her own relief.
Jackie sniffed noisily and pulled out of Maren’s arms, wiping her red eyes.
“Yes, he was awake for a few minutes. He knew who I was, and he tha-thanked me for ccoming,” Jackie hiccupped.
Laurel surprised Maren then with her own composure and thoughtfulness.
“I’m making some tea. Would either of you like some?” she asked.
The distraction worked like a charm. Both women accepted, and the three gathered in the kitchen around the island as Laurel filled the teakettle and set it on a burner. She explained to Maren that once Jackie had arrived, she had urged Lane to get back to work, convincing him that she and Aunt Jackie had everything under control.
Maren felt a rush of sisterly
pride. Laurel had handled everything—a dying father and a hysterical aunt, and she’d done it with ease and confidence. Maren watched as her sister set out three cups and saucers, dropping a crisp tea bag into each.
When had she started drinking tea?
The women talked for a few minutes, and when the kettle whistled, Laurel filled their cups and provided sugar, milk, and spoons.
“It’s best if you let it steep for at least five minutes,” she explained. The rich aroma was like cocoa, and it added a coziness to the afternoon that made Maren smile.
“What is that?” Maren asked, taking her cup and inhaling the fragrant steam.
“It’s chocolate maté,” Laurel said, smiling with self-satisfaction. “It’s made from a South American tea, the yerba maté, and cocoa, so it’s full of antioxidants, but it also soothes the stomach. But I drink it because it tastes so good!”
Maren and Jackie both imitated Laurel as she added a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk to hers. Maren took a sip, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, she relaxed.
“Mmmm…” she hummed, nodding. “This is wonderful.”
The three of them were on their second cup when Maren’s mother came home around 2 o’clock. She and Jackie embraced, and though their eyes glossed with tears, none fell. Laurel quickly prepared a fourth cup while Erin checked on their father. She returned after a moment.
“He’s still sleeping soundly,” she said, peeling off her jacket and stepping out of her heels. “Thank you, Laurel.”
Maren smiled again. It was just the way to be greeted on a cold day, a hot cup of delicious tea and a full kitchen. Maren gave her sister a grateful nod across the island.
The teakettle had been filled and emptied again when there was a knock at the front door. Erin frowned and rose.
“Who could that be? Hospice shouldn’t be back until 5:00.”
Maren got up, deciding that the cozy visit needed to come to an end so she could do some school work. She set her tea cup into the dishwasher as voices came from the front of the house. Her mother sounded surprised, delighted even. Maren turned to the sound of approaching footsteps as Erin re-entered the kitchen with a brilliant smile and a meaningful look at her while a burly, middle-aged man with a round belly and a red apron followed. He was carrying a sizeable tray of poboy sandwiches.
Fall Semester Page 30