by Jo Leigh
He grabbed his jeans, pulling them on quickly. He walked over to her side of the bed and made sure she was paying attention. “You don’t get it, do you? I screwed up, big time, or don’t you remember? I let you down, I let Amy down. You didn’t hesitate to remind me of that every single day. Is it coming back now? Is it clearer? I was never there, you said. But even when I was there, I wasn’t enough. I did everything wrong, and you let me know it.”
He tried hard not to remember the heated words and accusations from that horrible time, but they were permanently etched in his memory. “I had to work, Becky. I had to keep on going or I would have gone insane. Gordon tried to get me to take a leave of absence, you begged me to stay home, but I wouldn’t. I insisted on working, insisted that we check out that warehouse. Gordon died because of me. I killed him, not Mojo. I am responsible for his death, just like I'm responsible for the death of our family. So don’t tell me it’s self-pity. I'm just aware of the facts. And when you're thinking a little more clearly, you'll remember them, too.”
She almost turned away, but he captured her chin in his hand. “The only thing I did right was to let you go.”
She jerked out of his grasp, and rubbed her chin where he’d touched her. “What arrogance,” she said, as she stood up to face him. “Did you think you could heal Amy with your touch? She had cancer. You didn’t do that to her. You didn’t kill Gordon, either. You did your job. He knew the risks going in.”
“So nothing’s my fault, right?”
She shook her head. “Leaving was your fault.”
“You were the one who left. I just didn’t stop you.”
“Why not? Weren’t we worth it? Didn’t the fact that I loved you matter? I left because you stopped being my husband. You lived with me and shared my bed, but you had gone. Somewhere I couldn’t find you.”
“I had no right to keep you there.”
She pushed her shoulders back and stood very straight. “I want you to understand this. I didn’t leave you because Amy died, or because Gordon died. I left because it hurt too much to see what you’d done to yourself. You could have had me and your son. We could have been a family. But you gave us up without a fight. I hope you're happy with your guilt. That’s all you'll ever have. I won’t make this mistake again.”
The ache started in his gut, and went straight through his heart. He couldn’t seem to move, or form words. He just watched as Becky finished dressing. What had he done? What the hell had he done?
“You know,” he said quietly. “Amy died on me, too. Not just you.”
“I know that.”
“I did what I thought was right. It wasn’t. So you took Sam and you left.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it into submission. Then she dropped her hands and wrapped her arms around her waist. “All I ever wanted was for us to hold on to each other. Was that too much to ask?”
He took a step back from her, trying hard not to let the pain bring him to his knees. “That’s not true. You wanted me to save you. To save Amy.”
“I never said that.”
“You said it with every look, with every touch, with every tear. You hated me for letting Amy die, and don’t try to tell me you didn’t.” He turned his back on her. “I'm going to take a shower.”
“Wait,” she said.
“Why? What’s left to say? I don’t want to rehash the past. I don’t need any more of your guilt. I've got enough of my own.”
Becky took a long, slow breath, then let it out in a sigh. She hurt inside. So much sadness, so much grief. They’d been through hell, and had never managed to find their way back. “Come and sit down. Please. Let’s talk about this. I don’t want any more bitterness between us.”
He hesitated, looking at her as if she were setting some kind of a trap. Finally, he sat at the bottom of the bed.
She sat down, too, but not so close that they could touch. She hadn’t grown used to his chest, the broadness of his muscles. He was a new man in many ways. But not altogether. “I know how much you loved Amy,” she said. “And how much she loved you. I don’t know what you remember, but I never doubted that. Not for an instant. You gave her everything you could. I probably did ask too much of you. I was crazy back then, I know that. But what I can’t figure out is what happened to us? You were the one person who knew what I was going through. You knew how it felt to watch her slip away and be powerless to do any thing. So why didn’t we help each other, Mike? Why did we turn against each other?”
He looked like she felt. Wounded, battered. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I'm trying to understand,” she said. “Doesn’t our past mean anything to you? You're the only man I've ever loved. That has to count for something.”
He sat straighter and she could see his muscles tense all through his body. She wanted to comfort him, to hold him in her arms until he was peaceful again, even while she was angry and hurt by his actions and words.
“You loved someone else,” he said, his voice cold and low. “You loved the man you thought I was. You were mistaken.”
Her heart sank. Maybe it had gone too far. Too much had gone wrong. The pieces were shattered and couldn’t be put back together again. “Did I?” she asked. She stared at her hands, afraid that if she looked up she would start to cry. “That makes me pretty foolish, huh? Wasting all those years?”
“We both made mistakes.” He stood up and started toward the bathroom. Her hand caught his and held on until he turned to face her.
“I don’t want to think loving you was a mistake. Sam showed me something while you were gone,” she said. “A letter you wrote him.”
“Which one?”
“The one about the boat picture.”
He still looked at her suspiciously. “I don’t remember.”
She sat further back on the bed, tugging lightly on his hand, hoping he would sit back down. “When you had to cancel the hockey game. You told him to listen to me, that when I asked him to play outside it was because I loved him.”
He nodded, but he didn’t join her. “Yeah, okay. What did I do wrong?”
She dropped her hold on him. “Nothing. The letter was wonderful.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I'm trying to say something nice here.”
He still looked fierce and mistrustful. Had it really been so bad between them? Had they lost all connection?
“That letter was wonderful,” she said. “It was sweet and thoughtful. You handled Sam like I wish I could. You know what I thought when I read it? I thought, that’s Mike. That’s how he is. Funny and kind, always ready to listen. Not afraid to get mushy. That’s the man I lost. He left me over two years ago, and I didn’t see him again until tonight. How come, Mike? Why did that man leave me?”
“I wasn’t the one who left.”
She sighed, and bowed her head. “Oh, God. It is too late, isn’t it?”
He left the room.
Chapter 10
Becky gathered the rest of her clothes and left Mike’s room. The house was dark and quiet, all of the warmth from the early evening had gone. The warmth had gone out of her, too.
How could it hurt so much to see the truth? Hadn’t she learned yet that Mike was never going to change? That he would never again be the man she’d married?
When would she wise up and listen to her head instead of her heart? She should never have let him touch her. Or kiss her. Letting him make love to her had been the ultimate mistake.
She moved toward the stairs, but stopped after taking the first step. Had she just let him make love to her? Wasn’t that her way of denying her own responsibility? She hadn’t let him love her. She’d gone willingly. More than willingly. She’d wanted him desperately.
Mike had changed, but so had she. She’d learned to be independent, to stand up for herself and her son. She’d struggled hard to build herself a life. But in the two years since she and Mike had been apart, she’d never really ac
cepted the fact that she still loved him. Instead, she’d chosen to ignore her emotions, to concentrate on everything else, to keep herself so busy that she didn’t have time to feel the emptiness inside her. Tonight, she’d had to face the truth. She still loved Mike. She still ached for his touch, for the comfort of his arms. She needed him to be there for her, to talk to and to listen to her.
She couldn’t go upstairs. Not yet. Sam might wake up, and she couldn’t deal with any questions right now. Instead, she turned around and went into the living room. She could hear the water going through the pipes as Mike took his shower. That was the only sound in the house. Moving over to the front window, she pushed the curtains aside and saw that the blizzard had ended. Snow was falling quietly, gently. She let go of the drape, and walked over to the couch. She sat down, pulling her legs up and into her arms.
How had things gone so wrong? It wasn’t so long ago that she’d had a perfect life. A wonderful husband, two beautiful children, a future as bright as the sun. Slowly, painfully, each part of her world had been torn apart.
Making love had been a terrible error. Having Mike inside her again had awakened a sleeping giant. She’d never stopped loving him. Damn him. Damn her own weak heart.
She leaned to her side, resting her head on the thick cushion. She really needed to go upstairs and put herself to bed. She would just close her eyes for a minute. Then she would get up.
* * *
At eight-thirty, Mike went to fix the coffee. He’d slept, which surprised him. He figured his talk with Becky would have gnawed at him, but he’d been out the minute his head hit the pillow.
As he walked toward the kitchen, he saw her. She was sound asleep on the couch, no blanket over her, just a back cushion covering her bare feet. He walked over to where she lay. Her hands were curled up tight against her chest. Her hair was loose around her face. She looked sweet and beautiful, and a deep regret filled him until he could barely breathe.
“Why couldn’t things have been different for us?” he whispered. “All we needed were a few breaks, that’s all. Just some luck.”
Becky stirred, but didn’t awaken. He reached down and touched her shoulder gently. Her eyes slowly opened.
“Morning,” he said.
“It’s cold.”
“You don’t have a blanket.”
She pushed herself up with one hand, while she rubbed her eyes with the back of the other. “Where’s Sam?”
“Upstairs. Sleeping.”
“What time is it?”
“Close to nine. Why don’t you go take a hot shower while I fix breakfast?”
She nodded. As she got to her feet, she bumped her arm against his chest. She stepped back so quickly she nearly fell.
He reached to steady her, but when he saw the look on her face, he dropped his hand. He’d really done it this time, he thought. Last night was the clincher. She didn’t want to have anything to do with him.
That’s what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? He’d finally told her the truth—almost—and it had ended any pretense there might have been. He hadn’t been able to save her, or Amy, or their family, or even Gordon. He was supposed to feel better now that it was out in the open, that the words had been spoken. But he didn’t. He felt like hell.
She gathered her underclothes and her shoes, and walked around him. She hurried to the staircase and nearly ran upstairs.
He’d shown her, all right. He’d hammered his point home, so she would never forget it. She’d asked him to be her hero, and he’d failed her. Last night he made sure she would never think of him as her hero again. The last piece of his heart, of his hope, died without a whimper while he stood alone in the empty room.
He went into the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water. He lost count as he spooned the dark granules, and had to start again. He heard the pipes complain as Becky started her shower. Then he got the milk from the fridge and the hot-cereal box from the cupboard. It was important to keep focusing on the food, on the preparation. To measure everything carefully, and to stir the cereal constantly. When the coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup, then set the table for three. He heard her footsteps approach, and he had to struggle harder to still his thoughts, to keep moving as if he were a real person, instead of an empty shell. The one hope he had was that Mojo would be caught today, so they could leave this prison and go on with their lives.
At home, this wouldn’t be so difficult. If she wasn’t in front of him, close to him, he would be okay. The real problem was being near her.
She came into the kitchen. Her hair was still wet. She’d put on jeans and a white sweatshirt. She was fresh and pretty, and he couldn’t bear to look at her. He turned his back and forced himself to feel nothing.
“There’s something we have to talk about,” she said.
He heard her pull out her chair while he poured her a cup of coffee. It wasn’t as hard as he’d imagined, walking over to her. He gave her the mug and sat across from her. “What?”
“Sam,” she said.
He watched her take a sip. Nothing. No reaction.
“After last night, I'm real clear on where we stand with each other. That’s fine. But Sam shouldn’t have to pay. You're not spending enough time with him. He needs you.”
“We write just about every day.”
“Writing isn’t enough. He needs to be with you. He needs a father.”
“He has one.”
She shook her head, and he found that if he didn’t look at her, if he concentrated on his hands, and on his coffee, it was easier to speak in a normal tone.
“You weren’t there when he had the chicken pox. Or when he broke his little toe. You haven’t been there for a long time, Mike.”
“I knew about all that,” he said. “Just because I wasn’t there in person, doesn’t mean I didn’t know what’s going on.”
“Really? Did you know that after he signed up for little league, he used to ditch practice and go to the library? That he lied about playing baseball? I didn’t find out for over a month that he’d quit the team. Even then, I found out by accident. I wanted to surprise him at a game, and when he wasn’t there, I talked to the coach. He told me Sam had never played. Not even once.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He made me swear that I wouldn’t. He was so ashamed, Mike. He thought you would be ashamed of him, too.”
“Dammit, you should have said something.”
“I don’t take promises lightly. You know that. I wouldn’t even mention it now, if I didn’t think it was so important.” She reached across the table and touched his hand.
He moved away quickly. He couldn’t deal with her touch right now.
“I don’t like the way he thinks of you. It’s not good for him.”
“And just how is that?”
“He worships you. You keep him at arm’s-length, so he doesn’t see. You don’t tell him that he has to go to bed early on school nights. Or make him clean his room. You've let me be the bad guy for too long.”
Mike got up from the table and went to the stove. While he spooned cereal into two bowls, he thought about the last couple of years. He had kept himself away from Sam—no, that wasn’t accurate. He’d kept his distance from Becky. He’d thought the letters were enough, but even he could see she was right. The last thing in the world he wanted was for his son to worship him. It would kill him to see that look of disappointment on Sam’s face when he realized what his father was. It was all he could stand to see Becky look at him that way.
“I'll do whatever you say,” he said, his voice as flat and emotionless as the deadness inside him. “Whatever you want.”
He brought the food to the table, and handed Becky her bowl. He wasn’t hungry any more.
“I think you should keep up the e-mail. It would hurt him if you stopped. But you need to see him a lot more. You need to take him to ball games and to the park. He loves to go sledding.”
“I know that,” he said, “Despite
what you think, I do know him.”
She nodded. She wasn’t looking at him with angry eyes, or blaming him with her tone.
He wanted to ask her if she felt anything, or if she, too, had decided that feeling had too high a price?
“What about on the weekends?” she asked.
“It doesn’t work like that. You know I can’t be sure I'll have the time off.”
“Can’t you explain to them that you have a little boy who needs you? That he has to be able to count on you? Or don’t they believe in families?”
He started to say something angry, but stopped. After a deep breath, he said, “I'll talk to them. Maybe we can work something out. I don’t know for sure, but I'll try.”
Why was she looking at him like that? What would make her get weepy now? Her green eyes glistened with unshed tears, and her lips curved up in a slight smile.
“That would be wonderful,” she said. After a long minute, she looked away, and picked up her spoon. “Where is he, anyway? I told him to come down. His breakfast will be cold soon.”
Mike was still confused. Was she that pleased that he had agreed to talk to his superiors about taking time off? Was it so unexpected that he would want to be there for his son? He pushed his chair back and stood. “I'll go get him.”
He walked upstairs quickly, thinking about that look she’d given him. What kind of an ogre was he supposed to be? It’s not as if he never saw Sam. At least once a month, he’d taken the boy for a few days. It wasn’t enough, he would give her that. Especially after this extended 'vacation,' he’d seen how much he missed Sam. He needed the boy as much—no, more than Sam needed him.
He opened the door to the bedroom. Sam’s bed was empty. Mike went over to the closet and pushed the sliding door to the right. But Sam wasn’t in there, either. He hadn’t heard him come downstairs. Maybe he’d wanted a shower. “Sam?”
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Something was wrong. He felt it. Sam would never voluntarily take a shower. Not in this lifetime. He took one last look at the room. It was messy, with some clothes and shoes on the floor. He didn’t see the computer anywhere. The window was still locked, and he could see it hadn’t been disturbed by the way the snow clung to the pane.