by Dawn Atkins
“So you think it’s good he ran away?” she said, laying on the sarcasm.
“It’s not ideal, no, but trust your son, Christine. You’ve raised him with love and taught him your values. He’ll sort this out and make good decisions.”
“It’s easy for you to be so wait-and-see about it. He’s not your son. You don’t know him like I do. Your heart’s not breaking in two with worry.”
“I do care about David. I’ve had extensive conversations with him and I believe he’s mature enough and sensible enough to handle this situation.”
“Do you realize how smug you sound? How all-knowing and God-like? Marcus knows best and I’m just the silly mother.”
“That was not my intent at all, Christine.”
“Well, that’s how it feels. You didn’t talk to him, Marcus. You didn’t see his face, the hatred there. He was so angry. Last time he got this upset he drove drunk and almost got in a wreck.”
“He’s come a long way since then.”
“Oh, yeah? Is that why he’s still smoking pot? I should have been in his face about drugs, searching his room, making him take drug tests. Don’t all those drug prevention people say you have to be assertive?”
“I believe the thrust of the argument is to be watchful, to have open communication, to discuss drugs regularly and frankly. All of which you’ve done.”
“I should have put him into rehab. I should have made him go to a therapist in Preston.”
“That’s extreme, Christine.”
“Extreme? That’s extreme? Then how about if you’d talked to him when I asked you to? Instead of copping out with ‘give him time, be patient.’ You could have talked him out of leaving. He trusted you.”
“Yes, he did. And I betrayed that trust by sleeping with his mother in secret. At least that’s how he would see it.” He looked at her steadily, coolly. “Under those circumstances, I doubt he would take my advice about anything.”
He sounded so clinical, so wooden, but what he said made her realize a terrible truth. “David said when he saw us kissing that he was looking for you to talk about something important. It had to be about finding Skip’s number. He went to you for help, to sort it all out, but I kissed you and ruined it.”
“It was unfortunate timing.”
“I knew better. I knew better all along. I should never have been with you. I put my own desires above David’s well-being and this is the price I’m paying.”
“You’re being overly dramatic. You get to have a life, if for no other reason than to give David space for his own. This was a case of bad timing, not the proof you’ve failed as a mother, Christine. There’s no point assuming the worst.”
She just looked at him. He’d dismissed her feelings and concerns as so much hysteria. “Well, maybe that’s how I deal with a crisis. Maybe it helps me to assume the worst.”
“I don’t understand that.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re quiet and logical and reasonable and I’m loud and emotional and irrational. We’re different, Marcus. Too different.”
“What are you saying, Christine?”
“I’m saying we made a mistake.” She swallowed hard. “We can’t make this work. And not only because of David. In bed we’re fine together, wonderful even, amazing. But in life? Dealing with the day-to-day issues, the problems? We’d never stop fighting.”
Marcus seemed stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. “I don’t know that that’s logical.”
“It’s my fault. I asked too much from you. The minute we arrived I started leaning on you, asking you to fix David, to fix me. You did your best, but it wasn’t your job. It was mine. I’ve made up a little fairy tale, after all. Aurora was right. I’m living in my princess room waiting to be rescued by my prince. That’s not fair to you.”
“I don’t agree, but I can see I’ve disappointed you. I never intended that.”
“We got carried away is all, making more of this than could ever be.” She felt sick inside at this new loss, inevitable as it was. “At least we know now, before we turned our lives upside down for each other.”
“I’m sorry, Christine,” he said, pale as death. She thought she caught a flash of wild pain in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly she might have imagined it.
“However I can help, I’d like to,” he said. “If I can drive you to Preston for your car or assist with David in any way, please let me know.”
And with that, he was gone.
Christine stayed in her office until after midnight waiting for a call from David or Skip that never came.
When she finally went to bed, her head was tight as a drum, her eyes wide open, and she couldn’t seem to take a full breath. She didn’t even know if David had reached San Diego or found his father when he got there. If he had made it safely, she wouldn’t be surprised if Skip had deliberately left her hanging as payback once David laid out her crimes against him.
She longed to run to the comfort of Marcus’s arms, but she was strong enough to resist. Deep inside, she’d known better. She took care of herself, her son and her life and always had.
She’d gotten so caught up with Marcus, she’d let her son slip away. She would never forgive herself. Never.
ALL MARCUS WANTED WAS to be numb again, as he’d been before Christine landed in his life. Now all his synapses were firing, every sense was wide awake, and he felt an agony he wasn’t sure he would survive.
He’d known better than to get so involved. He wasn’t what Christine needed and could never be. Hadn’t his marriage to Elizabeth taught him anything?
And as to David, he regretted hurting him. He should have insisted they talk to him, but he’d sensed that Christine believed, deep down, that their relationship wouldn’t last long enough for it to matter.
He should have found David a therapist in Preston when Christine asked—not jumped in to be the big hero—then left Christine the hell alone. Instead, as he’d done with Nathan and Elizabeth, he’d let his feelings override his judgment and screwed up royally.
If he had any doubts, all he had to do was remember how he’d acted after they learned David had run off. Christine had needed him to take her in his arms and comfort her, but what had he done? Offered smug advice and a ride to Preston for her car.
He son was missing and he offered her a ride?
He was a psychiatrist, for God’s sake. How could he have bungled human emotions so badly? Because this wasn’t therapy, this was life, where his success rate was dismal. Where he was completely at sea.
And Christine was correct. The silver lining to this black cloud was that they knew now, before they’d turned their lives upside down to be together.
But, oh, how he ached to hold her again.
Sleep was hopeless so he went to his computer, searching for the distraction that would keep him from dwelling on his misery.
His book had been untouched for weeks. He skimmed the first few pages of each chapter to remind himself what he’d intended. There was the research overkill he’d already noted, the dry listing of data and rationale. Who would read such a book? Other psychiatrists and mental health professionals perhaps. And what was the point of that exactly? Preaching to the choir or falling on deaf ears.
Abruptly, he saw what else was wrong. The book had no heart. No emotion. No stories. No people. It was an intellectual exercise. Human beings appeared as data points, not flesh-and-blood patients and their families and therapists struggling against a system that cared less for them than actuarial tables.
His book should to tell those stories. Of course. That would bring these issues to life. So how would that work?
He could interview his own former patients, his colleagues and their patients and write a book with heart, with life, with people and feelings. He would write a book that people would want to read, one that ultimately might lead to action.
Hesitantly at first, then more quickly, Marcus began to outline a new book. He owed this epiphany to Ch
ristine. Without her, without the feelings she’d awakened in him, he might never have figured this out. One day, he would tell her so.
THE NEXT DAY, WHEN Marcus met Carlos for lunch, he found his friend looking worse than Marcus felt after the sleepless, heartsick night he’d had. “You look like hell, Carlos.”
“Feel like it, too. I just treated a rancher who needs dialysis he’ll never get because we don’t have the equipment. After lunch, a little girl’s coming in with a misshapen arm because the fracture went too long without a cast.”
“When the grants come through, that will change.”
“Not soon enough for the people I see now.”
“I’m going to L.A. next week and I plan to have some personal meetings with leads Elizabeth gave me. Maybe that can speed up the process.”
“You’re going next week?”
“For a couple of weeks, yeah. I need some interviews for my book.”
“I thought you were about done with that.”
“I’m starting over. I decided last night.”
“Your muse let you down?” Carlos winked.
The smile he gave Carlos hurt his face. “Not at all. She helped me figure this out. However, we’re not seeing each other anymore.” He tried to sound matter-of-fact, but he knew Carlos would not let that slide.
“You what? You broke up? What did you do, jefe? Apologize, for God’s sake. You know she’s right.”
“She is, and that’s the problem.” He told Carlos the basics of what had gone wrong.
“So, just like that? She flips out over her son, you go all cerebral, she gets pissed—as well she should—and breaks up with you? And you let her? Jesus.”
“We were dreaming and we woke up. We’d end up hurting each other, so this is for the best.”
“Right. Because you’re a soulless automaton and she’s a drama queen and neither of you deserve each other or love?”
“Mock all you want, but you’re close to the bone here.”
“Rethink this, jefe. You’re wallowing in ancient history. She’s not Elizabeth. I know you loved the woman, but she was pretty much an ice queen. You seem so much happier with this one. Give yourself a chance, hombre.”
He shook his head. Carlos was as excessively optimistic about love as Christine was about everything else.
“If I were a true friend, I’d go all intervention on your ass. But for now, how about we drown you sorrows in tequila after I close the clinic at five?”
“Sounds good,” Marcus said immediately. It was an escape and that sounded good to him. As good as his new book, which saved him from complete despair. He owed Christine his thanks. She’d awakened him to the world again, opened him up to things he could do, like help Carlos with his clinic. Christine had reminded him to use his heart, as well as his head and hands. He would be grateful to her for the rest of his life.
AFTER A TERRIBLE NIGHT, Christine dragged herself out of bed to help cook breakfast. “Why don’t you take it easy today?” Aurora said, her concern touching Christine.
“I need to stay busy,” she said, grateful when Marcus didn’t appear at the breakfast table. She wasn’t sure she could stand the pain of seeing him again so soon.
She was elbow-deep in dishwater when the phone rang, so Aurora answered it. “Harmony House… Oh! Yes! She’s right here, Skip. Hang on.”
Thank God. Relief washed over Christine as she wiped her wet hands on her jeans, took the phone and rushed into the alcove. “Is David all right?” she asked, holding her breath.
“He’s fine, Chris.” Then he lowered his voice, as if not wanting to be overheard. “Jesus, you made me out to be some kind of psychopath.”
“That’s not true.” But it was close, she knew, and she felt guilty about it. “I’m sure he’s exaggerated because he’s so angry at me.”
“He’s got good reason to be pissed at you.”
“Will you send him back, Skip? Please.”
“He seems to think he belongs here, since you say we’re so alike, what with our terrible tempers and all.”
She cringed. Skip was furious with her. What should she say? Marcus’s advice about acknowledging strong emotion with David popped into her head. “I can hear that you’re angry that I kept David from you,” she said slowly.
“You’re damn straight I am. You pretended you didn’t know where I was to him. I called you when I moved most of the time. You know that. Maybe once or twice I couldn’t make a visit, but that’s no excuse to lie about me.”
Once or twice? Try five or six or seven. “I’m sorry, Skip. That was wrong of me.” She gritted her teeth.
“People change, Chris. And no one’s as perfect as you want them to be.”
“I’m sure that’s true. So will you send him back?”
“David needs to get to know me, not the monster you told him about. He’s fine right where he is.” Click.
“Wait!” But it was too late. He’d hung up without giving her a phone number, leaving her still stuck with no way to reach David. Worse, David wanted to live with Skip.
She felt as though she’d been slammed into a wall. That was what had scared her most. Marcus had her dead to rights on that one. She’d been protecting David from his terrible father, but she’d also been protecting herself. She was afraid David would love Skip more than he loved her. How pathetic was that?
Whatever failings Marcus might have in a relationship, he had read Christine like a book. She owed him an apology. When she could be near him without bursting into tears, she would give it to him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FIVE DAYS LATER, Christine sat at a potter’s wheel shaping the lip of a vase she’d been fussing over far too long, but now had just…about…perfect.
Working with her hands, in clay or potting soil, was about all that pleased her lately. The ooze of the clay through her fingers, the creak and spin of the wheel, the moist, earthy smells in the greenhouse, watching life emerge, eager and green from Bogie’s special soil, all soothed her, eased her sadness and worry and regret.
The days and nights blurred. She slept fitfully, moments with David and Marcus playing over and over in her head, conversations she wished she’d had ringing in her ears. She missed them both like parts of her body had been carved away.
She restricted herself to one e-mail or phone message to David each day, forcing herself to sound easy and warm. Inside, she was dying of sadness. She rarely saw Marcus, which was a relief, and his car was often gone.
Through it all, she kept working and somehow, day by day, time managed to pass.
“Anything from David?” Aurora asked, taking a seat on the adjacent stool. Aurora had treated her with surprising gentleness, for which Christine was grateful.
“Nothing,” she said, then saw that her momentary distraction had caused her to collapse the vase. “Dammit!” she said, her voice cracking. “I worked and worked this. I had it perfect. Now look what I did!” Her hands were shaking and her eyes burned. She wanted to cry, for heaven’s sake. She was ridiculously emotional. “I’m hopeless.”
“You’ll throw another one, bunny. Not a biggie.”
Startled and touched, Christine stared at her mother. “You haven’t called me ‘bunny’ since I was in kindergarten.”
“Your problem is you let it get too wet,” her mother said, ignoring her words. She cut the mangled clay from the wheel with a wire scraper, then dropped a mound of newly prepared clay onto the wheel. “How about a fresh start?”
“I miss him so much,” she said, her voice breaking, her emotions too high to ignore. She’d almost added Mom, she’d forgotten herself so much.
“Of course you do,” Aurora said. Her gaze slipped away from Christine’s, but she seemed to fight to pull it back, to keep eye contact. Her mother was truly trying to help her—and in a way Christine recognized.
“I chased him right to Skip. I should have let him see his father, even if he got disappointed. I was afraid to lose him. I was selfish and stupid.”
“Stop that right now,” her mother said in her usual blunt tone. “You did what you thought best.” Her mother’s face softened and to her surprise, she reached out and gave Christine’s thigh a tentative pat, then quickly pulled her hand away and cleared her throat. “Now get going on that.”
Christine sponged some water on the clay and began to spin the wheel slowly.
“It hurt like hell to let you go, you know,” Aurora said.
“Yeah?” Christine knew better than to look up or her mother would never finish the story.
“My parents wanted to lock me in my bedroom and throw away the key. I swore I’d be better than them, so I had to let you go if you wanted to leave. That was the promise I’d made to myself.”
Christine was startled. So it hadn’t been a case of out of sight, out of mind for her mother when Christine ran away. Aurora had struggled and been sad.
“You always have doubts as a mother,” she said. Christine had sworn to be a better mother than Aurora, too. She hadn’t done as well as she’d intended. Perhaps Aurora hadn’t done as poorly as Christine had always thought.
“I swear if we’d stayed in that apartment, you’d have suffocated,” Aurora said. It took Christine a second to follow her mother’s train of thought. Then she realized Aurora was still talking about the choices mothers faced.
“I loved our apartment. It was cozy and tidy and perfect.”
“No place is perfect, Christine. That’s why Harmony House was good for you. You needed to break out of that cookie-cutter crap. Being different made you independent.”
“It didn’t feel that way at the time.”
“And I’ll tell you something else. If I’d been as strong as you, I wouldn’t have been so scared when my folks locked me out. I panicked. I didn’t take care of myself like I should have. I didn’t eat or see a doctor. If I’d been stronger, you would have a big brother or sister this very day.” Her mother swallowed hard and shook her head, clearly fighting emotion.
“You didn’t cause your miscarriage,” Christine said, startled to realize that was what her mother believed. “One out of four pregnancies fails. A miscarriage means something was wrong with the fetus. That’s all.”