STEALING IT

by Robinson, Rachel

  My daughter bounds into the room after knocking furiously several times, a rule we both formed when we moved into the new house. I give her space, she gives me mine, and we knock before we enter each other’s respective spaces. “Momma!” Kendall cries out, a bouquet of youthful energy. “Are you awake?”

  “Good morning, baby. I’m up,” I croak, rolling to look at her. She’s wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt with googly eyes. A souvenir we picked up when we went on vacation to Orlando, Florida when she was five. She begged for the shirt while at Disney World. I bought it several sizes too big for her at the time, and still to this day that shirt is worn as soon as it’s clean. She says because it’s old and soft, but I know the real reason she loves it. It’s my line of business. She loves the memory attached to it. A feeling of love and fullness, a dank grasping for a time when things were simpler, and her family was full and untainted by infidelity.

  “We need to swing by the hardware store before we head to school. I told Juliet I’d pick up gold spray paint. Ms. Jenny and Juliet left here early to get started on the float.”

  Kendall sits on the edge of my bed, gazing out the window. “How many cans do you think you’ll need?” I ask, sitting up, hoping I don’t look like the changed woman I feel inside. I assumed everyone was asleep when I crept in last night. Jenny spent the night here with the girls. Our house is big, old, and drafty. It has more guest rooms than we’ll need, but because of the age, location and the price was right, it’s ours forever.

  Kendall sighs. “I don’t know. Four? Maybe Five? It’s for the skirt of the float. I ironed my skirt so you don’t have to,” Kendall says. “I couldn’t sleep so I already ate, too.”

  I didn’t hear her. Not one sound to indicate she wasn’t peacefully asleep in her bed tucked in tight. “Oh,” I reply, swallowing hard. Laying a hand on her shoulder, I say, “Everything okay? You want to talk about it?”

  Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. “He called me last night,” Kendall says, eyes watering. “While you were out. I don’t want to talk to him, Mom. I don’t want to ever talk to him again.”

  “That’s your decision. It’s your right, Kendall. Don’t talk to him until you’re ready. Remember what the therapist said? It’s all up to you, honey.”

  A tear drops. “I talked to him last night.” She says the words like it’s her last confession. My heart squeezes.

  “What did he say?” It’s a morbid curiosity I’ll never outgrow, I think. You think you know every single thing about a person only to come upon a day when the man you once loved is a stranger. I’ll always be interested in his life regardless of how much he hurt me. It’s irrational, I know, but the hope is one day it will merely be curiosity without any emotions attached to the update.

  “He’s marrying Pamela,” Kendall says, scoffing when she says her name. “He asked me to come to the wedding. Told me it would be a fresh start. The start that should have been. He wants me to pretend I didn’t walk in and see him cheating on you. With that awful woman…girl, whatever she is.”

  I can’t help it. My stomach heaves at the knowledge. I knew they were still together, but I assumed he’d grow tired of Pamela in the way he grew tired of me. Never for a second did I think he would move on with her in a marriage capacity. Live together? Sure. Give her the same vows he gave me? “Excuse me, honey. I’m not feeling so well. One second.”

  Shuffling across the hardwood, I enter my bathroom and close the squeaky door, and vomit into the toilet. It’s unfortunate I can’t control it, can’t hide my shock and horror at this knowledge for Kendall’s sake, but it’s too much to hide. Too much. She knocks on the door.

  “Mom, it’s okay. I told him I’d rather die than go to his wedding to that whore,” Kendall says through the closed door.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow down the acrid taste of vomit. “Don’t talk like that, Kendall. That’s a horrible thing to say.” Thank God she said it. Thank God. “You need to call and apologize to your father.” Thank God I have her. Thank God she hates him. Pamela is a fucking whore. Her father is a horrible human. The worst. “Do you understand me, Kendall?”

  She stays silent, waiting to talk to me to my face, I’m sure. I splash water on my neck and cheeks and brush my teeth quickly, staring at the person in the mirror. He is marrying Pamela. How can he do this? Ask Kendall to be a part of that atrocious abomination of a day? I’m going to call him as soon as I have the house to myself. Give him a real piece of my mind. I open the door and Kendall flies into my arms.

  “I don’t want to apologize to him. He’s not a nice person. You told me to always be kind. If I can’t be kind, then be silent. I don’t want to be silent. I want him to know that he hurt me. That he hurt you. He doesn’t deserve to be happy.”

  He doesn’t. Anger and rage boil to the surface. I hug Kendall, tucking my head into her hair inhaling the scent of her fruity shampoo. “I’ll talk to him. You don’t have to go, okay?”

  She nods. “You should have come to me when you couldn’t sleep, Ken,” I say, pulling her long hair into a ponytail, peering into her eyes. “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this.”

  “Everyone has shit in their life,” she says, shrugging. “My shit just happens to be one-half of the pair that gave me life.”

  “Don’t curse,” I say. “It’s not lady-like.”

  Kendall smirks. “He is shit, though.”

  Shaking my head, I pull her back in for another hug. “He is,” I admit. “But good or bad, he is your father and you’ll have to deal with him at some point. I’m not saying now, because that’s bad form on his part, but eventually, Kendall, you will have to look at him, and despite everything he’s said and done to you, you’ll have to forgive him. Not for him. For you. For you, honey.” I sigh. If only I could take that advice. Only minutes ago, I was basking in the glow of the possibility with Aidan and once again Paul has dragged me back down to planet earth. Reality.

  “Maybe on my death bed. Or his,” Kendall replies, pulling out of my grasp. She sits on my bed hard, bouncing, her hands tucked under her thighs. The eyes on the Mickey Mouse shirt move up and down as she bobs, and the pit returns to my stomach.

  Swallowing hard, I tell her, “Go get dressed. We can stop by the coffee shop for tea and pastries before we go to the hardware store. That sound okay?”

  Kendall wipes under her eyes. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry I had to tell you that. I didn’t want him to spring it on you. Better from me than him.”

  “When did you get so old and wise?” I ask, smiling sadly. Approaching her, I tuck her hair behind her ears like I did a million times when she was a wild toddler. “I’m okay, honey. I promise. My stomach wasn’t feeling good all night. I think it’s why I slept so poorly.”

  “My therapist says it’s part of the process. Putting my feelings aside to think what others might be feeling. And since there’s no way I’m putting myself into his smelly shoes, I’d rather put myself into yours. I’m sorry, Mom. I was so wrapped up in what I saw,” she looks off and enters the dark place I hate with a violent passion. “And how that made me feel, that I didn’t stop to think how awful it would feel to actually be married to a man who did that.”

  There are moments when your children speak, and you realize a level of maturity developed that wasn’t there only days, perhaps moments, before. This is one of those moments and I’m not prepared for it. Not prepared for it because Kendall is moving through the grief process more eloquently than I am. Sure, it was my marriage, but for all intents and purposes, she lost the father she thought she had. “I love you, baby. Thank you for that,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “I’m doing great. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m so over it. The past is the past.”

  She hops off my bed and skips out of my room, lighter than when she entered. My heart is a little darker for it, but that’s okay. I’ll take it if it means she doesn’t have to carry it. I allow myself to cry in the shower, the hot water splashing around me to hide the emotio
ns I’m trying to bottle up. Pamela didn’t just take my husband, she stole the happiness I thought I had. I take my time cleaning my body. With every glide of the razor on my legs, I find new resolve. A steely mission to not let their marriage affect my life.

  I paste the smile on my face, the one that tells everyone I’m okay, when I meet Kendall in the kitchen. Then again when I order our drinks at the cafe, and still when I’m at the hardware store. I pretend to be okay while I laugh and paint the float with my daughter. I tell her how beautiful she looks as I zip up her cheerleading uniform in the locker room and watch her board the parade float. I smile and wave to her and her friends, my grin wide and encouraging. When Kendall sets off, the float disappearing into the distance to the sound of the marching band, the charade ends. I know Kendall is safe with her friends and heading to Jenny’s directly following the conclusion of the parade. I retreat to Magnolia’s Steals and surrounded by thousands of stories from the past both happy and sad, I fall apart completely.

  Chapter Five

  Aidan

  MAGNOLIA DIDN’T RESPOND TO my texts asking if we were still on for tonight, but that didn’t stop me from driving to her store. When I arrive at Magnolia’s Steals, I hear the stereo blasting before I enter the lilac-hued two-story house. The closed sign is in the window, but the door is unlocked. I enter as quietly as possible, closing and locking the door behind me. The scent of wood polish and lavender hit me at once. It’s a scent that I’ll associate with Magnolia from this moment forward. It’s not strong, it’s a perfect blend. As I take in my surroundings, my heart begins pounding out a staccato. Following the loud music brings me to a back room, hidden by a narrow staircase. The door is closed. My hand on the knob, turning it, I gently push the door open. She’s sitting with her back to me, her head on the desk in front of her, a small jewelry box of some sort in front of her.

  I call her name once and she turns to my voice, her face red and swollen. “Aidan. What are you doing here?” She looks down at her watch and then at the clock on the opposite side of the room.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask, trepidation laced in my question. Dealing with emotions is not my specialty, nor something I’d choose to deal with if given the options between tear gas, bullets, and emotion. “Are you okay?” A stupid question given her appearance, but one I have to entertain because as the only other human in the room, it’s my job.

  She reaches over and turns off the radio. “What does it look like?” She spins on the stool to face me. “I’ll never be okay,” she says. Rubbing her eyes, she shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re here. I’d forgotten completely. I was here by happenstance. I couldn’t be at home in case Kendall went back there. I’m a mess today. I’m hiding.”

  Tentatively, I approach, my heart in my fucking throat. I extend the bottle of wine. “Will this help the mess at all?”

  She scoffs. “It’s a good start. Grab that gadget over there. It’s an old corkscrew.” I let my gaze pan over the table filled with shit I have no clue about and find the only curly thing she could mean. I hand it to her. “You can leave now. You don’t want to be with me tonight. It’s going to be sloppy and crude. Thanks for this,” Magnolia says, shaking the bottle of wine, her hand wrapped around the neck. “You saved me a trip down to the General Store where I would have made a fool of myself. Again. The town gossips would have loved that.”

  Sighing, I take a step back. “How sloppy? I’m into sloppy,” I admit. “But if we’re talking about crying while fucking, I may have to bow out gracefully. Hard pass.”

  She laughs loudly and then pops the cork. “Maybe you need to stay for a bit. You make me laugh.”

  That’s a nice ego boost even if it seems like she’s putting me in the friend zone. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to stay. You are my plans for tonight, Magnolia.”

  She rubs her lips together and shakes her head. “I look like shit. Just my luck.”

  Raising one brow, I comment, “You’ve looked better, but it’s obvious you’re upset. Do you want to tell me who to kill now or later?”

  “You’d kill for me? Awwwww, you’re such a good fake boyfriend,” she replies, standing to open a free-standing cabinet in the corner. She takes out two wine glasses that remind me of a stained-glass window. She blows on them and rubs the rim against her shorts, one on each side. “These are expensive. Let’s not break them, okay? Also, I might take you up on that whole killing idea. I need a little more time to ponder.” She pours the wine sloppily, trying to fill them quickly.

  “That serious, huh?” I ask, accepting the glass of wine she thrusts into my hand. “This place is amazing, by the way. I’ve never been inside. I’ve only seen the extravagant window displays. You do a really good job.” Every season is a display more extravagant than the next. They remind me of the intricate displays you see in N.Y.C. during Christmas—the attention to detail is absurd and people come from all over the state to crowd around and catch a glimpse of whatever the creation of the season happens to be. When she first told me this place was hers I felt stupid I didn’t make the connection, and then I was impressed because of displays.

  She smirks, sipping from her glass. “The Christmas one last year,” she says, glancing to the side. “It will be hard to beat.”

  “Yeah, the Christmas tree made from old wrought iron cooking utensils,” I say, hoping the change in subject will sway her mood. “What do you have in mind for the next holiday?”

  She sits back down on the stool, shaking her head. “I have no earthly idea.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I manage, eyeing her hesitantly as she drains the entire glass, her eyes glassed over.

  She shakes her head. “Are you staying then?”

  “I said as long as you want me to.” There’s a chair stacked in the corner. I grab a leg and turn it right side up and set it next to her.

  She swallows hard. “No matter what I say? You’ll stay?”

  My stomach churns even as I nod. “Magnolia. You can’t scare me.” I hold up a hand. “Maybe you could if you were sloppy drunk, fucking me while holding a weapon. I’d be a little uncomfortable then. I can’t be sure though, because thinking about it is getting me a little excited.” I shrug.

  She slides me a half smirk. “You won’t even be able to give me advice because you’re just a…whore,” she says. “I don’t mean that in an offensive way, in a factual way, you know?”

  “Ouch,” I reply. “Bitter about a man then?”

  “It’s not you. It’s men in general. And their whore women who ruin lives.”

  I swallow hard. Uncharted territory means I have no idea what the fuck to say, and she’s right. I won’t have advice. This is shit I don’t have to deal with when my only companions have been twenty-something one-night stands, though I do have enough shitty life experience to keep conversation broad. “Your ex?”

  “He’s marrying Pamela. The woman he cheated on me with. The woman Kendall saw him physically fucking on my dining room table. Marrying her. Giving her my vows.” She takes the bottle from the desk and fills her glass and then mine. Shaking her head, she closes her eyes. “I didn’t think it would bother me this much. It was a possibility, of course, but I thought she was just his first stop on the adultery train.”

  “Vows don’t mean anything, Magnolia. Not from a man who breaks promises. I’m sorry you’re hurting, but you should know that the vows he will give Pamela are just as weak as the ones he gave you. That’s not anything special. It’s lies disguised as vows.” I sip my wine, looking anywhere except her eyes. They’re boring into me, trying to eat my soul. “If it makes you feel better you should know she’s just a stop on the adultery train. There will be other women, a second, a third, and probably a fourth and a fifth. Consider yourself lucky you’re out now and don’t have to wonder. Poor Pamela will do nothing but wonder if he’s lying. A relationship built on a lie that consuming isn’t worth a grain of salt.”

  I make the mistake of c
atching sight of her face.

  “But you’re lying to everyone. Wanting them to think I’m your girlfriend when I’m just an accessory to remedy your own adultery train.”

  “Touché.” Twirling the wine glass gives me something to do with my hand. “I never fuck with married women, Magnolia. You should know that.”

  “How do you know? Everyone lies these days. That’s the root of all of this. Goddamn lies.” Her chest is rising and falling as her anger takes control of her body. I can’t say I blame her. I can’t imagine the predicament she’s been in. To have her daughter uncover the affair makes it even worse.

  I palm my chest. “I don’t know. You’re right.”

  “That’s all you have to say?” she says, hurt filling her eyes.

  The time for running from this fucking mess has passed. I’m invested. My friends call it the hero complex. We make jokes about it. That motherfucking shit is true. I can’t turn away from a problem that needs to be solved. I cannot let a beautiful woman like Magnolia flounder like this. It would be criminal if she never pulled herself from this suck fest. Plus, I can confidently say I enjoy talking to her more than I like talking to anyone else.

  I scoot my chair back, away from her, giving a polite, neutral distance between our bodies. I nod once. “Tell me everything you’re mad about. Let it all out. Everything,” I say. She tilts her head, trying to get a read on me and my motives. “Tell me where it hurts. Tell me where the death blow is.” Clasping my hands between my spread knees, I wait.

  Her eyes widen and her mouth pops open. She closes it again. I go on, “When it’s all out and there’s nothing left to say, it doesn’t belong to you anymore. It belongs to me. That’s the deal. I’m stealing it.”