Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  Stop picturing a little Ben running toward you in diapers.

  Baby lotion smells so good…

  You’re pathetic.

  Catherine slips her hand into her cardigan pocket and pulls out a crumpled tissue, staring at it for a long moment.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you some hot tea?” I ask again, adding the word hot as a selling point because she looks cold. Plus, I need to do something with all this nervous energy running through my body.

  She shakes her head with a tight smile and searches my eyes for a moment, then finally says, “I need your help, Emelia.”

  I ignore the unease crawling up my spine and remind myself that whatever she needs help with can’t be any worse than what I’ve been through this past month.

  “What can I do?”

  “It’s about Ben.” Great. I should’ve gone with Mara to get her eyebrows waxed. “You know he and his father have a strained relationship.”

  I nod, trying to keep my knee from doing its nervous, jumpy thing. Her gaze holds mine like she’s waiting for me to add something. She’ll have to wait a long time, because all I know about their relationship is that they looked like they wanted to kill each other and that Ben never mentioned his dad once in all the emails I read. Not once.

  Her gaze slides back to her tissue.

  “Mark’s sick.” Her words push through glass shards in her throat, sounding shredded.

  My hand goes back to her shoulder as a weight presses down on my chest, thinking about Ben.

  “Three years ago, he called me from the side of the road, saying he was lost. I thought he was joking at first because he was driving home from the office, but there was this fear in his voice… I knew something was wrong.”

  She wipes a fresh tear from her eye before it falls, her face now blotchy and red.

  My throat tightens as she continues, her gaze lost in an unwanted memory. “Then, just like that, he knew how to get home. We tried to laugh it off, thinking he needed a vacation.” She wipes her nose with the tissue. “He’s worked so hard for so long. It made sense he’d get burned out, you know?”

  I feel the pain in her voice like a stinging whip across my skin.

  “The next time it happened he was in a lunch meeting…” She shakes her head, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I’m sorry. This is so hard for me to talk about,” she croaks, wiping her eyes.

  I place my hand on hers, not sure what else I can do, as my mind reels with what I think she’s trying to tell me. There are hundreds of things that cause cognitive disruption. Some are worse than others, but none of them good.

  “I dragged him to his doctor right away. I was worried it was a brain tumor or something. After tests, Mark was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.” There’s a bitterness to her tone as she adds, “At fifty-eight.” She shakes her head with a look I’ve seen so many times.

  Anger, disbelief, betrayal, and bitterness with the one encompassing question that no one can answer: why. Why my husband? Why my wife? Why my child? Why me?

  “I’m so sorry, Catherine.” I console her with a rub on her slight back. I wouldn’t wish their journey on my worst enemy.

  She forces in a shaky breath through her thin lips. “I know Benny’s hurting. I know he’s lost so much already, and I’m afraid when Mark’s gone…if things stay like this, there’ll be so much regret. They were so close once.” Her shoulders deflate, her eyes drop back to her hands. “My husband wants to believe he’s invincible, but he can feel himself fading.” Her bottom lip trembles. “I think his greatest fear is losing Benny. I catch him studying old photos of them together, trying to hold on…”

  I have to blink back my own tears. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you. And Mark. I’m so sorry.”

  My words feel small and inadequate against the giant hurt she’s sharing with me. Some people seem to always find the right words in times like this. I’m not one of those people.

  “Thank you,” she says with a grim smile. Her gaze flicks to her lap for a weighted moment, then back. “I don’t know how much Ben’s told you about his mom and me.”

  I can tell by the haunted look in her eyes that she’s peeking inside her compartment of painful things. Things she’s locked away. Things she doesn’t want to give oxygen to.

  “He doesn’t really talk about his past much,” I answer, leaving out the fact that he doesn’t really talk to me about anything personal. I don’t talk to him about my past either. It’s like an unspoken rule, or at least I think it is. Who knows.

  She fills her lungs like someone about to dive off a cliff. “Gwen’s mom and my mom were best friends, so we grew up together.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “We were best friends who fought like sisters…but we shared everything.” Her smile warms around at the edges. “One of the happiest days of my life was when she asked me to be Benny’s godmother. She knew I couldn’t have children of my own, so she shared that with me too—that’s how she was.” Her voice cracks, as she wipes her puffy eyes.

  I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to share this with me. That I’m not Ben’s fiancée. That I’m not going to be part of their family.

  That I’m nobody important.

  Instead, I just continue rubbing her shoulder, feeling guilty as she spills the family secrets to a girl she thinks is worthy of knowing them.

  “Gwen always had her off days when we were growing up. Days when her mom would cry to my mom. Days she’d stay in bed looking at the ceiling. Days when we knew to leave her alone.” She takes a deep breath. Then her eyes crinkle around the corners as her gaze flickers with a happy memory. “But when it was an on day, boy, could she light up a room. She was so funny. I mean really funny. Benny’s like her in that way.”

  Ben, funny?

  She gazes through me, to something far away. A genuine smile breaks free. “In college, if there was a crowd laughing, I knew Gwen was at the center of it. She was magnetic. It was so easy to love her.”

  The air in the room shifts. We turn to see Ben standing a few feet in from the kitchen doorway, shooting us a look that sends a cold shiver down my spine.

  Catherine jumps up from the couch, her shaky voice barely above a whisper. “Benny—”

  “Why the fuck is she here?” Ben’s cold gaze lands on me, accusation adding an extra layer of gravel to his deep voice.

  I cross the distance between us and place what I hope is a calming hand on his chest, feeling his heart rage against his rib cage like a wild animal.

  “Ben, calm down. She just wants to talk.”

  “I’m fucking calm.” He not-so-gently bats my hand from his chest like it’s a fly, his black gaze locked on Catherine. “Get out,” he orders, his voice like an arctic blast.

  I look over my shoulder at Catherine. Her eyes shine with tears, her mouth twists with frozen words.

  “Wait, don’t go.” I rush the words out and turn back to Ben.

  He spears me with his sharp gaze.

  “Emelia, don’t,” he growls in warning.

  The hairs on my neck stand, but I don’t back down. I can’t. If there’s any chance I can help mend this broken part of his life, I have to try.

  “Just listen to what she has to say… please, babe.” Babe. It feels weird calling him that outside of our designated bedroom bubble, but it’s out before I can take it back.

  His jaw ticks, his nostrils flare. Then his icy gaze slides back to Catherine, and his chin dips, his low brows raising, indicating for her to speak.

  She takes a step toward him, then catches herself. “I’m so sorry, Benny. I’m so sorry things ended up the way they did. I just—”

  “Ended up the way they did? Oh, you mean when my mom killed herself because you were fucking her husband? Yeah, that sucked.” His voice drips with hot venom meant to bring a slow, painful death.

  And by the tortured look on Catherine’s face, it’s searing its way through her veins.

  I’m stunned. Crushed. Mara told me Ben’s mom had a
heart attack. A heart attack. Not that she killed herself. Losing my mom was devastating, but losing her because she wanted to go, would be unbearable.

  Catherine’s face pales. She shakes her head trying to rid herself of his accusation. “We never… your dad and I never… not when Gwen was… I promise. We would never do that,” she stutters through tears. Her elegant face twists into something raw and unpolished. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “I know exactly who you are.” His voice is cold, but his eyes burn with a fever born from an old wound left to fester.

  I swallow past the tightness forming in my throat and place my hand inside his large one, expecting him to bat it away.

  My heart shatters when his rough fingers tighten around mine, his pained eyes still locked on Catherine as he clings to my hand like a ship’s lifeline during a storm.

  I’m here. I won’t let you get lost.

  I turn to Catherine, giving her what I hope is an imploring look to continue. She needs to tell Ben about his dad. She needs to tell him before he leaves for Arizona, or I know in my heart he’ll be lost to them for good. And when he gets the call that his dad has died, and how he died, he’ll be lost to himself too.

  Catherine crumbles back down to the couch, seeming crushed beneath the weight of her unspoken words.

  Her gaze drops to her lap for a moment, then she returns her tired gaze to Ben, sadness etching new lines on her face. “Do you want to know the truth, Benny? About your mom?”

  I’m pretty sure nothing good has ever followed the sentence, Do you want to know the truth about your mom? I brace for the nuclear impact of her words.

  Ben’s eyes flare, emotions flash in their obsidian depths. I rub my thumb against his hand, letting him know I’m here. I’m not sure if that helps or makes things worse.

  “Just say what you came to say, then get out.” His body is motionless, his muscles locked tight like he’s standing against an invisible hurricane battering him on all sides.

  Catherine swallows, uncertainty shining in her eyes. I’m not really the praying type, but I pray that whatever she has to say isn’t as bad as her expression is letting on.

  “Your mom tried to end her life four times… before.”

  It’s worse. My heart hammers at her words.

  Ben’s face doesn’t flinch, but his hand twitches against mine like he’s been zapped with an electric shock.

  “You were too young to understand what was going on and why you were always with me or Rose.” Her fingers tremble as she tucks and imaginary strand behind her ear. “And when you got older, we said Rose needed your help after Marty passed.”

  “All you do is fucking lie,” he seethes.

  “We were trying to protect you. We were so afraid…” She seems to shake away the next thought and continues, “Mark tried to get Gwen help. He flew in specialists from all over the world. Put her in the best hospitals. She’d be okay for a while, like when you guys went to Paris for Christmas, but it would never last.” Her voice drops. “Her good years turned into good months, then good weeks, then good days.”

  Ben’s grip twitches painfully against mine as anger rolls off him in waves. “So you guys left her alone to rot while you played fucking house together.” His eyes narrow, his voice drops. “What the fuck did you think would happen to her?”

  “We tried everything, honey. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want help.”

  He points sharply to his head. “She was fucking sick! She didn’t know what she needed. She needed you to help fix that shit for her!”

  Raw pain slaps across Catherine’s face. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what I could’ve said or done differently,” she sobs. “Not one single day I don’t wish it was me who found her, not you. Not a day I don’t wish I could’ve saved you from all this, Benny.” Her mouth twists in agony, her body racking softly with her tears.

  The thought of Ben finding his mom makes my stomach churn. An image of my mom right after she passed floods my mind. She looked at peace. The lines on her face softened. I was relieved for her. I never thought I was lucky to see that side of life. Until now.

  “You wish you could save me?” Ben spits out. “By trying to take my inheritance? By trying to get me fucking locked up? That’s how you wanted to save me, Catherine?”

  I can’t help but gasp, and my hackles raise. I take a protective step closer to Ben, my grip on his hand tightens.

  “We were scared for you! We thought we were going to lose you too!”

  Ben scoffs, a scornful sound that chills the room.

  “You were drinking so much, and then you dropped out of school. We thought with all that money, you’d…” Her eyes flash with pain. “When we found you on the boat… I’ve never seen your father so scared. So broken. We didn’t know what else to do. You were only seventeen with your whole life ahead of you.” There’s a desperation in her voice that I can feel in the pit of my stomach.

  Ben tugs his hand from mine and crosses his arms over his chest. I know her words are hurting him and, even though it’s not her fault, I just wish she’d leave. I wish I’d never answered the door.

  “You done?” He scowls.

  Please be done.

  I try to give her a look that says not to tell Ben about his dad, but I’m pretty sure it just looks like I have a nervous eye twitch.

  Catherine’s gaze drops to the tissues falling apart in her hand. She puts it in her cardigan pocket, her shoulders slumped, her exhale long and heavy.

  Don’t do it…

  She stands and looks at Ben from puffy, bloodshot eyes. “I came here hoping Emelia would help me find a way to tell you that your dad has Alzheimer’s. Find a way to convince you to see him.” Her voice drops to something grim and resigned. “He doesn’t have a lot of time left.”

  My gaze jumps to Ben, whose face is a stoic mask of indifference, but I know the truth. I can feel the devastation growing inside him fill my gut too.

  She pauses, seeming to wait for Ben to say something, and when that doesn’t happen, she continues, “He loves you so much, Benny. I love you. If you don’t love us back, I understand. We’ve made so many mistakes. I hope someday you can forgive us.” Her gaze jumps between Ben and me as she wipes away a fresh tear with her sleeve. “Take care of each other.”

  I feel her words like a punch in the chest. After next week Ben and I will never see each other again. I can’t take care of him. He won’t be here, and neither will I.

  After a few awkward moments with Catherine shifting her feet, waiting for Ben to say or do something, she turns and walks out of the living room.

  The sound of the front door shutting fills the dead silence. I look up at Ben to see his mask fixed in place.

  “Are you okay?’ It’s a stupid question, but there it is. Are you okay? Like he just hit his funny bone, or stubbed his toe, or found out his team didn’t make the playoffs.

  I bet Kate would have the right words. Even Jesse could probably grunt something to make him feel better.

  Ben clears his throat. “I’m good.” The gloss in his eyes and the heartache in his deep voice shatters me into a million pieces. “Got some work to finish in the garage.”

  My vision blurs with tears, and I swallow past the painful lump in my throat. I don’t want this for him. This heartache. This pain.

  “Okay,” I say, giving his tense arm a gentle squeeze.

  He gives me a curt nod, not meeting my eyes, and stalks out of the living room, taking a piece of my soul with him.

  24

  If you like Pina Coladas

  How long have I been staring at the chipped white paint on the side door of the garage, with Rico’s pizza and a six-pack of Guinness in hand? Long enough to hear AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” in its entirety through the walls. Long enough to get bitten by a mosquito, who just flew off to tell his malaria friends to come and grab a drink at Emmy’s Place. Long enough to google how long should you wait when trying to give someone s
pace.

  It’s been almost four hours since Catherine left and Ben retreated to the garage. I did laundry. Signed papers for Mr. Wellington. Took a shower. Got dressed to meet Derek for dinner. Texted Derek that I couldn’t make it. Changed into my comfy PJs. Sat on the floor and stared at my wedding dress, listening to “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran while stuffing my face with gummy bears, trying to fill the emptiness in my gut.

  Then I remembered that Rico’s Pizza is the perfect empty-gut filler, so I ordered one, and here I am wondering if it’s weird to knock on a garage side door. Or if it’s rude to just walk in.

  Fuck it.

  Balancing the pizza and beer, I turn the knob and step inside, quietly shutting the door behind me, not that Ben could hear me over the blasting music.

  It smells like old wood, grease, and rusted metal with a hint of Ben. It reminds me of Grandpa Joe. I can’t remember his face clearly, but his scent I’ll never forget.

  My gaze drops to see Ben’s jean-covered legs sticking out from under the Bronco, his phone and tools scattered on a towel by his side. Behind him, motorcycles are lined up perfectly in front of the wood garage doors. The butterflies in my stomach turn to lead and drop like bombs. This was a bad idea.

  I’m invading his personal space.

  I should’ve just texted him that there’s pizza if he’s hungry. I should’ve let him come to me when he’s ready.

  I’m pretty sure getting caught sneaking out with pizza and beer is way worse than sneaking in, so I quickly scan the garage, which looks ginormous without all the clutter, searching for a place to put down the pizza and make my orthopedic-slipper getaway.

  I spot a long metal table covered with car or motorcycle parts that seems to be laid out in a particular order. Yeah, no surprise there. Ben is particular about a lot of things, including, as it turns out, how his towels are folded. Which I found out when I walked in on him refolding the towels I’d put away.

  The smile he gave me when our eyes met is number three on my list of favorite things.

  My breath catches, and my heart swells in my chest when I see the brown leather Comfy Couch from the den sitting in the corner. I don’t question how sad it is that I’m this happy to see a couch. I also don’t question why I’m walking to it like I’m greeting a loved one at the airport.