Lifelines: Kate's Story (19 page)

Simple
pleasures.

“There’s
a thermos in the valley,” he said.

“The
what?”

“Over
there.” He gestured to where the dormer met the main roof. “The valley.”

“You’re
shingling the countryside? Are there hills up here, too?”

“Ridges,”
he said, and enjoyed her chuckle.

One
way or another, he’d spent most of his life with men, and he’d assumed that
femininity inevitably came with his wife’s brand of fragility. Women didn’t
like construction sites, dirt, or beer. He couldn’t imagine his wife sitting on
this roof like Kate, with a hammer in her hand, but had he ever asked her? He’d
assumed, but what did he really know about Rachel? He’d been married to her
over two years, dated her for the last few weeks, and he’d committed to moving
back home in ten days time.

He
wasn’t ready, might never be ready.

Kate
poured the coffee and crab-walked towards him.

“You’ll
mess up your hands on those shingles,” he said, still thinking of his wife.

“They’re
already messed up. I worked with the clay this week, tried to get the hang of
the wheel, made a mess. Have you ever heard of a company called Northern Lights
Enterprises?”

“Darren
Sampson’s construction company?”

“I
don’t know.” She handed him a folded letter, then hugged herself as if it hurt
to wait while he read it. Her father, he realized, something about her father,
and he read carefully.

When
he’d finished, he said, “They didn’t deny he’d worked for them,” then wondered
if he’d just given her false hope. “Do you want me to check this for you? I
could give Darren a call?”

Her
smile reminded him of last Sunday when he’d ordered pizza delivered to her
place. After they ate, he’d sat in the supple leather chair that used to be her
husband’s favorite. He remembered the way her eyes reflected light from the
fire, remembered his own unwillingness to return to his construction shack.
Despite the new microwave, television, and bedding, the shack would never be a
home.

With
Kate helping, Mac finished the south side of the roof by mid-afternoon, then
they climbed down for the egg salad sandwiches Kate had brought. As they ate,
he tried to pin down a sketchy memory of his mother and egg salad sandwiches,
and shied away from one of Rachel, last night, asking what he wanted for his
welcome-home dinner.

“Kate,
tell me about your husband.”

She
cupped both hands around the steel mug he’d brought for her, and he recognized
the gesture as one she used when vulnerable. 

When
had he learned so much about her?

“Every
morning,” she said slowly, “David got up and made coffee. Sometimes he was so
distracted about his book—he was working on a book about the Madrona Bay area
before he died. But no matter how much the book consumed him, he would wake me
with a steaming mug of coffee. He knew I hated getting up, and he wanted to
make it easier for me. Every day, for so many years.”

She
dropped one hand to Socrates’ head. “I miss ... I miss hearing his name.”

Mac
wanted to touch her, but knew it was a bad idea. “He was lucky.”

She
shook her head. “We had a good marriage, but don’t imagine I’m perfect.”

“Staying
in bed when the alarm goes off isn’t much of a sin.”

“Are
you comparing your wife to me?”

“Maybe.
Yeah.”

Socrates
lurched to his feet with a grunt and leaned against Mac’s leg. From a nearby
tree, a raven complained loudly.

“I
don’t know what happened between you and your wife, but I know you’re angry
with her. We’ve become friends these last weeks, Mac, but you’ve only seen my
outside. Don’t compare us.”

“I
didn’t say—”

“When
you talk about your marriage, your muscles tense; you don’t even say her name.
It’s as if you’re trying to keep a distance from her, even while you’re working
on the marriage.” She spread her hands, as if in apology. “It’s not my
business, it’s just ... you need to know we all screw up sometimes. You. Your
wife. Me. David.”

“Some
screw-ups are hard to get past,” he muttered, and tossed the dregs of his
coffee away.

“That’s
true.” She cradled her cup between her hands and stared into its empty
reservoir. Her eyes seemed unfocused. “I have this reckless streak. When I’m
upset, or ... sometimes I just get in the car and I drive. I might wake from a
bad dream at night, or—and pull on sweats and grab my keys.”

Impulsively,
he reached over Socrates’ head and cupped his hands around hers. Instantly, her
fierce tension flowed into him.

“David’s
a sound sleeper,” she said. “I don’t—didn’t like to wake him, but I
didn’t—couldn’t bear to stay inside. I should have walked instead of driving.”

“Kate,
you don’t need to tell me this.”

Her
hands stirred under his and he felt inappropriate awareness. The scent of her
shampoo in his nostrils. The sound of her troubled breathing. He told himself
to back off, but his hands didn’t leave hers.

“We’d
been married eighteen months. David arranged to take his high school kids on a
Saturday field trip, but I’d made plans and—we had a stupid argument. I woke up
in the dark, frightened. Couldn’t remember the dream.”

“Do
you often wake from bad dreams?”

Her
hands moved restlessly under his. “I had to get out of the house.”

“Kate—”

“I
took David’s Pontiac. I was seven months pregnant. His front seat had more room
behind the steering wheel. I drove east, to the Interstate.”

He
didn’t want to hear this.

“The
police said I was doing ninety-five. They could tell, you see. Skid marks.”

“Kate,
don’t.”

“I
killed our baby. My recklessness.”

“I’m
sorry.” What difference could words make?

“We
named him Michael. He lived six hours.” Her eyes closed now.

Words
scratched his throat. “It was an accident.”

She
drew in a rough breath. “I wasn’t fit to drive, but I didn’t care. I just
wanted out of the house.” She pulled her hands free. “Every time I looked at
David afterwards, I thought I would drown in my self-hatred.”

“He
couldn’t blame you.”

“He
didn’t need to say anything, because I knew. He forgave me eventually, or maybe
he never blamed me as much as he should have, but I—maybe I never completely
forgave myself.”

Mac
jammed his hands in his pockets to stop himself reaching for her.

“I
should go,” she said. She picked up the litter from their lunch—two plastic
bags, stuffed in her pack. When she snapped Socrates’ leash on his collar, Mac
wanted to stop her, but at the same time he needed her to leave.

He
adjusted his tool belt.

She
twisted the leash around her fist. “I’ve come to terms with Michael.”

“When
did you become a counselor?”

“After
Michael—after the baby died. And yes, I’m sure part of the reason was to make
amends.”

“I’ve
decided to move back in with my wife.”

He
heard the words and felt his gut snarl, but he couldn’t shake an image of Kate
twisted in the wreckage of David’s Pontiac. Afterwards, she must have stood
with her husband at Michael’s funeral, the knowledge of her reckless driving
between them.

Mac
understood exactly what Kate had just told him. He had a wife, a
responsibility. David hadn’t walked away from his marriage when things got
tough, and Mac had no business thinking about throwing Rachel away. 

“I’m
going to try,” he said soberly. “Really try.”

Kate
touched his arm. “Mac, when you move back in, make it a condition that you go
to counseling together. If you want your marriage to work, get help.”

T
hat
evening, Mac drove between the twin cedars at the entrance to his drive just
before seven. When the truck’s left front wheel dipped into a new pothole, he
realized that Rachel had complained about mud on her car for months, and he’d
done nothing about it.

No
more stalling. Time to fix the driveway.

She’d
left the garage door open for him.

He
drove in slowly, giving himself additional seconds before he went into the
house. He’d neglected the place since he moved out in January. Early March now,
but with no snow this winter, fresh grass already lapped at the sides of the
house.

Tomorrow
he would mow the lawn. More to the point, he would tend to his marriage.

When
he originally agreed to tonight’s supper at home with Rachel, he hadn’t known
he would be coming to stay. But today Kate had shared the tragedy of her lost
child. She hadn’t known it was a child’s death that turned Mac away from his
wife; that made her story even more significant to him. As his mother would
have said, the story had been sent.

Mac
shook his head to dislodge the thought. Would his mother have said anything of
the sort? He didn’t remember her well enough to know.

He’d
felt sympathy and grief for Kate in the loss of her child. He understood that
careless driving had killed her unborn child, but he refused to judge her when
she so plainly judged herself.

Didn’t
he owe his wife the same level of understanding? Granted, Rachel chose to abort
their child, but it must have been a difficult decision. Had he been wrong when
he judged her a liar, and judged the abortion itself pure selfishness.

He
wasn’t sure he could forget what she’d done, but surely he could try to
understand? But he knew damned well that if he asked Rachel why, she would
burst into tears. It seemed that whenever real issues threatened, Mac’s anger
boiled up, and Rachel cried. The tears were probably his fault. Time he did
something about it. Like stop pretending two dates a week constituted working
on his marriage.

He
ran one hand through his hair, blew out a tension-charged breath, and opened
the truck’s door. Before he moved out, he’d usually entered the house through
the garage, but today he strode to the front and rang the bell.

Rachel
opened the door wearing a smile and a flowered dress. When she stepped back to
let him in, he felt more awkward than he ever had when they were dating, before
the wedding.

“Hello,
Richard. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah.”
He wished she would call him Mac. Richard felt like a stranger, or a little boy
standing on that hideous sidewalk.

Rachel
stood close enough that he knew he was supposed to do something. When she
didn’t move away, he kissed her cheek awkwardly.

She
looked pleased.

“Something
smells good.” He tried a smile, because she looked as nervous as he felt. “I’m
starved.”

“It’ll
be ready in a few minutes. If you’d like to sit in the living room, I’ll bring
you a drink.”

They
spoke the way he thought inexperienced teenagers might talk on a first date.
Growing up in construction camps, he’d never experienced the high school social
set.

Everything
looked the same in the living room, but felt different. He thought of Kate’s
living room ... warm fire, comfortable chairs, and easy atmosphere. When he heard
Rachel behind him, he shook off the image and forced a smile to his lips.

She
handed him a cold Corona in a long-necked bottle.

“Thanks.”

She
smiled nervously and disappeared into the kitchen.

“The
house looks good,” he called after her.

“Thanks.”

So
damned polite to each other. For this to work, they needed to relax. He took a
long swallow of the beer. Previously, she’d always insisted on wine, which he
disliked. Tonight, she’d bought beer. Ten years from now, he wondered if he’d
look back and be glad he’d come back. He wondered if, once they got through
this, they’d have a better marriage than before.

Kate
and David had.

“Richard,
it’s ready!”

He
found her bent over a freshly-lit candle in the dining room. She’d gone to a
lot of trouble, cloth napkins and candlelight, salad in individual bowls at
each place.

“Nice,”
he said, and this time her smile seemed more relaxed.

She
sat across from him and handed him the salad dressing. Even if she’d made
something with tofu for the main course, he would force himself to eat
heartily.

“How’s
school?” he asked, because Rachel had always complained that he sat down at the
table and didn’t say a word until he’d stuffed himself.

She
slid her fork into the salad, but failed to pierce even a shred of lettuce. “I
got an A-plus on my consumer law project.”

“That’s
great.” He skewered a miniature tomato and ate it. If he avoided talking about
last December, he figured he could do this.

“Exams
start in three weeks. I’ve got three term papers due before then.”

He’d
never attended high school, much less university, but he’d learned that term
papers meant late nights and piles of books in the living room.