The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (5 page)

Mackenzie’s soft blue eyes are still on me, saucer sized inside her halo of fine blonde hair. It’s getting long again, and in the mornings it’s such a mess. Her look is polite but expectant. The kind that requires an answer.
 

I pick up the phone. Feeling like I’m leaping into a frigid pool to get it over with, I stab the delete button. Infuriatingly, the phone doesn’t simply delete Chadd’s message. It asks me if I’m sure. I have to summon my will again and tell it that I’m definitely sure. Then the temptation is gone. The free donut truck has been sent away, and I have no idea where it’s going.
 

Today isn’t about me. Today is about Mackenzie, and repairing what I’m increasingly afraid is slowly breaking.
 

“Okay,” I say. “All done.”
 

“Brownies.”

“Where is this coming from?” I ask.
 

“Alice is in Brownies.”
 

“Yeah? And does she like it?”

“She says it’s great.”
 

“I do like Girl Scout cookies.”
 

“There’s more than cookie selling, Mom.”
 

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Of course.” I should know. Mom had me in Scouts, too. I did all the right stuff, down to choir. And as much as the Holland family helped out in the church community, shilling cookies was easy. I was always one of the top three sellers in my troop, and once I was number one. My mother was so proud.
 

“So can I?”
 

“We’ll see.”

I turn because my coffee is ready, but halfway through my rotation back to the front room, I pause and think about what I just said.
We’ll see
is the parental equivalent of
We’ll take it under advisement
. It’s what I say all the time then file away and never act on. I could keep fooling myself into believing that Mackenzie hasn’t figured that out and that she believes that
WE WILL ACTUALLY SEE
this time, but she’s smarter than that.
We’ll see
is like death. Once a proposition goes into
We’ll see,
it rarely if ever returns.
 

I stop, add half-and-half and a packet of sweetener to my coffee, then come around the counter to sit beside Mackenzie on the floor amid the Lego detritus. She looks over at me, indicating a possible breach of protocol.
 

“Tell you what, Sweetie. I’ll text Alicia’s mother today and find out the details of where her group meets.”
 

Mackenzie brightens. On one hand, seeing her light up that way lifts my ambivalent spirits, but on the other hand it bothers me a little. The fact that she’d seemed acquiescent before but outright hopeful now means she sees through my bullshit as much as I’d feared. How many other times has she pretended to understand and believe me, but has, in fact, known it would never happen?
 

Did she believe me yesterday, when I promised to pick her up so we could do something together? Or did she know I’d break my word yet again? It doesn’t even matter that I had a good excuse. The way things go in our lives, there’s
always
some sort of excuse, good or not.
 

Worse, did she think I was full of crap last night when I promised — for really, really real this time — to spend today with her? It’s Saturday, and I don’t work until five. We have plenty of time, if we focus and do a bunch of only-us stuff rather than home chores and other things that really need doing.
 

I meant it last night. But then again, I always mean it.

“Today? Really?”
 

The way I am, I know I might slack if I let myself. So I set my coffee on the table, retrieve my phone from the kitchen, and return to my place beside Mackenzie. I type a text to Sandy, show it to Mackenzie, then hit Send.
 

“Done.”
 

She leans forward and hugs me. All I can think right now is that inquiring isn’t doing, and there’s every chance in the world that Sandy will reply that the group meets at a time when I need to work. I can ask my parents to take her if they’re unencumbered; they’re both retired and don’t do all that much. But when I got pregnant as early as I did, I swore up and down that they wouldn’t end up raising their grandchild. They wouldn’t need to support us, and we wouldn’t live with them. I’ve mostly kept that promise, and it’s one thing I’m proud of. This little place isn’t much, but I pay for it myself, and we don’t share walls with neighbors. There’s a tiny yard, and we can hike to Reed Creek. Every time I have to ask my folks to do something a proper mother should do for her kid, it feels a bit like taking charity. Like I’m not good enough, and they’re having to rescue me after all.
 

I’ve asked about Brownies, but that doesn’t mean that Mackenzie will be able to join.
 

“Alice says it’s great. They make crafts and take walks and stuff. And she says it’s nice because she doesn’t have to be around her brother.”
 

“She and her brother don’t get along?”
 

“They’re okay, I guess. But he always wants to do boy stuff at home. She says they get to do girl stuff at Brownies. With real girls.”
 

I consider asking what other kind of girls there are.
 

“Mostly her and Kyle are friends though, yeah. Mom, do you ever think I’ll have a brother or sister?”
 

I keep my face straight. “Who knows?”
 

She trails her finger through her Legos. I feel myself tighten because I recognize the gesture. It’s what she does when she wants to tell me something or ask me something and isn’t sure how I’ll react. There was a bit when she mentioned Brownies earlier, but it was mostly lost in the effort it took to pull my attention away from the phone’s delicious candy.
 

“Mom?”
 

“Yeah?”

“Alice’s Dad sometimes helps her do her Brownies stuff. But it’s really cool. Like, they don’t have to build things as much as Kyle’s Boy Scouts, like cars and things, but she still always gets better projects than the other girls, and she said that at the last camp, he volunteered to — ”

“Honey,” I say.

“It’d just be neat if someone could do that. Maybe you could, I mean, or Grandpa. But … ”
 

I know exactly where she’s going. This is the ultimate
We’ll see
in our little family of two, and Mackenzie keeps testing me to see if I’ve weakened, to see if another jostle will cause new information to fall. I don’t want to talk about it now, at all, but this is Mackenzie’s day, not just mine. If she wants to bake cupcakes, we’ll bake cupcakes. If she wants me to ask about Brownies, I’ll ask Alice’s mom about Brownies. And if she wants me to delve into the painful past, I’ll do it. But only a bit because there are things she needs to know and things she shouldn’t.
 

I grew up wanted by my father. Mackenzie didn’t. The truth isn’t always the best policy.
 

“All families are different,” I say. “It’s the differences that make them special.”
 

“I know that. But — ”
 

“Alice’s family has a mom, a dad, and two kids. And that’s great because they can work as a team. Her dad can volunteer with Brownies. Her mom can take Kyle to school, or they can all four go roller-skating.”
 

Mackenzie is looking away, down at the Legos.
 

“But us? We have two members here, and Grandma and Grandpa just down the road. And that’s a different kind of great, isn’t it? We’re still a team, but Grandma and Grandpa do neat things that I’ll bet Alice’s mom and dad don’t, right? Like building dollhouses and making all of Grandma’s crafts? And the stories Grandpa tells. Older people have better stories than younger people, you know.”
 

I can tell she’s not buying this whitewash. “Alice has a grandma and grandpa, too.” What she doesn’t add, maybe because she hasn’t thought of it and maybe because she knows how much it would hurt, is that we both know Alice actually has
two sets
of grandparents. I’ve met all four at family events for school, and they’re
all
great. These are things I’ve denied my daughter, and that her father never cared to provide.
 

“Sure, but not like yours, right? And I’ll bet Alice doesn’t get to spend as much time with hers as you do with yours.”
 

“No, but — ”

“And do you know what else? Because there’s just two of us, we can do stuff other families can’t.”
 

“Like what?”
 

I think. “Like use one of the paddleboats on the lake in the park.” I rush on, anticipating a forthcoming point about how twice the people could hire twice the paddleboats. “And when you have four people, everything is more expensive so you can’t do as much stuff. Like if we wanted to go to Disneyland, it’d cost a ton for four people, but only half as much for the two of us.”
 

Her eyes become saucers.
“Can
we go to Disneyland?”
 

“Not right now, Honey. But someday.”
 

“Oh. Sure.”
 

There’s a moment of quiet between us. I’m about to declare this unfinished topic complete and move on to fun mother-daughter activity proposals, but then Mackenzie blindsides me.
 

“What was Dad like, Mom?”
 

“Honey, we’ve talked about this.”
 

“I just want to know what he’s like.”
 

Now, which of a hundred ways should I answer that? Should I tell her I made a mistake by being with him, or the much more adult answer of how badly I pined for him, how intensely he drew me in? Should I tell her that he needed his own space or that he was selfish to leave us alone? Should I tell him that he was kind and gentle, or that he was a bastard?

“He was just someone I knew a long time ago,” I say, knowing it’s a cop-out and that I’m a coward.
 

Mackenzie isn’t pacified. She’s heard this non-answer before. But she pretends it’s enough and resumes shuffling through colored bricks on our tiny home’s miniature floor.
 

I reach down and lift her chin. She looks at me with giant eyes that trust me. Eyes that I’d only lie to for her own good, and only if I absolutely had to.
 

“He had his own issues, Baby,” I tell her. “But I know for sure that if he was able to come back, to meet you and get to know you, he’d be so proud.”
 

This is not kind, or brave. It’s simply cruel. There is no benefit in saying what I have. Because as much as I once wanted the man we’re speaking of, my proposed hypothetical will never, ever come true.
 

I was wrong about him. It doesn’t matter how I feel now. All that matters, from here on out, is this trusting little girl beside me.

“Yeah,” Mackenzie says.
 

The resignation in her simple, single word is painful.
 

It wounds us both to the core.

CHAPTER 5

Jack is behind me, jingling change in his pocket like it’s the music by which I’m supposed to proceed with my life. It’s nickel beer night at the little Podunk minor league baseball stadium where we were headed before this happened, and he resents me staying now as much as he resented me running back for the huge, thick gardening gloves I’m wearing.
 

There’s a box beside me. It used to be filled with bags of frozen broccoli, according to the printing on its side. Why you’d need a box for bags, I can’t imagine. And why Jack hasn’t moved on with all his nickels to buy his beer, if it’s so important to him, I also can’t imagine.
 

“Dude, let it be.”
 

“I can’t just walk on, asshole,” I tell him.

“Sure you can. Like this.” And Jack starts walking. He stops, though, because getting drunk on his own isn’t much fun. Not that I ever intended to join him in the cheap beer thing. My uncle was a drunk, and the last thing I wanted after being forced to live with the guy for a while is to be like him. I used to drink a bit in high school, back when I was acting like the badass everyone thought I was, but today a single draught to lay the dust is an occasion.

Jack walks back toward me a few paces. I honestly wish he’d just go. He’s going to scare it. And I’m going to have to hear his jawing on. I barely know the guy, so I’m not sure why I’m putting up with him now. I was cutting a path from Portland to Chicago and ran into Jack and his buddies. They seemed nice enough. Cool and casual, smoking too much weed but otherwise good people. Except for shit like this.
 

I reach forward. I get a hiss, so I back off.
 

“It’s you, Jack. You’re standing too tall. Get down, or get back.”
 

Jack speaks again, sounding almost pouty. “Man, why you want a cat anyway? You know Vince is allergic. He’ll never let you keep it.”
 

“I’m not trying to keep it. I’m trying to save it.”