Unforgivable (12 page)

“Hey, Dad.”

“I'm getting a snack,” he says.

“Okay.”

“I guess I should tell you that Monica is sleeping over.”

Gross. My dad just got laid.

“You don't have to tell me that. Seriously.”

“No, I do. This is your home, too. I want to be open and honest with you.”

“There's such a thing as being too open and honest.”

He chuckles as he grabs a bottle of water and some food out of the fridge. I pretend not to watch him as he sets it out nicely on a tray, fussing over the placement of each thing. He seems more human in this moment than I remember him being in a long time, so not like my father.

“All you need is a little vase and a flower,” I say. “Then you could get a job delivering room service.”

“I'll keep that in mind if this whole judge thing doesn't work out.”

“It's important to have something to fall back on.”

“Ha.”

I wonder what my dad would think about my one-night stand. I wonder how he feels about the ones he used to have before he got serious with Monica. I wonder how he feels now that they're supposedly going to be over.

No, not going to go there.

“Well, good night,” Dad says, taking his tray of water and snacks.

He takes a few steps toward the door, then I surprise myself by saying, “Dad, wait.” He turns around. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He sets the tray down on the counter.

“What's it like having Mom back here? What's it like for you?”

He's as surprised as I am by the question, and it takes him a few seconds to answer. “Well, I'm glad you two are starting to talk again.”

“But what's it like for
you
? Aren't you pissed?”

“To be honest, we get along a lot better now than we ever did married.”

“But aren't you mad at her? I mean, she took all that money, for one thing.”

He sighs. “She was going to get half of it in the divorce anyway.”

“How can you forgive her so easy? Don't you hate her?”

He thinks for a moment, like he's seriously considering the question. “I hate what she did,” he finally says. “I hate that she left
you. But she did what she thought she had to do. She didn't think she had any other choice.”

“People always have a choice,” I say.

“Maybe. But a lot of times, they don't know it.”

“That's their fault.”

“It's more complicated than that, Marcus. People are complicated. Your mom was miserable, and I know I had a lot to do with that.” He looks me in the eyes, searching for understanding.

“When you love someone,” he continues, “you're supposed to bring out the best in each other. I brought out the worst in your mom.”

“Did she bring out the worst in you?”

He thinks for a moment. “To be honest, I don't think I really gave her a chance to bring out much of anything in me. You may not have noticed, but I haven't been the most emotionally available man in the world.” If I respond, if I nod, that means I accept this veiled attempt at an apology. But I'm not ready for this to be how we talk to each other. I'm not ready to accept this version of my dad who says things the way they are instead of ignoring them.

“Your mom and I weren't right for each other,” he says. “We both know that, and we've made peace with it. She's doing really well now, Marcus. And she really loves you.”

I shrug.

“Sometimes people's actions don't always match their intentions,” he says. “Sometimes people do things backward, and it takes doing the wrong thing to bring them to a place where they can do the right thing. She's trying to do the right thing. I really
hope you decide to give her another chance.”

I can't help but laugh at how ridiculous this night has turned out. “Do you have a fever?” I say. “You're not yourself. Do you think Monica maybe slipped something in your drink?”

“Maybe.” Dad smiles. “I hope it doesn't wear off anytime soon.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say, then immediately regret it. This is what hurts—this softness, this exposure—not the bruises from slamming into people in the pit.

Or is it this I want more of? Is this the kind of real connection I've been craving? If it is, then why is it so painful?

We stand in awkward silence, neither of us knowing how to acknowledge the excruciatingly tender moment.

“Well, good night,” Dad says, picking up the tray, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Yeah,” I say. “Good night.” And a part of me stretches thin as he walks away. A part of me wants him to turn around and come back.

I'M TRYING TO GET OVER YOU, BUT IT'S NOT WORKING. Everywhere I turn, I see you. My breath catches in my throat and I almost say your name, but then the figure turns around and it's a stranger.

But how different are they, really? How well did I know you compared to these random women on the street? I have no clue how to decipher the truth from your fictions. Is something less true when spoken between lies? Do words lose their meaning when doused in alcohol or tangled in some other drug?

Your eyes, those were not lies. Your skin. Your touch. They way your fingertips whispered on the back of my neck. The way you fell into me and let me carry you. Those rare moments when your body softened and you released your burdens.

But maybe it had nothing to do with me. How often were we actually sober together? Does our love even count? Maybe your feelings were only chemical concoctions. Maybe you never loved
me at all; maybe you fell in love with your own chemistry.

Who did I fall in love with? A ghost? My own projections onto the shell of you? Who was I talking to all those times I thought I was pouring into you, when I told you secrets I never told anyone? What does it mean that I finally felt safe? What does it mean that you said you did, too?

Evie, I don't know if I miss you or my fantasy of you. I remember what you look like, how you felt in my arms; I remember the physical weight of you, the tangible things, the things that could not be faked. But there is something else, a kind of smoke, the weightless stuff that fills you up—that is what I'm not sure about. There's a taste of it on my tongue, a residue of memory, but I don't know if it's you or myself I am tasting.

It's not even a question of whether or not we were good for each other. It's a question of whether we existed at all.

I'M WALKING IN FRONT, TAKING LONG STEPS UP THE STEEP trail. I can tell I'm going a little too fast, that Mom is struggling to keep up, but I don't care. I'm still not ready to admit to myself that I agreed to go hiking with the woman I vowed to never forgive or let back into my life.

But loneliness does weird things to people. She called at exactly the right time. My guard was down. I wanted to say yes to something. Anything.

The trail cuts through the yellow-brown grass of the scorched East Bay hills under a periodic canopy of oak, madrona, and eucalyptus, carved into the side of the hill by a deep ravine. It is so silent out here, so still. A light breeze rustles the leaves, but it is not so much movement as it is a variation of stillness.

“So what are we supposed to talk about?” I say to break the silence.

“I don't know,” Mom says from behind me, a little out of breath. “What do you want to talk about?”

I walk even faster. I am taking more than a slight pleasure in her struggle to keep up with me. “Am I supposed to fill you in on every little thing that's happened since you left? Because I'm not going to do that.”

“Okay.”

“I don't want to talk about the past.”

“So don't.”

“Fine.”

We make it to the top of an overlook, and I stop for a moment to take in the view of rolling hills that opens up to the east, grazing cows dotting the landscape. “Isn't this beautiful?” Mom says, panting slightly, but I walk again before she has a chance to catch her breath.

“Marcus,” she says. I keep walking. “Marcus, wait.”

I stop because I'm tired, too. We're in a patch of shade. There's a perfect bench on the side of the trail, but I won't sit down and admit defeat.

“This isn't a race, you know,” Mom says.

“I'm not racing,” I say. “I'm trying to get some exercise.”

She sits down on the bench and I fight the urge to join her. “You think if you walk fast enough, you won't have to talk to me?” she says.

I say nothing. I wipe the sweat off my brow, but some drips into my eyes. It stings, blinding me for a moment.

“What are you afraid of?”

“I'm not afraid.”

She pats the space next to her on the bench. “Have a seat. Rest awhile.”

“I'm fine standing.”

“Tell me something, Marcus.”

“Like what?”

“Like anything. What are you obsessed with these days?”

What a strange choice of words.

“Name the first thing that comes to you,” she says.

“Evie.” The forbidden word comes out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it, as if it has a mind of its own, as if it wanted to be said.

“Tell me about this Evie.”

If I speak out here, without the walls and streets to hear me, maybe it won't count. Maybe these hills are a place we can throw our words to the wind and they'll blow away without a trace.

“She was my girlfriend,” I say, sitting on the bench next to my mother. I feel an immediate relief, a weight being lifted, and I don't know if it's from the sitting or the speaking. Mom's eyes are on me, but I look down at the ground, kicking a stick with my boot. “We were in love. She was everything.”

“And now?”

I look at her, and the warmth and tenderness in her eyes melts me, turns me into the child who still trusted her. I feel the heat of tears in my eyes.

“And now she's gone,” I say, choking a little on my words. “She got hooked on pills and wouldn't let me help her. She almost
died.” And now I'm crying, really crying, as if I've saved up my tears from all the years I never did this, never talked to my mom about what's going on, never gave her my pain because she was so busy carrying David's, so busy carrying her own. Her arm is around me and I let her pull me against her. “But she's alive,” I say. I wipe my nose and sit up. “She's alive and sober and refuses to see me. Like I'm some kind of poison. Like she thinks I'm going to hurt her. I would never hurt her. All I ever wanted was for her to be happy.”

“Maybe this has nothing to do with you, Marcus,” Mom says gently. “Maybe there are things she needs to do on her own.”

“But she still loves me. I know she does. If she didn't, I think I could accept it. I could let her go. But I can't.”

“Maybe,” Mom says, and a small part of me thinks I should be angry at her calmness, at her defending Evie without even knowing her or our situation. But a greater part of me is so grateful to be speaking. “She needs to go through what she needs to go through,” Mom says. “She needs to figure out her own way to heal.”

“I know,” I whimper, sniffling on my tears. I feel like a child, but it's not an entirely bad feeling.

“I think if you really love her, you need to let her do that, even if it means being away from you. She needs to do it on her own terms.”

“Fuck her own terms,” I say pathetically.

“I know,” she says. “Fuck people whose needs don't match ours. Fuck people who need space.”

“Like you did.”

“Like I did,” she says. After a moment, she adds, “But I did it all
wrong, Marcus. I fucked up. You have every right to be mad at me.”

“Fuck you, Mom,” I say, but I'm almost smiling.

“Fuck everybody,” she says.

“God, what's wrong with me?” I say as I stand up. I offer my hand and she takes it. “Why do I keep getting mixed up with women like you two?”

“Maybe we have something to teach you.”

We start walking, out of the shade and back into the sunlight. “Like what?” I say. “Stay away from crazy blond chicks?”

“Yeah,” Mom says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “That's probably it.”

We start walking, this time side by side, at the same pace.

After a few minutes, Mom speaks: “How are you, Marcus? How are you
really
?”

“Fine,” I say, but I already know she's not going to accept that answer.

“Come on. Talk to me. What's the worst thing that could happen?”

You could leave. You could stay.

“What are you doing these days?” she says. “School's over, you don't have a job. What do you do with your time?”

“I'm going to do that internship with Dad.”

“You know what I mean.”

I try to think of something to say that will satisfy her, but I can think of nothing.

Nothing. That's what I'm doing. That's what my life is made out of.

“I don't know,” I say. “Not much.”

“Is she really worth it?”

I say nothing. She doesn't even know Evie. She barely knows me. What makes her think she's figured me out?

“Is this girl worth throwing your whole summer away? Is she worth torturing yourself and putting your life on hold while you wait for her to come back?”

I shrug. I feel like I should be angry, but I'm not. I'm strangely calm. I'm interested in what Mom has to say.

“It's like you're making yourself miserable to get back at her,” she says. “But who exactly are you punishing? Certainly not her.”

“Are you, like, practicing to become a motivational speaker or something?” I say.

“I just don't like seeing you give up on life because of some girl.”

“She's not just some girl.”

“Does that really change anything?”

I shrug because I don't want to admit out loud that she's right. My mother—this woman who left her husband and two sons when things got too hard—is giving me advice. But I guess she does know something about putting life on hold for other people. She knows about losing herself. She knows about loneliness.

“Your dad's new girlfriend seems nice,” she says.

“Can we just not talk for a while? Please?”

“Sure, honey. Of course.”

I listen to the pebbles crunch beneath our feet. This is how sand is made—hundreds and thousands and millions of footsteps,
years and decades and centuries of wind and rain and ice and earthquakes. Life rubbing up against something hard, wearing it down, turning it into tiny versions of itself.

In a couple of hours, I will be back down at sea level, back in my house, surrounded by the same things, with the same empty summer spread out before me.

I can't go back to that. I can't.