Chapter 10
As I turn my key in the front door a feeling of reluctant trepidation settles over my body. I tense my body, preparing myself for the storm I know awaits me inside. I don’t take two steps into the foyer before Maria comes flying in to greet me, her blond hair bristling around her body lending her the look of an enraged virago. “Where the hell have you been?” she roars, looking as if she might belt me one then and there.
“I got caught up at the hospital,” I reply calmly. My hands are shaking badly as I remove my coat and scarf. I hate confrontations with Maria. In the past they have even gotten physical and I’m not up for a grappling match with her tonight. “I’m sorry.”
“You got hung up?” Maria spits out mockingly, “You’re sorry? That’s it? I called your cell phone four friggin times, Liz!”
“You know I have to turn it off in the hospital,” I inform her evenly. The best defense when arguing with Maria is to always keep a level head. I’ve learned over the years that she spends her anger rather quickly if I don’t respond. However, if I allow myself to lose control we’ll go at it for most of the night.
“I had to call off work tonight!” Maria explodes, stabbing her finger inches from my nose, “That’s the fifth time! If I do it again Paul’s gonna fire my ass!”
“I thought Paul was your boyfriend,” I argue logically, “He’s not going to fire you.”
“Paul is just a good lay!” Maria informs me crassly, “There’s a world of difference between that and being a boyfriend. Besides my dancing is business. If I make him lose money he’ll lose me.”
It finally penetrates how selfish I’m being. Maria has graciously offered to keep Katie whenever necessary so that I can visit with Max as often as I can. I know that doing so requires a great deal of effort considering the fact she doesn’t agree with my decision to spend so much time with Max. She could have taken the high road like Mom and refused to baby-sit Katie completely just for that reason. But she doesn’t, though I know her decision is born partly out of the desire to irk my mother I can still appreciate her willingness.
However, lately I haven’t been acting too appreciative. That fact hits me like a four by four between the eyes. Maria has given herself, not without grumbling and mutterings condemning my “foolishness” as she calls it, but still she has extended herself and I haven’t even given her the slightest bit of credit. I’ve taken for granted the help she’s offered me as if it’s my due. I realize suddenly that I’ve been doing to her what she’s been doing to me all our lives.
I can’t fault her for being angry with me now and knowing this, I wilt against the front door in defeat. “How much money did you lose?” I ask her wearily, “I’ll make up the difference.”
Maria rolls her eyes at my offer. “You can barely make ends meet here,” she retorts bluntly, “How are you gonna make up my money, huh?”
I don’t answer because she’s right. I don’t have the means to make up for her night of lost wages. I’m only just managing to scrap money together to pay my car note this month. It has taken Max getting shot for me to realize just how well he cared for us, just how smoothly he ran the household funds. We don’t have an overwhelming amount of debt, but we do have rather large monthly bills. The mortgage on our house alone is nearly $1200. Recently, I’ve begun considering the wisdom of putting it on the market. It has eight bedrooms, after all, only three of which are being used and one of those simply because Maria has moved in. I am definitely not in a financial place to offer money. Still, I promise lamely, “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Whatever,” she returns with a shrug. And then she’s scrutinizing me closely, a pensive frown creasing the smoothness of her forehead. “You look like shit,” she observes.
“Way to lift my spirits, Ria,” I reply acerbically, pushing myself off the door and shuffling for the living room. I suddenly feel tired beyond belief, weary right down to my very bones. I all but collapse onto the chaise lounge and close my eyes. Above my head I hear Maria’s voice a few seconds later. “When was the last time you got a decent night’s rest?”
I pop open one eye and stare up at her. “This coming from Miss “Party All Night” herself? Unbelievable!” I snort.
Maria stoops down beside me. “We’re not talking about me,” she argues, “We’re talking about you. You are the one with the daughter she’s barely seen in six months. You haven’t even asked about her.”
That last accusation stings and I have no defense. I have been absent from Katie’s life more often than not lately. It’s not for lack of desire. I’m almost constantly thinking about her, but it seems like so many other things are pulling at me and she keeps getting pushed aside. I’m beginning to see how Max became so preoccupied to the point that it left little time for us. God knew lately I felt stretched thin.
I massage my aching temples and swing my legs over the edge of the chaise lounge, sighing heavily. “I thought she was asleep,” I say to Maria, pushing to my feet.
“She is,” Maria confirms, “But she expected you home for dinner…we both did.”
Again I’m stabbed with guilt. “Was she very disappointed?”
Maria answers with an indifferent shrug. “I let her help me make a pizza,” she tells me, “She got over it, I think.” That eases my conscience some but not much. “This pace you’re keeping has got to stop, Liz.”
I fist my hands at my sides; mentally preparing myself for the lecture I know is coming. “I’m trying to keep my family together, Maria,” I grind out in frustration, “Why is everyone treating that like it’s a crime?”
“Maybe because instead of keeping them together you’re driving them apart,” Maria says pointedly.
“God, here we go again,” I moan.
“He has a sister, Liz!” Maria all but shouts, “Let Isabel worry about him now. You need to focus on yourself and your daughter. Look at you!” She rakes a scathing glance down my person. “You’ve lost, like, thirty pounds in the last five months! You need to get it together--,” I don’t stick around to hear the rest of what she’s saying, but turn off towards my room while she’s in mid-tirade. I don’t take two steps forward before the world is suddenly blacking out around me.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*
When I open my eyes again I am in the hospital. I know this immediately, not because of my surroundings, which are drowned in eerie dimness, but because of the smell. After spending so much time in the hospital following Max’s accident I can recognize hospital smell immediately. It’s medicinal, like a mixture of antiseptic and sickness. Oh yes, I know the smell extremely well.
The next order of business is to discover the exact reason why I’m in the hospital, but after searching the fuzzy recesses of my brain the last clear memory I can find is of Maria yelling at me. I’m still trying to puzzle it out when my mother suddenly fills my line of vision.
“Thank God, you’re awake!” she exclaims in a sob. She looks horrible, as if she hasn’t slept in a week. Her hair is flattened on one side of her head and her eyes under ringed with awful blue bruises. Her appearance makes me wonder again how I’ve come to be in the hospital as well as several new thoughts. How long have I been here and what the hell’s wrong with me? I decide to address my first concern.
“Mom?” I croak and I’m surprised by how dry my throat is. I try and clear it several times but nothing relieves the irritating scratchiness. My mother turns away for a moment and then is back seconds later pressing a cup full of cool water against my lips. I don’t realize how thirsty I am until I taste the water. I guzzle down three cups before I’m satisfied. Now that my throat is no longer parched as it had been before I try again. “Mom, what am I doing here?” I ask anxiously, “What happened?”
“You passed out two nights ago.”
Two nights ago? For a moment I can’t think beyond that stunning revelation. I’ve been unconscious for two days? This can’t be possible. I can’t have heard her correctly. “I don’t understand…”
My mother is mother than happy to clarify. She goes down the list, marking every thing that is wrong with me on her fingers. “Dehydration, malnutrition, sleep deprivation, anemia…you’ve worn your body into the ground, Liz.”
It’s still not registering to me that I’m sick. I continue to be hung up on the fact that I’ve been unconscious for TWO DAYS! I’m on the verge of panic. I don’t need the lecture, which Mom seems bent on giving me. What I need is to know what the hell’s going on. “Tell me what happened,” I order firmly, “Start from the beginning.”
With an exasperated sigh she spins her tale with her usual dramatic flare. “You were arguing with Maria,” she reveals, “I still think she must have said something to upset you…anyway, she was talking to you when you suddenly just fainted. She called 911 when she couldn’t wake you up.”
“I’m in the hospital because I fainted?” I exclaim dubiously.
“You’re in the hospital for all the reasons I mentioned before,” Mom clarifies sternly, “You’ve been asleep for the last two days, Elizabeth. I was worried about that but your doctor said your body is making up for all the rest you’ve lost in the last few months.” She adds a grunt on the end of that statement as if to say, “I told you so.”
“Why am I still here?” I whisper.
“Dehydration…anemia…these are serious conditions, Elizabeth!”
I close my eyes against her scolding tone as the full weight of what’s happened begins to settle over me. I’ve been running myself ragged for months now and I know it. Everyone has been telling me to slow down, to take it easy, to get some rest, to not push so hard. I haven’t listened to any of it. I thought I knew better. I foolishly believed I had matters under control. But apparently I overestimated my own resilience and my misjudgment has landed me in the hospital…the last place I can afford to be.
Two days of my life simply vanished. Two days and…oh god… “Mom, where’s Katie?” I burst out frantically as the full impact hits me. If I’ve been in the hospital for two days who’s been taking care of Katie? Maria and Mom work full time with conflicting schedules.
My mom presses me back down against the mattress. “Katie is fine,” she tells me soothingly, “Her Aunt Isabel has been sitting with her when Maria has to work.”
“Is she alright?” I ask. God knew what had to be going through her mind. First her father and now her mother. She has to be feeling horribly confused at the moment. And scared…scared out of her head.
“She’s here in the hospital,” Mom tells me, “Maria took her to get a Popsicle.”
Almost on the heels of her reassurance the door to my room swooshes open. I hear Katie’s chirpy chatter before I actually see her. Before I can say a word Mom is already telling her, “Your mommy’s awake.”
“Mommy!” I hear her exclaim and the next few seconds she’s pressed against me, squeezing hard. The tears spring to my eyes then. I can’t help it. Even after the disappearing act I’ve pulled on her for the last five months she can still hold me as if I’m the most precious thing on earth.
Before I know it I’m pressing my face into her hair and just bawling my heart out. And I’m crying for so many things. I’m crying for the time that we’ve lost together; all the missed school day chatter and girl talk times. The homework sessions and the school programs, just simply being there. And I’m crying for myself. For the hurt and anger and betrayal that I’ve suffered. For the fact that I will never have resolution to the pain I’ve endured. For the loss of the man who was once my husband and for the man who has now taken his place.
The entire time Katie just clings to me. She lets me cry it out completely as if she realizes that I need to. When my sobs finally die down to sniffles she lifts her head and smiles down at me tentatively. It’s then that I realize that she’s been crying, too. I caress her bangs back from her face like I always do. “I’m so sorry, baby,” I sniffle in apology, but I know the words don’t even begin to make up for how I’ve neglected her all this time.
“I’m not mad at you, Mommy,” she tells me fervently, “I just want you to get better.”
“I will,” I promise her, “And when I do some things are going to change.”
“Like what?” she asks innocently.
“Like for one we’re going to spend more time together.”
“After you’re better?” Katie prods cautiously.
“After I’m better,” I agree, “And then…then we’re going to go see your dad.”
“We are?” Katie exclaims in an excited rush, “You’re really going to take me? I can really see him?”
“You can really see him,” I tell her, hugging her small body back against me once more.
“When? When can I see him?” she insists against my neck.
“The moment I’m better,” I say, “Just let me work things out with your Aunt Isabel first.”
Regarding Max (M/L, Adult) (Complete)
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Deejonaise
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- Location: On my rusty dusty...
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Deejonaise
- Addicted Roswellian
- Posts: 385
- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
- Location: On my rusty dusty...
Chapter 11
It’s three weeks before I’m recovered enough to make the trip. From Isabel I’ve learned that Max hasn’t been doing so well in the time I’ve been ill. He’s been moody and uncooperative. Isabel seems to think it’s because I’m not there. She has explained to him that I’ve been sick and because of that I can’t come to visit him. According to Isabel he had taken the news of my illness rather smoothly and had promptly asked for permission to visit me in the hospital. It had been having his request denied that ultimately turned his usually sunny disposition moody.
I hate to think that I’ve impeded his progress in any way, intentionally or not, but I’m also glad for the brief reprieve I’ve had from him. Not because I don’t want to be around him or because I don’t miss him. I’ve thought about him everyday during my recuperation. No, I simply needed time to myself to think and sort out the confusion of my life.
The fact is, whether Max remembers it or not, he cheated on me for most of our marriage. I’ve had to come to terms with the reality that I’m never going to have closure for that. There will be no apologies, no grand statements of heartfelt regret. That Max is dead and gone now and he took all those possibilities with him. In his place now is some wide-eyed innocent with his face, but with the heart of a child, pure, guileless, and completely open.
But even recognizing all this I’ve become attached. How could I not? Max is so sweet and so endearing…so very easy to love. However, my feelings for him have been hopelessly tangled up with the feelings I had for the man he used to be and I finally realized that I could never move on with my life if I didn’t sort out those feelings first. And that’s what I’ve done for the last three weeks. I can’t hold this Max responsible for the deeds the past Max committed. And I can’t expect this Max to fulfill the role the past Max had played in my life. If I plan to pursue whatever it is that’s been happening between the two of us lately I have to go into it fresh and new, just like Max is fresh and new. A clean slate all around, for Max and for me.
My thoughts may seem convoluted but, truth be known, I feel more together now than I have in three years. I know ultimately that I want to be there for Max. I want to see him progress; want to cheer on his daily improvements and accomplishments because, even if nothing comes of our relationship, I definitely want to be his friend. That’s what’s motivating me now. I want to be happy and I want Max to be happy as well, but it’s still uncertain whether we will be happy together. But I’ve got to admit it’s what I’m hoping for…that’s definitely what I’m hoping for.
Even now I’m smiling with repressed excitement. Very soon we will see each other again and I can barely sit still for the anticipation. I’ve spoken to Max only a handful of times in the last few weeks on the telephone and each time he’s sounded quite cheerful. He’s so full of questions and so excited about the prospect of seeing me again that I can’t help but be excited myself. I think of my last conversation with him now, my smile stretching even larger.
“I’ve painted you a hundred pictures,” he informed me happily, “They’re get well pictures.”
“Oh my,” I exclaimed in mock worry, “Wherever will I put them all?”
“Isabel said your house is big,” he commented with offhand innocence, “so you’ll have lots and lots of room.” And then, without missing a beat he asked, “When are you coming to see me again? I miss you lots.”
“I’m coming to see you in a few days, Max,” I revealed laughingly, smiling from ear to ear as I simultaneously cooked breakfast and balanced the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“When?” he asked, all excited, “Tomorrow?” Despite his reluctance to work with his speech therapist his words had lost their halted slur. He was almost fluent.
“I’ll be there on Friday,” I promised, pausing for a moment before adding, “I’m bringing someone with me this time, Max.”
“Who?” he demanded, almost as if I were playing a game with him, “Is it Katie-kins? Are you bringing Katie-kins?”
His excitement was obvious even through the phone, but I knew it sprang from hearing me talk about her incessantly and not because he had any actual memories. The doctors told us that Max will never regain those memories, but the prospect didn’t sadden me like it used to. Instead, I smiled over at Katie, who was seated at the kitchen table watching me expectantly. “How did you know?” I laughed into the phone.
“I’ve only been asking you to bring her forever.”
I was smiling all day following that conversation with him. He made me laugh more in thirty minutes than I had laughed with him in three years. It had taken a long time for my good mood to settle. However, that was three days ago and today I am a bundle of nervous energy. Now I sit in the visiting room with Katie, holding her perspiring hand in my own perspiring hand while my heart is beating like a trip hammer and I wait for Max to show up. In ten minutes Max will meet the daughter he doesn’t know he has and I have no idea how he’s going to react. I try to take some comfort in the knowledge that, upon hearing that I planned to visit, Max resumed his enthusiasm for therapy once more so he must be happy about the impending visit.
Suddenly, the door swooshes open and I hold my breath, trembling anew as Max comes limping through the entrance assisted only by the aid of a walker. A grin splits his handsome face the moment he sees me and my heart actually jumps in reaction to that smile. And then his eyes gradually leave my face and travel downward to Katie. He freezes, his features suspended in an indiscernible expression, a look almost bordering on…surprise? He wheels over to us quickly, so quickly I’m afraid that he might fall, but his eyes are trained on Katie the entire time.
The closer he advances the tighter Katie squeezes my hand. By the time he reaches the table she has fairly cut off the blood circulation to my fingers. A quick glance down reveals that my fingertips are turning blue. Attempting to pry my hand from her grasp is a futile effort as well. My daughter has a grip that can break bone.
Max stands there for a long moment, just staring at her, almost like he’s drinking her in and then finally he cocks his head to one side and smiles. “I’m Max,” he greets her, thrusting out his hand.
Katie offers me an uncertain look before reaching out to shake her father’s hand. “I’m Katie,” she whispers back shakily, “That’s short for Katherine Elizabeth.”
“That’s pretty,” Max says as he folds himself into the chair next to her. My lips twitch at how casually he pays her the compliment. He has no idea that he’s the one who named her in the first place. “My name’s short for something, too,” he whispers to Katie conspiratorially, “It’s Maxwell…but I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like your name?” Katie asks in surprise.
“It’s kinda stuffy,” Max tells her. And then he falls into another round of close scrutiny. He even reaches out to touch her hair before remarking thoughtfully, “You look like me.”
Again Katie gives me a look. I can see that she’s not sure how she should respond and she’s terrified of saying the wrong thing. I give her an encouraging smile and nod my head slightly. With a deep shuddering sigh, Katie turns her attention back to Max and asks him boldly, “You didn’t expect me to look like you?”
“I thought you’d look like Liz,” Max tells her candidly. He spares me an adoring smile. “She’s very pretty,” he murmurs, almost dreamily.
Katie stares up at me, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I can see the wheels in her mind already turning with hopeful possibilities. “Yeah, she is,” my daughter agrees mischievously.
“You’re pretty, too,” Max adds quickly, “Even if you do look like me. Do you like to paint?”
He ran those sentences so close together that I almost completely miss his second question. That’s not the case for Katie. It’s as if the two of them are communicating in their own language now. They have fallen into such easy conversation, as if Max’s loss of memory and the fact Katie hasn’t seen him in six months doesn’t even matter. Her grip on my hand has finally loosened, although she still hasn’t released it completely.
“I like to paint,” Katie tells him, “But you say--,” She stopped abruptly to give me a panicked look. I’ve already explained to her that there are certain things her father is not ready to know. She swallows spasmodically before beginning again. “I don’t do it very much. I’m always making a mess.”
“I make a mess, too,” Max says by way of comfort. It’s as if he senses Katie’s sudden sadness and wants to make it better. “Always…but it’s okay cuz no one ever gets mad.”
“But one time I got paint into the carpet,” Katie explains dully, “and now I’m not allowed to do it anymore.” Max had been the one to issue the edict about the paint. We had just replaced the carpet with a newer, plusher, more expensive brand when Katie had her accident. Max had been livid afterwards and Katie hadn’t painted since. From the expression ghosting her face now I know the memory is replaying itself in her mind. This time I squeeze her hand in reassurance.
“Well, you can paint with me today,” Max invites largely, “You can make as big as mess as you want. I always do.” He grins engagingly. “I get paint everywhere.” He makes this last announcement proudly.
Katie stares up at him with eyes rounded in disbelief. “You do?”
“I don’t do it on purpose,” Max tells her with a shrug, “Sometimes I just have accidents.” A sad far-off look comes to his face then and he lowers his head shamefully. “I have a lot of accidents,” he whispers and somehow I know he isn’t just talking about paint. The lost expression on his face makes my heart ache.
But Katie is the one who covers over his hand and says gently, “That’s okay…everybody has accidents. Don’t they, Mommy?” She turns to me for confirmation.
My lips twitching with laughter I say, “I’ve had a few myself.”
Now it’s Max’s turn to look stunned. His mouth actually falls open in surprise. “You have accidents?” he gasps out incredulously.
“Sometimes they happen,” I reply softly, “And it’s okay that you have accidents, Max. You’re just learning about a lot of things and it’s natural.” Why is it that he can bring out this protective mother in me all the while pulling at my heartstrings? God, he makes me so confused… But I can’t think of any place I’d rather be at that moment, because, despite the awkwardness, the general oddness, the three of us are a family right then.
“Isabel tells me that all the time,” Max tells me solemnly, “She says she don’t want me to feel bad about myself.”
“Doesn’t,” Katie corrects softly and again I feel the urge to laugh.
Max just smiles at her. “Doesn’t,” he says, eyes sparkling, “Hey, you want to see my room? I can show you my paintings.”
“You have a room?” Katie utters in surprise.
“Well, it’s not my real room,” Max explains, animated, “My real room is in California. Isabel and me are gonna go there when the doctor says I’m all better. I don’t really wanna, but Isabel says I have to and she’s my sister so I have to listen to her.”
“California?” Katie gulps, “You’re going to California?”
The devastated hurt on her face directly parallels the agonizing turmoil unfolding in my chest. Isabel is taking Max to California? I can hardly think straight I’m so shocked to hear this newest development. She and I had briefly discussed the idea of her taking Max back to California with her, but nothing had been set in stone. At least, not for me. Obviously, the case is different for Isabel and it must be a possibility she’s seriously considering if she’s already talked to Max about it.
That’s when fury begins to boil through my body. It’s been pent up for quite awhile now, but the latest stunt of Isabel’s is just the last straw. Forcing myself to maintain a calm façade, for at least Max and Katie’s sake, I ask Max casually, “Where is your sister right now? Is she in the building?”
Max nods. “She’s talking to Dr. Alex about when I can go home.”
Beside me I hear Katie whimper and my fury increases tenfold. “Max, why don’t you take Katie to see your paintings for awhile,” I suggest brightly, “I need to go and talk with Isabel for a little bit.”
“Okay,” Max agrees, moving to his feet. He takes Katie by the hand without hesitation. “I can’t wait for you to see the picture I painted of Liz,” he tells Katie excitedly as they walk away, “Maybe I can paint a picture of you, too.” I watch them until they disappear into the corridor before I hop to my feet and go off in search of Isabel.
It’s three weeks before I’m recovered enough to make the trip. From Isabel I’ve learned that Max hasn’t been doing so well in the time I’ve been ill. He’s been moody and uncooperative. Isabel seems to think it’s because I’m not there. She has explained to him that I’ve been sick and because of that I can’t come to visit him. According to Isabel he had taken the news of my illness rather smoothly and had promptly asked for permission to visit me in the hospital. It had been having his request denied that ultimately turned his usually sunny disposition moody.
I hate to think that I’ve impeded his progress in any way, intentionally or not, but I’m also glad for the brief reprieve I’ve had from him. Not because I don’t want to be around him or because I don’t miss him. I’ve thought about him everyday during my recuperation. No, I simply needed time to myself to think and sort out the confusion of my life.
The fact is, whether Max remembers it or not, he cheated on me for most of our marriage. I’ve had to come to terms with the reality that I’m never going to have closure for that. There will be no apologies, no grand statements of heartfelt regret. That Max is dead and gone now and he took all those possibilities with him. In his place now is some wide-eyed innocent with his face, but with the heart of a child, pure, guileless, and completely open.
But even recognizing all this I’ve become attached. How could I not? Max is so sweet and so endearing…so very easy to love. However, my feelings for him have been hopelessly tangled up with the feelings I had for the man he used to be and I finally realized that I could never move on with my life if I didn’t sort out those feelings first. And that’s what I’ve done for the last three weeks. I can’t hold this Max responsible for the deeds the past Max committed. And I can’t expect this Max to fulfill the role the past Max had played in my life. If I plan to pursue whatever it is that’s been happening between the two of us lately I have to go into it fresh and new, just like Max is fresh and new. A clean slate all around, for Max and for me.
My thoughts may seem convoluted but, truth be known, I feel more together now than I have in three years. I know ultimately that I want to be there for Max. I want to see him progress; want to cheer on his daily improvements and accomplishments because, even if nothing comes of our relationship, I definitely want to be his friend. That’s what’s motivating me now. I want to be happy and I want Max to be happy as well, but it’s still uncertain whether we will be happy together. But I’ve got to admit it’s what I’m hoping for…that’s definitely what I’m hoping for.
Even now I’m smiling with repressed excitement. Very soon we will see each other again and I can barely sit still for the anticipation. I’ve spoken to Max only a handful of times in the last few weeks on the telephone and each time he’s sounded quite cheerful. He’s so full of questions and so excited about the prospect of seeing me again that I can’t help but be excited myself. I think of my last conversation with him now, my smile stretching even larger.
“I’ve painted you a hundred pictures,” he informed me happily, “They’re get well pictures.”
“Oh my,” I exclaimed in mock worry, “Wherever will I put them all?”
“Isabel said your house is big,” he commented with offhand innocence, “so you’ll have lots and lots of room.” And then, without missing a beat he asked, “When are you coming to see me again? I miss you lots.”
“I’m coming to see you in a few days, Max,” I revealed laughingly, smiling from ear to ear as I simultaneously cooked breakfast and balanced the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“When?” he asked, all excited, “Tomorrow?” Despite his reluctance to work with his speech therapist his words had lost their halted slur. He was almost fluent.
“I’ll be there on Friday,” I promised, pausing for a moment before adding, “I’m bringing someone with me this time, Max.”
“Who?” he demanded, almost as if I were playing a game with him, “Is it Katie-kins? Are you bringing Katie-kins?”
His excitement was obvious even through the phone, but I knew it sprang from hearing me talk about her incessantly and not because he had any actual memories. The doctors told us that Max will never regain those memories, but the prospect didn’t sadden me like it used to. Instead, I smiled over at Katie, who was seated at the kitchen table watching me expectantly. “How did you know?” I laughed into the phone.
“I’ve only been asking you to bring her forever.”
I was smiling all day following that conversation with him. He made me laugh more in thirty minutes than I had laughed with him in three years. It had taken a long time for my good mood to settle. However, that was three days ago and today I am a bundle of nervous energy. Now I sit in the visiting room with Katie, holding her perspiring hand in my own perspiring hand while my heart is beating like a trip hammer and I wait for Max to show up. In ten minutes Max will meet the daughter he doesn’t know he has and I have no idea how he’s going to react. I try to take some comfort in the knowledge that, upon hearing that I planned to visit, Max resumed his enthusiasm for therapy once more so he must be happy about the impending visit.
Suddenly, the door swooshes open and I hold my breath, trembling anew as Max comes limping through the entrance assisted only by the aid of a walker. A grin splits his handsome face the moment he sees me and my heart actually jumps in reaction to that smile. And then his eyes gradually leave my face and travel downward to Katie. He freezes, his features suspended in an indiscernible expression, a look almost bordering on…surprise? He wheels over to us quickly, so quickly I’m afraid that he might fall, but his eyes are trained on Katie the entire time.
The closer he advances the tighter Katie squeezes my hand. By the time he reaches the table she has fairly cut off the blood circulation to my fingers. A quick glance down reveals that my fingertips are turning blue. Attempting to pry my hand from her grasp is a futile effort as well. My daughter has a grip that can break bone.
Max stands there for a long moment, just staring at her, almost like he’s drinking her in and then finally he cocks his head to one side and smiles. “I’m Max,” he greets her, thrusting out his hand.
Katie offers me an uncertain look before reaching out to shake her father’s hand. “I’m Katie,” she whispers back shakily, “That’s short for Katherine Elizabeth.”
“That’s pretty,” Max says as he folds himself into the chair next to her. My lips twitch at how casually he pays her the compliment. He has no idea that he’s the one who named her in the first place. “My name’s short for something, too,” he whispers to Katie conspiratorially, “It’s Maxwell…but I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like your name?” Katie asks in surprise.
“It’s kinda stuffy,” Max tells her. And then he falls into another round of close scrutiny. He even reaches out to touch her hair before remarking thoughtfully, “You look like me.”
Again Katie gives me a look. I can see that she’s not sure how she should respond and she’s terrified of saying the wrong thing. I give her an encouraging smile and nod my head slightly. With a deep shuddering sigh, Katie turns her attention back to Max and asks him boldly, “You didn’t expect me to look like you?”
“I thought you’d look like Liz,” Max tells her candidly. He spares me an adoring smile. “She’s very pretty,” he murmurs, almost dreamily.
Katie stares up at me, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I can see the wheels in her mind already turning with hopeful possibilities. “Yeah, she is,” my daughter agrees mischievously.
“You’re pretty, too,” Max adds quickly, “Even if you do look like me. Do you like to paint?”
He ran those sentences so close together that I almost completely miss his second question. That’s not the case for Katie. It’s as if the two of them are communicating in their own language now. They have fallen into such easy conversation, as if Max’s loss of memory and the fact Katie hasn’t seen him in six months doesn’t even matter. Her grip on my hand has finally loosened, although she still hasn’t released it completely.
“I like to paint,” Katie tells him, “But you say--,” She stopped abruptly to give me a panicked look. I’ve already explained to her that there are certain things her father is not ready to know. She swallows spasmodically before beginning again. “I don’t do it very much. I’m always making a mess.”
“I make a mess, too,” Max says by way of comfort. It’s as if he senses Katie’s sudden sadness and wants to make it better. “Always…but it’s okay cuz no one ever gets mad.”
“But one time I got paint into the carpet,” Katie explains dully, “and now I’m not allowed to do it anymore.” Max had been the one to issue the edict about the paint. We had just replaced the carpet with a newer, plusher, more expensive brand when Katie had her accident. Max had been livid afterwards and Katie hadn’t painted since. From the expression ghosting her face now I know the memory is replaying itself in her mind. This time I squeeze her hand in reassurance.
“Well, you can paint with me today,” Max invites largely, “You can make as big as mess as you want. I always do.” He grins engagingly. “I get paint everywhere.” He makes this last announcement proudly.
Katie stares up at him with eyes rounded in disbelief. “You do?”
“I don’t do it on purpose,” Max tells her with a shrug, “Sometimes I just have accidents.” A sad far-off look comes to his face then and he lowers his head shamefully. “I have a lot of accidents,” he whispers and somehow I know he isn’t just talking about paint. The lost expression on his face makes my heart ache.
But Katie is the one who covers over his hand and says gently, “That’s okay…everybody has accidents. Don’t they, Mommy?” She turns to me for confirmation.
My lips twitching with laughter I say, “I’ve had a few myself.”
Now it’s Max’s turn to look stunned. His mouth actually falls open in surprise. “You have accidents?” he gasps out incredulously.
“Sometimes they happen,” I reply softly, “And it’s okay that you have accidents, Max. You’re just learning about a lot of things and it’s natural.” Why is it that he can bring out this protective mother in me all the while pulling at my heartstrings? God, he makes me so confused… But I can’t think of any place I’d rather be at that moment, because, despite the awkwardness, the general oddness, the three of us are a family right then.
“Isabel tells me that all the time,” Max tells me solemnly, “She says she don’t want me to feel bad about myself.”
“Doesn’t,” Katie corrects softly and again I feel the urge to laugh.
Max just smiles at her. “Doesn’t,” he says, eyes sparkling, “Hey, you want to see my room? I can show you my paintings.”
“You have a room?” Katie utters in surprise.
“Well, it’s not my real room,” Max explains, animated, “My real room is in California. Isabel and me are gonna go there when the doctor says I’m all better. I don’t really wanna, but Isabel says I have to and she’s my sister so I have to listen to her.”
“California?” Katie gulps, “You’re going to California?”
The devastated hurt on her face directly parallels the agonizing turmoil unfolding in my chest. Isabel is taking Max to California? I can hardly think straight I’m so shocked to hear this newest development. She and I had briefly discussed the idea of her taking Max back to California with her, but nothing had been set in stone. At least, not for me. Obviously, the case is different for Isabel and it must be a possibility she’s seriously considering if she’s already talked to Max about it.
That’s when fury begins to boil through my body. It’s been pent up for quite awhile now, but the latest stunt of Isabel’s is just the last straw. Forcing myself to maintain a calm façade, for at least Max and Katie’s sake, I ask Max casually, “Where is your sister right now? Is she in the building?”
Max nods. “She’s talking to Dr. Alex about when I can go home.”
Beside me I hear Katie whimper and my fury increases tenfold. “Max, why don’t you take Katie to see your paintings for awhile,” I suggest brightly, “I need to go and talk with Isabel for a little bit.”
“Okay,” Max agrees, moving to his feet. He takes Katie by the hand without hesitation. “I can’t wait for you to see the picture I painted of Liz,” he tells Katie excitedly as they walk away, “Maybe I can paint a picture of you, too.” I watch them until they disappear into the corridor before I hop to my feet and go off in search of Isabel.
-
Deejonaise
- Addicted Roswellian
- Posts: 385
- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
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Chapter 12
“Where the hell do you get off!” I bellow, but it is wholly unnecessary. The loud crashing of the door as I fling it open has captured their attention quite nicely.
Isabel rips out of Dr. Whitman’s arms and stares at me with guilty eyes. “L-Liz,” she stammers. She’s visibly trembling, but I suspect it has less to do with the fact that I’ve just walked in on her make-out session and more to do with the fact I know her little secret. Her expression tells me she knows that is exactly why I’m upset right now.
“Mrs. Evans!” Dr. Whitman intones, trying to hide his acute embarrassment behind a mask of indignance, “How dare you barge into my office like--,”
“Save it!” I snap out, my angry gaze trained directly on Isabel, “How could you do it?” I advance on her menacingly, feeling like I might actually do her bodily harm. I am that livid right now.
Isabel backs away with each step I take until she’s actually pushed back against the good doctor’s desk. It’s really quite ludicrous that she finds me even the least bit intimidating. Isabel is a good seven inches taller than I am and outweighs me by about 60 pounds. If it came down to a physical fight she could flatten me rather easily. But I suspect her jumpy behavior is born from guilt and the knowledge that she’s done wrong and not from any real fear that I might harm her.
“You talked to Max,” she guesses shakily.
“Yes, I talked to Max,” I spit out, “You’re planning to take him to California? Weren’t you going to even talk to me about it first or were you just going to sneak away when my back was turned?”
She looks over at Dr. Whitman, as if she expects him to back her up or something, but clearly he is as displeased about her plans to return to California as I am. However, I’m sure our mutual anger over her decision stems from two different sources. Finally, Isabel sighs dejectedly and plops back into a nearby chair, her entire body shaking. “I didn’t want you to find out this way,” she moans.
“You didn’t want me?” I burst out in disbelieving anger, “What about your niece? She just found out you plan to move her father to California and she hasn’t even seen him in nearly six months! What about her, Isabel?”
“God, Liz, I never thought--,”
“Shut up!” I roar, definitely not in the mood to hear her apologies. I’m just sick to death with everyone in my life feeling they have the right to make decisions for me. “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” I tell her, “You and I talked, Isabel. You said that you were okay with me assisting in Max’s recovery. We agreed. I trusted you,” I stress.
“Well, now Max is recovered and I’m taking him home,” Isabel replies softly, but in a tone she expects will tolerate no argument. She’s underestimated how incredibly furious I am right now.
“I am still Max’s legal wife, Isabel,” I inform her coldly, “You don’t just get to come in here and make decisions for him without my consent.”
“You’re filing for divorce!” Isabel bursts out.
“I haven’t yet,” I remind her succinctly, “Don’t make me turn this into a legal issue.”
“Now, ladies, don’t take this too far--,” Alex Whitman tries to interject, clearly trying to play the referee. We both summarily ignore him.
Isabel sits straight up in her chair, her brown eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “You would take me to court over this?” she gasps in mounting fury. I can see that I’ve hit a nerve. “Is that what you’re threatening to do, Liz?”
“I’m not threatening you, Isabel,” I tell her and my tone is much milder than when I began, “but I’m sick to death of being pushed out of Max’s life like I don’t matter.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be in his life,” Isabel mutters tightly.
“Do you think I would have stuck around for the last six months if that were true?”
“You feel guilty,” Isabel assesses, “You’re just here out of some warped sense of loyalty to the man Max used to be, Liz!”
“No, that’s not why I’m here!” In the beginning that might have been the case. I did feel an obligation to stay through Max’s recovery solely out of loyalty to the man he’d once was and the daughter we shared. But then all that had changed the first time he smiled at me, the first time there was recognition in his eyes when I came to visit, the first time he slurred my name in that boyish manner of his. I’ve been lost since then, falling deeper and deeper, becoming more and more enthralled with this man who was both familiar and a stranger to me.
My reasons for staying gradually heightened from simple loyalty to a genuine desire to know the new man he is becoming. This shy, open, wonderful man who adores painting, who insists on having cheese with every dish he eats, who falls asleep in his room watching reruns of the Golden Girls, he’s wormed his way into my heart and I can’t get him out. This man is the polar opposite of the Maxwell Evans I had once knew, the man who used to be my husband. And I like that. I like the changes. They attract me like nothing about him ever has.
Now I am staying for a different reason entirely. Max Evans is my friend. I like and respect him, two emotions he hasn’t evoked within me in years. And I have his best interests at heart. That is exactly why the idea of his moving to California upsets me so terribly. He would be miserable there, surrounded only by strangers and a home care nurse. Max needed to be around the people who loved him, like me and Katie and Isabel, too. He needed to be around them all…together. They were his family…the only one he’d literally ever known. I didn’t want him to lose that now. I didn’t want to lose it either.
By the time I open my mouth to speak again I am considerably calmer. “We can’t keep going round in circles like this, Isabel,” I sigh wearily, my shoulders slumping with deflated anger.
“I’m just trying to take care of my brother,” Isabel utters in a miserable whisper, “I don’t want you to feel responsible for him.”
“I don’t feel responsible for him,” I clarify, “I want to be around him. Can’t you see that, Isabel? I want to be in his life.” At this point Alex Whitman must feel acutely uncomfortable because, after pressing an affectionate kiss to Isabel’s forehead, he tactfully excuses himself. When he is gone I tell Isabel, “I don’t want you going behind my back anymore.”
“I wasn’t going behind your back,” she denies weakly, “I was trying to do what’s best for everyone involved.”
“Don’t make my decisions for me,” I order, stabbing my finger at her in accusation, “I’m so tired of people thinking they know what’s best for me. I’ve been miserable for so long…confused and hurt. And I thought I wanted a divorce…I really did.” I snort a scoffing laugh. “I don’t know what I wanted…maybe for Max to be the man he was when I married him…I don’t know…but let me figure it the hell out!”
“He’s not going to be that man, Liz,” Isabel interjects in a tone made almost inaudible by its gentleness, “That man died long before the shooting.”
“What do you know about it, Isabel?” I snap out in irritation.
“I know after Katie was born you hurt him worse than anyone ever has!” Isabel fires back, “Why do you think he had all those affairs? Max wanted to hate you! After the way our parents shut him out of their lives you should have known he couldn’t take the rejection from you!”
Her words slice at me like knives and I flinch with each utterance. I already know that my depression affected Max in ways that I can never imagine, but the revelation that he wanted to hate me is almost numbing. “Why are you saying these things?” I whimper, “Why would you tell me that?”
Isabel closes her eyes, clearly regretful of her words but now they are out in the open and she can’t take them back. She drops her forehead against her palms and sighs. “He stayed for Katie…always for her and because, as much as he wanted to hate you, I think he loved you, too.”
“I was sick, Isabel,” I say by way of defense.
“I know that!” she exclaims, “Don’t you think I told him the exact same thing? But he felt like you’d abandoned him…like Mom and Dad did. He was just so full of anger. He said he couldn’t trust you not to hurt him anymore. He was just…irrational about it.”
“If he felt that way why didn’t he just divorce me then?” I croak, “Why prolong it? He wasn’t happy…neither was I.”
“I don’t think divorce ever entered his mind,” Isabel scoffs, “Look at our parents. Their relationship is one big sham, but they’ve been married for over forty years. Max and I grew up with the same creed: It might be rotten on the inside but make it look red and shiny on the outside.”
That much was true. Max had been extremely concerned with outward appearances. He hadn’t liked to fight in public at all. Whenever I had attended his business dinners with him he had always been the perfect picture of a husband, hovering near my side, fetching me champagne, giving me kisses. But as soon as we returned home the façade would melt away and we would fall back into our usual cold and distant silences. His desperate need to always appear the perfect couple was exactly why I had been so surprised to find his latest girlfriend’s underwear in our bed.
Despite all his infidelities Max had never, to my knowledge anyway, brought one of his whores home. For the most part he had been discreet about his affairs. Had it not been for the calls I might have never suspected he was cheating in the first place. Yes, the panty incident had completely floored me, but with Isabel’s newest admission I suppose the find made perfect sense. If Max wanted to hate me, leaving his mistress’ panties in our bed was a sure fire way to show that he did.
“Don’t you see?” Isabel cries pitiably, “He didn’t want the marriage any more…not really. It was over between you long before you even knew, Liz.”
I can feel tears forming in my eyes, but I bravely blink them back. “Why are you telling me this now?” I rasp. It seems just when I think I’ve made my peace with the past and put old resentment behind me something occurs to bring it all roaring to the surface once again. It’s almost as if Isabel deliberately wants me to hate Max.
“I feel like you’re trying to prove yourself, Liz,” Isabel confesses quietly, “You want to prove to Max and maybe to yourself that you were a good wife and the fact is, Liz…you were. You were a good wife,” she insists, “My brother is the one who screwed up. He’s the one who held you accountable for our parents’ mistakes. He’s the one who’s fucked up, not you…it was never you. You don’t owe him anything.”
“I know,” I whisper miserably. I’m somewhat dazed at this point and I don’t know how to respond at all. These truths she’s decided to enlighten me with have struck me like a ton of bricks between the eyes. I’m completely shaken. Just when I’m sure that I’ve adjusted to the depths of Max’s heartlessness and let go the resentment something new crops up to make me reassess my decision. Now there’s a whole new truth to beat myself to death over: Max had fallen out of love with me long ago and, apparently, everyone except me was aware of the fact.
I can feel my cheeks burn with humiliation at the realization. Now I understand the motivation behind the pitying glances Isabel has been sending my way lately. Now I understand why she seemed so adamant about taking Max off my hands. She’s known the entire time, since the breakdown of our marriage; she knew that it was over between us. She knew that Max would never give me a second chance. She knew that nothing I said or did would bring him back to me and yet she’d said nothing. I might have been angry if I weren’t so heartbroken. “Why,” I whisper painfully, “Why did you never tell me? Why did you let me go on pining for him like a fool? All that therapy…all the tears, mine and Katie’s, and you knew we were finished.”
“It wasn’t my place to tell you,” she replies stiffly.
“It wasn’t your place?” I choke out ironically, “It wasn’t your place? Damn you, Isabel! Damn you and damn him! Damn him for not loving me! Damn him for being a fucking coward!” The explosion leaves me shaking. I fist my hands at my sides in a desperate grab for control, but now that I’ve released the fury it won’t be contained. “How could you keep that from me all this time?” I demand coldly.
“I…I didn’t want to hurt you,” Isabel stammers, “I couldn’t hurt you that way. I…I was…I thought he might change his mind or something.”
“Eight years, Isabel,” I murmur bitterly, “He hasn’t changed his mind in eight years. Surely, you would have figured out that it was time to tell me the truth.”
“I just couldn’t,” Isabel mutters. I could use a good, stiff drink at the moment, anything to dull out the pain in my chest right now. I glare at Isabel in disgust, wanting to hate her, wanting to blame her. But I can’t. The blame is all on Max. And that Max is dead now. It’s a while before Isabel speaks again and when she does her tone is soft and gentle. “That’s why I’ve been so pushy about you not seeing him as much. I didn’t want you getting attached because I knew how Max really felt about you before he was shot.”
“But I am attached, Isabel,” I explode violently, “I’ve been attached since he opened his eyes and looked right at me! Dammit! I’ve always been attached!” I want to grind my teeth in rage, but I know nothing I do will ease the ache or the anger I feel. Perhaps if Isabel had told me the truth from the beginning I could have avoided this awful scene. Perhaps I would have walked away years ago and then I would have never been standing in this moment, drowning in turmoil. And now it’s too late. Now I love him more than I ever did.
I drift over to the nearest chair and collapse, unable to stand any longer. Isabel’s pleading voice floats over to me. “Don’t you see why I wanted to take him to California with me? I was trying to get him out of your life, Liz.”
“And if I don’t want him out of my life?” I counter sullenly, which earns me a stunned look from Isabel. “I can’t let him go now, Is…I care too much.”
“What about what I just told you,” Isabel protests.
“It’s the past and it’s over,” I declare with more conviction than I feel at the moment, “He needs us and Katie needs him.”
“And what do you need, Liz?”
The question is irrelevant. I’m beginning to believe that I’ll never have what I need. It’s best that I don’t even think about it at all. “I need to do the right thing,” I sigh. Now if I can only figure out what that is.
“Where the hell do you get off!” I bellow, but it is wholly unnecessary. The loud crashing of the door as I fling it open has captured their attention quite nicely.
Isabel rips out of Dr. Whitman’s arms and stares at me with guilty eyes. “L-Liz,” she stammers. She’s visibly trembling, but I suspect it has less to do with the fact that I’ve just walked in on her make-out session and more to do with the fact I know her little secret. Her expression tells me she knows that is exactly why I’m upset right now.
“Mrs. Evans!” Dr. Whitman intones, trying to hide his acute embarrassment behind a mask of indignance, “How dare you barge into my office like--,”
“Save it!” I snap out, my angry gaze trained directly on Isabel, “How could you do it?” I advance on her menacingly, feeling like I might actually do her bodily harm. I am that livid right now.
Isabel backs away with each step I take until she’s actually pushed back against the good doctor’s desk. It’s really quite ludicrous that she finds me even the least bit intimidating. Isabel is a good seven inches taller than I am and outweighs me by about 60 pounds. If it came down to a physical fight she could flatten me rather easily. But I suspect her jumpy behavior is born from guilt and the knowledge that she’s done wrong and not from any real fear that I might harm her.
“You talked to Max,” she guesses shakily.
“Yes, I talked to Max,” I spit out, “You’re planning to take him to California? Weren’t you going to even talk to me about it first or were you just going to sneak away when my back was turned?”
She looks over at Dr. Whitman, as if she expects him to back her up or something, but clearly he is as displeased about her plans to return to California as I am. However, I’m sure our mutual anger over her decision stems from two different sources. Finally, Isabel sighs dejectedly and plops back into a nearby chair, her entire body shaking. “I didn’t want you to find out this way,” she moans.
“You didn’t want me?” I burst out in disbelieving anger, “What about your niece? She just found out you plan to move her father to California and she hasn’t even seen him in nearly six months! What about her, Isabel?”
“God, Liz, I never thought--,”
“Shut up!” I roar, definitely not in the mood to hear her apologies. I’m just sick to death with everyone in my life feeling they have the right to make decisions for me. “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” I tell her, “You and I talked, Isabel. You said that you were okay with me assisting in Max’s recovery. We agreed. I trusted you,” I stress.
“Well, now Max is recovered and I’m taking him home,” Isabel replies softly, but in a tone she expects will tolerate no argument. She’s underestimated how incredibly furious I am right now.
“I am still Max’s legal wife, Isabel,” I inform her coldly, “You don’t just get to come in here and make decisions for him without my consent.”
“You’re filing for divorce!” Isabel bursts out.
“I haven’t yet,” I remind her succinctly, “Don’t make me turn this into a legal issue.”
“Now, ladies, don’t take this too far--,” Alex Whitman tries to interject, clearly trying to play the referee. We both summarily ignore him.
Isabel sits straight up in her chair, her brown eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “You would take me to court over this?” she gasps in mounting fury. I can see that I’ve hit a nerve. “Is that what you’re threatening to do, Liz?”
“I’m not threatening you, Isabel,” I tell her and my tone is much milder than when I began, “but I’m sick to death of being pushed out of Max’s life like I don’t matter.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be in his life,” Isabel mutters tightly.
“Do you think I would have stuck around for the last six months if that were true?”
“You feel guilty,” Isabel assesses, “You’re just here out of some warped sense of loyalty to the man Max used to be, Liz!”
“No, that’s not why I’m here!” In the beginning that might have been the case. I did feel an obligation to stay through Max’s recovery solely out of loyalty to the man he’d once was and the daughter we shared. But then all that had changed the first time he smiled at me, the first time there was recognition in his eyes when I came to visit, the first time he slurred my name in that boyish manner of his. I’ve been lost since then, falling deeper and deeper, becoming more and more enthralled with this man who was both familiar and a stranger to me.
My reasons for staying gradually heightened from simple loyalty to a genuine desire to know the new man he is becoming. This shy, open, wonderful man who adores painting, who insists on having cheese with every dish he eats, who falls asleep in his room watching reruns of the Golden Girls, he’s wormed his way into my heart and I can’t get him out. This man is the polar opposite of the Maxwell Evans I had once knew, the man who used to be my husband. And I like that. I like the changes. They attract me like nothing about him ever has.
Now I am staying for a different reason entirely. Max Evans is my friend. I like and respect him, two emotions he hasn’t evoked within me in years. And I have his best interests at heart. That is exactly why the idea of his moving to California upsets me so terribly. He would be miserable there, surrounded only by strangers and a home care nurse. Max needed to be around the people who loved him, like me and Katie and Isabel, too. He needed to be around them all…together. They were his family…the only one he’d literally ever known. I didn’t want him to lose that now. I didn’t want to lose it either.
By the time I open my mouth to speak again I am considerably calmer. “We can’t keep going round in circles like this, Isabel,” I sigh wearily, my shoulders slumping with deflated anger.
“I’m just trying to take care of my brother,” Isabel utters in a miserable whisper, “I don’t want you to feel responsible for him.”
“I don’t feel responsible for him,” I clarify, “I want to be around him. Can’t you see that, Isabel? I want to be in his life.” At this point Alex Whitman must feel acutely uncomfortable because, after pressing an affectionate kiss to Isabel’s forehead, he tactfully excuses himself. When he is gone I tell Isabel, “I don’t want you going behind my back anymore.”
“I wasn’t going behind your back,” she denies weakly, “I was trying to do what’s best for everyone involved.”
“Don’t make my decisions for me,” I order, stabbing my finger at her in accusation, “I’m so tired of people thinking they know what’s best for me. I’ve been miserable for so long…confused and hurt. And I thought I wanted a divorce…I really did.” I snort a scoffing laugh. “I don’t know what I wanted…maybe for Max to be the man he was when I married him…I don’t know…but let me figure it the hell out!”
“He’s not going to be that man, Liz,” Isabel interjects in a tone made almost inaudible by its gentleness, “That man died long before the shooting.”
“What do you know about it, Isabel?” I snap out in irritation.
“I know after Katie was born you hurt him worse than anyone ever has!” Isabel fires back, “Why do you think he had all those affairs? Max wanted to hate you! After the way our parents shut him out of their lives you should have known he couldn’t take the rejection from you!”
Her words slice at me like knives and I flinch with each utterance. I already know that my depression affected Max in ways that I can never imagine, but the revelation that he wanted to hate me is almost numbing. “Why are you saying these things?” I whimper, “Why would you tell me that?”
Isabel closes her eyes, clearly regretful of her words but now they are out in the open and she can’t take them back. She drops her forehead against her palms and sighs. “He stayed for Katie…always for her and because, as much as he wanted to hate you, I think he loved you, too.”
“I was sick, Isabel,” I say by way of defense.
“I know that!” she exclaims, “Don’t you think I told him the exact same thing? But he felt like you’d abandoned him…like Mom and Dad did. He was just so full of anger. He said he couldn’t trust you not to hurt him anymore. He was just…irrational about it.”
“If he felt that way why didn’t he just divorce me then?” I croak, “Why prolong it? He wasn’t happy…neither was I.”
“I don’t think divorce ever entered his mind,” Isabel scoffs, “Look at our parents. Their relationship is one big sham, but they’ve been married for over forty years. Max and I grew up with the same creed: It might be rotten on the inside but make it look red and shiny on the outside.”
That much was true. Max had been extremely concerned with outward appearances. He hadn’t liked to fight in public at all. Whenever I had attended his business dinners with him he had always been the perfect picture of a husband, hovering near my side, fetching me champagne, giving me kisses. But as soon as we returned home the façade would melt away and we would fall back into our usual cold and distant silences. His desperate need to always appear the perfect couple was exactly why I had been so surprised to find his latest girlfriend’s underwear in our bed.
Despite all his infidelities Max had never, to my knowledge anyway, brought one of his whores home. For the most part he had been discreet about his affairs. Had it not been for the calls I might have never suspected he was cheating in the first place. Yes, the panty incident had completely floored me, but with Isabel’s newest admission I suppose the find made perfect sense. If Max wanted to hate me, leaving his mistress’ panties in our bed was a sure fire way to show that he did.
“Don’t you see?” Isabel cries pitiably, “He didn’t want the marriage any more…not really. It was over between you long before you even knew, Liz.”
I can feel tears forming in my eyes, but I bravely blink them back. “Why are you telling me this now?” I rasp. It seems just when I think I’ve made my peace with the past and put old resentment behind me something occurs to bring it all roaring to the surface once again. It’s almost as if Isabel deliberately wants me to hate Max.
“I feel like you’re trying to prove yourself, Liz,” Isabel confesses quietly, “You want to prove to Max and maybe to yourself that you were a good wife and the fact is, Liz…you were. You were a good wife,” she insists, “My brother is the one who screwed up. He’s the one who held you accountable for our parents’ mistakes. He’s the one who’s fucked up, not you…it was never you. You don’t owe him anything.”
“I know,” I whisper miserably. I’m somewhat dazed at this point and I don’t know how to respond at all. These truths she’s decided to enlighten me with have struck me like a ton of bricks between the eyes. I’m completely shaken. Just when I’m sure that I’ve adjusted to the depths of Max’s heartlessness and let go the resentment something new crops up to make me reassess my decision. Now there’s a whole new truth to beat myself to death over: Max had fallen out of love with me long ago and, apparently, everyone except me was aware of the fact.
I can feel my cheeks burn with humiliation at the realization. Now I understand the motivation behind the pitying glances Isabel has been sending my way lately. Now I understand why she seemed so adamant about taking Max off my hands. She’s known the entire time, since the breakdown of our marriage; she knew that it was over between us. She knew that Max would never give me a second chance. She knew that nothing I said or did would bring him back to me and yet she’d said nothing. I might have been angry if I weren’t so heartbroken. “Why,” I whisper painfully, “Why did you never tell me? Why did you let me go on pining for him like a fool? All that therapy…all the tears, mine and Katie’s, and you knew we were finished.”
“It wasn’t my place to tell you,” she replies stiffly.
“It wasn’t your place?” I choke out ironically, “It wasn’t your place? Damn you, Isabel! Damn you and damn him! Damn him for not loving me! Damn him for being a fucking coward!” The explosion leaves me shaking. I fist my hands at my sides in a desperate grab for control, but now that I’ve released the fury it won’t be contained. “How could you keep that from me all this time?” I demand coldly.
“I…I didn’t want to hurt you,” Isabel stammers, “I couldn’t hurt you that way. I…I was…I thought he might change his mind or something.”
“Eight years, Isabel,” I murmur bitterly, “He hasn’t changed his mind in eight years. Surely, you would have figured out that it was time to tell me the truth.”
“I just couldn’t,” Isabel mutters. I could use a good, stiff drink at the moment, anything to dull out the pain in my chest right now. I glare at Isabel in disgust, wanting to hate her, wanting to blame her. But I can’t. The blame is all on Max. And that Max is dead now. It’s a while before Isabel speaks again and when she does her tone is soft and gentle. “That’s why I’ve been so pushy about you not seeing him as much. I didn’t want you getting attached because I knew how Max really felt about you before he was shot.”
“But I am attached, Isabel,” I explode violently, “I’ve been attached since he opened his eyes and looked right at me! Dammit! I’ve always been attached!” I want to grind my teeth in rage, but I know nothing I do will ease the ache or the anger I feel. Perhaps if Isabel had told me the truth from the beginning I could have avoided this awful scene. Perhaps I would have walked away years ago and then I would have never been standing in this moment, drowning in turmoil. And now it’s too late. Now I love him more than I ever did.
I drift over to the nearest chair and collapse, unable to stand any longer. Isabel’s pleading voice floats over to me. “Don’t you see why I wanted to take him to California with me? I was trying to get him out of your life, Liz.”
“And if I don’t want him out of my life?” I counter sullenly, which earns me a stunned look from Isabel. “I can’t let him go now, Is…I care too much.”
“What about what I just told you,” Isabel protests.
“It’s the past and it’s over,” I declare with more conviction than I feel at the moment, “He needs us and Katie needs him.”
“And what do you need, Liz?”
The question is irrelevant. I’m beginning to believe that I’ll never have what I need. It’s best that I don’t even think about it at all. “I need to do the right thing,” I sigh. Now if I can only figure out what that is.
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Deejonaise
- Addicted Roswellian
- Posts: 385
- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
- Location: On my rusty dusty...
Chapter 13
“Hellooo, gorgeous!”
I have to roll my eyes at Maria’s flirty tone. For the sixth time in an hour I find myself reconsidering the wisdom of allowing Maria to tag along today. Not only does she seem rather nonchalant about the day’s significance but also she and Isabel have been bickering for the better part of the morning. If I weren’t so excited they would have destroyed my mood entirely. However, at the moment, I’m so ecstatic that nothing can touch me. After all, today is a rather momentous day. Today is the day I finally get to take Max home.
That’s right. He’s coming home with me, not to California with Isabel, not to some group home facility were he can vegetate, but with me. I couldn’t be more pleased with the prospect either.
It’s been nearly a month since Isabel and I had our blowout. Since then things between us have calmed considerably. She’s, thankfully, stopped trying to make all the decisions for Max’s well-being. It took some doing, but once she accepted that I was Max’s primary caregiver and, therefore, the person to make decisions concerning his welfare Isabel and I got along fabulously. By way of compromise she agreed to move to Roswell and live at the house with me, Katie and Maria. It was a doable suggestion, one that enabled Isabel to have a share in her brother’s care without usurping my position in his life. Her decision pleased everyone involved, but especially Isabel I think. She wasn’t anymore anxious to leave her good doctor than he was to have her leave. Isabel thinks I’ve been too involved with Max to realize that fact played a part in her decision to stay. She’s mistaken.
While I’m happy that Isabel’s love life seems to be moving along so smoothly I can’t help but bemoan my own. Or should I say bemoan my lack thereof. I’ve decided to pace myself with Max. He’s trying to relearn so many things and make so many new adjustments that he doesn’t need my expectations piled up on him as well. So for now, I’m contenting myself with his friendship. Actually, I’m grateful for it.
He’s sweet and candid and, ironically, he listens to me. Lately, he’s been the only one who does. Everyone from my mother to Isabel has seen fit to tell me what’s best for me, but Max never says a word. He just sits there and lets me vent and no matter what I say he is always on my side at the end of it. Sometimes hours will go by with me pouring out my heart to him about everything from my job to raising Katie alone and he will just sit there intently, hanging on my every word. And though I realize he doesn’t grasp everything I am telling him he makes a valiant effort to do so and it’s his effort that means so much to me.
So simply saying that I’m happy he’s coming home, well, that’s the understatement of the century. I could literally do a back flip I am so pumped. The call that he was finally being released could not have come at a better time. He had made so much progress that he was beginning to become anxious to leave Danner himself. The prospect of having him home again so that we could live a normal life once more is just intoxicating. I’m drunk with happiness. Which is probably the reason I was distracted enough to agree to Maria’s wheedling to tag along.
It’s so obvious, despite her offer for moral support and help, that unlike Isabel, Katie, and I, she’s not here for Max. At least, not to help him pack his things or for that much moral support either. I think she’s probably curious as to what he’s like now. She knows that he has no memory of his former life and Katie has hinted at his child-like mannerisms during our frequent discussions at dinner. Maria’s probably expecting him to be some sort of freak so I know she’s only here for the thrill factor. And now Michael’s caught her eye, of all people. But I’m too happy to care. Let her spend her time giving Michael lascivious once-overs. That way she’ll be much too preoccupied to say something decidedly stupid to Max.
As Maria is putting the moves on Michael, Isabel and Katie have gone on inside to help pack up Max’s paintings and belongings. I hang back in the corridor with Maria, hoping devoutly she doesn’t say something to offend Michael, who I hope to hire as a physical trainer for Max. I’m also hoping to get his assessment of how Max’s progress but Maria has already zeroed in on him like a lioness on the hunt. And Michael is just as enthralled.
At Maria’s sultry greeting, Michael sets down the box in his arms and appraises her with a flirtatious smirk. He extends his hand towards her, hardly acknowledging me at all. I’m used to the treatment. Whenever I stand next to Maria I always turn invisible, at least, to the male population. How can simple brown compare to sparkly gold anyway? I shrug mentally. I’m used to it by now.
“I don’t believe we met,” Michael says, giving Maria a whistling once-over, “I’m Michael Guerin and you are…?”
Maria grips his hand firmly, her smile provocative when she answers, “Maria DeLuca,” she says breathily and I have to roll my eyes again at her exaggerated tone, “I’m Liz’s baby sister.” I don’t miss how she puts the emphasis on “baby” like I’m the old hag and she’s the pretty, little princess. I send her a sour look, which she blatantly ignores.
Michael continues to pump Maria’s hand, clearly mesmerized by her striking face. “Really?” he queries, “Liz never mentioned that she had a sister.”
Maria cuts a derisive look my way, which I, in turn, ignore. I can give as good as I get. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she asserts acidly. And then she dismisses me completely and asks Michael, “So are you here for Max, too?”
“I’m his PT,” Michael answers.
“Physical therapist, huh?” Maria slides a hungry look down his body. “You know I could use a little therapy myself,” she murmurs.
I actually groan at this point. “God, Maria, can you be any more obvious!”
“What?” she cries out in feigned innocence, “I think I might have slipped a disk at work the other night!”
I’m still shaking my head in disgust when Michael asks with interest, “Oh yeah, what do you do?”
“I’m a dancer,” Maria tells him.
“What kind? Ballet?” Michael inquires.
Maria gives him a wink. “Exotic,” she purrs, “Maybe you’d like to check me out sometime. I could show you all the ways the human body can…flex. ”
“Ugh!” I exclaim in disgust, “Are you going to stand out here all afternoon and flirt or are you going to help us get Max’s things together.”
“You go on ahead without me,” Maria replies, waving me away dismissively, “I’ll catch up, Lizzie.”
With a growl of frustration I stalk down the corridor for Max’s room. But by the time I enter, however, I’ve plastered a smile on my face. No way I’m letting Maria ruin Max’s homecoming. No way. I’m expecting his room to be alive with activity, yet, when I enter the room Max is the only one there. He is sitting on the bed, hat in hand and looking abjectly miserable. “Where is everyone?” I ask brightly.
“Isabel took Katie to the bathroom,” he answers forlornly.
“Oh,” I say, drifting over to sit alongside him, “You look a little down. What’s got your lip hanging down to the floor, Max?”
He just sighs, almost like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I’m kinda scared of leaving,” he finally admits after some silence.
“I thought you were excited about coming home with me,” I prod gently, “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
His eyes fly to my face swiftly and he’s quick with his reassurances. “No…no, I want to come live with you, Liz. I really do. That’s not why I’m scared.”
I tentatively cover his hand with my own. It’s just the simple touches like those that send my heart to racing. I don’t understand it really. Maybe it’s a combination of things. The intense way he watches me or the dancing sparkle that comes to his eyes whenever we touch. I captivate him. The realization makes my heart flutter dangerously and try as I might I can’t look away from his hypnotic stare. “Why are you scared, Max?” I ask in a whisper.
“The real world is out there,” Max says, nodding toward his window, “There are real people out there with real jobs and real lives. I don’t know how to be like that. I don’t have a job…I don’t know how to do anything,” he finishes unhappily.
“Max, sweetie,” I croon, caressing his hair back from his temple, “You don’t have to worry about finding a job. Isabel and I are going to take care of you.”
Max shakes his head at the idea. “Michael says that a man has to work,” he informs me, “The man brings home the bacon and the woman fries it up in a pan.”
I try not to laugh at his assessment because he seems so serious about it. “Well, Michael’s something of a Neanderthal,” I mutter.
“He’s wrong?” Max asks hopefully.
Instead of trying to explain to him the whole convoluted dynamic of our society and its gender roles I try a different tact. “Max you’re just recovering from a serious injury. No one expects for you to get a job.”
“But what if I want a job?” he ponders aloud.
“Do you?” He answers with a shy nod. “Well, what kind of job do you want?” I ask once it has sunk in that’s he’s absolutely serious about this. I suppose I’ve fallen into the habit of treating him like a child. It has never occurred to me that he wouldn’t want to be taken care of or that he would try to be the man of the house. And that’s when it finally hits me. Max is maturing. With each passing day he learns a little bit more, pushes ever closer to becoming a man. I can’t treat him as a child at all. He obviously knows what he wants or has some idea. That’s more than I can say for myself.
“What kind of job did I have before my accident?” Max counters.
“You were a defense attorney,” I tell him.
Max just stares at me blankly. “What’s that?”
I think a moment before attempting to explain. “Okay, when people get in trouble with the police they come to you to help get them out.”
A grimace of distaste passes over Max’s expressive face. “I don’t think I’d like to do that anymore,” he replies candidly, “If you get in trouble with the police you should go to jail.” I can’t help but think that his clients would have a heart attack if they heard him speaking that way. I suppose it really didn’t matter in the long run. Valenti, Powers, Stern, and Evans had decided to “retire” Max gracefully. I knew the bottom line was that they were trying to spare themselves any embarrassment, but I couldn’t care less. I was just glad I wouldn’t have to deal with the smarmy bastards any longer.
“I don’t know what I want to do,” Max continues on in conflict, “All I’m good at is painting and I don’t think I’m that good.” He hangs his head in defeat. “I’m not good at anything,” he mutters.
Again his words are like an arrow straight to my heart. I’m bending to him, a little more everyday. I need to touch him in that moment, not just hold his hand, but really touch him. I wind my fingers through his hair, marveling over how the thick locks curl over my fingers. Unconsciously, I massage his scalp. “Max,” I say softly, “don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll learn, baby…I promise you’ll learn.”
He leans into me as I say the words, his cheek resting against mine. I move my fingers against his scalp in slow, sensuous circles. It takes his shudder of pleasure to alert me to my ministrations. “That’s nice,” he moans softly, his head lolling back as he closes his eyes beneath my tender manipulation.
He says it in a rush of breath and, my God, just the way he does exhales the words arouses me like I’ve never been. That’s not his intention I’m sure, but between my thighs there’s a curious tingling nonetheless. I’m so shocked by the feeling that I snatch back my hand guiltily. Max seems unaware that anything monumental has transpired because he just smiles at me guilelessly. “Thanks for making me feel better,” he says, but I can’t reply. At the moment, my throat is too constricted to form words.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*
“So how do you like having your Daddy home?” I ask Katie later that evening as I tuck her into bed. We’ve had a full day with getting Isabel and Max settled in the house. Max seemed a little overwhelmed by the general largeness of the house. It took some convincing to get him comfortably settled into his bedroom. Isabel and I have both decided that Max isn’t ready to share a bed with me. I’m not sure I’m ready to share a bed with him either, but today proved that I definitely want to.
I’m not going to focus on that now, however. Right now I want to get a feel for what’s going on in Katie’s head. She’s been unusually quiet all evening so I know something is troubling her. She’s still quiet even after I ask my question so I decide to prod a little more. “Don’t you like having your Daddy back?”
Katie traces her finger around her teddy’s button eyeball. “He’s so different,” she finally admits in a whisper.
“Do you like that or not?” I ask her solemnly.
Katie shrugs. “He’s not like he was before,” she reasons, “He plays with me now and he’s really funny.” She smiles a little as she thinks about it, before her smile disappears altogether. “But he’s still not like Dad. It’s like he’s someone else.”
I tuck the covers more securely beneath her chin and decide to be blatantly honest. “Well, that’s because he is, honey,” I tell her, “Your Daddy lost his memory and now he has to start his life all over again.”
I watch as Katie visibly ponders what I’ve told her. Finally she says, “I’m glad…maybe we can be a family now.” Yeah, I think, my heart rising with hope, maybe we can.
“Hellooo, gorgeous!”
I have to roll my eyes at Maria’s flirty tone. For the sixth time in an hour I find myself reconsidering the wisdom of allowing Maria to tag along today. Not only does she seem rather nonchalant about the day’s significance but also she and Isabel have been bickering for the better part of the morning. If I weren’t so excited they would have destroyed my mood entirely. However, at the moment, I’m so ecstatic that nothing can touch me. After all, today is a rather momentous day. Today is the day I finally get to take Max home.
That’s right. He’s coming home with me, not to California with Isabel, not to some group home facility were he can vegetate, but with me. I couldn’t be more pleased with the prospect either.
It’s been nearly a month since Isabel and I had our blowout. Since then things between us have calmed considerably. She’s, thankfully, stopped trying to make all the decisions for Max’s well-being. It took some doing, but once she accepted that I was Max’s primary caregiver and, therefore, the person to make decisions concerning his welfare Isabel and I got along fabulously. By way of compromise she agreed to move to Roswell and live at the house with me, Katie and Maria. It was a doable suggestion, one that enabled Isabel to have a share in her brother’s care without usurping my position in his life. Her decision pleased everyone involved, but especially Isabel I think. She wasn’t anymore anxious to leave her good doctor than he was to have her leave. Isabel thinks I’ve been too involved with Max to realize that fact played a part in her decision to stay. She’s mistaken.
While I’m happy that Isabel’s love life seems to be moving along so smoothly I can’t help but bemoan my own. Or should I say bemoan my lack thereof. I’ve decided to pace myself with Max. He’s trying to relearn so many things and make so many new adjustments that he doesn’t need my expectations piled up on him as well. So for now, I’m contenting myself with his friendship. Actually, I’m grateful for it.
He’s sweet and candid and, ironically, he listens to me. Lately, he’s been the only one who does. Everyone from my mother to Isabel has seen fit to tell me what’s best for me, but Max never says a word. He just sits there and lets me vent and no matter what I say he is always on my side at the end of it. Sometimes hours will go by with me pouring out my heart to him about everything from my job to raising Katie alone and he will just sit there intently, hanging on my every word. And though I realize he doesn’t grasp everything I am telling him he makes a valiant effort to do so and it’s his effort that means so much to me.
So simply saying that I’m happy he’s coming home, well, that’s the understatement of the century. I could literally do a back flip I am so pumped. The call that he was finally being released could not have come at a better time. He had made so much progress that he was beginning to become anxious to leave Danner himself. The prospect of having him home again so that we could live a normal life once more is just intoxicating. I’m drunk with happiness. Which is probably the reason I was distracted enough to agree to Maria’s wheedling to tag along.
It’s so obvious, despite her offer for moral support and help, that unlike Isabel, Katie, and I, she’s not here for Max. At least, not to help him pack his things or for that much moral support either. I think she’s probably curious as to what he’s like now. She knows that he has no memory of his former life and Katie has hinted at his child-like mannerisms during our frequent discussions at dinner. Maria’s probably expecting him to be some sort of freak so I know she’s only here for the thrill factor. And now Michael’s caught her eye, of all people. But I’m too happy to care. Let her spend her time giving Michael lascivious once-overs. That way she’ll be much too preoccupied to say something decidedly stupid to Max.
As Maria is putting the moves on Michael, Isabel and Katie have gone on inside to help pack up Max’s paintings and belongings. I hang back in the corridor with Maria, hoping devoutly she doesn’t say something to offend Michael, who I hope to hire as a physical trainer for Max. I’m also hoping to get his assessment of how Max’s progress but Maria has already zeroed in on him like a lioness on the hunt. And Michael is just as enthralled.
At Maria’s sultry greeting, Michael sets down the box in his arms and appraises her with a flirtatious smirk. He extends his hand towards her, hardly acknowledging me at all. I’m used to the treatment. Whenever I stand next to Maria I always turn invisible, at least, to the male population. How can simple brown compare to sparkly gold anyway? I shrug mentally. I’m used to it by now.
“I don’t believe we met,” Michael says, giving Maria a whistling once-over, “I’m Michael Guerin and you are…?”
Maria grips his hand firmly, her smile provocative when she answers, “Maria DeLuca,” she says breathily and I have to roll my eyes again at her exaggerated tone, “I’m Liz’s baby sister.” I don’t miss how she puts the emphasis on “baby” like I’m the old hag and she’s the pretty, little princess. I send her a sour look, which she blatantly ignores.
Michael continues to pump Maria’s hand, clearly mesmerized by her striking face. “Really?” he queries, “Liz never mentioned that she had a sister.”
Maria cuts a derisive look my way, which I, in turn, ignore. I can give as good as I get. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she asserts acidly. And then she dismisses me completely and asks Michael, “So are you here for Max, too?”
“I’m his PT,” Michael answers.
“Physical therapist, huh?” Maria slides a hungry look down his body. “You know I could use a little therapy myself,” she murmurs.
I actually groan at this point. “God, Maria, can you be any more obvious!”
“What?” she cries out in feigned innocence, “I think I might have slipped a disk at work the other night!”
I’m still shaking my head in disgust when Michael asks with interest, “Oh yeah, what do you do?”
“I’m a dancer,” Maria tells him.
“What kind? Ballet?” Michael inquires.
Maria gives him a wink. “Exotic,” she purrs, “Maybe you’d like to check me out sometime. I could show you all the ways the human body can…flex. ”
“Ugh!” I exclaim in disgust, “Are you going to stand out here all afternoon and flirt or are you going to help us get Max’s things together.”
“You go on ahead without me,” Maria replies, waving me away dismissively, “I’ll catch up, Lizzie.”
With a growl of frustration I stalk down the corridor for Max’s room. But by the time I enter, however, I’ve plastered a smile on my face. No way I’m letting Maria ruin Max’s homecoming. No way. I’m expecting his room to be alive with activity, yet, when I enter the room Max is the only one there. He is sitting on the bed, hat in hand and looking abjectly miserable. “Where is everyone?” I ask brightly.
“Isabel took Katie to the bathroom,” he answers forlornly.
“Oh,” I say, drifting over to sit alongside him, “You look a little down. What’s got your lip hanging down to the floor, Max?”
He just sighs, almost like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I’m kinda scared of leaving,” he finally admits after some silence.
“I thought you were excited about coming home with me,” I prod gently, “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
His eyes fly to my face swiftly and he’s quick with his reassurances. “No…no, I want to come live with you, Liz. I really do. That’s not why I’m scared.”
I tentatively cover his hand with my own. It’s just the simple touches like those that send my heart to racing. I don’t understand it really. Maybe it’s a combination of things. The intense way he watches me or the dancing sparkle that comes to his eyes whenever we touch. I captivate him. The realization makes my heart flutter dangerously and try as I might I can’t look away from his hypnotic stare. “Why are you scared, Max?” I ask in a whisper.
“The real world is out there,” Max says, nodding toward his window, “There are real people out there with real jobs and real lives. I don’t know how to be like that. I don’t have a job…I don’t know how to do anything,” he finishes unhappily.
“Max, sweetie,” I croon, caressing his hair back from his temple, “You don’t have to worry about finding a job. Isabel and I are going to take care of you.”
Max shakes his head at the idea. “Michael says that a man has to work,” he informs me, “The man brings home the bacon and the woman fries it up in a pan.”
I try not to laugh at his assessment because he seems so serious about it. “Well, Michael’s something of a Neanderthal,” I mutter.
“He’s wrong?” Max asks hopefully.
Instead of trying to explain to him the whole convoluted dynamic of our society and its gender roles I try a different tact. “Max you’re just recovering from a serious injury. No one expects for you to get a job.”
“But what if I want a job?” he ponders aloud.
“Do you?” He answers with a shy nod. “Well, what kind of job do you want?” I ask once it has sunk in that’s he’s absolutely serious about this. I suppose I’ve fallen into the habit of treating him like a child. It has never occurred to me that he wouldn’t want to be taken care of or that he would try to be the man of the house. And that’s when it finally hits me. Max is maturing. With each passing day he learns a little bit more, pushes ever closer to becoming a man. I can’t treat him as a child at all. He obviously knows what he wants or has some idea. That’s more than I can say for myself.
“What kind of job did I have before my accident?” Max counters.
“You were a defense attorney,” I tell him.
Max just stares at me blankly. “What’s that?”
I think a moment before attempting to explain. “Okay, when people get in trouble with the police they come to you to help get them out.”
A grimace of distaste passes over Max’s expressive face. “I don’t think I’d like to do that anymore,” he replies candidly, “If you get in trouble with the police you should go to jail.” I can’t help but think that his clients would have a heart attack if they heard him speaking that way. I suppose it really didn’t matter in the long run. Valenti, Powers, Stern, and Evans had decided to “retire” Max gracefully. I knew the bottom line was that they were trying to spare themselves any embarrassment, but I couldn’t care less. I was just glad I wouldn’t have to deal with the smarmy bastards any longer.
“I don’t know what I want to do,” Max continues on in conflict, “All I’m good at is painting and I don’t think I’m that good.” He hangs his head in defeat. “I’m not good at anything,” he mutters.
Again his words are like an arrow straight to my heart. I’m bending to him, a little more everyday. I need to touch him in that moment, not just hold his hand, but really touch him. I wind my fingers through his hair, marveling over how the thick locks curl over my fingers. Unconsciously, I massage his scalp. “Max,” I say softly, “don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll learn, baby…I promise you’ll learn.”
He leans into me as I say the words, his cheek resting against mine. I move my fingers against his scalp in slow, sensuous circles. It takes his shudder of pleasure to alert me to my ministrations. “That’s nice,” he moans softly, his head lolling back as he closes his eyes beneath my tender manipulation.
He says it in a rush of breath and, my God, just the way he does exhales the words arouses me like I’ve never been. That’s not his intention I’m sure, but between my thighs there’s a curious tingling nonetheless. I’m so shocked by the feeling that I snatch back my hand guiltily. Max seems unaware that anything monumental has transpired because he just smiles at me guilelessly. “Thanks for making me feel better,” he says, but I can’t reply. At the moment, my throat is too constricted to form words.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*
“So how do you like having your Daddy home?” I ask Katie later that evening as I tuck her into bed. We’ve had a full day with getting Isabel and Max settled in the house. Max seemed a little overwhelmed by the general largeness of the house. It took some convincing to get him comfortably settled into his bedroom. Isabel and I have both decided that Max isn’t ready to share a bed with me. I’m not sure I’m ready to share a bed with him either, but today proved that I definitely want to.
I’m not going to focus on that now, however. Right now I want to get a feel for what’s going on in Katie’s head. She’s been unusually quiet all evening so I know something is troubling her. She’s still quiet even after I ask my question so I decide to prod a little more. “Don’t you like having your Daddy back?”
Katie traces her finger around her teddy’s button eyeball. “He’s so different,” she finally admits in a whisper.
“Do you like that or not?” I ask her solemnly.
Katie shrugs. “He’s not like he was before,” she reasons, “He plays with me now and he’s really funny.” She smiles a little as she thinks about it, before her smile disappears altogether. “But he’s still not like Dad. It’s like he’s someone else.”
I tuck the covers more securely beneath her chin and decide to be blatantly honest. “Well, that’s because he is, honey,” I tell her, “Your Daddy lost his memory and now he has to start his life all over again.”
I watch as Katie visibly ponders what I’ve told her. Finally she says, “I’m glad…maybe we can be a family now.” Yeah, I think, my heart rising with hope, maybe we can.
-
Deejonaise
- Addicted Roswellian
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- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
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Chapter 14
It’s movie night.
We’ve settled into a nice, family routine in the past two months. Though we’re far from conventional we’ve found a way to make things work. I work during the day and take Katie to school in the mornings. Isabel stays home with Max and keeps the house. She isn’t at all Suzy Homemaker, but she’ll do. She’s good enough that I’ve let Rosa go and that’s an extra $150 dollars a week so I’m not complaining. Maria usually gives her a break when Isabel needs one, but for the most part she stays absent from the house, either at work or on a date.
So we’ve got this nice little routine going like I mentioned. I like it very much. Even at this very moment, Isabel is in the kitchen popping kettle corn while I watch Katie and Max watch The Count of Monte Cristo. They’re really endearing to observe together actually. Max has watched half the movie with his hands over his eyes while Katie provides commentary for the parts he misses. He’s having a hard time with the action sequences, bursting out every so often when things get too intense, “Are they fighting again? Are Edmond and Fernand fighting?” He always calms down once Katie reassures him, however. I have to appreciate how she manages to do so without giving the plot away.
Max’s emotional reactions to the movie are adorable to see. He’s only seen The Count of Monte Cristo about four times already, but he still can’t watch the entire thing without cringing behind his hand. Katie’s given up long ago on trying to pry his hand away from his face, hence the running commentary throughout the movie.
I will admit that the relationship dynamic between Max and Katie is somewhat strange. They seem more like siblings than father and daughter. Not such a while ago they actually had a spat over crayons. Katie hadn’t wanted Max using her crayons because he had the habit of peeling off the paper. It drove Katie crazy, so much so that she forbade him to touch them completely. Offended by her edict, Max had, in turn, denied her access to his paint. It had taken tremendous willpower for me not to interfere in their argument, but I knew they had to work out their problems on their own. Thankfully, their silent standoff didn’t last more than an hour before Max broke down and apologized.
However, lately, I think Max is beginning to understand his role in Katie’s life. He looks at her differently now, almost protective…proud even. Even recently he accompanied me into Katie’s room when I tucked her in for the night. He listened while I read her a bedtime story and even gave her a goodnight kiss.
But just when I find myself marveling over his burgeoning maturity, his halting steps toward adulthood he turns to me and is transformed into a little boy once more, demanding his own bedtime story and goodnight kiss. And so I escort him to his room, which is down the hall from mine, and I tuck him into bed the same as Katie. But as I look down at him, all wrapped and snug in bed, nothing about him strikes me as childlike and the way he looks at me then is not as a boy, but a man. I can see that he is changing…ever so slowly, I see it everyday and I’m intrigued…more and more.
I’m still grinning over Max and Katie’s movie antics when I hear a stringent curse sound from the kitchen followed by a series of clatters. I’ve already mentioned that Isabel isn’t exactly at home in the kitchen. Only she would find kettle corn a culinary difficulty. Katie and I exchange worried glances when the unmistakable smell of burning popcorn wafts through the family room. Isabel is obviously having a hard time and the last thing I want is for my kitchen to go up in flames. “Why don’t you go and check on your Aunt Isabel,” I suggest to Katie, “see if she needs anything. I’ll pause the movie until you get back.” I should probably go see to Isabel myself and I know that sending Katie in as a second is rather lame, but I’m looking forward to the alone time with Max, something we rarely have together.
As Katie scampers off for the kitchen I grab for the remote and pause the television. The moment I do Max emits a small sigh of relief and crumples back against the sofa, finally dropping his hand away from his face. I laugh a little at his reaction and ease down next to him on the floor. “If this movie gives you fits why do you insist on watching it?” I ask him wryly.
“I like to see Edmond win it all in the end,” Max tells me, “I just hate to see his friendship with Fernand end so badly.”
“Well, you know they weren’t really friends to begin with,” I remark casually, “Fernand always had resentment towards Edmond. He coveted what he couldn’t have, namely what belonged to Edmond, which meant that Edmond never really knew him to begin with. Their friendship was doomed from the start.”
“Because Fernand wanted Mercedes?” Max wonders aloud.
“No,” I say, “because Fernand was looking for Mercedes to save him while he made no attempt to save himself. He couldn’t be a true friend to Edmond because he was too busy feeling like someone owed him something. That’s why he felt free to take Edmond’s life. There was no loyalty in him, no honor.”
“You sound like you know someone like that,” Max remarks innocently.
His statement totally takes me off guard because I realize, in that second, I’ve been thinking about Max. Not the present Max beside me, but the one he used to be. Though I’ve been analyzing a fictional character it’s really Max who is in the back of my mind as I speak. Like Fernand in The Count of Monte Cristo Max battled with some major trust issues. I can see that clearly now. His lack of faith, of loyalty, of general human kindness had sprung from the same source, his inability to trust and without giving trust you couldn’t give love. It might sound trite but it’s unfortunately true.
That fact is startlingly clear to me now. As I’ve mentioned before I have a tendency to lie to myself and it appears that I have been doing it for a lot longer than I imagined. How ironic that it takes watching a fictional movie for me to finally analyze Max for the man he had been. Some people just came with too much baggage and Max had a boatload. Even after Max and I were married and living happy he still didn’t trust me, not really. I suspect he spent most of that time during our marriage just waiting for me to disappoint him. He expected me to disappoint him and when I did he used that as an excuse to treat me with a complete lack of respect. And the most hateful part of Max’s behavior was that I allowed him to treat me that way and therefore validated the treatment.
Now I can clearly see how the old Max parallels the fictional Fernand almost frighteningly. Similar to Fernand, Max carried the disappointment and disillusionment ingrained in him by his parents into every relationship he entered. He had never been truly open with me, but had hung back, waiting for me to fall and when, inevitably, I did he was unable to deal with the situation rationally. He had idealized our relationship and he had idealized me just as Fernand idealized Mercedes, only to be disappointed when faced with the reality. I had fallen from that pedestal he had perched me so high upon and I had fallen hard.
And the great irony is, that as much as Max was Fernand-like before the shooting, he is just as much Edmond-like after. The man beside me is unimaginably idealistic. There is no pretense in him, whatsoever. He doesn’t play games, doesn’t mince words, but simply says what he feels and expects the same courtesy in return. He actually believes that if he tells someone the truth they will tell him the truth in return. Because he is free of guile he expects to find none in others. His openhearted view of mankind is both refreshing and dangerous. I can’t help but fear he will be damaged by the world’s cynicism as the first Max was.
But then as I look at him now I know that will never happen. I have watched this man, this marvelous man beside me struggle for five minutes just to tie his shoe in a perfect knot and all without losing his smile. He never needs to be prompted for an apology but seems to know when one is needed and gives it without grudge. He is fresh and new and more intuitive than many people realize. More intuitive than even I had realized.
I swallow, realizing he’s watching me expectantly and waiting patiently for a response to his earlier statement. “Yes, I knew someone like that,” I tell him quietly, “but he’s dead now.”
Max’s eyes darken with sympathy and he lays his hand against my own. “How did he die?” he asks me gently.
Again I’m caught off guard. I find it fundamentally weird that I am talking to Max about himself. It feels strange to refer to him as dead when he’s sitting right next to me but apropos as well. In almost the truest sense that Max is dead. Nothing of him really exists anymore aside from Katie and me and Isabel. Even those old hurts and resentments are beginning to fade away as I’m filled with a new feeling of hope and love. Every day I am being drawn ever closer to nuMax. I am falling into him and falling fast.
I stare down at our overlapping fingers, a welcome sense of peace descending over me. I’ve grieved over the past, I’ve denied it, but now I’ve finally let it go. It has no further hold on me and, at last, I am ready to move on. “It doesn’t matter,” I finally whisper in answer to Max’s questions, “It turns out that I barely knew him anyway.”
“But he still hurt you,” Max surmises astutely, his gaze both childlike and penetrating all at once. How does he do that? How does he manage to see down beneath the surface into my very soul? For someone so mentally young, so absurdly naïve about the world he possesses a wisdom that is almost frightening. And the way he’s staring at me right now…I can’t possibly lie to him because I suspect he can still see the truth even without my saying a word.
“Yes, he hurt me.” I say this without bitterness or anger.
“How could he hurt you if you didn’t know him?” Max asks candidly.
“Because I thought I did know him,” I stress, “And I thought I loved him.”
“Did he love you?”
“I used to think so.”
“But not anymore?”
“No.”
Max gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “He just couldn’t see how beautiful you are, Liz,” Max tells me, “Not just on the outside…inside, too. I see that, Liz. I see that you’re beautiful even if he couldn’t.” Once again I’m struck by the irony. First, that he’s trying to comfort me now, that he’s healing the hurt he didn’t remember inflicting and second, that he’s gained this awesome insight with his near death experience. I almost want to chuckle at the paradox. It took a bullet to the head for Maxwell Evans to finally “see” me.
But now I try to laugh off his comment, maybe because it makes me uncomfortable that he’s so straight forward or maybe because I realize these burgeoning feelings I have for him might very well be reciprocated. I give his shoulder a playful shove. “Max, you barely know me,” I say with a smile.
“I know enough,” he responds seriously.
Still, I try to keep the mood light because I can feel the direction our conversation is turning and I know instinctively that once we start down the road we’ll be unable to turn back. “What do you think you know about me?” I tease him.
“I know you treat me like a person,” he reveals with a shuddering sigh, “I know you never make me feel like I’m stupid or slow. You don’t treat me like a kid even when I act like one. I like that.”
“Max, you don’t act like a kid,” I tell him softly. My heart has begun a slow thumping of anticipation. Our voices have lowered to hush whispers, our faces only within inches of each other’s.
Max shakes his head in denial. “Normal people don’t ask for bedtime stories,” he tells me, “I know that. I just like the sound of your voice when you read to me. And I like having you with me at night…and asking you to read is the only way I can think of to get you to stay with me.”
Is this man for real or will I wake up soon from some bizarre fantasy? I can hardly believe it, even now, as he’s looking at me like I’m something rare and fine and precious. Never, never in our entire marriage, even when it was good, has Max ever looked at me this way. It’s a “weak in the knees” sort of look, a “heart-hammering” sort of look, a “falling in love” sort of look. I touch his cheek gingerly and trace my fingers along the outline of his soft lips. “Max, we’re friends,” I tell him, “all you have to do is ask me to stay with you and I will.”
He smiles at me a little sadly. “You’re my only friend, Liz.”
“That’s not true,” I argue softly, “You’ve got Michael and Isabel and all the people back at the center. They love you, Max.”
Again he shakes his head in adamant disbelief. “They think I’m dumb,” he says.
“No one thinks you’re dumb.”
“I can hear people talking, Liz,” Max replies flatly, “They think I’m a freak.” He hangs his head a little then. “Maybe I am,” he whispers.
At this point I frame his face with my hands and force his gaze to mine. “Max, you’re not a freak,” I admonish sternly, “Why would you say that about yourself?”
“I can’t do anything,” he whispers miserably, “I don’t have a job. I don’t…I can’t understand Katie’s math when she’s um…re…regrouping… I don’t even know how to read,” he finishes thickly, “I am dumb…I am a freak.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I croon, “Lots of people can’t read and don’t have jobs but that doesn’t make them freaks.” But Max doesn’t look at all buoyed by my reassurance. I decide to attack the heart of the matter. “You want a job, is that it?” He nods. “And you want to learn how to read.” Another nod. A smile tugs at my mouth. “And regroup math,” I add teasingly. He’s nodding vigorously now. “So what if I help you with all that?”
His face lights up brighter than on the fourth of July. “You will?” he enthuses.
“Only if you promise not to call yourself dumb or a freak anymore.”
“Oh, I promise, I promise,” he swears solemnly, “What will we do first?”
“How about reading?” I suggest, “Once you’ve mastered that everything else should be a piece of cake.”
“Tonight,” he exclaims with an excited smile, “Can we start then?”
“We’ll see,” I hedge.
“Oh, please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please!”
I swear sometimes he’s worse than Katie. But, strangely, he’s just as successful at wheedling as she is. With laughing exasperation I concede defeat. “Okay, tonight then.” I lean forward and press a sound kiss to his forehead, but when I pull back again his smile has changed, gone from charmingly boyish to one of soft pleasure.
“I like when you kiss me there,” he breathes and the way he’s says it just sends shudders of warmth down my spine.
“You do?” I breathe right back. He confirms with a slow, emphatic nod. And so…I do it again, staying a little longer this time and letting my lips linger against his skin. “How’s that?” I ask thickly.
His smile remains sweet, his eyes sparkling with something I’ve not seen there before. “I like it when you kiss me here, too,” he tells me, brushing his fingers across his cheek. I obligingly press a kiss there as well, but even I can admit now that there’s no innocence in it. No, the way I drag my mouth across his cheek is meant to be deliberate, provocative. We lock eyes once again. Our breathing is slightly heavier, more rapid. Max’s eyes dip purposely down to my lips and then up again. “Here, too,” he invites, fingering his mouth.
I don’t think about what I’m doing, I just lean in to give him the kiss he’s asked for. The kiss he wants. The one I want.
“So I was able to salvage the kettle corn after--,” Our lips don’t even touch. I whip away at the sound of Isabel’s voice, but not in time. She’s already seen an eyeful and judging from her gaping expression, she’s not happy.
It’s movie night.
We’ve settled into a nice, family routine in the past two months. Though we’re far from conventional we’ve found a way to make things work. I work during the day and take Katie to school in the mornings. Isabel stays home with Max and keeps the house. She isn’t at all Suzy Homemaker, but she’ll do. She’s good enough that I’ve let Rosa go and that’s an extra $150 dollars a week so I’m not complaining. Maria usually gives her a break when Isabel needs one, but for the most part she stays absent from the house, either at work or on a date.
So we’ve got this nice little routine going like I mentioned. I like it very much. Even at this very moment, Isabel is in the kitchen popping kettle corn while I watch Katie and Max watch The Count of Monte Cristo. They’re really endearing to observe together actually. Max has watched half the movie with his hands over his eyes while Katie provides commentary for the parts he misses. He’s having a hard time with the action sequences, bursting out every so often when things get too intense, “Are they fighting again? Are Edmond and Fernand fighting?” He always calms down once Katie reassures him, however. I have to appreciate how she manages to do so without giving the plot away.
Max’s emotional reactions to the movie are adorable to see. He’s only seen The Count of Monte Cristo about four times already, but he still can’t watch the entire thing without cringing behind his hand. Katie’s given up long ago on trying to pry his hand away from his face, hence the running commentary throughout the movie.
I will admit that the relationship dynamic between Max and Katie is somewhat strange. They seem more like siblings than father and daughter. Not such a while ago they actually had a spat over crayons. Katie hadn’t wanted Max using her crayons because he had the habit of peeling off the paper. It drove Katie crazy, so much so that she forbade him to touch them completely. Offended by her edict, Max had, in turn, denied her access to his paint. It had taken tremendous willpower for me not to interfere in their argument, but I knew they had to work out their problems on their own. Thankfully, their silent standoff didn’t last more than an hour before Max broke down and apologized.
However, lately, I think Max is beginning to understand his role in Katie’s life. He looks at her differently now, almost protective…proud even. Even recently he accompanied me into Katie’s room when I tucked her in for the night. He listened while I read her a bedtime story and even gave her a goodnight kiss.
But just when I find myself marveling over his burgeoning maturity, his halting steps toward adulthood he turns to me and is transformed into a little boy once more, demanding his own bedtime story and goodnight kiss. And so I escort him to his room, which is down the hall from mine, and I tuck him into bed the same as Katie. But as I look down at him, all wrapped and snug in bed, nothing about him strikes me as childlike and the way he looks at me then is not as a boy, but a man. I can see that he is changing…ever so slowly, I see it everyday and I’m intrigued…more and more.
I’m still grinning over Max and Katie’s movie antics when I hear a stringent curse sound from the kitchen followed by a series of clatters. I’ve already mentioned that Isabel isn’t exactly at home in the kitchen. Only she would find kettle corn a culinary difficulty. Katie and I exchange worried glances when the unmistakable smell of burning popcorn wafts through the family room. Isabel is obviously having a hard time and the last thing I want is for my kitchen to go up in flames. “Why don’t you go and check on your Aunt Isabel,” I suggest to Katie, “see if she needs anything. I’ll pause the movie until you get back.” I should probably go see to Isabel myself and I know that sending Katie in as a second is rather lame, but I’m looking forward to the alone time with Max, something we rarely have together.
As Katie scampers off for the kitchen I grab for the remote and pause the television. The moment I do Max emits a small sigh of relief and crumples back against the sofa, finally dropping his hand away from his face. I laugh a little at his reaction and ease down next to him on the floor. “If this movie gives you fits why do you insist on watching it?” I ask him wryly.
“I like to see Edmond win it all in the end,” Max tells me, “I just hate to see his friendship with Fernand end so badly.”
“Well, you know they weren’t really friends to begin with,” I remark casually, “Fernand always had resentment towards Edmond. He coveted what he couldn’t have, namely what belonged to Edmond, which meant that Edmond never really knew him to begin with. Their friendship was doomed from the start.”
“Because Fernand wanted Mercedes?” Max wonders aloud.
“No,” I say, “because Fernand was looking for Mercedes to save him while he made no attempt to save himself. He couldn’t be a true friend to Edmond because he was too busy feeling like someone owed him something. That’s why he felt free to take Edmond’s life. There was no loyalty in him, no honor.”
“You sound like you know someone like that,” Max remarks innocently.
His statement totally takes me off guard because I realize, in that second, I’ve been thinking about Max. Not the present Max beside me, but the one he used to be. Though I’ve been analyzing a fictional character it’s really Max who is in the back of my mind as I speak. Like Fernand in The Count of Monte Cristo Max battled with some major trust issues. I can see that clearly now. His lack of faith, of loyalty, of general human kindness had sprung from the same source, his inability to trust and without giving trust you couldn’t give love. It might sound trite but it’s unfortunately true.
That fact is startlingly clear to me now. As I’ve mentioned before I have a tendency to lie to myself and it appears that I have been doing it for a lot longer than I imagined. How ironic that it takes watching a fictional movie for me to finally analyze Max for the man he had been. Some people just came with too much baggage and Max had a boatload. Even after Max and I were married and living happy he still didn’t trust me, not really. I suspect he spent most of that time during our marriage just waiting for me to disappoint him. He expected me to disappoint him and when I did he used that as an excuse to treat me with a complete lack of respect. And the most hateful part of Max’s behavior was that I allowed him to treat me that way and therefore validated the treatment.
Now I can clearly see how the old Max parallels the fictional Fernand almost frighteningly. Similar to Fernand, Max carried the disappointment and disillusionment ingrained in him by his parents into every relationship he entered. He had never been truly open with me, but had hung back, waiting for me to fall and when, inevitably, I did he was unable to deal with the situation rationally. He had idealized our relationship and he had idealized me just as Fernand idealized Mercedes, only to be disappointed when faced with the reality. I had fallen from that pedestal he had perched me so high upon and I had fallen hard.
And the great irony is, that as much as Max was Fernand-like before the shooting, he is just as much Edmond-like after. The man beside me is unimaginably idealistic. There is no pretense in him, whatsoever. He doesn’t play games, doesn’t mince words, but simply says what he feels and expects the same courtesy in return. He actually believes that if he tells someone the truth they will tell him the truth in return. Because he is free of guile he expects to find none in others. His openhearted view of mankind is both refreshing and dangerous. I can’t help but fear he will be damaged by the world’s cynicism as the first Max was.
But then as I look at him now I know that will never happen. I have watched this man, this marvelous man beside me struggle for five minutes just to tie his shoe in a perfect knot and all without losing his smile. He never needs to be prompted for an apology but seems to know when one is needed and gives it without grudge. He is fresh and new and more intuitive than many people realize. More intuitive than even I had realized.
I swallow, realizing he’s watching me expectantly and waiting patiently for a response to his earlier statement. “Yes, I knew someone like that,” I tell him quietly, “but he’s dead now.”
Max’s eyes darken with sympathy and he lays his hand against my own. “How did he die?” he asks me gently.
Again I’m caught off guard. I find it fundamentally weird that I am talking to Max about himself. It feels strange to refer to him as dead when he’s sitting right next to me but apropos as well. In almost the truest sense that Max is dead. Nothing of him really exists anymore aside from Katie and me and Isabel. Even those old hurts and resentments are beginning to fade away as I’m filled with a new feeling of hope and love. Every day I am being drawn ever closer to nuMax. I am falling into him and falling fast.
I stare down at our overlapping fingers, a welcome sense of peace descending over me. I’ve grieved over the past, I’ve denied it, but now I’ve finally let it go. It has no further hold on me and, at last, I am ready to move on. “It doesn’t matter,” I finally whisper in answer to Max’s questions, “It turns out that I barely knew him anyway.”
“But he still hurt you,” Max surmises astutely, his gaze both childlike and penetrating all at once. How does he do that? How does he manage to see down beneath the surface into my very soul? For someone so mentally young, so absurdly naïve about the world he possesses a wisdom that is almost frightening. And the way he’s staring at me right now…I can’t possibly lie to him because I suspect he can still see the truth even without my saying a word.
“Yes, he hurt me.” I say this without bitterness or anger.
“How could he hurt you if you didn’t know him?” Max asks candidly.
“Because I thought I did know him,” I stress, “And I thought I loved him.”
“Did he love you?”
“I used to think so.”
“But not anymore?”
“No.”
Max gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “He just couldn’t see how beautiful you are, Liz,” Max tells me, “Not just on the outside…inside, too. I see that, Liz. I see that you’re beautiful even if he couldn’t.” Once again I’m struck by the irony. First, that he’s trying to comfort me now, that he’s healing the hurt he didn’t remember inflicting and second, that he’s gained this awesome insight with his near death experience. I almost want to chuckle at the paradox. It took a bullet to the head for Maxwell Evans to finally “see” me.
But now I try to laugh off his comment, maybe because it makes me uncomfortable that he’s so straight forward or maybe because I realize these burgeoning feelings I have for him might very well be reciprocated. I give his shoulder a playful shove. “Max, you barely know me,” I say with a smile.
“I know enough,” he responds seriously.
Still, I try to keep the mood light because I can feel the direction our conversation is turning and I know instinctively that once we start down the road we’ll be unable to turn back. “What do you think you know about me?” I tease him.
“I know you treat me like a person,” he reveals with a shuddering sigh, “I know you never make me feel like I’m stupid or slow. You don’t treat me like a kid even when I act like one. I like that.”
“Max, you don’t act like a kid,” I tell him softly. My heart has begun a slow thumping of anticipation. Our voices have lowered to hush whispers, our faces only within inches of each other’s.
Max shakes his head in denial. “Normal people don’t ask for bedtime stories,” he tells me, “I know that. I just like the sound of your voice when you read to me. And I like having you with me at night…and asking you to read is the only way I can think of to get you to stay with me.”
Is this man for real or will I wake up soon from some bizarre fantasy? I can hardly believe it, even now, as he’s looking at me like I’m something rare and fine and precious. Never, never in our entire marriage, even when it was good, has Max ever looked at me this way. It’s a “weak in the knees” sort of look, a “heart-hammering” sort of look, a “falling in love” sort of look. I touch his cheek gingerly and trace my fingers along the outline of his soft lips. “Max, we’re friends,” I tell him, “all you have to do is ask me to stay with you and I will.”
He smiles at me a little sadly. “You’re my only friend, Liz.”
“That’s not true,” I argue softly, “You’ve got Michael and Isabel and all the people back at the center. They love you, Max.”
Again he shakes his head in adamant disbelief. “They think I’m dumb,” he says.
“No one thinks you’re dumb.”
“I can hear people talking, Liz,” Max replies flatly, “They think I’m a freak.” He hangs his head a little then. “Maybe I am,” he whispers.
At this point I frame his face with my hands and force his gaze to mine. “Max, you’re not a freak,” I admonish sternly, “Why would you say that about yourself?”
“I can’t do anything,” he whispers miserably, “I don’t have a job. I don’t…I can’t understand Katie’s math when she’s um…re…regrouping… I don’t even know how to read,” he finishes thickly, “I am dumb…I am a freak.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I croon, “Lots of people can’t read and don’t have jobs but that doesn’t make them freaks.” But Max doesn’t look at all buoyed by my reassurance. I decide to attack the heart of the matter. “You want a job, is that it?” He nods. “And you want to learn how to read.” Another nod. A smile tugs at my mouth. “And regroup math,” I add teasingly. He’s nodding vigorously now. “So what if I help you with all that?”
His face lights up brighter than on the fourth of July. “You will?” he enthuses.
“Only if you promise not to call yourself dumb or a freak anymore.”
“Oh, I promise, I promise,” he swears solemnly, “What will we do first?”
“How about reading?” I suggest, “Once you’ve mastered that everything else should be a piece of cake.”
“Tonight,” he exclaims with an excited smile, “Can we start then?”
“We’ll see,” I hedge.
“Oh, please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please!”
I swear sometimes he’s worse than Katie. But, strangely, he’s just as successful at wheedling as she is. With laughing exasperation I concede defeat. “Okay, tonight then.” I lean forward and press a sound kiss to his forehead, but when I pull back again his smile has changed, gone from charmingly boyish to one of soft pleasure.
“I like when you kiss me there,” he breathes and the way he’s says it just sends shudders of warmth down my spine.
“You do?” I breathe right back. He confirms with a slow, emphatic nod. And so…I do it again, staying a little longer this time and letting my lips linger against his skin. “How’s that?” I ask thickly.
His smile remains sweet, his eyes sparkling with something I’ve not seen there before. “I like it when you kiss me here, too,” he tells me, brushing his fingers across his cheek. I obligingly press a kiss there as well, but even I can admit now that there’s no innocence in it. No, the way I drag my mouth across his cheek is meant to be deliberate, provocative. We lock eyes once again. Our breathing is slightly heavier, more rapid. Max’s eyes dip purposely down to my lips and then up again. “Here, too,” he invites, fingering his mouth.
I don’t think about what I’m doing, I just lean in to give him the kiss he’s asked for. The kiss he wants. The one I want.
“So I was able to salvage the kettle corn after--,” Our lips don’t even touch. I whip away at the sound of Isabel’s voice, but not in time. She’s already seen an eyeful and judging from her gaping expression, she’s not happy.
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Deejonaise
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- Posts: 385
- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
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Chapter 15
“What the hell were you thinking?”
I’ve been waiting for this all night. Throughout the remainder of the movie I could feel Isabel’s eyes boring into me disapprovingly. She’s been waiting for the opportunity to pounce and now with Max tucking Katie into bed her moment has finally arrived. I continue vigorously scrubbing a pot in a sink of fading dish suds; anything to direct my attention from the fact Isabel is burning mad.
“Don’t ignore me, Elizabeth!” Why do people think calling me by my full name is intimidating? If anything, it irritates the hell out of me.
I finally throw down the scrubber and face her, heaving a disgusted sigh as I do. “I’m really not up for a lecture, Isabel,” I intone flatly, “Max and I are both adults--,”
“Adults?” Isabel exclaims incredulously before I can get my indignation worked up to a righteous pitch, “He has the mind of an eight year old, Liz! Max is far from being an adult!”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I retort coldly, “Just because you treat Max like a child doesn’t make him one.” I know she’s angry and the last thing I should do is antagonize her. In the back of my mind I know that maybe my actions were rash, but simultaneously I can’t regret them. Not even with Isabel staring at me as if I’m a pedophile. But it’s that look, that shattered, appalled look, which prompts me to make excuses for myself. “We didn’t really kiss, you know,” I say inanely.
If I didn’t make her angry before, she is definitely furious now. Her face is almost purple with the emotion and, for one split second, while I’m looking at her I think: apoplexy. The last thing I want is for Isabel to drop dead of a stroke in the middle of my kitchen. When she finally gathers the wherewithal to speak her words are strangled with suppressed fury. “Max is no where near ready for intimacy, Liz! God, think! He’s like a little kid! What would have happened if you had kissed him? Did you think about how he might have reacted?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “He might have liked it,” I reply simply. Okay, on the outside I might appear calm and resolute but internally I’m quivering like a jellyfish. Isabel’s words are starting to strike close now. The euphoria of nearly tasting Max’s lips is fading and slowly being replaced with the heavy burden of reality. She’s right and I know it. Max doesn’t have any concept of intimacy. Only recently did he discover that he was Katie’s father. The conclusion still has yet to penetrate that if he’s Katie’s father and I’m Katie’s mother we made her together. He’s at the point where he thinks it’s just cool she calls him “Dad.”
And though he’s the one who invited the kiss in the first place I have to consider whether he truly understood the level of intimacy he was stepping into. For the moment, I step outside myself to review the situation with unemotional logic. I have fallen into the habit of giving Max a routine goodnight kiss. It’s a dry, sexless kiss very much like the ones I give Katie at night, reserved only for a child. That’s all it has ever been. A quick smack to his mouth, a firm tug of his blankets so that they’re secure under his chin, and I’m out of there. But that had been far from my intention tonight.
Tonight hadn’t been meant to be dry or sexless at all. I was intent on tasting him again; on reacquainting myself with the interior of his mouth to discover if his flavor was still the same. Though it’s nuMax’s mouth I want to taste it’s my dead husband’s kiss that I remember. Maybe that’s part of the appeal. Not because I want to share a kiss with a dead man, but because sometimes, despite my best intentions, my feelings for the two men still intertwine. There are times I can’t look at this Max without thinking of the other. A kiss would differentiate between the two like nothing else would. A kiss would bring home once and for always that the two men are nothing alike.
There’s my motivation, pure and simple, but as I stare into Isabel’s angry brown eyes I know the explanation won’t fly with her. She’ll still paint me as some foolish, irresponsible idiot because, in seeking to prove something to myself, I compromised Max in the process. I realize there’s nothing I can say to her to make this better so I simply concede defeat. There’s no need to stand and waste my breath trying to convince her anyway. I know what’s truly in my own heart and that’s all that matters.
I dry my hands on the nearest dishtowel. “Okay, maybe you’re right,” I concede, “Maybe I was moving a little fast. But I wasn’t planning anything…it just happened.”
“It just happened?” Isabel balks, “How the hell does it ‘just happen’?”
I force myself to remain calm, despite the fact my hackles are rising. “Isabel, get a grip,” I order her softly, “Max is still my husband, remember? I’m not going to do anything to hurt him.”
“Maybe not intentionally,” Isabel grumbles.
“Not ever.” She makes no response to this. “Isabel, I love your brother…you know that. I would have never stayed through all this mess if I didn’t. But you need to understand that I plan on rebuilding my marriage with him, every part of it…that’s what I want. And what happens from there is our business and no one else’s.”
“Liz, he’s not even the same person,” Isabel whispers, aghast.
I can see that I’ve stunned her yet again. It’s never even crossed her mind that I might want to repair my marriage with Max or that I would want to be intimate with him. I, then, have to wonder what the hell she thinks I’ve been trying to accomplish all this time. Did she think it was all for Katie? It’s true that I want Max to be there and I want them to have a relationship but I’m not a martyr. No way! I want Max for myself as well. And that appalls her. I don’t realize it until that very second. “He’s still a man, Isabel,” I counter gently, “A tender, sweet, wonderful man and I think I’m falling in love with that man.”
“You’re falling in love with him?” She grimaces at the thought. “Liz, you’re confused.”
“No, I’m not,” I return, my conviction hard as marble, “When you look at Max you see a broken man who requires care for the rest of his life, but I see a man full of hopes and dreams and aspirations, Isabel. I see a man, a brand new man…the man Max is trying to become.”
“Liz,” Isabel begins, all but gaping at me, “We live in the real world here and you’ve obviously taken a break from it. Wake up!” She tunnels her fingers through her hair in an agitated gesture before closing her eyes and heaving a heavy sigh. “Don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re idealizing Max. You’re not seeing him for who he really is, Liz.”
“And who is he really?” I retort acerbically. I have only too good an idea just what she’s thinks of Max. The truth is written all over her face. She’s of the majority; the ones that whisper behind Max’s back and make him feel like a freak. Isabel has already made up her mind that Max is a lost cause. She’s already decided that he’s incapable of learning to take care of himself again. Isabel can’t see the milestones he’s reached. All she can see is what he isn’t. He isn’t a high-powered, defense attorney, he isn’t the charming socialite, he isn’t the brother she’s known all her life. She can’t see the person he’s becoming because she’s too preoccupied remembering the man he used to be.
Isabel has no confidence in the new Max. She’s never extended it because she expects him to fall short of the image she held for her brother. She has no faith in this Max, not really. Maybe even part of her resents his presence…because he’s taken her brother’s place. But me…I don’t feel that way. I’m full of faith. Max has shown me everyday that he’s a fighter and that he’ll keep fighting until he has what he wants. The old Max never had that drive. If he had our marriage wouldn’t have ended in such a train wreck.
“Isabel?” I say when she doesn’t respond to my question right away, “He’s your brother…”
“He’s not my brother,” she sobs, “My brother died six months ago…I don’t know who that man is.”
“Do you want to?” I inquire softly. She just hangs her head as if she can’t answer me, or she doesn’t want to. “Isabel, he needs you…”
“See that’s the thing,” Isabel cries, “Max never needed anyone! He hated needing people! He would hate being taken care of like some damned baby!”
“Well, if you pulled your head out of your ass long enough to see you might notice that this Max hates that, too!” I shout angrily. Her face drains of color with my outburst and I instantly regret my harsh tone. I didn’t set out to hurt her feelings. That’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve just realized that all this time when I’ve been sorting out my confusion poor Isabel has been just as confused. She’s so torn between responsibility and resentment that it’s making her sick. She’s shaking so badly now that she has to grip the back of a chair to steady herself and not even that seems to help.
I approach her slowly and cradle her shoulders in my arms. “You’ve never taken the time to get to know him, Isabel,” I tell her in a much gentler tone, “You’re bustling around here, cooking his meals, ironing his clothes, running his baths, but you never take time to just sit down and talk to him.”
She weeps harshly and I can tell she’s been stuffing her feelings for a long time now. “Wh…what am I…I supposed to s…say to him?” she sniffles.
“What do you talk to Katie about?”
Isabel thinks a moment, dabbing at her wet cheeks with the edge of her sweater. “Her schoolwork,” she says, “Teachers…what she likes to do in her spare time…just chit chat.”
“Have you ever considered chit-chatting with Max?” She clearly finds the idea ludicrous. The appalled expression on her face speaks volumes. “I’m serious, Isabel. He’s just like any other person. And you’re the one always telling me that he’s not Max…well, you have to get to know the person he is now.”
“You talk like you do,” Isabel observes.
“I’m learning,” I admit, “I know he likes to paint and that he has a brilliant imagination. He hates sitting in the house day in and day out and he wants to find a job.”
“He wants to what?” I have to snicker at her gaping expression of disbelief.
“He want to find a job,” I emphasize again, “Maybe you can help him with that.”
“B…But what can he do?” Isabel stammers dubiously.
“Anything you teach him,” I insist.
“What if he can’t learn?”
I jerk my arms from her shoulders and scowl at her. “It’s exactly that kind of attitude that has Max thinking he’s stupid!” I snap irately, “He’s a normal person, Isabel! He can learn just like the rest of us.” Again I know my words drive home because she looks positively ashamed when I stop speaking.
“I haven’t been fair to him,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“No, you haven’t,” I agree.
“I’ll make it up to him,” she continues on absently.
“Yeah, do that.”
“I need to go,” Isabel mutters, stumbling form the kitchen, “I need to think.”
I watch her drift from the kitchen; feeling tendrils of remorse prickle my spine. I wasn’t my intention to make her feel bad, but to simply make her think. Isabel has been in denial and she probably would have continued on in denial had I not said anything to her. I realize that Isabel is foundering emotionally. She’s been fighting to find her way for months now, but in her determination to do so she’s unwittingly alienated Max in the process. And what’s worse, Max feels her apathy. He knows she’s indifferent and it breaks his heart. It’s so ironic that all this time Isabel’s been concerned that I might harm Max in some way…
With a sad shake of my head I turn towards the sink once more, but the sound of my name being called softly stops me. I spin around once more to find Max framed in the doorway, clutching a book against his chest. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispers. His eyes are shadowed and I know there’s something going on there, but he’s trying to hide it. He holds out his book tentatively. The Cat in the Hat. “You said you’d teach me to read, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Max,” I say regretfully, “I just got caught up talking with Isabel.”
“I know…I heard you.”
And then it finally hits me why he looks so miserable. He heard every single word we said. I groan inwardly. I have no idea how I can salvage this. “How long have you been standing there, Max?” I ask him gently.
“Awhile,” he admits. He averts his head, chewing at his lower lip. “I told you she thought I was stupid.”
“She doesn’t think you’re stupid, Max,” I insist.
He actually smiles at that. “Now you think I’m stupid,” he states, leveling with eyes of liquid gold. “I know how she feels about me and it doesn’t matter,” he tells me, “I’m gonna prove her wrong. I’m gonna prove all of them wrong. I can learn like everyone else…just like you said. I’m not stupid.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back mutinously. I don’t want Max to feel that I pity him. In reality, I couldn’t be more proud of him. “You’re right,” I say shakily, “You’re not stupid, Max.” I drift closer to him and pluck his book from his fingers, a small smile playing over my mouth. “In fact, stupid isn’t even a word I’d use to describe you, Max.”
He grins down at me, the shadows in his eyes replaced with a teasing sparkle. That’s my Max, never dwell on the negative, never obsess over the things you can’t change. “What words would you use to describe me?” he asks, almost flirtatiously.
His proximity is exhilarating. He’s so close that I can smell the clean scent of soap on his skin, so close that his breath is gently stirring the hair at my temples. I try not to show just how much his presence is flustering me but the truth is I can feel my heart begin to flutter in my chest like a frightened bird. My words are a whisper when I finally manage to reply. “I think you’re sweet and funny and charming…breathtaking…wonderful…I think you’re my friend, Max.”
“I am your friend,” he says seriously, “I’m your best friend and you’re mine.”
“That’s right,” I breathe. I’m not sure where this conversation is going, but there’s no mistaking that the distance between us now is just mere inches. His mouth hovers above mine, so close that when he speaks his breath rushes against my face. “Max?” I query, falling into his stare, drowning in the golden swirls of his eyes.
“You didn’t give me a good-night kiss tonight,” he accuses softly. Why do those seven words seem loaded with meaning? Why do I feel that he’s implying more than a simple peck? Why have butterflies suddenly taken flight in my belly at the mere thought that he might mean something more?
I try to play it cool, but my internal parts are jelly. “Okay,” I murmur, leaning up on my tiptoes to kiss his lips. The contact is fleeting and light but the moment passes between us like an electrical current. When I pull back I find Max watching me with the same intense look only now his eyes are shadowed with something else, something akin to…disappointment? Before I can stop myself I’m leaning in once more. This time I stay longer, feeling his lips soften against mine. His hands flutter up to grasp my shoulders then slide down to cradle my back and bring me closer. He opens his mouth ever so slightly for the dipping of my tongue. But the moment I taste him intimately he rears back, clearly surprised and undone by my boldness. His eyes glitter in the dim light of the kitchen. “Max?”
He steps away from me completely then, his hands fisted at his sides. Even in the darkness I can distinguish the faint bloom of color across his perfect cheekbones. “I should go to bed,” he murmurs with downcast eyes.
Torn between exhilaration over the brief kiss and anguish that I might have somehow alienated him I force lightness into my tone when I say, “I thought you wanted me to teach you how to read.”
“I’ve learned enough tonight,” he replies. And then he lifts his eyes, the teasing sparkle there once more, a sexy, half-smile ghosting his lips. He turns away to head for his bedroom but at the last moment tosses an appraising glance at me over his shoulder. “Thanks, Liz.” And there’s something blatantly sexual about the way he says it.
I return to the sink to wash up the remaining dishes, a grin on my face the entire time.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
I’ve been waiting for this all night. Throughout the remainder of the movie I could feel Isabel’s eyes boring into me disapprovingly. She’s been waiting for the opportunity to pounce and now with Max tucking Katie into bed her moment has finally arrived. I continue vigorously scrubbing a pot in a sink of fading dish suds; anything to direct my attention from the fact Isabel is burning mad.
“Don’t ignore me, Elizabeth!” Why do people think calling me by my full name is intimidating? If anything, it irritates the hell out of me.
I finally throw down the scrubber and face her, heaving a disgusted sigh as I do. “I’m really not up for a lecture, Isabel,” I intone flatly, “Max and I are both adults--,”
“Adults?” Isabel exclaims incredulously before I can get my indignation worked up to a righteous pitch, “He has the mind of an eight year old, Liz! Max is far from being an adult!”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I retort coldly, “Just because you treat Max like a child doesn’t make him one.” I know she’s angry and the last thing I should do is antagonize her. In the back of my mind I know that maybe my actions were rash, but simultaneously I can’t regret them. Not even with Isabel staring at me as if I’m a pedophile. But it’s that look, that shattered, appalled look, which prompts me to make excuses for myself. “We didn’t really kiss, you know,” I say inanely.
If I didn’t make her angry before, she is definitely furious now. Her face is almost purple with the emotion and, for one split second, while I’m looking at her I think: apoplexy. The last thing I want is for Isabel to drop dead of a stroke in the middle of my kitchen. When she finally gathers the wherewithal to speak her words are strangled with suppressed fury. “Max is no where near ready for intimacy, Liz! God, think! He’s like a little kid! What would have happened if you had kissed him? Did you think about how he might have reacted?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “He might have liked it,” I reply simply. Okay, on the outside I might appear calm and resolute but internally I’m quivering like a jellyfish. Isabel’s words are starting to strike close now. The euphoria of nearly tasting Max’s lips is fading and slowly being replaced with the heavy burden of reality. She’s right and I know it. Max doesn’t have any concept of intimacy. Only recently did he discover that he was Katie’s father. The conclusion still has yet to penetrate that if he’s Katie’s father and I’m Katie’s mother we made her together. He’s at the point where he thinks it’s just cool she calls him “Dad.”
And though he’s the one who invited the kiss in the first place I have to consider whether he truly understood the level of intimacy he was stepping into. For the moment, I step outside myself to review the situation with unemotional logic. I have fallen into the habit of giving Max a routine goodnight kiss. It’s a dry, sexless kiss very much like the ones I give Katie at night, reserved only for a child. That’s all it has ever been. A quick smack to his mouth, a firm tug of his blankets so that they’re secure under his chin, and I’m out of there. But that had been far from my intention tonight.
Tonight hadn’t been meant to be dry or sexless at all. I was intent on tasting him again; on reacquainting myself with the interior of his mouth to discover if his flavor was still the same. Though it’s nuMax’s mouth I want to taste it’s my dead husband’s kiss that I remember. Maybe that’s part of the appeal. Not because I want to share a kiss with a dead man, but because sometimes, despite my best intentions, my feelings for the two men still intertwine. There are times I can’t look at this Max without thinking of the other. A kiss would differentiate between the two like nothing else would. A kiss would bring home once and for always that the two men are nothing alike.
There’s my motivation, pure and simple, but as I stare into Isabel’s angry brown eyes I know the explanation won’t fly with her. She’ll still paint me as some foolish, irresponsible idiot because, in seeking to prove something to myself, I compromised Max in the process. I realize there’s nothing I can say to her to make this better so I simply concede defeat. There’s no need to stand and waste my breath trying to convince her anyway. I know what’s truly in my own heart and that’s all that matters.
I dry my hands on the nearest dishtowel. “Okay, maybe you’re right,” I concede, “Maybe I was moving a little fast. But I wasn’t planning anything…it just happened.”
“It just happened?” Isabel balks, “How the hell does it ‘just happen’?”
I force myself to remain calm, despite the fact my hackles are rising. “Isabel, get a grip,” I order her softly, “Max is still my husband, remember? I’m not going to do anything to hurt him.”
“Maybe not intentionally,” Isabel grumbles.
“Not ever.” She makes no response to this. “Isabel, I love your brother…you know that. I would have never stayed through all this mess if I didn’t. But you need to understand that I plan on rebuilding my marriage with him, every part of it…that’s what I want. And what happens from there is our business and no one else’s.”
“Liz, he’s not even the same person,” Isabel whispers, aghast.
I can see that I’ve stunned her yet again. It’s never even crossed her mind that I might want to repair my marriage with Max or that I would want to be intimate with him. I, then, have to wonder what the hell she thinks I’ve been trying to accomplish all this time. Did she think it was all for Katie? It’s true that I want Max to be there and I want them to have a relationship but I’m not a martyr. No way! I want Max for myself as well. And that appalls her. I don’t realize it until that very second. “He’s still a man, Isabel,” I counter gently, “A tender, sweet, wonderful man and I think I’m falling in love with that man.”
“You’re falling in love with him?” She grimaces at the thought. “Liz, you’re confused.”
“No, I’m not,” I return, my conviction hard as marble, “When you look at Max you see a broken man who requires care for the rest of his life, but I see a man full of hopes and dreams and aspirations, Isabel. I see a man, a brand new man…the man Max is trying to become.”
“Liz,” Isabel begins, all but gaping at me, “We live in the real world here and you’ve obviously taken a break from it. Wake up!” She tunnels her fingers through her hair in an agitated gesture before closing her eyes and heaving a heavy sigh. “Don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re idealizing Max. You’re not seeing him for who he really is, Liz.”
“And who is he really?” I retort acerbically. I have only too good an idea just what she’s thinks of Max. The truth is written all over her face. She’s of the majority; the ones that whisper behind Max’s back and make him feel like a freak. Isabel has already made up her mind that Max is a lost cause. She’s already decided that he’s incapable of learning to take care of himself again. Isabel can’t see the milestones he’s reached. All she can see is what he isn’t. He isn’t a high-powered, defense attorney, he isn’t the charming socialite, he isn’t the brother she’s known all her life. She can’t see the person he’s becoming because she’s too preoccupied remembering the man he used to be.
Isabel has no confidence in the new Max. She’s never extended it because she expects him to fall short of the image she held for her brother. She has no faith in this Max, not really. Maybe even part of her resents his presence…because he’s taken her brother’s place. But me…I don’t feel that way. I’m full of faith. Max has shown me everyday that he’s a fighter and that he’ll keep fighting until he has what he wants. The old Max never had that drive. If he had our marriage wouldn’t have ended in such a train wreck.
“Isabel?” I say when she doesn’t respond to my question right away, “He’s your brother…”
“He’s not my brother,” she sobs, “My brother died six months ago…I don’t know who that man is.”
“Do you want to?” I inquire softly. She just hangs her head as if she can’t answer me, or she doesn’t want to. “Isabel, he needs you…”
“See that’s the thing,” Isabel cries, “Max never needed anyone! He hated needing people! He would hate being taken care of like some damned baby!”
“Well, if you pulled your head out of your ass long enough to see you might notice that this Max hates that, too!” I shout angrily. Her face drains of color with my outburst and I instantly regret my harsh tone. I didn’t set out to hurt her feelings. That’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve just realized that all this time when I’ve been sorting out my confusion poor Isabel has been just as confused. She’s so torn between responsibility and resentment that it’s making her sick. She’s shaking so badly now that she has to grip the back of a chair to steady herself and not even that seems to help.
I approach her slowly and cradle her shoulders in my arms. “You’ve never taken the time to get to know him, Isabel,” I tell her in a much gentler tone, “You’re bustling around here, cooking his meals, ironing his clothes, running his baths, but you never take time to just sit down and talk to him.”
She weeps harshly and I can tell she’s been stuffing her feelings for a long time now. “Wh…what am I…I supposed to s…say to him?” she sniffles.
“What do you talk to Katie about?”
Isabel thinks a moment, dabbing at her wet cheeks with the edge of her sweater. “Her schoolwork,” she says, “Teachers…what she likes to do in her spare time…just chit chat.”
“Have you ever considered chit-chatting with Max?” She clearly finds the idea ludicrous. The appalled expression on her face speaks volumes. “I’m serious, Isabel. He’s just like any other person. And you’re the one always telling me that he’s not Max…well, you have to get to know the person he is now.”
“You talk like you do,” Isabel observes.
“I’m learning,” I admit, “I know he likes to paint and that he has a brilliant imagination. He hates sitting in the house day in and day out and he wants to find a job.”
“He wants to what?” I have to snicker at her gaping expression of disbelief.
“He want to find a job,” I emphasize again, “Maybe you can help him with that.”
“B…But what can he do?” Isabel stammers dubiously.
“Anything you teach him,” I insist.
“What if he can’t learn?”
I jerk my arms from her shoulders and scowl at her. “It’s exactly that kind of attitude that has Max thinking he’s stupid!” I snap irately, “He’s a normal person, Isabel! He can learn just like the rest of us.” Again I know my words drive home because she looks positively ashamed when I stop speaking.
“I haven’t been fair to him,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“No, you haven’t,” I agree.
“I’ll make it up to him,” she continues on absently.
“Yeah, do that.”
“I need to go,” Isabel mutters, stumbling form the kitchen, “I need to think.”
I watch her drift from the kitchen; feeling tendrils of remorse prickle my spine. I wasn’t my intention to make her feel bad, but to simply make her think. Isabel has been in denial and she probably would have continued on in denial had I not said anything to her. I realize that Isabel is foundering emotionally. She’s been fighting to find her way for months now, but in her determination to do so she’s unwittingly alienated Max in the process. And what’s worse, Max feels her apathy. He knows she’s indifferent and it breaks his heart. It’s so ironic that all this time Isabel’s been concerned that I might harm Max in some way…
With a sad shake of my head I turn towards the sink once more, but the sound of my name being called softly stops me. I spin around once more to find Max framed in the doorway, clutching a book against his chest. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispers. His eyes are shadowed and I know there’s something going on there, but he’s trying to hide it. He holds out his book tentatively. The Cat in the Hat. “You said you’d teach me to read, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Max,” I say regretfully, “I just got caught up talking with Isabel.”
“I know…I heard you.”
And then it finally hits me why he looks so miserable. He heard every single word we said. I groan inwardly. I have no idea how I can salvage this. “How long have you been standing there, Max?” I ask him gently.
“Awhile,” he admits. He averts his head, chewing at his lower lip. “I told you she thought I was stupid.”
“She doesn’t think you’re stupid, Max,” I insist.
He actually smiles at that. “Now you think I’m stupid,” he states, leveling with eyes of liquid gold. “I know how she feels about me and it doesn’t matter,” he tells me, “I’m gonna prove her wrong. I’m gonna prove all of them wrong. I can learn like everyone else…just like you said. I’m not stupid.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back mutinously. I don’t want Max to feel that I pity him. In reality, I couldn’t be more proud of him. “You’re right,” I say shakily, “You’re not stupid, Max.” I drift closer to him and pluck his book from his fingers, a small smile playing over my mouth. “In fact, stupid isn’t even a word I’d use to describe you, Max.”
He grins down at me, the shadows in his eyes replaced with a teasing sparkle. That’s my Max, never dwell on the negative, never obsess over the things you can’t change. “What words would you use to describe me?” he asks, almost flirtatiously.
His proximity is exhilarating. He’s so close that I can smell the clean scent of soap on his skin, so close that his breath is gently stirring the hair at my temples. I try not to show just how much his presence is flustering me but the truth is I can feel my heart begin to flutter in my chest like a frightened bird. My words are a whisper when I finally manage to reply. “I think you’re sweet and funny and charming…breathtaking…wonderful…I think you’re my friend, Max.”
“I am your friend,” he says seriously, “I’m your best friend and you’re mine.”
“That’s right,” I breathe. I’m not sure where this conversation is going, but there’s no mistaking that the distance between us now is just mere inches. His mouth hovers above mine, so close that when he speaks his breath rushes against my face. “Max?” I query, falling into his stare, drowning in the golden swirls of his eyes.
“You didn’t give me a good-night kiss tonight,” he accuses softly. Why do those seven words seem loaded with meaning? Why do I feel that he’s implying more than a simple peck? Why have butterflies suddenly taken flight in my belly at the mere thought that he might mean something more?
I try to play it cool, but my internal parts are jelly. “Okay,” I murmur, leaning up on my tiptoes to kiss his lips. The contact is fleeting and light but the moment passes between us like an electrical current. When I pull back I find Max watching me with the same intense look only now his eyes are shadowed with something else, something akin to…disappointment? Before I can stop myself I’m leaning in once more. This time I stay longer, feeling his lips soften against mine. His hands flutter up to grasp my shoulders then slide down to cradle my back and bring me closer. He opens his mouth ever so slightly for the dipping of my tongue. But the moment I taste him intimately he rears back, clearly surprised and undone by my boldness. His eyes glitter in the dim light of the kitchen. “Max?”
He steps away from me completely then, his hands fisted at his sides. Even in the darkness I can distinguish the faint bloom of color across his perfect cheekbones. “I should go to bed,” he murmurs with downcast eyes.
Torn between exhilaration over the brief kiss and anguish that I might have somehow alienated him I force lightness into my tone when I say, “I thought you wanted me to teach you how to read.”
“I’ve learned enough tonight,” he replies. And then he lifts his eyes, the teasing sparkle there once more, a sexy, half-smile ghosting his lips. He turns away to head for his bedroom but at the last moment tosses an appraising glance at me over his shoulder. “Thanks, Liz.” And there’s something blatantly sexual about the way he says it.
I return to the sink to wash up the remaining dishes, a grin on my face the entire time.
-
Deejonaise
- Addicted Roswellian
- Posts: 385
- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
- Location: On my rusty dusty...
Chapter 16
“Guess who?”
“Um…the Jolly Green Giant?” I venture with a smile. Although his hands are half covering my face I’m quite aware of who it is. I’m aware, but surprised nonetheless. I twist around in his arms, pulling his hands from my eyes as I do. “Max, what are you doing here?” I ask in exasperation though there’s no denying that I’m glad to see him.
He smiles at me, all boyish charm and sweetness and his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I missed you,” he explains with a shrug, “I wanted to come see where you work. This school is big,” he continues casually, “It’s easy to get lost.”
He’s so adorable right then that I can’t be annoyed with him even though I know without asking that he’s here alone. And his timing is actually quite impeccable. Had he come fifteen minutes earlier I would have been just finishing up a class, but now he’s caught me during my lunch period, thereby giving me plenty of time to visit with him. I’m so giddy with the prospect that I momentarily forget he’s not supposed to be there in the first place.
We stand alone in the front of an empty classroom, grinning at one another like idiots. My eyes scan over his beautiful face. I let my gaze linger over his sensual mouth and recall our kiss from the other night. When I lift my gaze to meet his again the look in his golden eyes has changed, teasing mischief giving way to something darker. I know that he is thinking of our kiss just as I am. The sudden tenseness that fills the air between us forcefully reminds me that he shouldn’t be here with me in the first place. “Does Isabel know you’re here, Max?” I ask him, turning away to shuffle my students’ papers into my satchel. Anything to avoid looking into those knowing eyes.
“I’m not a kid,” he retorts crossly, “I don’t have to run everything I do past Isabel!”
Okay, tensions have been high since our kiss in the kitchen. I’ve got to give Isabel credit. She has been fighting rather hard, but Max seems reluctant to give her a chance. At first his stubborn refusal had me worried because I thought it might be some residual feelings that surfaced from who he was before. That Max hadn’t found it so easy to forgive either and he had withheld his forgiveness out of malice and spite. He had wanted to hurt because he hurt and I was afraid that such might have been nuMax’s motivation as well. And then I looked into his eyes…
He doesn’t want to hold Isabel off. I can tell he’s merely forcing himself to do it because he’s afraid of being hurt again. However, it’s clear he wants to trust Isabel. He wants to believe in her like he believes in me. His wading back in now, taking his time in learning to trust her again. Isabel is discouraged by the slow progress they seem to be making. Though she’s been handling most of Max’s tutorials while I’m at work she’s complained to me quite often that Max barely says a word to her during that time.
Isabel has this horrible habit of focusing on the negative while completely negating the positive. She fails to realize that, although Max isn’t talkative during her tutorials with him, he is, at least, willing to let her teach him. He’s willing to hear what she has to say. She doesn’t know that Max can’t really hold a grudge, no matter how much he tries. She doesn’t know how it tears him up to keep the pretense.
Presently, I sigh and brush his bangs away from his forehead. “Max,” I say in my sternest mother tone, “you can’t just leave the house without telling Isabel where you’re going. She’ll be worried…have you stopped to think of that?” My answer is plain on his face. Clearly, it has never crossed his mind that Isabel might worry for him. In fact, he appears dumbfounded by the very idea. Does he find it impossible to believe that people would actually care about him? Does he believe himself so insignificant that his absence won’t be noted? I watch as a shadow of shame and sadness fall over Max’s eyes and I know that is exactly what he thinks.
I realize I have only twenty more minutes left on my lunchbreak and I have yet to eat anything. However, I can’t ignore the forlorn expression on Max’s face and I can’t send him home until I fix what’s wrong. He’s walking around with hurt feelings when there is really no need for it.
Grabbing hold of his hand, I lead him over to a pair of empty desks in the far corner of my classroom. Only briefly does it cross my mind to consider how foolish we must appear crowded into the tiny seats. At the moment, it doesn’t seem to matter much at all. I can only focus on Max and healing his bruised feelings.
“Max, I know you heard some of the things Isabel said about you the other night,” I begin tentatively. The miserable way he hangs his head tells me my suspicions are correct. If I was at all uncertain before the shameful glisten in his eyes quells any lingering doubt. “How do you feel about that?”
“She doesn’t like me,” Max whispers despondently, “She doesn’t think I’m her brother.”
“You’re very different from how you were before your accident,” I tell him gently, “It’s hard for Isabel right now. She’s still trying to adjust.”
“But I tried to ask her about what he was like…you know, her brother…and she just completely had a cow,” Max explains in bewilderment.
I have to laugh at his phrasing as well as his aggravated expression. “Had a cow?” I inquire with brows raised in amusement.
Max just shrugs. “That’s what Katie says about you whenever you flip out about her room not being clean,” he says casually, “I’ve seen you, Liz. You do have a cow, not one as big as Isabel’s but it’s definitely a cow.”
Again I find myself laughing. “Okay, but we’re not talking about me right now,” I say, trying to redirect the conversation to a more serious tone. “Isabel doesn’t dislike you, Max, she just needs to get to know you.”
“She’d rather have her brother,” Max returns astutely.
“Probably,” I admit honestly. There’s no point in lying to him. He can see through me quite easily and I will only succeed in damaging his trust in me if I try to mislead him. “It’s nothing personal against you.”
“I must have been some guy before my accident,” Max mutters under his breath. You can say that again, I think when I hear him. I can’t fathom how Isabel puts so much stock in a lying, cheating bastard. But then she has a different view of her brother than I do. “What was I like before, Liz?” Max asks me suddenly, his brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown. “What was so great that Isabel can’t like me the way I am now?”
I’ve been dreading this very question for a long time now. We’ve managed to avoid it up until this point and, thankfully, Max has never pushed the issue. All the old pictures and memorabilia had been packed away. At the time I had believed my actions had been based solely on what was in Max’s best interests. Now, however, I can recognize them as cowardice. I had wanted to put the past away, to hide from it. I had hoped that it would fade from our lives just as easily as it had faded from Max’s memory. And it had…for a while. But I should have known better than to expect it to disappear completely.
I struggle to answer Max’s question, but I can’t find the words, don’t know if I want to. “I…uh…I…I…” All I can do is stammer and Max is watching me oddly, trying to puzzle out in his head what has thrown me into such a quandary.
“You knew me before, didn’t you?” he fires out after a moment, his eyes wide with the knowledge.
“Max, uh…”
“Katie calls me Dad,” he states firmly, leaning back in his chair to appraise me with narrowed eyes, “I’m not stupid, Liz…Michael told me a lot during our sessions. I know where babies come from and I know we made Katie together.”
“Max,” I try again to halt the conversation. A quick glance at the clock beyond his shoulder alerts me that my break period is almost done and soon my second graders will be returning from lunch with my student teacher. I offer him a pleading look. “Can we talk about this later?”
But Max’s mind is already working fast and furious and he’s not going to be put off. “How well did you know me, Liz?” he insists, “If I’m Katie’s dad then you must have known me for us to…to…to have sex! Were we married or something? Tell me!”
I reach across the distance to stroke his hand. He’s getting agitated now and the last thing I want is for him to be upset. He’s lost enough with all his worry about Isabel and what she thinks of him. He doesn’t need the added fear that I’m keeping something terrible from him. “Shh, calm down,” I soothe, “Yes, I knew you. Yes, we were married.”
He finally relaxes back into his seat, his breath uneven. “But we’re not anymore?” he wonders.
I know he wants the answers and I know I need to give them to him, but now is not the time. I’m not frustrating him on purpose, but I can’t have this discussion now. “Max, it’s all too complicated to explain--,”
Max crosses his arms over his chest in a motion that is clearly defensive. “You think I can’t understand?” he demands belligerently, “Why won’t anyone tell me about how I used to be? How can I ever have a normal life if no one will tell me the truth!”
I slam my fist down against the desk. “Because you’re not ready for the truth,” I snap. I regret the words almost the instant they leave my mouth, even before I note how the color blanches from Max’s face. I close my eyes and take a few breaths, hoping to calm myself. In sheer frustration, I press my fingers into my forehead. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, Max.” He doesn’t say anything, but merely continues to stare at me with a betrayed expression. “Please, sweetie, don’t be mad,” I say gently, “I really didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, okay?”
He sniffles a bit, but nods. “Okay.”
Just like that I am forgiven. No long years of drawn out emotional abuse. No taut silences and cold stares. No petty revenge. Just gracious forgiveness and I don’t even deserve it…not when I’ve been deliberately keeping him from his past. “Max, I’ll tell you everything when I get home, alright,” I promise him solemnly, “Whatever questions you have I’ll answer. Is that okay?”
Again he nods, but this time he forces a smile. “I didn’t come down here to make you mad at me.”
This man has me continually on the verge of tears. “Honey, I’m not mad at you,” I whisper hoarsely, “I could never be mad at you.”
“You were upset because I came down here,” he says bluntly.
“Only because you left the house without telling Isabel, Max,” I reply, “That wasn’t very responsible of you.” I barely get the words out before my satchel suddenly starts ringing. I know immediately that it’s Isabel. Quickly, I push myself from the desk and scurry over to my bag, rifling through the contents for my phone.
The second I click it on Isabel blasts into my ear, “Max is missing!” The panic in her tone is palpable and she’s so freaked she barely allows me to get in a word. “I went to take him breakfast in his room this morning and he was gone! His bed was made and everything like he just…just decided to leave! I checked the entire house and he’s not here, Liz!”
“Isabel--,”
“Oh God, Liz, I’m so sorry…I…I should have watched him better! I can’t believe he walked out the house and I didn’t even notice. How stupid am I, huh! God, I knew he was upset with me…I knew and--,”
“Isabel--,”
“I called the police but they said he has to be missing for twenty-four hours before they look for him,” she sobs, “I don’t know where he could have gone…my God, what if he’s hurt?”
“Isabel, he’s here with me,” I finally manage to get out.
She pauses in mid-sob. “He’s what?” I cringe as I wait those several beats for her rant to begin. It’s fiercer than I could have ever imagined. She berates Max from everything spoiled to willful. I imagine she’s worked herself up into a righteous frenzy when she suddenly demands, “Put him on!”
When I look at Max he’s curled up in the desk as if he’s trying to disappear. I hold out the cell phone to him and he turns positively green. “She wants to speak to you,” I tell him, my sympathy for his plight evident in my tone. He shuffles over to take the phone from my fingers with great reluctance. I listen to their one sided conversation.
“Isabel?” Max jumps as Isabel gives him a taste of her ire. “I wasn’t trying to worry you,” he explains lamely, “…no you were asleep…I took the bus…no, no, I know how to get here…yes, I looked both ways…but…but you said I could go outside…no, don’t come and get me! Okay…okay…I’ll give her the phone.”
I pluck the phone from him while he just hangs his head dejectedly. “Isabel?”
“I’m coming to get him,” she states firmly. In front on me Max is shaking his head and arms wildly and mouthing the word “no.”
“Isabel, you don’t have to do that,” I reply, somewhat distracted by Max’s erratic gesticulating.
“Aren’t you in the middle of class?”
I glance at the clock again. “In about five minutes I will be,” I tell her.
“Give me some time to throw something on and I’ll be there,” she says before hanging up.
I click off the cell and drop it back into my bag. “She’ll be here in about ten minutes,” I inform Max, “You can sit in the back of the class until she gets here.”
“She’s really mad,” he remarks sheepishly, “I think I’m in big trouble, Liz.”
I bite back my answering smirk and somehow manage to keep my face scrupulously straight when I say in agreement, “Yes, I think you are, too.”
“Guess who?”
“Um…the Jolly Green Giant?” I venture with a smile. Although his hands are half covering my face I’m quite aware of who it is. I’m aware, but surprised nonetheless. I twist around in his arms, pulling his hands from my eyes as I do. “Max, what are you doing here?” I ask in exasperation though there’s no denying that I’m glad to see him.
He smiles at me, all boyish charm and sweetness and his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I missed you,” he explains with a shrug, “I wanted to come see where you work. This school is big,” he continues casually, “It’s easy to get lost.”
He’s so adorable right then that I can’t be annoyed with him even though I know without asking that he’s here alone. And his timing is actually quite impeccable. Had he come fifteen minutes earlier I would have been just finishing up a class, but now he’s caught me during my lunch period, thereby giving me plenty of time to visit with him. I’m so giddy with the prospect that I momentarily forget he’s not supposed to be there in the first place.
We stand alone in the front of an empty classroom, grinning at one another like idiots. My eyes scan over his beautiful face. I let my gaze linger over his sensual mouth and recall our kiss from the other night. When I lift my gaze to meet his again the look in his golden eyes has changed, teasing mischief giving way to something darker. I know that he is thinking of our kiss just as I am. The sudden tenseness that fills the air between us forcefully reminds me that he shouldn’t be here with me in the first place. “Does Isabel know you’re here, Max?” I ask him, turning away to shuffle my students’ papers into my satchel. Anything to avoid looking into those knowing eyes.
“I’m not a kid,” he retorts crossly, “I don’t have to run everything I do past Isabel!”
Okay, tensions have been high since our kiss in the kitchen. I’ve got to give Isabel credit. She has been fighting rather hard, but Max seems reluctant to give her a chance. At first his stubborn refusal had me worried because I thought it might be some residual feelings that surfaced from who he was before. That Max hadn’t found it so easy to forgive either and he had withheld his forgiveness out of malice and spite. He had wanted to hurt because he hurt and I was afraid that such might have been nuMax’s motivation as well. And then I looked into his eyes…
He doesn’t want to hold Isabel off. I can tell he’s merely forcing himself to do it because he’s afraid of being hurt again. However, it’s clear he wants to trust Isabel. He wants to believe in her like he believes in me. His wading back in now, taking his time in learning to trust her again. Isabel is discouraged by the slow progress they seem to be making. Though she’s been handling most of Max’s tutorials while I’m at work she’s complained to me quite often that Max barely says a word to her during that time.
Isabel has this horrible habit of focusing on the negative while completely negating the positive. She fails to realize that, although Max isn’t talkative during her tutorials with him, he is, at least, willing to let her teach him. He’s willing to hear what she has to say. She doesn’t know that Max can’t really hold a grudge, no matter how much he tries. She doesn’t know how it tears him up to keep the pretense.
Presently, I sigh and brush his bangs away from his forehead. “Max,” I say in my sternest mother tone, “you can’t just leave the house without telling Isabel where you’re going. She’ll be worried…have you stopped to think of that?” My answer is plain on his face. Clearly, it has never crossed his mind that Isabel might worry for him. In fact, he appears dumbfounded by the very idea. Does he find it impossible to believe that people would actually care about him? Does he believe himself so insignificant that his absence won’t be noted? I watch as a shadow of shame and sadness fall over Max’s eyes and I know that is exactly what he thinks.
I realize I have only twenty more minutes left on my lunchbreak and I have yet to eat anything. However, I can’t ignore the forlorn expression on Max’s face and I can’t send him home until I fix what’s wrong. He’s walking around with hurt feelings when there is really no need for it.
Grabbing hold of his hand, I lead him over to a pair of empty desks in the far corner of my classroom. Only briefly does it cross my mind to consider how foolish we must appear crowded into the tiny seats. At the moment, it doesn’t seem to matter much at all. I can only focus on Max and healing his bruised feelings.
“Max, I know you heard some of the things Isabel said about you the other night,” I begin tentatively. The miserable way he hangs his head tells me my suspicions are correct. If I was at all uncertain before the shameful glisten in his eyes quells any lingering doubt. “How do you feel about that?”
“She doesn’t like me,” Max whispers despondently, “She doesn’t think I’m her brother.”
“You’re very different from how you were before your accident,” I tell him gently, “It’s hard for Isabel right now. She’s still trying to adjust.”
“But I tried to ask her about what he was like…you know, her brother…and she just completely had a cow,” Max explains in bewilderment.
I have to laugh at his phrasing as well as his aggravated expression. “Had a cow?” I inquire with brows raised in amusement.
Max just shrugs. “That’s what Katie says about you whenever you flip out about her room not being clean,” he says casually, “I’ve seen you, Liz. You do have a cow, not one as big as Isabel’s but it’s definitely a cow.”
Again I find myself laughing. “Okay, but we’re not talking about me right now,” I say, trying to redirect the conversation to a more serious tone. “Isabel doesn’t dislike you, Max, she just needs to get to know you.”
“She’d rather have her brother,” Max returns astutely.
“Probably,” I admit honestly. There’s no point in lying to him. He can see through me quite easily and I will only succeed in damaging his trust in me if I try to mislead him. “It’s nothing personal against you.”
“I must have been some guy before my accident,” Max mutters under his breath. You can say that again, I think when I hear him. I can’t fathom how Isabel puts so much stock in a lying, cheating bastard. But then she has a different view of her brother than I do. “What was I like before, Liz?” Max asks me suddenly, his brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown. “What was so great that Isabel can’t like me the way I am now?”
I’ve been dreading this very question for a long time now. We’ve managed to avoid it up until this point and, thankfully, Max has never pushed the issue. All the old pictures and memorabilia had been packed away. At the time I had believed my actions had been based solely on what was in Max’s best interests. Now, however, I can recognize them as cowardice. I had wanted to put the past away, to hide from it. I had hoped that it would fade from our lives just as easily as it had faded from Max’s memory. And it had…for a while. But I should have known better than to expect it to disappear completely.
I struggle to answer Max’s question, but I can’t find the words, don’t know if I want to. “I…uh…I…I…” All I can do is stammer and Max is watching me oddly, trying to puzzle out in his head what has thrown me into such a quandary.
“You knew me before, didn’t you?” he fires out after a moment, his eyes wide with the knowledge.
“Max, uh…”
“Katie calls me Dad,” he states firmly, leaning back in his chair to appraise me with narrowed eyes, “I’m not stupid, Liz…Michael told me a lot during our sessions. I know where babies come from and I know we made Katie together.”
“Max,” I try again to halt the conversation. A quick glance at the clock beyond his shoulder alerts me that my break period is almost done and soon my second graders will be returning from lunch with my student teacher. I offer him a pleading look. “Can we talk about this later?”
But Max’s mind is already working fast and furious and he’s not going to be put off. “How well did you know me, Liz?” he insists, “If I’m Katie’s dad then you must have known me for us to…to…to have sex! Were we married or something? Tell me!”
I reach across the distance to stroke his hand. He’s getting agitated now and the last thing I want is for him to be upset. He’s lost enough with all his worry about Isabel and what she thinks of him. He doesn’t need the added fear that I’m keeping something terrible from him. “Shh, calm down,” I soothe, “Yes, I knew you. Yes, we were married.”
He finally relaxes back into his seat, his breath uneven. “But we’re not anymore?” he wonders.
I know he wants the answers and I know I need to give them to him, but now is not the time. I’m not frustrating him on purpose, but I can’t have this discussion now. “Max, it’s all too complicated to explain--,”
Max crosses his arms over his chest in a motion that is clearly defensive. “You think I can’t understand?” he demands belligerently, “Why won’t anyone tell me about how I used to be? How can I ever have a normal life if no one will tell me the truth!”
I slam my fist down against the desk. “Because you’re not ready for the truth,” I snap. I regret the words almost the instant they leave my mouth, even before I note how the color blanches from Max’s face. I close my eyes and take a few breaths, hoping to calm myself. In sheer frustration, I press my fingers into my forehead. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, Max.” He doesn’t say anything, but merely continues to stare at me with a betrayed expression. “Please, sweetie, don’t be mad,” I say gently, “I really didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, okay?”
He sniffles a bit, but nods. “Okay.”
Just like that I am forgiven. No long years of drawn out emotional abuse. No taut silences and cold stares. No petty revenge. Just gracious forgiveness and I don’t even deserve it…not when I’ve been deliberately keeping him from his past. “Max, I’ll tell you everything when I get home, alright,” I promise him solemnly, “Whatever questions you have I’ll answer. Is that okay?”
Again he nods, but this time he forces a smile. “I didn’t come down here to make you mad at me.”
This man has me continually on the verge of tears. “Honey, I’m not mad at you,” I whisper hoarsely, “I could never be mad at you.”
“You were upset because I came down here,” he says bluntly.
“Only because you left the house without telling Isabel, Max,” I reply, “That wasn’t very responsible of you.” I barely get the words out before my satchel suddenly starts ringing. I know immediately that it’s Isabel. Quickly, I push myself from the desk and scurry over to my bag, rifling through the contents for my phone.
The second I click it on Isabel blasts into my ear, “Max is missing!” The panic in her tone is palpable and she’s so freaked she barely allows me to get in a word. “I went to take him breakfast in his room this morning and he was gone! His bed was made and everything like he just…just decided to leave! I checked the entire house and he’s not here, Liz!”
“Isabel--,”
“Oh God, Liz, I’m so sorry…I…I should have watched him better! I can’t believe he walked out the house and I didn’t even notice. How stupid am I, huh! God, I knew he was upset with me…I knew and--,”
“Isabel--,”
“I called the police but they said he has to be missing for twenty-four hours before they look for him,” she sobs, “I don’t know where he could have gone…my God, what if he’s hurt?”
“Isabel, he’s here with me,” I finally manage to get out.
She pauses in mid-sob. “He’s what?” I cringe as I wait those several beats for her rant to begin. It’s fiercer than I could have ever imagined. She berates Max from everything spoiled to willful. I imagine she’s worked herself up into a righteous frenzy when she suddenly demands, “Put him on!”
When I look at Max he’s curled up in the desk as if he’s trying to disappear. I hold out the cell phone to him and he turns positively green. “She wants to speak to you,” I tell him, my sympathy for his plight evident in my tone. He shuffles over to take the phone from my fingers with great reluctance. I listen to their one sided conversation.
“Isabel?” Max jumps as Isabel gives him a taste of her ire. “I wasn’t trying to worry you,” he explains lamely, “…no you were asleep…I took the bus…no, no, I know how to get here…yes, I looked both ways…but…but you said I could go outside…no, don’t come and get me! Okay…okay…I’ll give her the phone.”
I pluck the phone from him while he just hangs his head dejectedly. “Isabel?”
“I’m coming to get him,” she states firmly. In front on me Max is shaking his head and arms wildly and mouthing the word “no.”
“Isabel, you don’t have to do that,” I reply, somewhat distracted by Max’s erratic gesticulating.
“Aren’t you in the middle of class?”
I glance at the clock again. “In about five minutes I will be,” I tell her.
“Give me some time to throw something on and I’ll be there,” she says before hanging up.
I click off the cell and drop it back into my bag. “She’ll be here in about ten minutes,” I inform Max, “You can sit in the back of the class until she gets here.”
“She’s really mad,” he remarks sheepishly, “I think I’m in big trouble, Liz.”
I bite back my answering smirk and somehow manage to keep my face scrupulously straight when I say in agreement, “Yes, I think you are, too.”
-
Deejonaise
- Addicted Roswellian
- Posts: 385
- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
- Location: On my rusty dusty...
Chapter 17
“I’ve been grounded for the rest of my life,” Max informs me later that evening as I step inside the door from work. He’s waiting for me in the foyer to be precise. Before I can even insert my key in the front door he’s pulling it open and throwing his arms about my neck. “She’s completely flipping out. She made me study Hooked on Phonics all day with no break and no snack!”
“No snack…the nerve!” I repeat in mock affront, “Of course, don’t you think you deserve it considering you left home without telling her where you were going in the first place?”
“I was coming back,” Max grumbles to me as I hang my jacket on the coat rack, “You don’t have to be on her side.”
I ignore his complaining and ask, “Is Maria here with Katie already?”
“They’re in the kitchen making dinner with Isabel,” Max tells me with a pout, “They won’t even let me help.”
Max takes this as a personal affront, I can tell. He loves to cook and Isabel knows it. Her forbidding his assistance in the kitchen is just a means to discipline him. Considering how much Max adores making dinner and the natural affinity he seems to have when preparing a meal I happen to think her punishment is rather harsh. But then I wasn’t the one going frantic earlier this morning when I thought he was missing.
However, looking at him now, I don’t believe Max is too deeply hurt. Despite his grumbling complaints he doesn’t look truly petulant at all. It makes me wonder what he’s been doing all this time. “So you’ve been forbidden entrance to the kitchen,” I note as I stroll into the living room, “Whatever have you been doing to occupy your…” my voice trails away as I notice the white photo album with gold embroidered letters on the sofa, “…time?” I point towards the book. “Where…where did you get that?” I demand, trembling.
“It’s our wedding album,” Max provides, as if I didn’t know already. I’m aware that he is staring at me curiously in response to my odd reaction, but I am plainly thrown. That album was very well hidden, placed out of sight in the far corner of my bedroom closet. It has been quite a long time since I looked at it last, even long before the shooting. During Max’s recovery I had sometimes had the passing urge to look through it, but I never did. And then, following Isabel’s confession to me, I lost the desire altogether.
Seeing it again, after banishing it from my sight for so long, brought back a flood of memories with it, both good and bad. And that was exactly the problem. I didn’t want the memories, not the good ones and not the bad ones either. The good ones had been based on a false preconception so they had no real basis to begin with. And the bad ones…they were all just a nightmare I would soon forget.
But I can’t forget. Here they are once more staring me in the face like a bull squaring off with a matador. In those seconds I am filled with irrational anger. I feel violated that he has rifled through my personal belongings, irate that he would dare step foot into my room without my permission, but when I open my mouth to tell him off…I can’t. I can’t because I realize that these are his memories, too. Just as my bedroom is his bedroom. He’s entitled to know, entitled to look. I just wish he wouldn’t. I wish he could let go of the past as easily as he’s forgotten it.
Though I don’t say a word my emotions must betray themselves on my face. Honestly, I’ve been staring at the album as if it’s a coiled snake for the last five minutes. My reaction is hardly overjoyed, but I’ve managed to make Max tense as well. “Are…Are you mad?” he asks haltingly, his eyes searching my face, “I asked Maria about it and she went to get it for me. She said you wouldn’t mind.”
Maria! There’s no way in hell she didn’t do it on purpose. She and Isabel both know how important it is to me to be the one who reintroduces Max to his past. Maria knows that I would never condone his sitting on the sofa looking through those photos alone without being here to explain them to him. What amazes me even more is that Isabel, knowing my feelings, has obviously allowed this to happen. I’m so livid with rage at the thought that I’ve beginning to seriously rethink our living arrangement. I grind my teeth audibly and Max’s jumps in response.
“You are mad,” Max realizes. He dives for the album and scoops it up from the sofa. “I’ll just have Maria put it back,” he rushes, “I didn’t want you to be mad…I…I was just curious.”
It’s his innocent, flustered reaction that deflates my anger. My God, am I really having a meltdown over pictures? I recognize that I have more issues that I’ve cared to admit to myself. Maybe even some therapy is in order, but I mentally dismiss the idea. I do NOT want to seek out some mental health professional who will, thereby, pick apart my life to the tiniest detail and then proceed to make me feel like a walking, talking basket case when it’s done. No, thank you. I’ve got my family for that already.
I blow out a sigh. “I’m not mad, Max,” I reply flatly, “I’m just tired…I had a long day.”
“Don’t lie, Liz,” Max responds softly, “I can tell when you’re mad. You grit your jaw so tight that it sticks out,” he reaches out to run his fingers along my jaw line, “just like now.” Can this man read me or what? I feel like a guilty child now, unable to hide anything from her all-knowing parent. “You didn’t want me to see the pictures?” Max asks meekly.
“Yes, yes I did,” I assure him fervently, “I just wanted to be the one to do it. There’s a lot to explain to you.”
Max doesn’t look at all daunted by the prospect and in fact, he appears psyched. He grabs my hand and exclaims, “Well, then come on!” Before I know what he’s about he’s already flopped onto the sofa and pulled me down beside him. Our wedding album is suddenly spread open across both out laps. An 8x10 photo of Max and me decked out in our wedding formals smiles back at me. Max traces his fingers along the photo, outlining my cheek. “I think you look so beautiful here,” he murmurs dreamily, “You look happy…were we happy, Liz?”
“Yes…” I croak past the lump in my throat, “…we were happy.” It’s not a lie. When that photo was taken you couldn’t have bulldozed the grin of happiness off my face. There had been a time when I believed that the year we had dated and the year we were married before Katie’s birth were the happiest moments I’d ever experienced in my life. But those memories were quickly being replaced with new ones, ones I share with the man seated beside me.
“Was I a good husband?” he asks sweetly.
I can’t evade this question as easily. “Sometimes you were, Max,” I sigh gruffly, “But a lot of the time you weren’t.”
He looks shocked by the disclosure and a little saddened. He’s obviously trying to figure our what I mean, but he’s hesitant to ask outright. I know he wants to pelt me with questions but I suspect he’s afraid to hear my answers. Max can’t fathom being anyone other than who he is. The possibility that he was different, that he might have possibly hurt people, possibly hurt me is terrifying for him. I know that Max would rather cut off his arm than intentionally hurt anyone. He isn’t ready for the truth. I can see it in his eyes and so I won’t push him. He’ll come to me when he’s ready.
Still, I can see he’s plagued by uncertainty. Finally, after a visible internal struggle, he whispers meekly, “Did you stop loving me because…because I was a bad husband?”
I smile at that, a smile both nostalgic and bittersweet. “No, I never did,” I tell him.
He nods his head, digesting that, but he doesn’t question me further. Maybe he’s learned all he can handle about the nature of our marriage. I decide right then that if he comes to me with later questions I will be completely honest with him. He seems to appreciate my candor and in an odd way it helps me as well.
Max studies me closely now, his gaze luminous and soft. “You look so different now than in the pictures…sadder and…and more serious,” he observes quietly.
“Older, too?” I prompt. I have to bite back an ironic grin when he actually nods his head in agreement. I’m going to have to explain to him later that there are some matters you really do need to lie about. “Gee thanks, Max.”
He laughs and nudges me with his shoulder. “I still think you’re pretty,” he says, “It’s just…you look…you look almost like a different person here.”
“Well, that photo was taken almost ten years ago,” I tell him pragmatically.
“How old were you?”
“Hmm…23.”
Max tries to do the calculation in his head. I can tell it’s causing him some difficulty and it’s on the tip of my tongue to give him the answer, but I make myself hold back. Instinctively, I know how important it is to him to find the answer on his own. Finally, he wilts back against the sofa with an exhausted sigh. “Whew, that was hard,” he laughs, “Wow, Liz, you’re 33 years old!”
“You say that like it’s really old, Max.”
He pauses a beat. “Well, it is.”
Again with that brutal honesty thing. Oh yeah, we’ve definitely got to talk about that. “You happen to be thirty-five yourself, Max.”
“I’m 35 years old! Wow!” he explodes incredulously, “When will I be thirty-six?”
“Next year on May the 6th,” I tell him.
“Geez, that’s a big number,” he sighs grandly, “I’m sure glad I know how to count all the way to fifty.”
I finally see it then, the teasing glint in his eyes. He’s been ribbing me on purpose. I giggle and give his arm a playful tweak. “That’s enough of you, funny man!” I order playfully, “Do you want to see the rest of the photos or what?” He’s definitely excited about the album and nothing is going to deter him from examining it from cover to cover.
We sit together for the next 20 minutes while I explain each photo to Max in the minutest detail. He asks about a million questions, who is this, why did they do that, is this person my friend, where is your mother? On and on. And I find I don’t really mind all his questions. He even begins to poke fun at some of the candid shots of our guests and I laugh with him, actually laugh! Instead of being inundated with memories of days gone by and a wedding day that brings more bitter memories than sweet I am giggling like a teenager while making fun of my family and friends.
During our perusal Isabel pops her head from the kitchen. I meet her eyes and before she can announce dinner I shake my head and wave her away. She appears uncertain but eventually withdraws back into the kitchen, leaving Max and me alone once more. Max turns to the next photo then, a picture of him nuzzling against my mouth. In the photo my hand is resting against his cheek to hold him close and my eyes are shut in the moment. It was one of the few pictures with Max and I that weren’t posed. In that second we were naked, honest, and lost in each other.
Max pauses over that picture now, the laughter fading from his face. “Do you know why I came to visit you at school today?” he asks me, “Why I really came to visit you?”
“To say hello,” I venture lightly. I can feel the atmosphere between us deepening, becoming serious and I fear we’re treading into dangerous territory once again.
Max shakes his head. “I came because of this,” Max says, tapping his finger against the photo.
“The wedding album?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“No…kissing,” Max whispers finally. His gaze meets mine then, fiery and glittering, deep and intense. He dips his head slightly, nuzzling against my forehead, causing a staccato rush of breath to escape my lips. “You haven’t kissed me in a long time, Liz,” he murmurs.
My throat is suddenly dry and I swallow hard. “I kiss you every night, Max.”
“I’m not talking about good-night kisses,” he clarifies gruffly. His head is lower now, his mouth grazing provocatively across my cheek. “I’m talking about like when…when you kissed me in the kitchen.” I moan his name at this point but he will not be stopped. “I’ve been thinking about it every night since.” He continues to rub sensuously against my jaw and cheek.
My neck goes boneless and I can hardly form a coherent thought under his gentle assault. “I thought I scared you,” I breathe. My voice is so husky that I hardly recognize it. My heart has dipped into my belly with a humming beat of anticipation. He’s nibbling at the corners of my mouth now, feinting a full kiss without ever taking one.
“You didn’t scare me,” Max whispers as he finally brushes across my lips, “I liked it.” I’m aware of his fingers sliding into my hair then, massaging my scalp in slow circles much the way I’ve done to him in the past. Our eyes lock in an intense, silent stare. “Show me what to do,” he implores.
I don’t hesitate any longer, but open my mouth to his descent. The kiss is leisurely, lingering, and full of tentative exploration. Max literally nibbles at my mouth and I’m just as tentative, nibbling right back, letting my tongue dart out quickly for that first salty taste of him. My enthusiasm provokes his and he gently sucks at my lower lip, running his tongue along the delicate inner flesh before sweeping the inside of my mouth. He breaks contact before I can return the favor, his breathing heavy and serrated. I lift my hand to finger his mouth tenderly. “Are you okay?”
“It makes me feel things…” he gasps softly, “I want…I want…I don’t know what I want.”
I press more closely against him, brushing his lips with mine quickly before he can think to pull away. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to, Max,” I reassure him gently.
He places his hands against my shoulders, holding me off a bit. “I think we’ll just stick with kissing,” he suggests with a smile, “But maybe that’s enough for tonight.” He glances up at me through his lashes as if he expects me to be angry about his decision. “Is…Is that okay?”
“Whatever you want, Max,” I tell him, “You need to do what makes you feel comfortable.”
He stares at me for countless, uncertain seconds before he finally nods. “It’s what I want,” he states. And then to take the sting away he leans forward and pecks me gently on the mouth. “More kisses tomorrow?” he asks boyishly.
“Definitely,” I promise him with a feline smile. Definitely more kisses tomorrow. More and more.
“I’ve been grounded for the rest of my life,” Max informs me later that evening as I step inside the door from work. He’s waiting for me in the foyer to be precise. Before I can even insert my key in the front door he’s pulling it open and throwing his arms about my neck. “She’s completely flipping out. She made me study Hooked on Phonics all day with no break and no snack!”
“No snack…the nerve!” I repeat in mock affront, “Of course, don’t you think you deserve it considering you left home without telling her where you were going in the first place?”
“I was coming back,” Max grumbles to me as I hang my jacket on the coat rack, “You don’t have to be on her side.”
I ignore his complaining and ask, “Is Maria here with Katie already?”
“They’re in the kitchen making dinner with Isabel,” Max tells me with a pout, “They won’t even let me help.”
Max takes this as a personal affront, I can tell. He loves to cook and Isabel knows it. Her forbidding his assistance in the kitchen is just a means to discipline him. Considering how much Max adores making dinner and the natural affinity he seems to have when preparing a meal I happen to think her punishment is rather harsh. But then I wasn’t the one going frantic earlier this morning when I thought he was missing.
However, looking at him now, I don’t believe Max is too deeply hurt. Despite his grumbling complaints he doesn’t look truly petulant at all. It makes me wonder what he’s been doing all this time. “So you’ve been forbidden entrance to the kitchen,” I note as I stroll into the living room, “Whatever have you been doing to occupy your…” my voice trails away as I notice the white photo album with gold embroidered letters on the sofa, “…time?” I point towards the book. “Where…where did you get that?” I demand, trembling.
“It’s our wedding album,” Max provides, as if I didn’t know already. I’m aware that he is staring at me curiously in response to my odd reaction, but I am plainly thrown. That album was very well hidden, placed out of sight in the far corner of my bedroom closet. It has been quite a long time since I looked at it last, even long before the shooting. During Max’s recovery I had sometimes had the passing urge to look through it, but I never did. And then, following Isabel’s confession to me, I lost the desire altogether.
Seeing it again, after banishing it from my sight for so long, brought back a flood of memories with it, both good and bad. And that was exactly the problem. I didn’t want the memories, not the good ones and not the bad ones either. The good ones had been based on a false preconception so they had no real basis to begin with. And the bad ones…they were all just a nightmare I would soon forget.
But I can’t forget. Here they are once more staring me in the face like a bull squaring off with a matador. In those seconds I am filled with irrational anger. I feel violated that he has rifled through my personal belongings, irate that he would dare step foot into my room without my permission, but when I open my mouth to tell him off…I can’t. I can’t because I realize that these are his memories, too. Just as my bedroom is his bedroom. He’s entitled to know, entitled to look. I just wish he wouldn’t. I wish he could let go of the past as easily as he’s forgotten it.
Though I don’t say a word my emotions must betray themselves on my face. Honestly, I’ve been staring at the album as if it’s a coiled snake for the last five minutes. My reaction is hardly overjoyed, but I’ve managed to make Max tense as well. “Are…Are you mad?” he asks haltingly, his eyes searching my face, “I asked Maria about it and she went to get it for me. She said you wouldn’t mind.”
Maria! There’s no way in hell she didn’t do it on purpose. She and Isabel both know how important it is to me to be the one who reintroduces Max to his past. Maria knows that I would never condone his sitting on the sofa looking through those photos alone without being here to explain them to him. What amazes me even more is that Isabel, knowing my feelings, has obviously allowed this to happen. I’m so livid with rage at the thought that I’ve beginning to seriously rethink our living arrangement. I grind my teeth audibly and Max’s jumps in response.
“You are mad,” Max realizes. He dives for the album and scoops it up from the sofa. “I’ll just have Maria put it back,” he rushes, “I didn’t want you to be mad…I…I was just curious.”
It’s his innocent, flustered reaction that deflates my anger. My God, am I really having a meltdown over pictures? I recognize that I have more issues that I’ve cared to admit to myself. Maybe even some therapy is in order, but I mentally dismiss the idea. I do NOT want to seek out some mental health professional who will, thereby, pick apart my life to the tiniest detail and then proceed to make me feel like a walking, talking basket case when it’s done. No, thank you. I’ve got my family for that already.
I blow out a sigh. “I’m not mad, Max,” I reply flatly, “I’m just tired…I had a long day.”
“Don’t lie, Liz,” Max responds softly, “I can tell when you’re mad. You grit your jaw so tight that it sticks out,” he reaches out to run his fingers along my jaw line, “just like now.” Can this man read me or what? I feel like a guilty child now, unable to hide anything from her all-knowing parent. “You didn’t want me to see the pictures?” Max asks meekly.
“Yes, yes I did,” I assure him fervently, “I just wanted to be the one to do it. There’s a lot to explain to you.”
Max doesn’t look at all daunted by the prospect and in fact, he appears psyched. He grabs my hand and exclaims, “Well, then come on!” Before I know what he’s about he’s already flopped onto the sofa and pulled me down beside him. Our wedding album is suddenly spread open across both out laps. An 8x10 photo of Max and me decked out in our wedding formals smiles back at me. Max traces his fingers along the photo, outlining my cheek. “I think you look so beautiful here,” he murmurs dreamily, “You look happy…were we happy, Liz?”
“Yes…” I croak past the lump in my throat, “…we were happy.” It’s not a lie. When that photo was taken you couldn’t have bulldozed the grin of happiness off my face. There had been a time when I believed that the year we had dated and the year we were married before Katie’s birth were the happiest moments I’d ever experienced in my life. But those memories were quickly being replaced with new ones, ones I share with the man seated beside me.
“Was I a good husband?” he asks sweetly.
I can’t evade this question as easily. “Sometimes you were, Max,” I sigh gruffly, “But a lot of the time you weren’t.”
He looks shocked by the disclosure and a little saddened. He’s obviously trying to figure our what I mean, but he’s hesitant to ask outright. I know he wants to pelt me with questions but I suspect he’s afraid to hear my answers. Max can’t fathom being anyone other than who he is. The possibility that he was different, that he might have possibly hurt people, possibly hurt me is terrifying for him. I know that Max would rather cut off his arm than intentionally hurt anyone. He isn’t ready for the truth. I can see it in his eyes and so I won’t push him. He’ll come to me when he’s ready.
Still, I can see he’s plagued by uncertainty. Finally, after a visible internal struggle, he whispers meekly, “Did you stop loving me because…because I was a bad husband?”
I smile at that, a smile both nostalgic and bittersweet. “No, I never did,” I tell him.
He nods his head, digesting that, but he doesn’t question me further. Maybe he’s learned all he can handle about the nature of our marriage. I decide right then that if he comes to me with later questions I will be completely honest with him. He seems to appreciate my candor and in an odd way it helps me as well.
Max studies me closely now, his gaze luminous and soft. “You look so different now than in the pictures…sadder and…and more serious,” he observes quietly.
“Older, too?” I prompt. I have to bite back an ironic grin when he actually nods his head in agreement. I’m going to have to explain to him later that there are some matters you really do need to lie about. “Gee thanks, Max.”
He laughs and nudges me with his shoulder. “I still think you’re pretty,” he says, “It’s just…you look…you look almost like a different person here.”
“Well, that photo was taken almost ten years ago,” I tell him pragmatically.
“How old were you?”
“Hmm…23.”
Max tries to do the calculation in his head. I can tell it’s causing him some difficulty and it’s on the tip of my tongue to give him the answer, but I make myself hold back. Instinctively, I know how important it is to him to find the answer on his own. Finally, he wilts back against the sofa with an exhausted sigh. “Whew, that was hard,” he laughs, “Wow, Liz, you’re 33 years old!”
“You say that like it’s really old, Max.”
He pauses a beat. “Well, it is.”
Again with that brutal honesty thing. Oh yeah, we’ve definitely got to talk about that. “You happen to be thirty-five yourself, Max.”
“I’m 35 years old! Wow!” he explodes incredulously, “When will I be thirty-six?”
“Next year on May the 6th,” I tell him.
“Geez, that’s a big number,” he sighs grandly, “I’m sure glad I know how to count all the way to fifty.”
I finally see it then, the teasing glint in his eyes. He’s been ribbing me on purpose. I giggle and give his arm a playful tweak. “That’s enough of you, funny man!” I order playfully, “Do you want to see the rest of the photos or what?” He’s definitely excited about the album and nothing is going to deter him from examining it from cover to cover.
We sit together for the next 20 minutes while I explain each photo to Max in the minutest detail. He asks about a million questions, who is this, why did they do that, is this person my friend, where is your mother? On and on. And I find I don’t really mind all his questions. He even begins to poke fun at some of the candid shots of our guests and I laugh with him, actually laugh! Instead of being inundated with memories of days gone by and a wedding day that brings more bitter memories than sweet I am giggling like a teenager while making fun of my family and friends.
During our perusal Isabel pops her head from the kitchen. I meet her eyes and before she can announce dinner I shake my head and wave her away. She appears uncertain but eventually withdraws back into the kitchen, leaving Max and me alone once more. Max turns to the next photo then, a picture of him nuzzling against my mouth. In the photo my hand is resting against his cheek to hold him close and my eyes are shut in the moment. It was one of the few pictures with Max and I that weren’t posed. In that second we were naked, honest, and lost in each other.
Max pauses over that picture now, the laughter fading from his face. “Do you know why I came to visit you at school today?” he asks me, “Why I really came to visit you?”
“To say hello,” I venture lightly. I can feel the atmosphere between us deepening, becoming serious and I fear we’re treading into dangerous territory once again.
Max shakes his head. “I came because of this,” Max says, tapping his finger against the photo.
“The wedding album?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“No…kissing,” Max whispers finally. His gaze meets mine then, fiery and glittering, deep and intense. He dips his head slightly, nuzzling against my forehead, causing a staccato rush of breath to escape my lips. “You haven’t kissed me in a long time, Liz,” he murmurs.
My throat is suddenly dry and I swallow hard. “I kiss you every night, Max.”
“I’m not talking about good-night kisses,” he clarifies gruffly. His head is lower now, his mouth grazing provocatively across my cheek. “I’m talking about like when…when you kissed me in the kitchen.” I moan his name at this point but he will not be stopped. “I’ve been thinking about it every night since.” He continues to rub sensuously against my jaw and cheek.
My neck goes boneless and I can hardly form a coherent thought under his gentle assault. “I thought I scared you,” I breathe. My voice is so husky that I hardly recognize it. My heart has dipped into my belly with a humming beat of anticipation. He’s nibbling at the corners of my mouth now, feinting a full kiss without ever taking one.
“You didn’t scare me,” Max whispers as he finally brushes across my lips, “I liked it.” I’m aware of his fingers sliding into my hair then, massaging my scalp in slow circles much the way I’ve done to him in the past. Our eyes lock in an intense, silent stare. “Show me what to do,” he implores.
I don’t hesitate any longer, but open my mouth to his descent. The kiss is leisurely, lingering, and full of tentative exploration. Max literally nibbles at my mouth and I’m just as tentative, nibbling right back, letting my tongue dart out quickly for that first salty taste of him. My enthusiasm provokes his and he gently sucks at my lower lip, running his tongue along the delicate inner flesh before sweeping the inside of my mouth. He breaks contact before I can return the favor, his breathing heavy and serrated. I lift my hand to finger his mouth tenderly. “Are you okay?”
“It makes me feel things…” he gasps softly, “I want…I want…I don’t know what I want.”
I press more closely against him, brushing his lips with mine quickly before he can think to pull away. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to, Max,” I reassure him gently.
He places his hands against my shoulders, holding me off a bit. “I think we’ll just stick with kissing,” he suggests with a smile, “But maybe that’s enough for tonight.” He glances up at me through his lashes as if he expects me to be angry about his decision. “Is…Is that okay?”
“Whatever you want, Max,” I tell him, “You need to do what makes you feel comfortable.”
He stares at me for countless, uncertain seconds before he finally nods. “It’s what I want,” he states. And then to take the sting away he leans forward and pecks me gently on the mouth. “More kisses tomorrow?” he asks boyishly.
“Definitely,” I promise him with a feline smile. Definitely more kisses tomorrow. More and more.
-
Deejonaise
- Addicted Roswellian
- Posts: 385
- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
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Chapter 18
“I don’t want you to run my baths anymore.”
His unexpected statement startles me so badly that I nearly fall into the tub of running water. Max has a terrible habit of sneaking up on people. Isabel and I have talked to him about it over and over but still he persists. I suspect he gains some sort of perverse amusement from it. I twist to face him on the rim of the bathtub. He is leaned back against the door, his arms folded across his chest petulantly. “What are you talking about, Max?”
“I can run my own baths,” he declares stubbornly, “I don’t happen to like bubbles.” He nods toward the bath water that is, unfortunately, full of bubbles. “You and Isabel always run the water too hot and I don’t like Bath and Body Works soap…and I’m 35 years old and I know how to turn on the tap!”
His vehemence leaves me wordless and I can only stare at him in mute shock over his outburst. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening because the situation is so unlikely, however it appears that Max, my sweet, even-tempered Max, is in a bad mood. I’m so floored by the development that I almost laugh aloud. I’ve known for some time that eventually the day would come, but now that it has I find that I’m wholly unprepared for it. Max is almost never in a bad mood and the few times he has fallen into a funk he’s usually over it rather quickly. But this time is immensely different from the others.
Number one, Max is picking this fight. His body language says it all. His stubborn stance, his belligerent backtalk, his surly demeanor all are screaming out that Max is spoiling for a fight. However, instead of rising to the bait, I calmly shut off the tap. Then I turn to him and ask coolly, “Is something bothering you, Max?”
“No!” he fires back in irritation, “I just don’t like you running my bath water!”
“Then why not just tell me instead of snapping my head off,” I inquire softly.
That penetrates his crappy mood. He looks immediately contrite, the irritation and frustration fading from his face. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, clearly ashamed, “I haven’t had a good day.”
I pat the empty spot on the tub edge next to me. “Come tell me about it,” I invite. He all but leaps over to crumple down beside him. It’s obvious to me that he’s been dying to talk to someone all day. I lace my fingers through his and trace the ridge of his knuckles with my free hand. “So what happened to put you in such a bad mood?”
“Isabel took me job hunting today.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, a smile of anticipation tugging at my mouth, “How did that go?”
“It was the most horrible day of my life,” Max sighs expansively.
I immediately take responsibility for his foul day even before I hear the entire story. That morning before I left for work I took with me misgivings about him and Isabel spending the entire day together. I had barely been able to concentrate on my students I was so preoccupied with what was going on with Isabel and Max. My biggest fear was that she would say something to shatter his fragile heart and then, by God, there would be hell to pay. And obviously my fears have been realized since Max experienced the “most horrible day” of his life. I make a mental note to strangle Isabel later.
Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze I say with forced brightness, “You know, Max, Isabel doesn’t always think before she speaks. Please don’t be offended by the things she might have said.”
Max gives me a queer look. “Isabel?” he repeats blankly, “Why do you think I’m mad about Isabel? I’m upset because no one will give me a job.” Well, now I feel like an idiot. I guess Isabel isn’t the only one who doesn’t think before she speaks. I venture a sideways glance at Max. He’s trying hard not to laugh at me. “Don’t feel bad,” he says, “at least I know you care.”
We share a giggle together and I’m glad to see that my foot in mouth disorder has evidently lifted his spirits some. “So what’s all this about no one will give you a job?”
Max sighs in exasperation. “Isabel and me must have looked a hundred different places today,” he moans, “I filled out so many job applications my hand hurts, but no one would hire me.”
“Well, employers don’t usually hire on the spot, Max,” I explain to him.
“Why? I don’t understand!” he cries, “They say they want help but when I come to help they say they have to call me back.”
“That’s just how it works sometimes, Max.”
“But they haven’t even called me!” he complains.
“It’s only been one day,” I stress. This can’t be all that’s troubling him. He seems way too agitated. “What else, Max?” I persist gently.
He hangs his head, knowing he can’t hide anything from me. “There’s one job I really want,” he confides in a whisper.
“And?”
“It’s at the UFO Center in town,” he tells me, “I’d have to do museum tours and…and I think I could only I still don’t read so good.”
“You’ve made a ton of progress, Max.”
“But it’s still not good enough and now I won’t get the job.”
I hate seeing him so dejected like this. He tries so hard, but it always seems as if there’s a glass ceiling above him just holding him down. He can see clearly where he wants to go but he just can’t find the means to get there. This is what fills me with dread…the thought that facing the daily disappointment that is dealt along with his handicap will crush Max’s bursting joy. It would be a shame to see that natural happiness, that has always been so apparent in his eyes and smile, extinguished. All I can do is endeavor to keep it there.
“Hey, you know what you need?” I announce cheerfully.
His response is definitely lackluster. “No, what?”
Still, I forge on brightly. “A nice warm bubble bath,” I say with a smile, “Life seems much less bleak after you’ve relaxed in a bath for an hour or so.”
He appears uncertain and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s desperately searching for a way to decline. “Geez, I don’t know, Liz--,”
“Trust me on this,” I insist firmly, “I do it all the time. It works like a charm.”
He takes a moment to consider my suggestion before finally nodding his head in agreement. “On one condition,” he adds as I stand up.
“What is it?”
“You have to stay in here with me.” Okay, I have officially lost control of the situation. I don’t even see it coming. One moment I’m the confidant and then the next, just like that, he’s got me tongue-tied. I would probably think that he’s purposefully trying to fluster me if it weren’t for the innocent expression on his face right now. “I just need someone to talk to,” he adds imploringly and his sweet demeanor about it flusters me even more.
“Max, I…I can’t stay in here with you,” I stammer, my eyes falling away in disconcertion.
“Why?” Max challenges, “Is it because I’ll be naked?” He shrugs as if the idea is no big deal at all. “You’ve seen me naked before, Liz. We’re married so I know you have.”
“But you don’t remember me seeing you naked,” I counter, but I have no idea why I’m making it an issue. The argument makes no sense even to me. But that’s exactly what Max does to me. Whenever he’s near my normal brain capability becomes non-existence. I function on a primate level. It’s really sad that he can turn my mind to mush so easily. I don’t ever remember him being able to do that before even when he was a smooth talking playboy. There’s just something about innocent men that make you want to kiss them and protect them all at once. I’ve definitely been battling with those conflicting emotions lately. Especially now. “Max, it’s not appropriate that I stay in here,” I say reasonably. There, that’s better. At least now I sound half way intelligent.
“Hey, if it makes you feel better…everybody’s seen me naked,” Max offers with candid magnanimousness. He checks off the list on his fingers. “Michael’s seen me naked, Isabel’s seen me naked, nearly all the nurses at Danner have seen me naked…” He thinks a second more. “Even Maria has seen me naked.”
“Maria!” I sputter out in a gasp.
Again he merely shrugs. “She walked in while I was taking a bath,” he explains, off-hand, “So will you stay now?” My hesitation must still be plain on my face because he adds a whining, “Pleeeeease!” Of course, I concede defeat, but that was a given from the beginning. “Awesome!” Max exclaims when I nod. He immediately begins stripping. I turn quickly before I get an eyeful, keeping my back to him until I hear the telltale settling of the bathwater as he climbs inside.
When I turn back to face him again he is submerged modestly beneath the bubbles. I sigh, half in relief, half in disappointment, as I take a seat of the toilet lid. Why didn’t I look when I had the chance? I definitely wanted to. But that’s staid, dependable Liz Evans again, doer of all things good and righteous. Sometimes I suck.
I have to suppress a groan of agony when he reclines back in the water with a satisfied moan. What I wouldn’t give to be one of those filmy bubbles clinging to his skin right now. I watch with a dry mouth as he lathers up his chest, captivated by the rivulets of soap and water that slid down its smooth, tanned expanse. I can see all the weight lifting and exercise he’s been doing lately is starting to pay off. Every time he shifts the washcloth back and forth over his skin the muscles in his forearms and shoulders flex provocatively. I lick my lips. I don’t think I’d mind being the washcloth too much either. Oh yeah, baby.
“So what should I do?”
I jerk my eyes to his face, completely oblivious. Has he been talking to me? “Huh?”
Max pauses in his scrub job to throw a puzzled grimace my way. “About the job?” he emphasizes.
Oh right. The job. Yes, that’s right…he wants a job. That’s where his mind is, on a potential job. As it should be. As mine should be. I need to refocus. I will refocus! But damn his chest for being so mouthwatering! However, I have to make an effort. He’s seriously conflicted here. “Uh…um…well, you could always call,” I suggest lamely.
“Call?” Max parrots. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he thinks this is the most ridiculous idea he’s ever heard. He offers me a pitying look as if to say, “And people think I’m dumb.” The man actually has the nerve to roll his eyes at me. “Yeah, call…oh, right, why didn’t I think of that one, Liz?” he mocks.
I make a face. “It’s actually a good idea,” I retort laughingly, “It puts your name out there and lets the employer know that you’re genuinely interested in the job.”
Max contemplates the bar of soap in his hands, favoring me with a suspicious look through the dark lushness of his lashes. “Really?”
“I’m serious,” I reply sincerely, “You should give it a try.”
“Okay, I will,” he agrees, resuming his bath. I’m afraid of the silence that will follow because it will leave too much time for lurid fantasies to tumble through my mind. As I’m racking my brain for plausible excuses to leave however, Max asks casually, “Hey, do you think you could wash my back?” He blinks up at me guilelessly. “I can’t reach.”
As I shift down onto my knees beside the tub I again almost suspect he’s doing this to me on purpose. I would believe it if not for the innocent stare and sweet smile he’s giving me. Max is absolutely horrible at pretense. There’s no way that all this wide-eyed charm is an act. I all but snatch the clothe from him in irritation and grit my teeth, scrubbing his shoulders and back in brisk circles. “Ow…hey!” Max glares at me over his shoulder. “What are you trying to do?” he gripes, “Remove skin?”
I regard him with raised brows. “Do you want to be clean or not?”
“You don’t have to be so rough about it,” is his answering grumble as he presents me with his back once again. But my scrubbing is halted once more when I hear him mutter, “I guess you don’t do this much.”
In disgust and frustrated desire, I throw the towel into the water and narrow my eyes on his back. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Max answers my question with one of his own. “Why are you being so snappy all of a sudden?”
“Could it be because I feel a little awkward being in here right now?” I retort sarcastically, “I mean why would you want me to be in here in the first place? It’s ridiculous!”
“I was hoping--,”
“—I mean you’re constantly complaining that we don’t treat you like an adult, but—,”
“—that we could--,”
“—then you turn around and ask me to do something like this!”
“—could kiss some more.” My mouth literally falls open when he finishes the rest of his statement. He trails his wet finger over my cheek before sliding them into my hair, his eyes soft and steady as they drink me in. “Can I kiss you, Liz?” That’s all it takes to turn me into a quivering mass. I’m definitely not irritated anymore.
I turn my face into his palm, nipping at the tender flesh. “You never have to ask me, Max,” I whisper to him right before our lips mesh together in a kiss that’s anything but innocent.
“I don’t want you to run my baths anymore.”
His unexpected statement startles me so badly that I nearly fall into the tub of running water. Max has a terrible habit of sneaking up on people. Isabel and I have talked to him about it over and over but still he persists. I suspect he gains some sort of perverse amusement from it. I twist to face him on the rim of the bathtub. He is leaned back against the door, his arms folded across his chest petulantly. “What are you talking about, Max?”
“I can run my own baths,” he declares stubbornly, “I don’t happen to like bubbles.” He nods toward the bath water that is, unfortunately, full of bubbles. “You and Isabel always run the water too hot and I don’t like Bath and Body Works soap…and I’m 35 years old and I know how to turn on the tap!”
His vehemence leaves me wordless and I can only stare at him in mute shock over his outburst. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening because the situation is so unlikely, however it appears that Max, my sweet, even-tempered Max, is in a bad mood. I’m so floored by the development that I almost laugh aloud. I’ve known for some time that eventually the day would come, but now that it has I find that I’m wholly unprepared for it. Max is almost never in a bad mood and the few times he has fallen into a funk he’s usually over it rather quickly. But this time is immensely different from the others.
Number one, Max is picking this fight. His body language says it all. His stubborn stance, his belligerent backtalk, his surly demeanor all are screaming out that Max is spoiling for a fight. However, instead of rising to the bait, I calmly shut off the tap. Then I turn to him and ask coolly, “Is something bothering you, Max?”
“No!” he fires back in irritation, “I just don’t like you running my bath water!”
“Then why not just tell me instead of snapping my head off,” I inquire softly.
That penetrates his crappy mood. He looks immediately contrite, the irritation and frustration fading from his face. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, clearly ashamed, “I haven’t had a good day.”
I pat the empty spot on the tub edge next to me. “Come tell me about it,” I invite. He all but leaps over to crumple down beside him. It’s obvious to me that he’s been dying to talk to someone all day. I lace my fingers through his and trace the ridge of his knuckles with my free hand. “So what happened to put you in such a bad mood?”
“Isabel took me job hunting today.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, a smile of anticipation tugging at my mouth, “How did that go?”
“It was the most horrible day of my life,” Max sighs expansively.
I immediately take responsibility for his foul day even before I hear the entire story. That morning before I left for work I took with me misgivings about him and Isabel spending the entire day together. I had barely been able to concentrate on my students I was so preoccupied with what was going on with Isabel and Max. My biggest fear was that she would say something to shatter his fragile heart and then, by God, there would be hell to pay. And obviously my fears have been realized since Max experienced the “most horrible day” of his life. I make a mental note to strangle Isabel later.
Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze I say with forced brightness, “You know, Max, Isabel doesn’t always think before she speaks. Please don’t be offended by the things she might have said.”
Max gives me a queer look. “Isabel?” he repeats blankly, “Why do you think I’m mad about Isabel? I’m upset because no one will give me a job.” Well, now I feel like an idiot. I guess Isabel isn’t the only one who doesn’t think before she speaks. I venture a sideways glance at Max. He’s trying hard not to laugh at me. “Don’t feel bad,” he says, “at least I know you care.”
We share a giggle together and I’m glad to see that my foot in mouth disorder has evidently lifted his spirits some. “So what’s all this about no one will give you a job?”
Max sighs in exasperation. “Isabel and me must have looked a hundred different places today,” he moans, “I filled out so many job applications my hand hurts, but no one would hire me.”
“Well, employers don’t usually hire on the spot, Max,” I explain to him.
“Why? I don’t understand!” he cries, “They say they want help but when I come to help they say they have to call me back.”
“That’s just how it works sometimes, Max.”
“But they haven’t even called me!” he complains.
“It’s only been one day,” I stress. This can’t be all that’s troubling him. He seems way too agitated. “What else, Max?” I persist gently.
He hangs his head, knowing he can’t hide anything from me. “There’s one job I really want,” he confides in a whisper.
“And?”
“It’s at the UFO Center in town,” he tells me, “I’d have to do museum tours and…and I think I could only I still don’t read so good.”
“You’ve made a ton of progress, Max.”
“But it’s still not good enough and now I won’t get the job.”
I hate seeing him so dejected like this. He tries so hard, but it always seems as if there’s a glass ceiling above him just holding him down. He can see clearly where he wants to go but he just can’t find the means to get there. This is what fills me with dread…the thought that facing the daily disappointment that is dealt along with his handicap will crush Max’s bursting joy. It would be a shame to see that natural happiness, that has always been so apparent in his eyes and smile, extinguished. All I can do is endeavor to keep it there.
“Hey, you know what you need?” I announce cheerfully.
His response is definitely lackluster. “No, what?”
Still, I forge on brightly. “A nice warm bubble bath,” I say with a smile, “Life seems much less bleak after you’ve relaxed in a bath for an hour or so.”
He appears uncertain and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s desperately searching for a way to decline. “Geez, I don’t know, Liz--,”
“Trust me on this,” I insist firmly, “I do it all the time. It works like a charm.”
He takes a moment to consider my suggestion before finally nodding his head in agreement. “On one condition,” he adds as I stand up.
“What is it?”
“You have to stay in here with me.” Okay, I have officially lost control of the situation. I don’t even see it coming. One moment I’m the confidant and then the next, just like that, he’s got me tongue-tied. I would probably think that he’s purposefully trying to fluster me if it weren’t for the innocent expression on his face right now. “I just need someone to talk to,” he adds imploringly and his sweet demeanor about it flusters me even more.
“Max, I…I can’t stay in here with you,” I stammer, my eyes falling away in disconcertion.
“Why?” Max challenges, “Is it because I’ll be naked?” He shrugs as if the idea is no big deal at all. “You’ve seen me naked before, Liz. We’re married so I know you have.”
“But you don’t remember me seeing you naked,” I counter, but I have no idea why I’m making it an issue. The argument makes no sense even to me. But that’s exactly what Max does to me. Whenever he’s near my normal brain capability becomes non-existence. I function on a primate level. It’s really sad that he can turn my mind to mush so easily. I don’t ever remember him being able to do that before even when he was a smooth talking playboy. There’s just something about innocent men that make you want to kiss them and protect them all at once. I’ve definitely been battling with those conflicting emotions lately. Especially now. “Max, it’s not appropriate that I stay in here,” I say reasonably. There, that’s better. At least now I sound half way intelligent.
“Hey, if it makes you feel better…everybody’s seen me naked,” Max offers with candid magnanimousness. He checks off the list on his fingers. “Michael’s seen me naked, Isabel’s seen me naked, nearly all the nurses at Danner have seen me naked…” He thinks a second more. “Even Maria has seen me naked.”
“Maria!” I sputter out in a gasp.
Again he merely shrugs. “She walked in while I was taking a bath,” he explains, off-hand, “So will you stay now?” My hesitation must still be plain on my face because he adds a whining, “Pleeeeease!” Of course, I concede defeat, but that was a given from the beginning. “Awesome!” Max exclaims when I nod. He immediately begins stripping. I turn quickly before I get an eyeful, keeping my back to him until I hear the telltale settling of the bathwater as he climbs inside.
When I turn back to face him again he is submerged modestly beneath the bubbles. I sigh, half in relief, half in disappointment, as I take a seat of the toilet lid. Why didn’t I look when I had the chance? I definitely wanted to. But that’s staid, dependable Liz Evans again, doer of all things good and righteous. Sometimes I suck.
I have to suppress a groan of agony when he reclines back in the water with a satisfied moan. What I wouldn’t give to be one of those filmy bubbles clinging to his skin right now. I watch with a dry mouth as he lathers up his chest, captivated by the rivulets of soap and water that slid down its smooth, tanned expanse. I can see all the weight lifting and exercise he’s been doing lately is starting to pay off. Every time he shifts the washcloth back and forth over his skin the muscles in his forearms and shoulders flex provocatively. I lick my lips. I don’t think I’d mind being the washcloth too much either. Oh yeah, baby.
“So what should I do?”
I jerk my eyes to his face, completely oblivious. Has he been talking to me? “Huh?”
Max pauses in his scrub job to throw a puzzled grimace my way. “About the job?” he emphasizes.
Oh right. The job. Yes, that’s right…he wants a job. That’s where his mind is, on a potential job. As it should be. As mine should be. I need to refocus. I will refocus! But damn his chest for being so mouthwatering! However, I have to make an effort. He’s seriously conflicted here. “Uh…um…well, you could always call,” I suggest lamely.
“Call?” Max parrots. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he thinks this is the most ridiculous idea he’s ever heard. He offers me a pitying look as if to say, “And people think I’m dumb.” The man actually has the nerve to roll his eyes at me. “Yeah, call…oh, right, why didn’t I think of that one, Liz?” he mocks.
I make a face. “It’s actually a good idea,” I retort laughingly, “It puts your name out there and lets the employer know that you’re genuinely interested in the job.”
Max contemplates the bar of soap in his hands, favoring me with a suspicious look through the dark lushness of his lashes. “Really?”
“I’m serious,” I reply sincerely, “You should give it a try.”
“Okay, I will,” he agrees, resuming his bath. I’m afraid of the silence that will follow because it will leave too much time for lurid fantasies to tumble through my mind. As I’m racking my brain for plausible excuses to leave however, Max asks casually, “Hey, do you think you could wash my back?” He blinks up at me guilelessly. “I can’t reach.”
As I shift down onto my knees beside the tub I again almost suspect he’s doing this to me on purpose. I would believe it if not for the innocent stare and sweet smile he’s giving me. Max is absolutely horrible at pretense. There’s no way that all this wide-eyed charm is an act. I all but snatch the clothe from him in irritation and grit my teeth, scrubbing his shoulders and back in brisk circles. “Ow…hey!” Max glares at me over his shoulder. “What are you trying to do?” he gripes, “Remove skin?”
I regard him with raised brows. “Do you want to be clean or not?”
“You don’t have to be so rough about it,” is his answering grumble as he presents me with his back once again. But my scrubbing is halted once more when I hear him mutter, “I guess you don’t do this much.”
In disgust and frustrated desire, I throw the towel into the water and narrow my eyes on his back. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Max answers my question with one of his own. “Why are you being so snappy all of a sudden?”
“Could it be because I feel a little awkward being in here right now?” I retort sarcastically, “I mean why would you want me to be in here in the first place? It’s ridiculous!”
“I was hoping--,”
“—I mean you’re constantly complaining that we don’t treat you like an adult, but—,”
“—that we could--,”
“—then you turn around and ask me to do something like this!”
“—could kiss some more.” My mouth literally falls open when he finishes the rest of his statement. He trails his wet finger over my cheek before sliding them into my hair, his eyes soft and steady as they drink me in. “Can I kiss you, Liz?” That’s all it takes to turn me into a quivering mass. I’m definitely not irritated anymore.
I turn my face into his palm, nipping at the tender flesh. “You never have to ask me, Max,” I whisper to him right before our lips mesh together in a kiss that’s anything but innocent.
-
Deejonaise
- Addicted Roswellian
- Posts: 385
- Joined: Thu Feb 28, 2002 12:48 am
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Chapter 19
A week of stolen kisses has definitely made Max bold. With no coaxing from me he sweeps his tongue inside my mouth to taste me fully. I feel his fingers tunnel into my hair, pressing into my scalp, holding me captive to his avaricious kiss. My own hands flutter above his slick flesh, yearning to touch while frightened to do so. I don’t want anything to break this moment.
Before long, however, he takes the decision out my hands, twisting in the tub to shift up onto his knees. And then I’m pressed against his naked, wet body or as much as I can be with the rim of the bathtub between us, being kissed absolutely breathless. His hands skim lightly over my back, up and down, pressing me ever closer. However, the moment I do finally touch my fingers to his hot flesh he jerks away and sloshes back into the water. Just a light brush across his tight nipple but he reacts as if he’s been electrocuted.
I stare at him, my eyes round and surprised. “What is it?” I whisper.
He averts his eyes, shy and boyish once more. The seducer has vanished. His transformations from boy to man both amaze and frustrate me. I find the becoming blush tinting his cheeks quite charming but I simultaneously yearn for the sensual man he’d been only seconds earlier. “We shouldn’t,” he tells quietly. His breathing is deep and uneven. A quick peek down into the water testifies to the fact that he’s aroused. He’s not pushing me away because he doesn’t want me.
“Did I do something to offend you?” I ask him softly. I lift my hand to caress his wet hair back from his face but he flinches away. “Max?”
“You can’t touch me,” he says, almost panicked. It’s the cornered look on his face that makes me back off. But I’ll admit I’m still very confused.
“Why not, Max?” I demand quietly, “Why don’t you want me to touch you? Don’t you like it…don’t you like it when I touch you?” Maybe I’m being obtuse, but we are married, for crying out loud!
“I love it when you touch me,” he moans in a whisper.
That’s all the invite I need. I lean forward again, sweeping my mouth against his. “Then let me touch you,” I implore huskily and we’re at it again, kissing hard and hungry. Our tongues duel for dominance, thrusting in and out of each other’s mouths. My body is aflame, wanting him with a fierceness I’ve never experienced. I’m seriously considering climbing into the bathtub with him, clothes and all. He must sense my intent because he pushes me away yet again. “Max, I know you want me,” I insist hotly. For emphasis, I meander my hand down his chest in such of proof. And they say that women aren’t aggressors? I’m doing a damned good job.
He catches my fingers right before they can disappear into the water. “I’m not ready, Liz,” he says emphatically. The words are like a cold dash of water. I wilt backwards, my desire draining away. “I’m sorry…I’m just…not.”
“Okay,” I reply woodenly. Honestly, I don’t know what else to say.
“No, you don’t understand,” he rushes fervently, “I like you, Liz…I more than like you, but I’m still getting to know you…I’m still getting to know me.” He finally blinks up at me, his eyes pleading with me to understand. “I…I just want to go slow.” He regards me sweetly through the curtain of his lashes to garner my reaction.
“Slow?” I repeat blankly, “You want to go slow?” Can you tell that his admission has stunned me? Um…perhaps stunned is a bit of an understatement. I’m…I’m…my goodness, well…I’m stunned. So that’s the best adjective I can retrieve from my muddled brain right now. Perhaps because, despite myself, I am still comparing this Max to the old one. The old Max, my dearly departed husband, never and I mean NEVER turned down sex. Even those desperate times when I’d seduced him while we were on the outs he never turned me away so I’m, well as I mentioned before, stunned that he would do so now, especially when his body is so obviously aroused.
But then I have to remind myself yet again that this Max isn’t the same. Not only mentally but morally as well. Despite Michael’s crass influence Max has developed into quite a gentlemen. Perhaps it’s the effect of living in a house full of women or the limited influence he’s gleaned from Dr. Whitman when he comes calling for Isabel. Whatever it is, this Max carries a certain standard that he absolutely refuses to lower. Right is right and wrong is wrong and there are no gray areas for Max. Not like before, when most of his life was a gray area.
That’s not to say Max is pompous or self-righteous now because he isn’t. However, he sees no reason for lies or manipulation. He doesn’t know how to play coy, doesn’t desire to really. He wants me and he’ll make no excuse. But he also wants to wait and he’s not making any excuse for that either. And I suspect that there is something even deeper motivating him at this moment. Max doesn’t want to hurt me. He has this intense desire to do no harm, physically or emotionally. My beautiful, wonderful, adoring Max is trying to do the right thing.
Max looks at me now, fearful he has made me angry while appearing resolute not to back down from his decision either. “Yeah…yeah, I do,” he stammered firmly, “I want to go slow, Liz, because…because I…I respect you. I can wait until the time is right for both of us. Can you wait for me?”
Now I feel ashamed, like a teenaged boy pressuring his girlfriend for sex. Isn’t it ironic how the tables are turned? “Of course, I can wait for you, Max,” I vow. I want to touch him, just to let him know how truly sincere I am, but I’m afraid of making him any more uncomfortable than I already have. “I just got carried away being in here with you, kissing you and--,”
I break off as he suddenly glances down at the water surrounding him, his eyes widening as it finally dawns on him that my being here with him while he’s naked is inappropriate, especially if he wants to wait. When he looks at me again his cheeks are flaming anew with mortification. “Oh God…Liz, I wasn’t even thinking about that,” he rushes to reassure me, “That’s not what I meant when I asked you to stay--,”
I press my finger against his mouth to silence him. “Shh…” I whisper with a smile, “I know it. You’re not responsible here, I am. I should have known better.” I push myself away from the bathtub and straighten. “I’ll just leave you to your bath now.”
But I’m smiling as I turn away rather than slumping with disappointment. In fact, I’m not disappointed in the slightest, but rather I feel strangely flattered and…revered. Max wants to wait until I know him better, until he knows me better. But most importantly, until he knows himself. That’s something most people don’t consider before escalating to intimacy. But my Max, in all his childlike innocence, had the forethought to consider just that. I can’t help but be struck by the depth of his wisdom, awed beyond words.
I enter my bedroom whistling a jaunty tune to find Katie is curled up Indian style atop my bed, the Monopoly game box in her lap. She perks up as I come inside. “I thought maybe we could play,” she says with a hopeful smile.
I don’t usually like to play Monopoly with Katie. For a mere eight year old she can be quite cut throat when she wins. And if she loses… Oh good gravy, you could serve cheese with the whine that follows. But her smile is so appealing right now, an odd combination of both her father and me, plus I’m in such a good mood I think, “Why the hell not?” So before I’ve completely thought it through I’m already nodding and folding myself onto the bed with her to help her set up the game.
“So you and Dad are really getting along, huh?” Katie observes as she casually straightens the money. Not casually enough. I immediately zero in on the real reason she’s sought out my company today. She’s on a fishing expedition.
“We’re becoming really good friends, I think,” I reply coyly, partly just to aggravate her, “Set me up as the car, please.”
Katie quickly assembles the silver colored pieces, the dog and the car, on the GO space. “Okay, no property buys the first go around,” she states. This is our tradition. We can make up our own rules, but they must be stated prior to the first roll of the dice or they do not count.
I nod my head in agreement. “I also want the paid money to go under Free Parking,” I tell her, sweeping up the dice.
“Aww, Mom! I hate when we do that!” Katie whines. Didn’t I tell you? This child is a master. “You always win the money and I never do!”
“If you challenge my rule I’ll challenge yours,” I warn blithely. Okay, maybe it’s terrible for a thirty-three year old woman to gang up on an eight-year-old girl, but I must admit, Katie is so wonderfully easy to bait. “Take it or leave it.” Katie huffs her reluctant consent and I roll the dice.
I only just hop my piece the rolled eleven spaces when Katie comments brazenly, “So Dad really likes you.”
I cast her a warning look, although inside I’m simpering over the observation. “Katie--,”
My precocious daughter merely shrugs. “I’m just saying that I’ve seen the way he looks at you…and the way you look at him.”
Okay, I’ve swallowed the bait. My grin breaks its way to the surface. “I told you that we’re friends, Katie,” I manage neutrally, but spoil the effect with a giggle, “He looks at me? Really? How does he look at me?” I wonder if she can notice a difference between the way he looked at me before the shooting and the way he looks at me now.
But of course now it’s Katie’s turn to be coy. Is this girl my child or what? “I don’t know,” she replies with feigned indifference. She picks up the dice for her roll. “He just looks at you sometimes…you know, like when you’re fixing dinner or in the mornings when you’re running all over trying to get everything together.”
“Really?” I consider. I haven’t thought about Max watching me before now, but it causes a lovely warmth to fill my belly in knowing that he does. Maybe because lately I’ve been doing my share of staring as well. I actually marvel over how beautiful he is. It is definitely true what they say about beauty radiating from within. Max has always been a handsome man, but since his accident he’s become absolutely breathtaking to me.
Katie bounces her piece along the board, the tapping sound pulling me from my brief reverie. “I’ve seen you kissing him,” she reveals. Her head is bent so I can’t see her face, but I can hear the smile in her tone. I’m not sure if she’s just saying this now for the shock value or to pull information out of me or if she’s truly sincere.
“You have not!” I counter laughingly. I scrape the dice from her hands.
“No, I saw you,” she insists, “The other night I got up to get a glass of water and…and you and Dad were kissing against the kitchen sink.”
Well, now I’m blushing ten shades of red all over because I know for sure she saw us. For the life of me I still can’t understand how something as generic as washing and drying dishes together turned into an all out make-out fest. Our hands met beneath the soap suds of the dishwater and it was all over. I peek a glance at Katie and much to my disconcertion she’s waiting for me to explain myself. I begin with the thing that’s bothering me most. “Are you mad about it?” I ask her shakily.
“No!” And the way she exclaims that denial makes me think that anger is the last thing she feels. She confirms my hopeful suspicions with her next words. “I think it’s awesome that you and Dad are kissing! You even seem to like it more than before…I mean, you both do.” Again I feel my cheeks bloom with color. “So is Dad gonna sleep in here from now on?”
“Sleep…sleep in here?” I sputter. When did my tiny daughter become so direct? I study her now and I recognize that she’s very different from the little girl who had her entire world rocked only nine months earlier. And I don’t mean just the physical changes. She’s more confident, definitely more assertive than she’d been before. Less a little girl and more a young lady. I’m impressed and saddened all at once. I suppose I want her to stay my baby forever.
“Don’t you think he should?” Katie counters with adult-like logic, “I mean…if you’re kissing him…”
“Your dad isn’t ready to share a bedroom with me, Katie,” I tell her firmly, “Right now you’re too young to understand all the details so I don’t plan to discuss this any further with you than telling you that your father needs to take things slowly.”
“You mean like when we tell him about how things were before…you know…before he was shot.”
“Yes,” I say, “exactly like that. Your father can’t jump into being the man he was before. That has to take place gradually.”
“But I don’t want him to be the man he was before!” Katie cries, flinging down the dice, “I like the man he is now!” And then as quickly as that, she’s in tears and flinging herself into my arms. “Mommy, please tell me Daddy won’t be like he was before.”
I cuddle her close, stroking her hair just as I did when she was a baby. “No, sweetie,” I croon soothingly, rocking her back and forth, “That man is gone for good. He’s never coming back.” It’s not until I voice the words aloud that I realize how glad I am for that truth…glad and relieved.
A week of stolen kisses has definitely made Max bold. With no coaxing from me he sweeps his tongue inside my mouth to taste me fully. I feel his fingers tunnel into my hair, pressing into my scalp, holding me captive to his avaricious kiss. My own hands flutter above his slick flesh, yearning to touch while frightened to do so. I don’t want anything to break this moment.
Before long, however, he takes the decision out my hands, twisting in the tub to shift up onto his knees. And then I’m pressed against his naked, wet body or as much as I can be with the rim of the bathtub between us, being kissed absolutely breathless. His hands skim lightly over my back, up and down, pressing me ever closer. However, the moment I do finally touch my fingers to his hot flesh he jerks away and sloshes back into the water. Just a light brush across his tight nipple but he reacts as if he’s been electrocuted.
I stare at him, my eyes round and surprised. “What is it?” I whisper.
He averts his eyes, shy and boyish once more. The seducer has vanished. His transformations from boy to man both amaze and frustrate me. I find the becoming blush tinting his cheeks quite charming but I simultaneously yearn for the sensual man he’d been only seconds earlier. “We shouldn’t,” he tells quietly. His breathing is deep and uneven. A quick peek down into the water testifies to the fact that he’s aroused. He’s not pushing me away because he doesn’t want me.
“Did I do something to offend you?” I ask him softly. I lift my hand to caress his wet hair back from his face but he flinches away. “Max?”
“You can’t touch me,” he says, almost panicked. It’s the cornered look on his face that makes me back off. But I’ll admit I’m still very confused.
“Why not, Max?” I demand quietly, “Why don’t you want me to touch you? Don’t you like it…don’t you like it when I touch you?” Maybe I’m being obtuse, but we are married, for crying out loud!
“I love it when you touch me,” he moans in a whisper.
That’s all the invite I need. I lean forward again, sweeping my mouth against his. “Then let me touch you,” I implore huskily and we’re at it again, kissing hard and hungry. Our tongues duel for dominance, thrusting in and out of each other’s mouths. My body is aflame, wanting him with a fierceness I’ve never experienced. I’m seriously considering climbing into the bathtub with him, clothes and all. He must sense my intent because he pushes me away yet again. “Max, I know you want me,” I insist hotly. For emphasis, I meander my hand down his chest in such of proof. And they say that women aren’t aggressors? I’m doing a damned good job.
He catches my fingers right before they can disappear into the water. “I’m not ready, Liz,” he says emphatically. The words are like a cold dash of water. I wilt backwards, my desire draining away. “I’m sorry…I’m just…not.”
“Okay,” I reply woodenly. Honestly, I don’t know what else to say.
“No, you don’t understand,” he rushes fervently, “I like you, Liz…I more than like you, but I’m still getting to know you…I’m still getting to know me.” He finally blinks up at me, his eyes pleading with me to understand. “I…I just want to go slow.” He regards me sweetly through the curtain of his lashes to garner my reaction.
“Slow?” I repeat blankly, “You want to go slow?” Can you tell that his admission has stunned me? Um…perhaps stunned is a bit of an understatement. I’m…I’m…my goodness, well…I’m stunned. So that’s the best adjective I can retrieve from my muddled brain right now. Perhaps because, despite myself, I am still comparing this Max to the old one. The old Max, my dearly departed husband, never and I mean NEVER turned down sex. Even those desperate times when I’d seduced him while we were on the outs he never turned me away so I’m, well as I mentioned before, stunned that he would do so now, especially when his body is so obviously aroused.
But then I have to remind myself yet again that this Max isn’t the same. Not only mentally but morally as well. Despite Michael’s crass influence Max has developed into quite a gentlemen. Perhaps it’s the effect of living in a house full of women or the limited influence he’s gleaned from Dr. Whitman when he comes calling for Isabel. Whatever it is, this Max carries a certain standard that he absolutely refuses to lower. Right is right and wrong is wrong and there are no gray areas for Max. Not like before, when most of his life was a gray area.
That’s not to say Max is pompous or self-righteous now because he isn’t. However, he sees no reason for lies or manipulation. He doesn’t know how to play coy, doesn’t desire to really. He wants me and he’ll make no excuse. But he also wants to wait and he’s not making any excuse for that either. And I suspect that there is something even deeper motivating him at this moment. Max doesn’t want to hurt me. He has this intense desire to do no harm, physically or emotionally. My beautiful, wonderful, adoring Max is trying to do the right thing.
Max looks at me now, fearful he has made me angry while appearing resolute not to back down from his decision either. “Yeah…yeah, I do,” he stammered firmly, “I want to go slow, Liz, because…because I…I respect you. I can wait until the time is right for both of us. Can you wait for me?”
Now I feel ashamed, like a teenaged boy pressuring his girlfriend for sex. Isn’t it ironic how the tables are turned? “Of course, I can wait for you, Max,” I vow. I want to touch him, just to let him know how truly sincere I am, but I’m afraid of making him any more uncomfortable than I already have. “I just got carried away being in here with you, kissing you and--,”
I break off as he suddenly glances down at the water surrounding him, his eyes widening as it finally dawns on him that my being here with him while he’s naked is inappropriate, especially if he wants to wait. When he looks at me again his cheeks are flaming anew with mortification. “Oh God…Liz, I wasn’t even thinking about that,” he rushes to reassure me, “That’s not what I meant when I asked you to stay--,”
I press my finger against his mouth to silence him. “Shh…” I whisper with a smile, “I know it. You’re not responsible here, I am. I should have known better.” I push myself away from the bathtub and straighten. “I’ll just leave you to your bath now.”
But I’m smiling as I turn away rather than slumping with disappointment. In fact, I’m not disappointed in the slightest, but rather I feel strangely flattered and…revered. Max wants to wait until I know him better, until he knows me better. But most importantly, until he knows himself. That’s something most people don’t consider before escalating to intimacy. But my Max, in all his childlike innocence, had the forethought to consider just that. I can’t help but be struck by the depth of his wisdom, awed beyond words.
I enter my bedroom whistling a jaunty tune to find Katie is curled up Indian style atop my bed, the Monopoly game box in her lap. She perks up as I come inside. “I thought maybe we could play,” she says with a hopeful smile.
I don’t usually like to play Monopoly with Katie. For a mere eight year old she can be quite cut throat when she wins. And if she loses… Oh good gravy, you could serve cheese with the whine that follows. But her smile is so appealing right now, an odd combination of both her father and me, plus I’m in such a good mood I think, “Why the hell not?” So before I’ve completely thought it through I’m already nodding and folding myself onto the bed with her to help her set up the game.
“So you and Dad are really getting along, huh?” Katie observes as she casually straightens the money. Not casually enough. I immediately zero in on the real reason she’s sought out my company today. She’s on a fishing expedition.
“We’re becoming really good friends, I think,” I reply coyly, partly just to aggravate her, “Set me up as the car, please.”
Katie quickly assembles the silver colored pieces, the dog and the car, on the GO space. “Okay, no property buys the first go around,” she states. This is our tradition. We can make up our own rules, but they must be stated prior to the first roll of the dice or they do not count.
I nod my head in agreement. “I also want the paid money to go under Free Parking,” I tell her, sweeping up the dice.
“Aww, Mom! I hate when we do that!” Katie whines. Didn’t I tell you? This child is a master. “You always win the money and I never do!”
“If you challenge my rule I’ll challenge yours,” I warn blithely. Okay, maybe it’s terrible for a thirty-three year old woman to gang up on an eight-year-old girl, but I must admit, Katie is so wonderfully easy to bait. “Take it or leave it.” Katie huffs her reluctant consent and I roll the dice.
I only just hop my piece the rolled eleven spaces when Katie comments brazenly, “So Dad really likes you.”
I cast her a warning look, although inside I’m simpering over the observation. “Katie--,”
My precocious daughter merely shrugs. “I’m just saying that I’ve seen the way he looks at you…and the way you look at him.”
Okay, I’ve swallowed the bait. My grin breaks its way to the surface. “I told you that we’re friends, Katie,” I manage neutrally, but spoil the effect with a giggle, “He looks at me? Really? How does he look at me?” I wonder if she can notice a difference between the way he looked at me before the shooting and the way he looks at me now.
But of course now it’s Katie’s turn to be coy. Is this girl my child or what? “I don’t know,” she replies with feigned indifference. She picks up the dice for her roll. “He just looks at you sometimes…you know, like when you’re fixing dinner or in the mornings when you’re running all over trying to get everything together.”
“Really?” I consider. I haven’t thought about Max watching me before now, but it causes a lovely warmth to fill my belly in knowing that he does. Maybe because lately I’ve been doing my share of staring as well. I actually marvel over how beautiful he is. It is definitely true what they say about beauty radiating from within. Max has always been a handsome man, but since his accident he’s become absolutely breathtaking to me.
Katie bounces her piece along the board, the tapping sound pulling me from my brief reverie. “I’ve seen you kissing him,” she reveals. Her head is bent so I can’t see her face, but I can hear the smile in her tone. I’m not sure if she’s just saying this now for the shock value or to pull information out of me or if she’s truly sincere.
“You have not!” I counter laughingly. I scrape the dice from her hands.
“No, I saw you,” she insists, “The other night I got up to get a glass of water and…and you and Dad were kissing against the kitchen sink.”
Well, now I’m blushing ten shades of red all over because I know for sure she saw us. For the life of me I still can’t understand how something as generic as washing and drying dishes together turned into an all out make-out fest. Our hands met beneath the soap suds of the dishwater and it was all over. I peek a glance at Katie and much to my disconcertion she’s waiting for me to explain myself. I begin with the thing that’s bothering me most. “Are you mad about it?” I ask her shakily.
“No!” And the way she exclaims that denial makes me think that anger is the last thing she feels. She confirms my hopeful suspicions with her next words. “I think it’s awesome that you and Dad are kissing! You even seem to like it more than before…I mean, you both do.” Again I feel my cheeks bloom with color. “So is Dad gonna sleep in here from now on?”
“Sleep…sleep in here?” I sputter. When did my tiny daughter become so direct? I study her now and I recognize that she’s very different from the little girl who had her entire world rocked only nine months earlier. And I don’t mean just the physical changes. She’s more confident, definitely more assertive than she’d been before. Less a little girl and more a young lady. I’m impressed and saddened all at once. I suppose I want her to stay my baby forever.
“Don’t you think he should?” Katie counters with adult-like logic, “I mean…if you’re kissing him…”
“Your dad isn’t ready to share a bedroom with me, Katie,” I tell her firmly, “Right now you’re too young to understand all the details so I don’t plan to discuss this any further with you than telling you that your father needs to take things slowly.”
“You mean like when we tell him about how things were before…you know…before he was shot.”
“Yes,” I say, “exactly like that. Your father can’t jump into being the man he was before. That has to take place gradually.”
“But I don’t want him to be the man he was before!” Katie cries, flinging down the dice, “I like the man he is now!” And then as quickly as that, she’s in tears and flinging herself into my arms. “Mommy, please tell me Daddy won’t be like he was before.”
I cuddle her close, stroking her hair just as I did when she was a baby. “No, sweetie,” I croon soothingly, rocking her back and forth, “That man is gone for good. He’s never coming back.” It’s not until I voice the words aloud that I realize how glad I am for that truth…glad and relieved.