“We never talk about it.” His voice wasn’t negative, but contemplative.
“Not talking about it doesn’t seem to help, does it?”
“You and Tracey are doing okay.” His voice grew stubborn. “And don’t worry about me, I’m just a brokenhearted old man.”
“You’re not old, Dad, and we all have broken hearts.” I spun in my chair, now facing the window. “Tracey is hopping from man to man, looking for love in all the wrong places. Darren and I are separated . . . when Mama died, we all became a little lost. But I’ve been trying hard lately, and I swear I’m getting better. That’s why I think we should talk.”
“And talking about your mama being gone makes you feel better?”
“I’m not saying I have the answers, but Mama would want us to try.”
Dad sighed over the phone. “When did you get so wise?”
“I hit rock bottom, Dad. All I could do was look up and think.”
The phone receiver rattled as if Dad were going through a wind tunnel.
“Dad? What’s going on?”
“I blew out the candles.”
I parked the car in the church parking lot. Today was beautiful, a perfect tribute to Mama’s born day. Though it was cold, the sun kissed my skin, dashing away the chilly weather.
The grass hadn’t taken on the dull brown tint that other yards had done. No shoots of weeds or unsightly plants marred the manicured grounds. I wasn’t surprised, Father Frank was faithful in making sure the grounds were well-kept.
I walked along the winding path, flowers in hand, so lost in thought I didn’t see Darren until I was nearly at Mama’s grave. Darren was seated, a blanket and picnic basket on the side of Mama’s headstone.
Darren had arranged food on top of the blanket. He watched me, his expression relaxed save for the intensity in his eyes. My skin blazed under his scrutiny.
“What are you doing here?”
“Care Bear.” His deep voice reached out and soothed the fiery path his gaze had caused.
I battled my lungs to pull in air. “How long have you been here?”
He shrugged. “Few hours.” His voice was nonchalant, as if it were perfectly normal to stalk your almost-ex-wife at her mother’s grave.
“You’re a determined man.”
“I made us some sandwiches.” He waved to the brown wicker basket without addressing my comment.
“You made us a picnic . . . at Mama’s grave?” I wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
“You always cry when you come. It’s never cleansing, never healing. I wanted to make a good memory. We can eat, think of good things. Make it beautiful.”
“Things like?” I asked, not quite sure I was committed to leave my melancholy behind.
“Like how your mama would say everything was her jam. Remember how she hopped from her seat and then started swaying her hips to the beat, doing that wiggle thing with her shoulders?”
I giggled and then mimicked the dance. Mama was from the islands, but she had zero rhythm. “Aww, shoot. This. Is. My. Jam!”
“And remember when we first moved in together? Your mama dragged you to Mass, and after church, pushed you to the front of the line to talk to Father Frank?”
The melancholy vanished, replaced by hysterical laughter. Mama’s Caribbean accent would grow thick when she was riled up. “Father Frank, please pray for my firstborn’s eternal soul. She’ll be waiting for you at confession next week.”
I bent over from laughter. “I looked Father Frank straight in the eye and said that I’d been living in sin and enjoyed every minute of it, and asked if he wanted to hear all about it.”
“His face was beet-red!” Darren shook his head. “He told you to go in peace, and then ran away from your poor mother.”
Our laughter continued until we looked at each other. He was doing that looking-into-my-soul thing again. Something hot and potent blanketed the air, and then I felt it. An invisible string, a tether tugged at my heart. I shook my head, literally shook it, as if to signal this thing called love to cool it.
Darren raised his eyebrow, a smirk forming along his lips. He patted the blanket. “Want to sit down? Join me in my creepy picnic?”
The tether tugged not-so-gently again. “Yeah, you can’t be the only weirdo eating PB and J sandwiches in a graveyard.” I lowered myself to the ground.
He passed me a sandwich wrapped in plastic. “For you.”
“Thank you, good sir.” I took the proffered food.
After unwrapping the sandwich, I looked down at my lap, avoiding Darren’s eyes. Heat zipped through my bones. I could feel his stare on my face, my breasts. I wondered if he could see how hard my heart pounded beneath my chest.
I took a bite, swallowed, then found the courage to look up. Like magnets, my eyes found his.
“Kara . . .” He sighed, reverent. Worshiping.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“Why do you ask?” I wondered if he could read the confusion on my face.
“Today is your mother’s birthday. I need to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am.” I nodded. “Really, I am. And I talked to Dad today. He’s still taking everything hard, but he, Tracey, and I are going to talk more.”
“Really?” A small smile formed on his lips.
He’d always encouraged me to talk to my family, but I wrapped my grief around me like a cocoon and was too engrossed in my pain to see anything else. To see him. To see his pain. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“About what?” He dropped the smile.
“About your past and what happened to you as a child.”
He sighed, shook his head. “I was ashamed. Men, we don’t talk about stuff like that. If you have sex with an older woman, it’s like a rite of passage.”
“Not when you’re a kid. How old were you?”
“Ten.”
“Ten.” I shook my head. “That’s rape.” The word was foreign and tasted sour on my tongue.
“I know that. I always knew, but I was confused. She was the only person to show me affection and touch me, though inappropriately.”
He bit into his sandwich. “Then I found Dr. Caine, and I’ve been talking to Father Frank, too. He helps me with the spiritual aspect. Made me realize the Big Guy upstairs actually cares for me.”
“Good, I’m glad. I’m happy for you.”
His eyes sought mine again. “Kara, I love you.”
I looked away and twisted the plastic in my hand. Does he?
Even after our counseling, I was still unsure, still thoroughly confused. But despite my dark thoughts, my heart leaped just a bit, as if it wanted to be closer to Darren.
“I know you’ve been working on yourself, and that’s great. But you said it before . . . you don’t know what love is.”
“I do.”
“You don’t. Or maybe you do? But I can’t afford to be your experiment. I need a man who loves me. Scratch that, loves me and knows it.”
“I’m your man and I love you. So much that it hurts looking at you, knowing the pain I caused by my actions, or rather inaction. Let me prove myself.”