She smiles, “I’ve known that boy since he was fourteen. He confided in me that he loved Lorna a long time ago.”
She turns for the stairs, footsteps tired.
He confided in her? How did Max and I never see his feelings were more than unrequited lust? Barry was always such a jerk to her, but I guess it was like the boy in grade school who pulls your hair when he thinks you’re pretty.
“And here we all thought he just loved messing with her.”
“Oh, he wanted to mess with her, alright.”
“Alice!”
She chuckles, foot alighting the first step, and pauses to add without humor, “Let's just hope he can maintain his sobriety.”
Chapter 32
Max
Dad throws a log onto kindling in our stone hearth and, satisfied it’s ready to light, searches for matches. I’m standing behind him, aware there's a matchbook behind the photograph of Abby and I.
But I can’t show him and it’s bugging me as he searches everywhere, even lifting wood from the basket to see if matches dropped under them, at some point.
“They're behind the frame, Dad.”
He again searches the pile of wood.
“Dad. The photograph.”
He runs his hand on the fireplace’s ledge, behind the pipe that leads up through our roof. When he drops to his knees I start to lose my patience, not with him but with this whole situation. I’m tired of feeling helpless. Invisible.
“Dad! Get up.” I cross to point at the matches tucked away behind our smiling faces. “They're right here!”
He starts to go back to the wood pile! I lose my temper, “Dad, they're right fucking here!” and smack the yellow matchbox. It hurtles to the floor, balanced in an unbelievably rare way, on it’s skinny side.
I straighten up, stunned.
As if nothing is unusual, Dad picks them up, striking the sulfur, and I’m speechless watching flames jumping from match to kindling.
How did I make those move?
Mom and Abby appear at the top of our stairs, Abby walking down as Dad closes the hearth. “You sure this is okay, kiddo?
“Of course,” she smiles, voice gentle, “I don't mind the couch.”
I blurt, “You always hated that couch,” my mind on the matchbox.
Abby adds, for me, not them, “I used to mind the couch, but now it's growing on me.” And somehow it works. They don’t know she’s talking to me.
She and Dad cross paths in front of me, she for her temporary bed, and he for the borrowed one.
“Well, I really appreciate this,” sighs Mom, waiting for him to join her. “I just want to sleep until my eyes look normal again. I can't go out like this!”
“I like the company.”
“It must get lonely up here,” Mom says with a leading tone, so like the one Lorna used when asking if Abs had made new friends.
“I’m not lonely. I’m fine.”
Atop our stairs Dad pauses beside Mom, “Night, kiddo.” Ma takes the hint to leave Abby alone, and up they go.
Fuck, this hurts so bad!
My parents right there, grieving over me.
Abby’s voice cracks, “Guys?”
We all look at her.
Dad asks, “Something wrong?” while Mom waits, too.
My wife, my dear, loving angel, senses what I need without my having to say it. Sometimes it’s hard for me to articulate my emotions until long after I experience them. I’m so grateful as she says, “I just wanted you to know that Max knows how much you love him, how much you miss him,” and I turn to see their reaction, hoping they believe her!
My parents only frown.
“How do you know that, Abby?” Mom asks, suspicious.
“I just have a feeling. You know we're watched over by the ones we love most after they've moved on. I believe that.”
Mom sighs, “Well, I hope he isn't watching us.”
Dad blurts, “What?”
“I’d hate to think there's something great out there waiting for him and he's stuck here with us.”
I react, scoffing, “Mom!” Can’t she understand there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with the three people who are here right now?
“Alice,” sighs Dad.
“It's true! And to see my outburst tonight. I can't think of a worse torture.”
I call up to her, “I haven't seen any light, Mom.”
Disconsolate, Dad says, “If our boy is still around, I'm sorry but I want him to stay here.”
I mutter, “I don't have anywhere else to go, Dad.”
Mom’s tone sharpens. “Well, that's just selfish.” She grabs his arm, struggling for patience and not wanting to fight again, adding a hasty, “I’m sorry!”
Dad rolls his eyes, “I’m not doing anything!”
“Is it selfish,” I ask my wife, “that I don't want to leave?”
She mouths, no, as they argue.
“Just wanting it, Henry! Just wanting it is enough,” Mom insists, “You can't hold onto something that's been set free. Max was set free from this,” she pulls at her skin, “…and there is more than this. There is!”
The whole something more than this, neither she nor I can attest to. If there’s an afterlife, I’m in it. No grand lights coming to claim my soul, blah blah blah.
With a bite, Abby asks, “How do you know?”
And Dad shakes his head, “Well, I don't believe that.”
But my mother answers Abby’s question first, “I just know.” She touches Dad’s chest over his heart, voice tender. “And you know it, too.”
She walks the rest of the stairs, no longer interested in debate, soft mattress calling her, no more strength or fight left.
Dad frowns, hesitating.
Abby smiles, “Goodnight Henry.”
I join in, “Night Dad.”
He smiles back, “Goodnight Abby,” and walks upstairs.
Heartbroken, I disappear.
Chapter 33
Abby
Another morning of scrambled eggs, jam on toast, and farewells with promises to see each other again soon.
Henry is carrying their suitcase since rolling it along the bark-covered path is impossible. He stops and casts a final glance to the cabin, eyes flickering at the balcony just outside our bedroom on the second floor.
I stop walking, too, and look up, see the tree branches bending under a sudden breeze.
Alice, finger-combing her hair, stops walking, too.
“What, Henry?” she asks.
My heart is beating with hope I’m not alone.
I’m hoping he’d caught a glimpse of Max.
He frowns, “Nothing,” stepping away from their suitcase and closer to the cabin while taking a deep breath. “I was just remembering when he was ten and jumped off that thing.”
Alice chuckles, “Remembering scouring the yellow pages to find the nearest hospital for his broken arm? My goodness, do you remember phone books?!”
“Arm?” I smile, forgetting this story. “Not his legs?”