Chapter 12: Crossroads (page 2)
by Emmet
I tried to overcome my discomfort, reminded, oddly, of how I had felt when Grace arrived at my house the night before, caught again, as tongue-tied now as I was then. My God, her mother. No explanation was needed, yet I felt compelled to say, “I was just…” What, about to kiss your underage daughter, with whom I am falling in love? Not really… I tried, “It was cold out, and --”
Lily, who seemed genuinely happy to see me with Grace, interrupted, saying, “Oh, I know! Thank you so much! Grace, would you give me a hand with the groceries?”
Grace immediately answered in the affirmative, getting out of the car (no problem with the door this time), with one half-second inscrutable glance back at me. Mother and daughter were gone, and I rolled up the window. Nothing accomplished here for the good, disgusted with myself, with how I had let things turn. On the plus side, Grace was happy. She knew what I had known, that the object of her affection returned her affection. And that was enough for her. For now. But would we be happy to leave things as they were, unacknowledged on one level, acknowledged but unfulfilled on another? Our connection was still there, but where would it lead us in the near future?
*****
Sunday morning Rose lay in bed. She had given up trying to make breakfast for the kids a month ago. She made everything wrong, according to Bobby, and Charlotte had apparently given up breakfast and was nowhere to be found Sundays. She gave in to thinking of Before, remembering how Mike would freeze the wild blueberries he got in the summer and use them all year long for their Sunday pancakes. How he’d drive up to Michigan for the best maple syrup, buying several gallons he’d keep in a cool corner of the basement. Two gallons remained there still. But she’d taken to buying the supermarket brand from Canada, didn’t have the heart to go down and bring up the oversized jug. Just a reminder of what she wasn’t doing. Failures.
The bed seemed empty, too big. She thought she ought to start sleeping in the middle, but years of habit kept her to one side, her side. Mike’s side remained partially made still, the sheets smooth over the pillows. She knew Amber was not the first woman Mike had slept with during their marriage. She knew that. But others, she’d never actually caught him before that. She also knew Amber would be the last, the last he’d see while married to her. Because she couldn’t pretend any more, not to herself at least. She would to the kids, knew how they viewed her, kicking out their poor father, and if they needed to think that to stay happy with Mike, so be it. It’s important to love your father, to think he’s great.
A smell drifted through the cracks in the door. Vanilla, bread, sweetness? Rose opened her eyes wide and sat up. She listened. A murmur of voices downstairs, the sound of the pan being moved on the burner, a utensil in a glass bowl. She looked at the clock – 9 o’clock already. She’d been sleeping in later on weekends.
She padded downstairs and saw, through the kitchen door, Bobby sitting at the counter, poking at something in a bowl. Charlotte was at the stove, flipping French toast. A plate on the table was already filled with golden-brown slices, and Rose felt suddenly ravenously hungry. She entered the kitchen, putting on her mom smile. “What smells so good?” she asked.
Charlotte looked up and flipped two slices of egg-soaked bread in the pan. The table was set for three, with a pitcher of syrup and another of orange juice. “Have a seat, Mom,” Charlotte said. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”