“Don’t you remember?”
I shook my head, backed my way out of the room.
TWENTY-ONE
SO HE REALLY JUSTtook off?” Mark asked. It was a little before ten and we were in bed under our heavy down comforter. It was usually my favorite time of day: these last moments in the evening when Mark and I were snuggled together, sharing little details from our day, retelling each other the best parts, or sometimes processing difficult things together. Mark had turned off his reading light, and I had my laptop open. The blue glow of the screen lit the room: the antique dresser with the framed wedding photo we kept on top of it, the oval mirror above it. We had matching bedside tables: Mark’s was stacked with books of poetry, papers to grade. Mine had a couple of sketchbooks and drawing pencils, a book on the history of Halloween that Mark had bought for me, hoping it would provide inspiration for the new Moxie book.
I’d been filling Mark in on Paul’s departure, telling him all the things I couldn’t say in front of the girls earlier.
“He couldn’t get out of here fast enough. I overheard them arguing—they were both so upset. She asked him to do something but he said no. The next thing I knew, he was practically running out the door.”
“Wow. Well, you said he’s been taking her illness really hard.”
“That’s true, but—”
“Which makes sense. He’s kind of been like a son to her.”
I don’t know why this bothered me, but it did. Maybe it was jealousy—Paul had been close to her over the years, had been part of her day-to-day life in a way that I hadn’t.
“I know,” I said.
Paul knew my mother in a way I never would.
Just as I knew her in a way he never would.
It was strange to think about, as if we knew two very different people.
I’d often wondered if he had any real idea of what my and Ben’s childhood in that house with her had been like. Surely he must have suspected. The fact that Ben refused to even talk to her had definitely made Paul curious. He’d asked me once, long ago, “What happened between Mavis and Ben? What did she do?” I knew how loaded the question was, felt him searching my face, wondering what she’d done to me as well but knowing better than to ask. I never answered Paul, just shook my head, changed the subject. He never asked about it again.
“He’s been with her for years,” Mark said now. “Not just working for her, but living there in the carriage house.”
I’d wondered about that too. What made him stay? What was his life like there? Did he have friends of his own? A lover who came to spend the night once in a while? He’d told me he had no family and I’d never heard him or my mother mention anyone he was close to. I knew nothing about his personal life. I doubted he had much time for one.
And what about the hold my mother had over him?
Evidently it wasn’t complete, because this afternoon he’d refused her.
What on earth had she asked of him? I couldn’t imagine Paul ever saying no to my mother.
“He obviously cares very deeply about her,” Mark said beside me. “And she for him.”
“They definitely have a strong bond,” I agreed. “She was in such a rage when he walked out on her—it was terrifying.”
“Have you talked to Paul since he left?” Mark asked.
“No. I tried calling. Left a bunch of messages. I sent him a couple of emails too.”
He nodded. “Let’s give him some time. I’m sure you’ll hear from him before too long. He’s probably feeling awful for leaving so suddenly.”
That’s not Mavis.
I’d kept myself busy throughout the afternoon, trying not to think about what had happened or the bizarre things my mother had told me. Trying to tell myself that she was sick, upset about Paul, heavily medicated. I’d cleaned the kitchen, done laundry, made the girls quesadillas when they got home from school. Olivia had gone tearing into my mother’s room to show her a funny little chicken pillow she’d made in art class. I’d stood in the doorway watching them, terrified that my mother might start spewing frightening nonsense about not being herself to my little girl. But my mother was sweet and charming, cooing with delight over the pillow. “I made it for you, Grandma Needle,” Olivia had said. “I love it,” my mother had responded. “It’s the nicest gift anyone’s ever given me.”
Mark snuggled up next to me and peered at the screen on my laptop.
“Learning the constellations?” he asked, then read: “?‘Azha, a star in the constellation Eridanus.’?” He frowned. “I don’t know that one.”
“Eridanus is a river. At the feet of Orion.”
