Mac’s on time. He’s not as anal-retentive as Dec, or even me, but he doesn’t run late as a habit. Finn and May got that gene.
When it hits ten after, I start eyeing my phone like it’ll summon Mac’s call. I’m not worried, per se, but I can’t help feeling a touch of concern. The fact that he’s a few minutes late doesn’t indicate some larger problem, but the very slow trickle of communication he’s given the family the last few months might.
Finally, my phone rings and I answer it instantly.
“Mac.”
“Grant.” His tone mimics mine perfectly.
“How are you? What’s your status?” I’m still pacing upand down the sidewalk, but I’m restless, and being caged in my office for this conversation won’t work.
“Good. Everything’s fine.”
I plead with the bluebird sky to give me patience, but I’m pretty much out of it when it comes to him. “Say more.”
He grumbles. “I’m good. Out and back recently. Otherwise, no news.”
“Out and back” means he’s been deployed and we didn’t even know. That’s not surprising. He works in special operations and doesn’t tell us anything, which isn’t necessarily wrong. It’s how some people prefer to function, and it’s definitely the way Mac does.
“You feeling healthy?” I hate prying information out of him. It’s never particularly effective, but I’ve got to have something to give my folks. When he calls them, it’s primarily proof of life.
“All good.”
I grit my teeth but breathe through the frustration. “Taking care of yourself?”
There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his tone is different. Surrendered, almost. “I’m good, G. I swear. And I’m still retiring when I said I would.”
My eyes pinch shut. “No one’s pressuring you. Do what’s best for you. That’s not just talk, Mac. It’s what we all want. Yes, we want you home, too, but if staying in is what’s right, that’s what you’ve got to do. Everyone gets that.”
I don’t actually hear a sigh or a huff of breath, but I can imagine it. He’s likely standing in his little house in a neighborhood in North Carolina surrounded by pine trees. And no doubt, he’s wearing that blank, unreadable mask of his.
“Acknowledged. Still getting out.”
One of the many screws turned too tight in my chestloosens a millimeter, and I release an audible breath. “That’s good news. Do you know the timeline, or is it too soon?”
There’s nothing that annoys him more than this question. I can never quite tell if it’s because he doesn’t want to think about it, or because he doesn’t yet have a clear answer and he prefers to be definitive. Either way, I do my best not to ask this every time we talk. We all do. But sometimes, it needs to be voiced.
“Looking like eighteen months, give or take depending on terminal leave.”
That tightness eases again, another turn of the screw.
“Good. Any idea about a visit sometime? The folks would love to see you.”
We all would, but it’s easiest to blame it on them. The last visit was right after our dad had his heart attack last year. Mac tends to make it home once every eighteen months or so, which will never be enough for his family, and I suspect is always more than enough for him based on the way he blows out of here like he never wants to come back.
It's one of many things I can’t control but wish I could. My therapist once mentioned this, and I’ve taken it to heart, though it doesn’t change the way I want to throttle and yet hug my brooding, avoidant brother.
“I’ll find a time.”
There’s a snip of conversation in the background and it’s clear I was wrong about him being home alone. Sounds like multiple voices, so he’s probably at work and stepped out to make the call.
“Sounds good. I’ll let you get back. Love you, Mac.” I learned my lesson about missed opportunities to say what needs to be said, and I try to live my life in a way that keepsme from avoiding the regret I felt when we lost Julia and Brad.
“You, too, G. Talk soon.” Then he’s gone.
I give myself a minute to feel the pinch in my chest I always feel when we hang up. Mac was my best friend growing up. Dec was, too, but Mac and I were closer in age and Mac was right there with me for so much of my life. He enlisted when I went to college and in so many ways, I’ve looked up to him.
He showed up in the wake of getting the girls. They don’t remember it, but their Uncle Mac was with me in the long nights after we lost their parents. He took turns holding Poppy when she’d cry for hours, missing her parents and too young to understand anything. He read hundreds of books to Lil, and he loved them. He still does.
