Fall Semester (26 page)

“Shh...shhh, my love,” he whispered. “It’s alright.”

“Someone needs to stay with him,” she repeated into his chest.

He continued rocking and soothing. He gentled his tone as much as he possibly could.

“Yes, I know. Of course....but why does it have to be you every day?”

Maren hiccupped, pulled back, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. He cast his eyes about the room for a box of tissues, but there was none to be found.

“It’s simple. I’m the only one who can.”

In an instant, in that one statement, in the way she shut down her own weakness, Malcolm saw and recognized this side of her that both awed and mystified him: the protector, the warrior, the martyr. He had watched her enough to know that he could not engage this side of her directly; he had lost to her before. He could not oppose her and try to convince her that she was wrong, so wrong. He had to disarm her with gentleness and patience.

“Why are you the only one who can?” he asked, softly.

She took a shaky breath and seemed to sit up straighter in his arms.

“Because Mom is out of sick days; their medical bills are through the roof, and their credit cards are almost maxed out. They can’t afford for her not to work.” She spoke rapidly, fiercely, but her eyes filled again as she listed their woes. “Her office lets her work from home when she can, but sometimes she has to go in. She has to.”

Malcolm nodded, pretending agreement so that she would not feel the need to fight him.

“And what about Lane?”

Maren shrugged, and in that one gesture, Malcolm saw the truth.

“Lane just got this job. I can’t ask....He can’t risk his position by taking too much time off.”

Malcolm waited for her to see the truth, too, but he knew that she might not be able to. Had Maren ever asked her younger brother or sister to help her? Had she ever stepped out of the role she’d always filled in order to take care of herself? He would have bet money that she never had.

He held himself back, waited to see if she would take the next step herself, and when she didn’t, he rested a hand on her knee, almost as if he sensed she would try to move away from him.

“Why is Laurel at a friend’s?” He tried to conceal the judgment in his voice as much as he could, but Malcolm found that he was growing rather impatient with the Gardner family. Life and literature had taught him that every family had its own set of roles and that each parent and child must play his part, willingly or unwillingly. But maturity and experience were the curtain calls, the opportunity for each to find individuation. If Maren ignored the Call to stake her own claim at life, she would forever put the perceived needs of her family above her dreams. And her family, in turn, would keep allowing it. This he could not abide.

The silence stretched between them, and Maren sighed.

“She can’t take it. Like I said,...Dad’s not always himself.” Sadness drew her features down, and she did not look at him. Malcolm could see that she was lost in the grimness of unpleasant memories. “He’s been...disoriented...and
angry.”
She met his eyes, then. “You see, my dad is
so
gentle. He never yells....He never yelled before....It’s just not him.”

Malcolm raised her chin so that he could look into her eyes. He wanted her to see that he knew only too well what she faced.

“Maren, the week before my mother died, she told me that it was my fault she was sick.”

“Oh my God,...Malcolm!” Her shock and the concern in her eyes touched him, but he pressed on.

“My mother loved me more than anything, Maren. I always knew that growing up,” he said, remembering the beautiful woman with sad eyes. “She did everything in her power to make me feel loved and safe despite my father’s rejection of us....I knew all of this before she got really sick. It did not help lessen the sting of her words.”

He saw her silent agreement, and he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before continuing.

“I carried them with me for a long time....I still carry them,” he admitted. “But,...watching her die...it taught me that...a slow death is a great battle. The dying must fight their bodies,... their memories,...their fears. Everything unresolved comes up to be fought with—conquered, reconciled with, or surrendered to. Even if he seems like he is, Maren, your dad is not angry with you or anyone else here.”

She nodded up at him, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. He watched her struggle again to command her voice, dread evident in her look before she even spoke.

“Was she...was your mom...like that...all the way until the end?”

Malcolm was relieved that he did not have to lie to her.

“No, no.” He shook his head, reassuringly. “Two days before she died, it passed. She was peaceful,...almost joyful, and we had a chance to say...everything that needed to be said.”

She softened in his arms, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to Charlotte Vashal for allowing him to comfort Maren. He acknowledged that his mother had been on his mind since Saturday night, as he watched Maren navigate her way through the loss of a parent. Now, the admission had seemed to conjure her, and he smiled at the thought of his mother meeting Maren, knowing what she meant to him.

“I’ve never told anyone about that,” he said, squeezing her a little more tightly, wanting her to know how singular she was.

She reached up, cupped his face, and ran her thumb against his cheek.

“I’m glad you told me.”

He wanted to mark the moment with a kiss, but he also wanted to make sure that she understood the whole of the story.

“It was not easy to endure, Maren, but I’m glad no one hid it from me,” he said, carefully.

Knowingly, Maren pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“Laurel is not strong like you,” she insisted. “She’s the baby; she’s too young for this.”

Malcolm stifled an eye-roll.

“Maren, she may be the baby of the family, but she is about the same age I was when my mother died. She’s an adult, and unless she faces this like an adult, she will be a case of arrested development.”

“I disagree.” An edge had entered her voice, and she braced a hand against his chest and leveled him with a frown. “She’s made it clear that she’s not ready to handle this and needs some distance. I don’t see any benefit to forcing her to witness all of the raw, gory details. And I don’t see why it matters to you.”

He gripped her upper arms gently and met her frown with his own intensity.

“It matters, my darling, because you need help. You shouldn’t be doing so much of this on your own. You are neglecting your school work and your teaching duties because of it, and I don’t want to see that hurt you.”

“I beg your pardon, but I am not ‘neglecting my studies.’” Maren mimicked his tone perfectly while brandishing air quotes. “As a matter of fact, I’ve stayed on top of all my reading, and I’ve written more of my thesis in the last three days than I managed in the last three weeks.”

Malcolm eyed her with skepticism, refusing to respond to her mocking. She may indeed have been writing during the emotional tumult of the last few days, but how much would she actually be able to use when she looked at it with clarity in a month’s time? Of course, he knew better than to suggest as much.

“And what about your students?” he asked, softening his voice as much as he was able so she would not feel accused. But he stiffened when he caught the roll of her eyes.

“Malcolm, I’ve missed
one day.”

“What about tomorrow? Will you be there tomorrow?” He was less careful about the accusation this time, and he saw with regret its affect on her.

“I...I don’t know,” she said with a downcast look. He relaxed his grip on her arms and rubbed up and down to her shoulders, speaking slowly and gently again.

“Maren,...if you don’t go tomorrow and a student complains, you could get into trouble.”

She met his gaze again, and he could see the warmth returning to her eyes.

“You’re worried about me,” she said and leaned in to press her lips against his. They were supple and inviting, simultaneously filling him with peace and longing. She drew back. “I think it’s sweet that you’re worried, but I have to handle this myself.”

No, you don’t.

“It’s not sweet,” he said, almost pleading with her. “My motivations are completely selfish. Maren, I’m your T.A. observer. If a complaint is filed, I will have to investigate you....Do you know what that would do to me?”

The warmth in her eyes flamed, and she looked at him with understanding and a little awe. Could she see that he loved her? How much he loved her? This time, he commanded the kiss, crashing into her. He needed it. And the soft pressure of her lips was not enough. He opened her mouth with his tongue and let its caressing of hers speak for him.

Malcolm pressed against her, laying her down on the bed. He knew lovemaking was out of the question, but he had to feel her beneath him, show her that he wanted to cover her, shield her from harm with his very flesh.

She welcomed his ardor, running her hands down his back, opening her thighs, so he fit snugly against her. He planted kisses along her cheek, her jaw, down to the hollow behind her ear.

“I’d do anything for you...Do you know that?” he whispered, at once terrified and elated at his own admission.

“Malcolm,” she moaned. She kissed him once and drew back, looking up at him. “Yes, I know...because you already do....And I’m so lucky to have you.”

He gazed down at her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, and he hoped.

“Promise me you will go to school tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked pained, but she said nothing.

“Ask for help. You’ve already given up so much. They should know what it’s cost y—”

“I’ve already told you they don’t need to know that!”

The pained look was gone. In its place was one of fierce insistence and a hint of what Malcolm decided was fear.

It was his turn to remain silent. On this point, he would not pretend agreement. They should know that she had given up a coveted spot in a superior program. She had lost significant ground in a field overcrowded with candidates all scrambling for the same positions. She had surely delayed tenure by several years. It was a sacrifice that he could not see the end to. And the fact that she stood poised to reduce herself further ate him alive.

She must have seen the bitterness in his eyes because she held up a hand as if to stop his next words.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now. I need to go back downstairs and make dinner.”

Make dinner?

Maren pressed against him so that he would move to let her up, but he grabbed her wrists instead.

“No,” he said.

She gave him an exasperated look.

“Malcolm, what the hell—”

“You are
not
going to make dinner.”

“Malcolm, everyone’s going to be here. We have to eat something.”

He sat up abruptly, still holding her in place.

“I didn’t say you weren’t going to
have
dinner. I said you weren’t going to
make
it,” he declared, not caring that he employed his most professorial tones again. “I will go downstairs, order pizza, and sit by your father until your mother gets home....And, in the meantime, you will rest.”

“No, you don’t need to do that, I—”

“Notice that I did not ask your permission.” The arrogance felt good, even if it risked her ire. He sensed that she would not resist him on this after resisting him on everything that mattered. “You need to rest.”

She scowled at him, but beneath it, he could see a trace of humor, and perhaps even a little admiration.

“Fine.” Even as she assented and he released her, she sat up, nearly colliding with him. “But I need a shower more than I need a nap. It will make me feel a lot better.”

“As you wish,” he said against her lips, and she accepted the kiss he offered. Malcolm stood before he gave himself the chance to push her down again.

“Oh, and you’re staying for dinner,” she declared, getting to her feet. “Don’t think that you can just order pizza and disappear.”

“I would not dream of it.”

He left her to her shower and crept down the stairs, relieved to find her father still asleep and the house still otherwise empty. He passed through the living room into the kitchen and beyond that into a comfortable den. Malcolm ordered four pizzas, knowing full well that there would be leftovers for a lunch. But he wondered what would happen tomorrow night. Would Maren give up more of her time and her strength to cook for the family again? What if he took that burden from her? Just took it—without seeking permission or forgiveness. He quietly returned to the living room and sat across the space from the hospital bed, planning.

A gumbo in the slow cooker would be easy enough to start in the morning. He could bring it by right after school tomorrow afternoon—and perhaps stay while he made a pot of rice....

Malcolm realized with a smile that food was still his symbol. Feeding her was touching her. But instead of merely touching, he could lift her. Like a bridge.

And a gumbo would remind her of their first meal together. She would know that, even then, he had been hers.

Love has made you such a pussy.

The shadow-voice mocked him, and he knew it was true, but he did not care. Maren was the purest thing he had ever loved, and loving her carried him above himself. Loving her was changing him, and he was grateful.

Immersed in these thoughts, Malcolm did not hear Erin’s arrival until she entered the living room and startled at his presence.

“Malcolm! What a surprise!” Erin registered her sleeping husband and lowered her voice. Mark stirred, but did not wake. “When I saw the car, I expected someone from Hospice....Where’s Maren?”

Malcolm rose and led her to the kitchen so they could speak without disturbing the dying man.

“She’s upstairs. She wanted a shower,” he said, hoping Erin could hear the implications. “I told her that I would sit with her dad so she could have a little time to herself.”

Erin blinked at him.