Lifelines: Kate's Story (20 page)

“When
you finish, we should celebrate.” Why did he feel like a talking puppet? “I’ll
be finished Taylor Road soon. We could take a trip.”

She
set her fork down and stared at him with her lips parted. “Hawaii?”

He’d
been thinking of a weekend at the Semiahmoo Resort, an hour’s drive from
Madrona Bay, but he could see that wouldn’t be enough. “We could do a week in
Hawaii. I can’t take longer. I’ve got a new house starting April fifteenth.”

She
sprung to her feet and circled the table to give him a swift kiss on his lips.
“I love you,” she whispered, then disappeared into the kitchen.

When
a woman said I love you, a man owed some kind of response, but mercifully,
she’d let him off the hook by bolting into the kitchen.

“Do
you want help in there?”

“Stay
where you are. I’ll bring it.”

He
heard the oven door open, then she made several trips to the table, carrying
roast pork, gravy, baked potatoes, and finally cauliflower.

“Apple
crumble for dessert,” she announced.

“This
is great.” The smell of roasted pork woke a massive hunger. With the exception
of the few times Kate had cooked for him, he’d been living on pizza and frozen
dinners for weeks.

Time
to make his announcement.

He
felt the urge to push his plate aside and run for his truck. If he said the
words he’d planned, he would shut the door on a trap he might never fight free
of.

He
was pretty sure he knew what Jake would say to that cowardly thought: You
closed the door when you spoke your wedding vows, boy. A man doesn’t run out of
his responsibilities.

“I
think it’s time I moved back in.”

“Oh.”
She froze partway into her seat. “Oh ... Richard!”

“There’s
one thing, though. Monday I want us to make an appointment with a marriage
counselor.”

She
reached across and imprisoned his hand. He hoped she wouldn’t cry; he couldn’t
handle tears.

“Darling,
Richard, we don’t need a counselor.”

It
took time, and tears—because Rachel did cry—but she finally accepted Mac’s
insistence on counseling. So why did he feel as if he’d just walked into a trap
and the tiger was about to pounce?

She
wouldn’t let him help with the dishes. Mac had opened cans and cleaned up his
own mess in the kitchen since the age of five. When he married Rachel and she
took over the kitchen, he told himself she wanted to look after him. But where
being kicked out of the kitchen once made him feel loved, now it irritated him.

Any
sane man would be pleased to be relieved of kitchen responsibilities, and he’d
damned well be sane if it killed him! Rachel was his wife, the woman he’d
chosen, and until December, as a matter of policy he’d approved of her goals,
her actions, and her habits. If their marriage had any chance of working, he
needed to reinstate that policy.

When
the sunset brought shadows into the living room, Mac turned on a lamp and
wondered what came next. He prowled to the bookcase and thumbed through the
CDs. Rachel hated country music, while he disliked her classical music—one more
prejudice he must eradicate.

Ferrante
and Tischer seemed a reasonable compromise, so he put the CD on. Then he poured
two glasses of wine to repay Rachel for the beer she’d given him earlier.

“Richard?”

He
turned with the filled glasses in his hands. Her long hair floated over her
shoulders, and she’d undone the top two buttons of her dress. Through the
opening, he saw her breasts swell.

“Would
you like to dance?” His voice sounded stilted to his own ears, but she didn’t
seem to notice. She took one of the wineglasses from his hands, drank half in a
long sip, then set the glass on the television.

He
put his untouched glass beside hers.

He’d
intended to dance carefully, working his way up to ... well, he didn’t mean to
start thigh to thigh, but she stepped close and laid palms against his chest.
He breathed in her musky perfume and felt her body move in a way that should
have stopped his heart. He didn’t understand her, but when he saw tears in her
eyes, he knew he was responsible for them.

“Richard,”
she whispered, “I’m so sorry about what happened. I know I ... I wish it had
never happened. I wish ... You’re still angry. I see it in your eyes.”

“I’m
not angry.” He realized it was true.

“Please,
Richard, forgive me.”

Have
you never made a mistake? asked Jake.

Don’t
compare us, whispered Kate.

He’d
made vows to his wife, and he needed to keep them.

Slowly,
he covered her mouth with his. When she seemed to melt into him, he slid his
arms down her back and felt the familiar curve of her waist under his hands,
the pressure of soft breasts against his chest. She slid one hand down along
the muscles of his chest and abdomen. When she cupped him, he felt his erection
grow.

“Please,
Richard. Make love to me.”

Afterwards,
with his wife asleep in his arms, Mac stared out the window at the bottom edge
of the moon. He’d just had sex with his wife. Forgive me, she’d begged, and
he’d had an orgasm, and had given her one.

Rachel
smiled and murmured in her sleep.

Why
did he feel so damned empty?

U
nder Kate’s
fingers, the sides of the bowl grew upwards in a graceful curve. No wonder
potters loved the wheel: the sensation of fingers on clay, the whole-body
movement of drawing the clay up, as if the bowl formed from somewhere deep
inside Kate.

With
the bowl’s curve perfectly formed, she shifted her pressure to create a flare
at the top. The clay responded beautifully, the motor that drove the wheel
translating energy into the clay, her fingers providing guidance.

She
wasn’t aware of shifting her angle, but the bowl suddenly distorted under her fingers,
its flare breaking along the edges.

“Damn!”

She
tried to coax the clay back into smooth beauty, but the bowl’s soft walls
distorted grotesquely beneath her fingers. When the wheel stopped, Kate’s clay
bowl emerged, ragged on top and skewed wildly to the left.

She
glared at the offending lump. If she had delusions of creating art in clay,
she’d better think again.

She
folded the off-center sides of the bowl inwards and used the heel of her hand
to knead it into a smooth ball of clay. After three hours on the wheel last
night, and two this morning, she’d thought she was re-learning the trick of
throwing clay.

She
needed a real potter, and lessons, but she wanted to be alone with the clay.
That was the whole idea, to enrich her solitude, and make 1425 Taylor Road a
welcoming home without David.

Absently,
she broke off a piece of the abortive bowl and worked it with hands and
fingers. When it cracked, she used the sponge dipped in murky clay-water. The
supple movement of slippery mud under her hands soothed, although her back
ached from holding an awkward position.

She
scooted herself closer to the wheel. When she pushed her thumbs inward to form
what might be a neck, she decided the lump looked vaguely like Socrates.

“What
do you think?” she asked the dog.

He
made a slight woof.

“At
least we should give you ears.”

She
pinched the clay on either side of what might be Socrates’ head to form
dog-ears. When the pain in her back grew unbearable, she moved the dog’s
sculpture to the bench she’d built.

If
the wheel was too low, the bench was too high.

What
about eyes? Her fingers were too large to shape eyes. A screwdriver from the
toolbox? Too clumsy. Real sculptors must have tools for eyes and mouths, but
she’d planned to make beautiful stoneware on her wheel; the books she’d bought
didn’t feature advice about hand-sculpting tools.

Maybe
that little wooden gizmo from her manicure set? Small, pointy ...

She
scrubbed her hands on a towel and headed for the house. Minutes later, she had
the manicure set in one hand when the phone rang. Grace, her receptionist:
“Kate, sorry to interrupt your Monday off, but Rachel Hardesty called for a
referral for couples counseling.”

“Excellent.
Does Sarah have any openings?”

“She’s
booked for the next two weeks. Should I put them down for a cancellation?”

“No,
she might change her mind. Call and see if John Adams has space. Then phone
Rachel back for me, and give her John’s information.”

As
Kate hung up, the phone rang again.

“Kate,
it’s Mac.”

“How’s
the house going?” She heard hammering sounds; he must be calling from his cell
phone at the end of the road. He’d found one spot up on a hummock of earth that
gave decent cell phone reception.

“We
should finish the roof today. I talked to Darren Sampson at Northern Lights
this morning. He remembers your dad.”

Kate’s
fingers clenched the receiver more tightly.

“He
said Han worked on his Alaskan pulp mill job in 1992, then went to British
Columbia as superintendent of construction on another pulp mill job.”

She
could hear bad news in Mac’s voice.

“What
happened?”

“He
had an accident in ’93. Darren wasn’t clear on the details; something about a
forklift. They flew him to Vancouver. He spent a few months in hospital.”

The
door of a kitchen cupboard shimmered in front of her eyes. “And now?”

“Darren
doesn’t know for sure, but he might still be getting disability payments from
Northern Lights’ insurer. I did get the insurer’s name. I’m sorry I couldn’t
find out more.” She heard a sound in the background—a truck’s engine. “Since
it’s up in Canada, you might consider putting a Vancouver P.I. on it.”

For
a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The cell phone distorted the truck’s
engine. Was Mac driving, or was it Denny in the background?

“You’ve
got work to do. Have you ... how are things at home?”

“I
moved back in, but I guess it takes time.”

K
ate
arrived at her mother’s house just before one o’clock—late enough Evelyn should
have eaten lunch, but too early for her afternoon nap. As she waited for Evelyn
to answer her knock, Kate noticed that the porch rail had been repaired. Who
had Evelyn hired to do the job? She had a habit of hiring handymen who cost
more than they were worth.

Why
hadn’t she answered the door yet? What if she’d fallen? Why didn’t Kate have a
key to her own mother’s house? Three years ago Evelyn had changed the locks,
and she’d never given Kate a new key. As if she didn’t trust her own daughter.

Evelyn
opened the door just as Kate raised her hand to knock again.

“Kate,
honey! It’s so wonderful to see you!”

“Hi,
mom.” She resisted the urge to back away from her mother’s unaccustomed
effusiveness. “I thought I’d take you out to lunch.”

“I’m
not dressed to go out.” From Evelyn’s alarm, you’d think Kate had suggested a
trip to Africa.

“I’ll
wait while you change.”

“No,
dear, I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”

“I’ll
buy you a new outfit, an early Mother’s Day present.”

Evelyn
made a clicking sound inside her mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and
turned away to shuffle towards the kitchen.

Kate
stifled the urge to shake her mother. Why did Kate keep offering, when she knew
Evelyn would reject every suggestion, leaving Kate angry and frustrated.

You
know you have a problem when you do the same thing over and over again,
expecting a different result. Smarten up, Kate. Use a different approach.

Evelyn
fussed with the electric kettle on the counter.

“I’ll
do that,” said Kate. “Sit down.”

Here
we go again. Boil the water, shovel in instant coffee, then a five minute
cooling period in the fridge. If David were here, they could share a quiet
smile about her impossible mother.

The
wave of grief bit into Kate’s belly like an attack of appendicitis. She grabbed
a spoon and shoveled coffee, then sugar into her mother’s cup. She forced
herself to listen to her mother’s little puffs of irritated breath, the scrape
of a chair on the floor as Evelyn moved herself into the perfect position at
table.

David,
I can’t go on alone. I’m not strong enough.

She
stared at the kettle until it officially boiled, then poured water into her
mother’s cup. “Shall I put it in the fridge for you?” she asked brightly.

“Yes,
dear.”

Slowly,
the pain eased. She might ache for someone to magically remove grief and
loneliness, but the only escape was life itself. Right here, right now, today.

David
wouldn’t return.

In
solution-focused counseling, she often asked clients the miracle question:
Let’s imagine, Kate, that a miracle has happened. It’s next Tuesday—why did she
always pick Tuesday?—it’s next Tuesday, and you’ve woken to discover that a
miracle has happened.