Great Restorations - 11. Chapter 11

MARC would never understand the idea of throwing a party when somebody died. The old folk could call it whatever they wanted, but the bottom line was that people were milling around his house, eating catered food and talking about everything under the sun. Everything except his aunt. What the spread on the Vikings game had to do with respecting the dead was a mystery to him.

He‘d attended his fair share of wakes with Aunt May. People needed closure, she‘d said. So every time someone died, he drove her to the church, then to the cemetery, and then to the wake, where, more often than not, she‘d achieve closure on the back porch, black pumps kicked off while she giggled with her friends over spiked iced tea.

Strangely, he‘d expected today to be different, more somber, but it wasn‘t. The old ladies were gossiping about the newest member of the bridge club, and the men had started up a game of horseshoes out on the back lawn.

“Marc?” Reba appeared at his elbow, offering a plate of food. Dressed in black slacks and a dark gray silk blouse, she looked different than usual. More the concerned mother and less the brash carpenter. She rubbed his shoulder. “You should eat.”

Marc‘s stomach rolled, and he swallowed, hoping he wouldn‘t vomit. “No. Thanks, Reba. I‘m not hungry.” He shrugged away from her touch.

“Sweetheart.” Reba put the plate down next to him. “Please. You need to eat.”

He scowled and ignored the food. He needed to eat, and drink, and sleep, but he couldn‘t seem to do any of those things. He needed to get past the tragedy, start grieving, begin healing…. The list of advice went on, but Marc had stopped listening days ago.

“Marc, there you are.” It was a man‘s voice, rugged with age. “I‘m so sorry.”

Marc nodded his thanks without looking at the speaker.

The man moved off, but somebody else took his place. “My condolences,” a soft voice said. A hand brushed over his. “She was an extraordinary woman.”

“Thank you,” he rasped, standing so quickly he knocked Reba‘s plate of food to the floor.

“Marc,” he heard Reba call after him, but he didn‘t stop. Short of breath, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, he squeezed through the crowd and into the kitchen, dodging half a dozen people who tried to get his attention.

He ducked through the deserted kitchen, down a short hall, and slipped into the butler‘s pantry. It was damp and dark, but quiet. He leaned over the utility sink and splashed a few handfuls of icy water over his face, hanging there until the nausea backed off enough for him to straighten and swipe a hand over his mouth. Shaking, he twisted out of his suit coat and threw it on a nearby shelf.

The wake had started two hours ago, and people were still arriving, each taking the opportunity to remind Marc that she was gone forever. I’m sorry. She’ll be missed. I’m sorry.

This wasn‘t closure; it was torture.

He‘d love to throw everyone out, but that‘s not what Aunt May would‘ve wanted. If Marc didn‘t let her go out with a bang, then chances were she‘d find a way to haunt him from beyond the grave.

The kitchen door banged open. Marc heard the hiss of a bottle cap being twisted off a beer. “Gonna grab another piece of that chicken and then I‘m heading home, Frank. The game starts in an hour. You coming?”

“Probably shouldn‘t just yet. I haven‘t seen Marc.”

“Don‘t worry about it. I‘m sure the last thing he wants right now is someone else in his face. Poor kid.”

“Yeah.” Another beer was snapped open. “Notice his parents aren‘t here.”

“I take it back. That’s probably the last thing he wants. Worthless couple of souls, those two, abandoning their own kid like that.”

Marc clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his bitter laughter. Small towns. Nothing was sacred. Even if most of what was bandied about was true. If football started in an hour, then the two men drinking his beer and eating Rachel‘s chicken wouldn‘t be the only ones clearing out. Maybe if he could get Reba and Rachel to leave, too, he could go to bed and pretend to sleep. Not as refreshing as the real thing, but it couldn‘t hurt to try. He couldn‘t remember the last time he‘d slept for more than an hour at a stretch. Sunday night, maybe? It had been Monday when Aunt May collapsed in her kitchen. She‘d languished in a coma for a day, but by the next afternoon, another stroke finished what the first had started.

By Tuesday, he was alone.

***

KAREN was the first to arrive at the hospital. He’d called her before anyone else, even Reba, knowing he could still intimidate Karen to a degree, and that when he told her to go and leave him alone, she would.

Seeing her run across the linoleum in her four-inch heels almost drew a smile. He met her in front of the nurse’s station, aware he was still in the clothes he’d worn to work on Monday. She grabbed his hands, looked him up and down with mascara-stained cheeks, then smacked his arm. “You’re fine, you son of a bitch. What do you mean calling me and telling me to come down to the hospital?” She stifled a sob, hitting him again for good measure. “What happened? Were you in an accident? Have you been here since yesterday?”

His carefully prepared speech died in his throat. He’d spent the night in a hard plastic chair by his aunt’s bed and watched her sleep the deepest sleep there was. But he hadn’t closed his eyes. He’d been too scared.

“Marc?” Karen smoothed a hand across his cheek. “What’s going on, sweetheart? You look like hell.”

The words stuck in his throat. If he didn’t say something soon, she’d either panic or get angry, and he couldn’t face that. Just like he wouldn’t have been able to face Reba’s mothering without losing the tight stranglehold he’d been keeping on his emotions. “Thanks for coming,” he said, a start, even if it came out in a whisper. “It’s Aunt May.”

Karen’s mouth formed an O, and suddenly it was Marc who was the stronger of the two, taking her arm and guiding her into a chair. A bit unsteady himself, he sat beside her. Eyes wide, Karen grasped his hands in hers. “Oh shit, Marc. How is she?”

He’d been wrong to call her. He wasn’t going to be able to keep his composure. He shook his head. “She’s gone.”

Karen gasped, a soft, broken sound, and her eyes welled with tears. “When? How?” she asked, swiping a hand under her eyes.

Marc opened his mouth, surprised to find that his voice worked. “This afternoon. But she’d been in a coma all night. She had a stroke yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday morning!” Karen shrieked. “And you’re just calling someone now?”

No. He’d called someone. Last night. Today. But Sawyer hadn’t answered.

“I didn’t want a lot of people hovering around,” he said. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. She’d been having tiny strokes for weeks apparently. They told me in the ER yesterday that it was only a matter of time.” He stood, extracting his hands even when she tried to cling. “I’m glad it was quick. She would’ve hated that, hanging in limbo, just waiting to die.”

“Oh, Marc, honey.” She leaned forward, tried to touch him again, but he slid away. Fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, she dropped her hand. “What can I do?”

“I need to start making some calls.” His voice caught on the last word. He cleared his throat. “Can you please take care of telling the team? And I won’t be at work the rest of the week. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” she repeated, voice lost. “Yes, of course I’ll tell them. Do you want me to call Sawyer?”

“No,” he answered. “I think… he’s very busy.”

Karen scoffed. “Not too busy for you, Marc. That couldn’t be plainer by now. Please let me try?”

There was something very obvious being implied, but Marc’s head was too foggy to process it. And there were still so many things to arrange. The simple act of donning his coat exhausted him. “No. Thanks. I’ll take care of the rest.”

***

THE rest.

The arrangements. The casket. The headstone. The flowers. The obituary. The wake. At least it had kept his mind occupied, focused on one mindless task after another. There‘d been little time to dwell on the fact that he‘d actually lost her.

Her and Sawyer. He hadn‘t forgotten that part, either.

More conversation drifted in from the kitchen, different from before. The men had bootlegged a bag of chicken and snuck out through the back door. These voices were softer, feminine. Friends from one of May‘s card clubs probably. “Look at this breakfront,” one said. “The detail.” She clucked her tongue. “Lovely.”

“May gave that to him,” the other said. “I‘ll say one thing, that woman had an eye for beauty. She‘s got some unique and valuable pieces in that house.”

Seething, Marc curled his fingers over the edge of the sink and concentrated on staying calm and quiet. He hated this. Listening to her so-called friends fawning over the treasures she‘d spent years collecting, and each wondering when they might get their hands on them.

He dropped his head between his shoulders. No, that wasn‘t fair. He was letting bitterness get the best of him. These people had loved her, many of them, even if most thought her brittle and a bit selfish. They hadn‘t known her at all, really, because she‘d never been either of those things. Never.

***

THE winter he turned eight years old was the year he moved in with his aunt. One day, after his parents had been gone for three months, she said, “I can’t make proper jelly in your mother’s kitchen, Marc. And the bed in that guest room is giving my back fits. Let’s go back to my house. I have just the room for you, with big windows and even a tiny balcony, but you must promise never to fall.” She removed her apron with a flourish, threw it on the berry-splattered sideboard, and grabbed his hand. “Ready to go home?”

Her home became his, and his parents’ house became an empty shell of wood and plaster, which, he recognized not too long afterward, was what it had been all along.

One night, he found her bent over an old photo album. “What are you looking at, Aunt May?”

She slapped the album shut so fast that a cloud of dust exploded off the jacket, making Marc sneeze. He rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his pajamas.

Peering her disapproval over the rims of her glasses, she handed him a tissue. “Never you mind, Marc.”

He craned his neck for another peek. “What are those pictures?”

“They’re nothing important.” But her touch was reverent when she smoothed a hand over the cover. “Have you brushed your teeth?”

“Yeah.” He crawled onto the couch next to her. She’d been old to him even then, with graying hair always in a bun and wrinkled hands that ruffled his hair if given the chance. “What are they from?” He traced the flowing cursive M embossed on the cover.

With a sigh, she scooped him in close, then pulled a throw over the both of them. “I suppose it can’t hurt to show you. Open it up. Go ahead.”

Eager, he obeyed. That was the night she showed him the man who’d loved her—a man with wavy brown hair, a funny-looking coat, and high boots—and all the places they’d meant to go together, but never did.

“But why didn’t you go?” Marc asked, grinning at one picture: the man at the base of a great pyramid. The jungle rose up around him. Rain dripped off his hat. He waved at the camera.

“Some things aren’t meant to be, Marc Wynn, and this was one of them. We both knew it. He stopped sending letters and pictures after a while, and I can’t say as I blamed him.” May chuckled. “Who would want to wait years and years for an old bird like me?”

Marc frowned. “I would’ve.”

“You sweet thing.” She kissed the top of his head. “Don’t be angry at him, Marc. I’m not. I imagine he settled down eventually. Had a family. I like to think he did, anyway.” She caught Marc’s chin in her fingers. “I’m happy with how things turned out. And besides, I had your mother to look after, you know. Couldn’t exactly take her with me. Traipsing around the world is no life for a child.”

“I think it would be great!” He turned page after page.

“Yes,” May said in a soft voice. She ruffled his hair again. “I suppose you would.”

“Did you ever show these to Mom?”

“She used to spend hours looking at them,” May admitted. Then more quietly, “Hours and hours.”

“Hey.” Marc pointed. “This looks like the place in the postcard Mom and Dad sent last month.”

May nodded. “One and the same. That, my dear, is the Taj Mahal. It’s a very famous building in India. For hundreds of years, people have traveled from all over the world just to lay eyes on it. It’s that beautiful.”

Marc picked at the edge of the photograph—that same man was in it—until May grasped his finger. “Don’t fidget, dear. Well? Turn the page. You might as well see them all.”

He shook his head, no longer enthusiastic. Attuned to his mood after so many years, May closed the book and set it aside. Marc bit his lip and laid his small head on her arm. “Traipsing around the world is no place for a child,” he said, repeating her words from earlier.

“No, I should say it isn’t.”

“Seeing all those beautiful buildings must be pretty important.”

May huffed. “To some.”

“More important than being with… here.”

She tilted his chin up until they were eye to eye. “Never. Nothing will ever be more important than that. Hear me?”

He nodded. Outside, the first snow of the season was falling. Great, fluffy flakes that clung to the window. They’d melt with the morning sun; early snows never stayed very long. A log cracked in the fireplace. Frank Sinatra sang “Silent Night.” “Do you think they’ll be home for Christmas this year?” Marc asked.

“I expect we’ll have to wait and see.” May hugged him close. “Lots of baking to do in the meantime. We’ll start tomorrow.”

Cheered slightly, Marc asked, “Thumbprints?”

“If I say yes, will you leave some for me or will you eat them all yourself again?” She chuckled from deep in her chest, rocking Marc against her. Shooting her a sly grin, he shrugged, and she hooted with more laughter. “Oh, my boy,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “My darling boy. Thumbprints it is.”

***

TOO much. Too damn much. Marc curled back over the sink, pressing his palms against his eyes.

There was a change in the air, a whisper of sound behind him, and then a pair of arms locked around his chest. Caught between shock and embarrassment, he didn‘t react until he heard a voice in his ear.

“Marc,” Sawyer said, pressing his lips to the side of Marc‘s face.

Until that moment, Marc hadn‘t realized how deeply Sawyer‘s disappearance had affected him. If relief could be crushing, then that was the name he‘d put to the way his lungs constricted in his chest. He gasped for breath, ignoring Sawyer‘s quiet, “Shhh,” and tried to turn in his arms. As soon as Sawyer realized his intent, he helped, spinning Marc around until they were chest to chest. “I‘m sorry,” Sawyer said in his ear. “I‘m so sorry.”

More unnecessary apologies, but the most Marc could do to communicate that was to shake his head. Of course, Sawyer misinterpreted it. “I am. I should’ve been here for you. I don’t have any valid excuse. Just that I’m an idiot.” He crushed Marc against him, one arm squeezing like an iron band across his lower back, the other clamped around the back of his head.

Marc took a deep breath. “How did you find out?”

“Karen called Bruce. She said it was a stroke?”

It had been a stroke, in the beginning and then again in the end. But in the middle it had been nothing. Absolutely nothing but the beep of the machines and Marc sitting in the chair by her bed. Waiting. To Sawyer‘s question, he nodded, the same answer he‘d been giving to everyone these past several days.

“Are you doing okay?” Sawyer‘s fingers stroked over his neck.

Marc nodded again.

“No, you‘re not,” Sawyer said against his cheek. He cupped Marc‘s face in his hands and rested their foreheads together. “I‘m so fucking sorry I wasn‘t here. I'm going to make this right. I promise.”

Marc leaned into the touch, content that the ugliness between them had been brushed aside for the moment. His life before Monday was hazy, dreamlike, while every detail of the past week flashed through his brain in crisp detail. Which was wrong. It was all wrong.

Except for this part. Marc fisted his hands in Sawyer‘s shirt and yanked him closer, ignoring his grunt of surprise. “What are you wearing?” Marc asked, rubbing his face against Sawyer‘s neck, noticing the T-shirt and running shorts for the first time. He swiped a thumb over Sawyer‘s stubble-covered chin. “In a hurry this morning?” The expressions that raced across Sawyer‘s face made him frown.

“Yeah,” Sawyer said, “I was in a hurry. I left as soon as I hung up with Karen. Went about eighty-five miles per hour the whole way.”

Marc drew in a sharp breath. “She called this morning?”

“Yeah. Well, she called Bruce, actually.”

“Huh.” Marc drew him close again, trying not to imagine why Sawyer had been with Bruce early on a Saturday morning. “She asked me if you were coming. Earlier, at the church.”

“What‘d you tell her?” Sawyer asked, his tone a mix of curious and miserable.

“I didn‘t answer.”

“Could be why she called.”

Maybe. It didn‘t matter, but Marc felt stupid now for how he‘d acted. It would have been a small capitulation to leave a message at the end of one of his desperate phone calls, and maybe Sawyer would‘ve come sooner. Maybe even on Monday.

He just hadn‘t known what to say.

The rush from having Sawyer back began to fade, leaving Marc more exhausted than ever. He closed his eyes, lulled by the rhythmic movement of Sawyer‘s hands over his back.

“Tired, baby?” Sawyer whispered in his ear.

Marc nodded, turning his face into the crook of Sawyer’s neck.

A second later, he heard it: the distinctive creak of the loose floorboard outside the pantry door. Not as attuned to the house‘s sounds as Marc was, Sawyer didn‘t stir. His knuckles pressed against Marc‘s spine, up and down, back and forth.

Marc opened his eyes.

Even the shock of seeing Rachel in the doorway couldn‘t shake the lethargy from his bones. His heart leaped once, then settled back into its slow, grief-laden beat. Without taking her eyes off Marc and Sawyer, Rachel reached for the doorframe, missing twice before her hand connected and her fingers clamped onto the molding.

She didn‘t speak. Neither did Marc.

The moment stretched longer than any few seconds had a right to, and Marc felt as if the floor was tilting under his feet. A single tear rolled down Rachel‘s face. Marc tracked its path over her cheek and into the hollow of her throat, but as he steeled himself to pull away from Sawyer and speak, Rachel moved. She drew in a deep, silent breath, straightened, and relinquished her hold on the doorframe. She smoothed her skirt with shaky hands.

Then she smiled at him.

The world righted itself a few degrees. Marc closed his eyes to absorb the relief, only to find, once he‘d opened them again, that their audience had grown. Reba stood behind Rachel. She spared Marc a cursory glance that, to his surprise, was devoid of shock or recrimination. Curling an arm around Rachel‘s shoulders, she turned her away from the door, sparing Marc one more placid look before leading her out of sight. Marc‘s knees went weak. “Shit,” he whispered into Sawyer‘s shoulder.

“I‘ve got you,” Sawyer said, oblivious to Rachel and Reba, but not to Marc‘s trembling. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Make everyone leave,” Marc answered before he could censor himself.

“Done.”

Marc groaned against his shoulder. “Don‘t tease.”

“I‘m not teasing. How long has this thing been going on?”

“Couple of hours.” Marc glanced at his watch, not really seeing the numbers. “Not sure, to be honest.”

“Long enough.” Sawyer pressed his lips to Marc‘s forehead, then propelled him out of the pantry and around the corner to the rear staircase. “Go on. I don‘t have to ask you to know you haven‘t been sleeping. Lie down. I‘ll take care of the people.”

“My head‘s killing me,” Marc admitted. “But Sawyer” —he leaned against the banister— “you can‘t just throw everyone out.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” Marc let his eyes rove over Sawyer‘s clothes. “It would be rude. And I‘m not sure how many people are going to take you seriously when you‘re dressed like that.”

Sawyer gave him a gentle shove up the stairs. “I really don‘t give a crap about anybody else’s feelings at the moment.” His hand lingered on Marc‘s back. “Just yours.”

Marc‘s strength was leaving him by the second. His mind kept trying to circle back to Rachel, but he buried those thoughts deep, at least for now. One thing at a time. “I‘m glad you‘re back.”

Sawyer‘s tortured expression returned. “I‘m sorry I wasn‘t here sooner.”

“You don‘t owe me anything,” Marc said. And there they were again. Back on the exact same conversation, like the past six days hadn‘t even happened. Only this time Sawyer changed the script.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “I shouldn‘t have left you alone.”

“There were people here.”

“Not me. I wasn‘t here.”

Marc rested his head against the wall. “You are now.”

“Not good enough.” Sawyer scrubbed his hands over his face and dropped his eyes. Marc‘s sad smile faltered.

“Sawyer?”

“Go get some sleep, Marc,” Sawyer said, staring at the floor.

He didn‘t want to. Was it any wonder, after last weekend, that he was hesitant to let Sawyer out of his sight? “Are you coming up?”

“Do you want me to?” Genuine surprise colored Sawyer‘s voice.

“Yes,” Marc replied. “Please.”

Sawyer‘s boyish smile fanned an ember of warmth in Marc‘s chest. The first he‘d felt in days.

“Let me get rid of your guests,” Sawyer said. “Then I‘ll be up.”

“Yeah,” Marc drawled. He held up a finger, pointing in the direction of the living room. “Just how are you going to do that, by the way?”

Sawyer waved him off. “I‘ve got it under control. Now go and try to get some sleep, okay?”

That was good enough for Marc. With a parting wave, he obeyed.

His room was a mess. He eyed the sturdy, cedar hangers lying on his bed, but in the end, the suit pants, dress shirt, and tie got piled on the floor by the hamper. The hangers landed on top. Marc climbed under the blanket and shut his eyes.