The Mirror and the Mask (34 page)

“I wish you and Radley would be my mommy and daddy,” said Hattie. She'd already put on her new pink and black feathered hat, the one Cordelia had ordered specially made for her last Christmas. She looked very Ziegfeld Follies–ish.

Radley hoisted her into his arms. “That's just what we'll be, Poppit.” He kissed her cheek.

Cordelia kissed her other cheek. “Group hug,” she called, squeezing them in her arms and closing her eyes, an unspoken prayer of thanks on her lips.

 

 

 

W
ith a Bruce Springsteen song playing on the jukebox in the corner, Kristjan entered the Magic Grill the next morning. He glanced down the narrow row of booths until he found Barbara. He walked toward her, feeling a swarm of angry bees take up residence in his stomach.

“I'm glad you called,” she said as he eased onto the bench opposite her.

“I needed to make sure you'd heard about Jack Bowman.”

“Sergeant Ramos called me first thing. But,” she added, glancing over at the long counter, touching the back of her immaculately combed hair, “I'm still glad you called.”

“From the very first,” said Kristjan, “I always said Jack was responsible.”

“I should have believed you.”

“I was a bit surprised when I heard you went to talk to Susan the afternoon she died.”

“I was so angry. I had to give her a piece of my mind, tell her what
I thought of her. And I did. I was horrible. I screamed and ranted and raved. I did everything but foam at the mouth.” She looked up at him with her large brown eyes. “I couldn't lose you.”

“Barbara—”

“No. I get it now. You were already lost. A long time ago.”

“I want to come home. I miss the kids.”

“Yeah, they miss you, too.”

Reaching his hand across the table, he said, “And I miss you.”

“You don't have to say that. You can come home. We don't have the money for you to stay in a motel.”

“No, I don't mean like that. I want to try again. Do you think you could ever forgive me for . . . you know?”

A waitress appeared to take their order.

“Just coffee,” said Barbara.

Kristjan hadn't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon. “What pies do you have today?”

“For breakfast?” said the waitress, a disapproving frown on her face.

“I'm Norwegian. It's our breakfast of champions.”

“Okay, then.” She took a deep breath. “Apple, cherry, boysenberry, peach, blueberry, pecan, strawberry rhubarb, pumpkin, lemon meringue, French silk, coconut cream, and banana cream.”

“Boysenberry,” said Kristjan. “Warm it up. And I'd like a scoop of ice cream. And coffee, black.”

She jotted it down. “That it?”

“That's it,” said Kristjan.

The song switched to another Springsteen number.

“This diner is all Springsteen, all the time,” said Barbara, not hiding her dislike.

“I know. That's why I suggested it. I like this place, like the atmosphere. So? What do you think? I know I've hurt you. Maybe it was a midlife crisis. Or maybe it was just plain stupidity. If you want to go
to couples counseling, I'm totally on board with that. Barbara, please. Can't we try again?”

“I don't know what to say.”

“Just say that you love me as much as I love you. I've had some time to think these last few days. I want us to work through our problems. I know we can if we try.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“You're still angry with me.”

“Of course I'm angry. And hurt. Don't I have a right to be?”

“But . . . for all we've meant to each other, can't you give me another chance?”

He didn't get why she kept putting him off. She'd fought so fiercely for him, he didn't understand the reticence.

“The truth is,” she said, moving back as the waitress set coffee cups down and then filled them. “I think I . . . I might be in love with someone else. I didn't go looking for it, it just happened.”

“I don't believe you,” he said. It came out as a gasp. “Who is he?”

“Someone I met at work. A doctor. His name is John Malcolm. You've never met him.”

Her words twisted inside him. “How could you do that to me—to us?”

“
Me?
What about you? I never would have been open to someone else if you hadn't been so cold, so critical of everything I do. I've never been enough for you, Kristjan. Never worn the right clothes or been your idea of the perfect wife. Working my ass off and trying to be a good mother keeps me pretty busy, but you don't value any of that.”

“That's not true.”

“John loves me for who I am.”

“I could kill him,” said Kristjan. He didn't mean it, it just slipped out.

“That's exactly how I felt about Susan.”

The waitress set the pie à la mode in front of Kristjan. “Kind of a frosty day out there.”

“Excuse us,” said Barbara. “We're in the middle of a marital crisis.”

“Well, then, you'll need more coffee.” She topped off their cups.

Barbara's gaze drifted back toward the counter. “It's a terrible thing when someone cheats on you.”

“Have you slept with him?”

“Did you sleep with Susan? Was she better than me in bed? Do you want to know if John is better than you?”

He had the urge to throw the pie plate across the room, put his fist through a wall, do something—anything—to relieve the pressure inside him.

“Hurts, doesn't it.”

“Yes, it hurts.”

“You feel betrayed. Desperation just rolls over you. You could drown in it. It's agony, a scar you'll never get rid of. It's your own fault. You're unlovable. You're fatally flawed. If you weren't such a disappointment, you could have kept your man—or your woman. In the end, all you want to do is reach out and hurt the other person. Hurt him back the way he hurt you.” She took a sip of coffee. “Does that about cover it?”

He glowered.

“Let me ask you a question. When was the last time you viewed love as selfless? You know what I mean? Putting the other person's needs and wants ahead of yours.”

His answer was a scowl.

“How come it's always about us, what we want, what we need? Doesn't ‘for better or worse' mean anything anymore?”

Kristjan watched the ice cream melt on his pie. He couldn't seem to look at her. Her gaze was too penetrating, as if she could see through each layer of his deception down to his soul, which she found deeply wanting.

“There is no John.”

He looked up. “What?”

“I just needed you to know what it feels like. All this ‘oh, baby, baby, take me back. I made a mistake, but you'll forgive me, right? It's not that big a deal.' ”

“I never said that.”

“Sure you did. You just weren't listening.”

He fell silent.

“Like I said, I agree you should come home. But it's never going to be the same. Trust is a hard thing to resurrect when it's been shattered. I'm not sure I'll ever trust you again.”

“But I can change.”

“I wouldn't bet on it. With our financial situation the way it is, I'd say we're going to be roommates for quite some time. You can sleep in the study.”

“What do we tell the kids?”

“We'll think of something.”

“I'll win your trust back. I don't care if it takes forever.”

Her face was calm, almost motionless. “Let's go home,” she said, tapping a napkin over her mouth.

“Yeah. Home.” He reached for her hand, but she was already on her way out of the booth.

Without a word or a parting glance, she walked out alone, leaving him to ponder what had just happened.

 

 

 

S
hortly after eleven on Wednesday morning, Annie spoke to a receptionist at HCMC to find out Curt's room number. She was directed to the elevators.

Up on three west, she passed the nursing station, walking briskly down a long corridor, wondering if she was making a mistake. She'd talked to Jane about it over breakfast but hadn't really formed a conclusion. It might be best simply to disappear from his life. But that, she suspected, was taking the easy way out. For all Curt had come to mean to her, he deserved better.

Annie dreaded talking to him because, by now, he knew everything—and worse, he'd learned it all last night from Sunny, who had her own ax to grind. It would only add to Curt's overall low impression of women, that they were all liars and manipulators. If that's what she was, then she'd better own up to it. Except her reasons for staying with Curt, while initially pragmatic and strategic, had morphed into something far more personal.

Standing for a few seconds in front of room 3709, she tried to think of what she should say first. But in the end, she just walked in.

Curt was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking up at the TV set. He was wearing jeans and a green scrub top, and looked pale and startlingly sober. It was likely the first time she'd seen him entirely sober since they'd met. His wrists were bound in white gauze. He stiffened when he saw her.

“Who let you in?”

“I came to say good-bye.”

“Right. The rat leaves the sinking ship.” He returned his attention to the TV.

She stood at the foot of the bed, squeezing the bed rail. She wanted to touch him but knew it would only make this harder. “How are you feeling?”

“Fantastic.”

“Why did you do it? You promised me you'd get help.”

“Why the hell do you care? You're leaving.”

“I have to leave, Curt. You knew I wasn't planning to stick around. I never lied about that.”

“But you lied about everything else.”

“Not everything.”

He got up, turned his back to her, and moved to the windows, staring down at the street. “Why didn't you tell me you were Jack's kid?”

“I'm not. He was my stepfather.”

“But why keep it from me?”

“It didn't really have anything to do with you and me.”

“Like hell.”

She stepped up to the window, stood next to him, but didn't look at him. “What happens now? Will you go back to your condo?”

“Can't. I'm on a seventy-two-hour hold. I'll be transferred up to the mental health unit later today.”

“And then what?”

“I'm already on some drugs, something to help with alcohol withdrawal, and Paxil. It's an antidepressant. I start psychotherapy tomorrow.”

“How long will you have to stay in the hospital?”

“A week? Maybe more. Depends.”

“The world will look different to you once the antidepressant starts to work. I knew a guy in Denver who'd been depressed for years. His doctor put him on Zoloft and after a few weeks, he felt a lot better. He said he had energy again, that he wanted to get up in the morning.”

“Super.”

“Maybe you'll want to go back to medical school.”

“Maybe I'll want to run for president. Or become a unicorn.”

“Just stop, okay? Can't we at least be civil?”

He sat down on the only chair in the room, began wringing his hands. “I don't want you to go. I want you to stay in town, move in with me permanently. Would that be so awful?”

“Curt, I can't. You know I can't.”

“Because you don't love me.”

“Even if I did, I can't stay. I have to get away from here. It's just like Michigan. Everything reminds me of Jack.”

“Just for a couple of weeks? Just until I get out, until I'm back on my feet.”

“I have no money, no job.”

“I'll give you money. I've got plenty in the bank. We'd be fine. We could travel. I've always wanted to go to Europe. More than anything, we'd be together. I feel so alone, Annie. I've felt this way . . . forever. I can't stand it anymore. It's too much. Too hard. I'll get better, you even said that yourself. I'll take the drugs and do everything the doctors tell me. I'll stop drinking. I'll get healthy. I'll take up
yoga. I'll build up my abs and swallow enough Viagra to make me the biggest stud in the world. I'll do anything.
Anything
. Just don't leave.” He gave a low, animal moan, pulled his legs up to his chest. “
Please
.”