“I don’t understand it,” Mila said at last. “I reminded him twice.”
“I saw your twice and doubled it,” Tami said. “The only way he could legitimately have forgotten was if he had a brain tumor. Sorry, Miz Z, I’m just saying…”
“He is like his father in this,” Mila said. “I begged Theo to come to Michael’s school functions, but he was always working. Their jobs are important.”
“So is the family,” Jolene said quietly.
Mila sighed. “Yes. This I told his father, too.”
Lulu twirled in front of Jolene, banging into the seat. Her eyes sparkled in that I’m-either-going-to-scream-or-fall-asleep-any-second kind of way.
When the meet ended at five fifteen, Jolene took Lulu’s small hand in hers and stood. “Well. Let’s go.”
They made their way down the bleacher steps and onto the field, where athletes from both schools milled around.
“There she is,” Lulu said, pointing to Betsy, who stood alone, beneath the football goalpost.
Jolene pulled Betsy into a fierce hug. “I am so proud of you.”
“Second place. Big deal,” Betsy said, pulling back.
Jolene could see the hurt turning into a brittle shell of anger. That seemed to be Betsy’s modus operandi these days—any sharp emotion turned into anger.
“I have never seen such running, kardia mou. You were like the wind.”
Betsy didn’t even try to smile. “Thanks, Yia Yia.”
“How about if we go out for pizza and ice cream?” Mila suggested, clapping her hands together.
“Sure,” Betsy said glumly.
They walked out together. It was obvious to Jolene—and certainly to Betsy—that everyone was trying to talk at once, hoping to mask Michael’s absence. For the next hour, they pretended, laughing a little too loudly, making jokes that weren’t funny. Jolene lost track of the times someone told Betsy how amazing she had been. The words hit her daughter’s brittle wall, failing to evoke even a small smile. There was an empty seat at the table and all of them felt it keenly.
By the time they left the restaurant and drove home, Jolene was as mad at Michael as she’d ever been.
He could disappoint her—hell, she was an adult, she could take it. But she wouldn’t let him break their daughter’s heart.
Mila was the only one who addressed the white elephant in the car with them. At her house, before she got out of the car, she turned to Betsy and said, “Your father wanted to be here today. I know he did.”
“Big deal,” Betsy said.
Mila seemed to consider a response to that, but, instead of saying anything, she smiled sadly, unhooked her seat belt, and got out of the car.
At home, Jolene parked in the garage and unhooked Lulu’s car seat.
“Where’s Daddy?” Lulu said sleepily.
“He was too busy to come,” Betsy said sharply. “Not that I care.” On that, she slammed the car door shut and ran into the house.
Jolene pulled Lulu into her arms and carried her up the stairs. She readied her youngest for bed, read her a story, and tucked her in. Lulu was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Then she went to Betsy’s room, knocked on the door, and went inside.
Betsy was already in bed, her pimply face pink from scrubbing. Her blue and gold tracksuit was a tangled heap on the floor. The red ribbon she’d won lay on the nightstand.
Jolene got into bed beside her. Betsy eased sideways to make room and then leaned against her.
“What’s his excuse this time?”
What could Jolene say? That Michael’s work ethic and sense of duty sometimes trumped his family? She could hardly fault him for that: it was one of the things they shared. And he’d learned it from his father. The Zarkades men could disappoint their wives and children, but they never let down a client. “Ah, baby … sometimes we have to forgive the people we love. That’s all there is to it. And you know how important his work is. People’s lives depend on him.”
“I don’t care anyway,” Betsy said, but her eyes filled with tears.
Jolene held Betsy close. “Of course you care. You’re mad at him, and you have a right to be. But he loves you, Betsy.”
“Whatever.”
“You pretty much rocked today, you know that, right?”
She felt Betsy relax a little. “I sort of did.”
They lay there for a long time, saying nothing of importance. Finally, Jolene kissed her daughter’s temple, said good night, and went downstairs.
She sat on the cold brick hearth, with the black, empty fireplace behind her, and stared down at her hands. In her mind, she yelled at Michael, railed at him for disappointing their daughter.
This time, she’d say it all. She’d get his attention and make him understand that there were moments in life that could simply be lost. Too many and a relationship could founder.
It was just past nine o’clock when she heard his car come up the driveway. Moments later, he walked into the kitchen, looking harried. “Hey, Jo. Sorry I’m late, but once I missed the track meet, I figured, why hurry home?”
Jolene got to her feet. “Really. Is that what you thought?”
“I had to—”
“You had to do something. How utterly surprising. And in a balancing of needs, yours won out. I’m shocked.”
“Damn it, Jo, it wasn’t intentional. If you’d just listen—”
“You hurt her feelings,” she said, moving toward him. He was a tall man—six feet, but in her shoes, Jolene was only an inch shorter. “Why aren’t we important to you anymore, Michael?”
A change came over him. He took a step backward, eyeing her hard. “Don’t start a conversation you don’t want to have, Jo.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t care why I did it, and you don’t trust me to have a good reason. An important reason. I’m tired of you defining every second of our life. We live here because it’s what you wanted. You make all the rules—where we live, where we vacation, how we spend our weekends. When was the last time you asked what I wanted?”
“Don’t you dare try to turn this into my fault. We picked this house together, Michael. You and me, back in the days when we did things together. And if I manage our family, it’s because someone has to. All you ever seem to care about lately is your work.”
“You’re not even listening to me. I’m trying to say something here.”
“What could you possibly say, Michael? Your daughter needed you today, just this one time. You should have quit whatever you were doing and gotten here. But no, you put us on the back burner again.”
She hadn’t meant to say us; she’d meant to say her. Our daughter. This wasn’t about them.
“Damn it, Jo, it’s a track meet, not her wedding. My dad didn’t make it to every game, but I knew he loved me.”
“Is that the kind of father you want to be? Like yours? He was too busy to get to your high school graduation.” She knew instantly she’d gone too far; she saw it in the way he stiffened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I know how much you loved him, but…”
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said softly, shaking his head.
Jolene frowned. “Do what?”
“I don’t want this anymore.”
“What the hell is going on here, Michael? You screwed up tonight. Why can’t you—”
He looked at her. “I don’t love you, Jo.”
“What?”
“I don’t love you anymore.”
“But…” It felt as if something inside of her were tearing apart, ripping muscle from bone. She grabbed the counter edge for support. In the roar of noise in her head, she heard a small, indrawn breath. She turned slowly, slowly, slowly, thinking, please, God, no …
Betsy stood in the family room, holding her second-place ribbon. She gasped quietly, her eyes widening slowly in understanding. Then she turned and ran up the stairs.
Five
Michael couldn’t believe he’d said the words out loud.
I don’t love you anymore.
He hadn’t meant to say it; the words had formed in anger and spilled out without warning. But they’d been there, waiting for him, building inside him. And he’d thought them before, more often than he’d like to admit.
He could say he was sorry and she’d forgive him, maybe not instantly, but soon. Their family, this family, was everything to her, and she loved him. He knew that, had always known it; even tonight, as he’d wounded her, she still loved him.
He wanted to love her. But that wasn’t the same thing, and it wasn’t enough for him anymore. If he backpedaled now, retrieved those sharp words and softened them, shaped them into something different, nothing would change. He would keep living this life where too often he felt constricted by her rules and regulations, emasculated by her strength.
He couldn’t seem to measure up to Jolene. It wasn’t enough for her that he loved his children and had a successful career and did his best. She demanded more, in that silent, competent way of hers; he had to compensate somehow for all the love she hadn’t had as a child, and it was too much for him.
He was done pretending to be the man she wanted. It was time—finally—to find out who he wanted to be.
The decision freed him. He wanted to tell her all this, make her understand so he could feel better, but now was not the time. He needed to get out of here. He was reaching for his car keys when she said, “Go talk to Betsy.”
In all of this, he’d forgotten. He looked at her for the first time since he’d said I don’t love you anymore. “Me?”
She looked like one of those marble statues in the Louvre. Already she was retreating emotionally, pulling her feelings back inside where they’d be safe.
“She’s your daughter, Michael, and you hurt her. If there’s any chance of making her feel better, it lies in you. Maybe she’ll forgive you.”
He heard the emphasis she placed on the pronoun. “I haven’t asked for your forgiveness, Jo,” he said.
He saw how deeply that hurt her. “No, Michael, you haven’t. Do you want a divorce?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Maybe.”
He saw the way she looked at him then. When it came to love, Jolene was like a recovering alcoholic, a zealot. Love was either there, hot as fire, or it was dead, as cold as ash. She saw no middle ground, and she had no patience for uncertainty. It made him feel small, the way she looked at him, and he almost hated her for that. She was always so damned strong, even now, when he had broken her heart. Had he wanted her to fall apart and say she loved him?
He walked away from her, went up the stairs.
Outside Betsy’s closed door, he paused, then knocked.
“Go away, Mom.”
He opened the door, saying, “It’s me.”
She saw him and started to cry. “I don’t wa-want you in h-here. G-Go away.”
“Don’t cry, Lil Bit,” he said. At the childhood nickname, so long unused, she cried harder.