“Absolutely. As long as you promise we don’t talk about any of this anymore. At least until I’m ready.”
“Deal.”
. . . . .
Max was jogging on the beach one Sunday morning several weeks later when his mother called. I wasn’t all that surprised to see her name on the Caller ID. She sometimes called me rather than Max, and Sunday was our usual day to go to her house for dinner, even though she had cancelled that week because some of her neighbors were having a block party and she wanted to attend.
“Hi, Paula.”
“Olivia, is Max around?”
“He’s on the beach. But he always has his phone. Do you need to talk to him?”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “I need to talk to you.”
Her voice didn’t sound normal. She sounded almost out of breath.
“Is everything okay?”
She let out a sigh. “I need to ask you something. It’s a very touchy subject, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him any of this.”
Oh God. I hated being put in positions like this. Over the last several months, I’d seen it in my professional life — mostly from agents — but nothing could be worse than being shoved in the middle of a situation like that between family members. My work experience in this regard had taught me one way to handle it, so I tried it with Paula.
“If it’s something that bad,” I said, “maybe you shouldn’t tell me at all.”
“But I have no one else to talk to,” she said, laying the guilt on thick.
I didn’t want to dismiss her. I couldn’t. She would soon be my mother-in-law and for all intents and purposes, she already was in a practical sense.
“Okay, Paula. Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“If it’s this hard to tell you, I can’t imagine how Max is going to take it.” She went silent.
“Paula…”
“I’ve been in touch with Max’s father.”
I almost dropped the phone. “What? Since when?”
“Around Christmas.”
I pulled out a barstool and sat. “Oh my God, Paula.”
“I thought the same thing at first,” she said. “But he’s not the same man he was when Max and I left.”
I found myself glancing around, making sure Max hadn’t come back into the house yet. “Ah, Jesus. Hang on.” I made my way upstairs, so at least I could hear the door and have time to end the call if I needed to.
I went to the far side of our bedroom, which was entirely glass and provided a complete view of the beach where the steps led up to our backyard — the way Max would surely come home.
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me why.”
“It’s so hard.”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s hard not to talk to him. He was my first love, my only love. He’s changed. He’s…calmer, low key. Just like he was when we met as teenagers. Something changed him for the worst. But, Olivia, he’s had two heart attacks and survived them both. I loved him. I always did. The man I married went away for a while, for some reason. But he’s back now. We’re both much older… You wouldn’t understand this, at least not yet, anyway — ”
“Paula,” I said, interrupting because she was thinking dangerously. “That may all be true. I have no doubt it’s true, actually. But that’s not the same man you fled from.”
“But — ”
I cut her off again. The one word she got out was carried on a tone of weakness and desperation, and it made me sad. “Paula, think of Max.”
“I was hoping you would talk to him about it.”
Now I was getting frustrated. She wasn’t going to budge. That much was clear. “No.”
“Please, Olivia, he’ll listen to you.”
“I’m sure he would,” I said, “but I can’t support you on this, Paula. I just can’t.”
“Then please keep this between you and me,” she pleaded.
“That’s not fair. I tell Max everything. Paula, listen to yourself. Do you really want to go backwards? You’re doing so well. Max has made an incredible life for himself. And for you, I might add.”
“Now that’s none of your business.”
“Actually, it is. And I’m sorry I have to be so blunt about this, but remember, you came to me with this. If you’re just looking for someone to back you up, I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I know exactly how Max will take it, and so do you. I’m not going to be part of that. And I’m not going to lie to him.”
She was silent, and I gave her about thirty seconds to speak, but she said nothing.
“Paula, think long and hard about this. And when you’re ready to make the right decision, let me know. But if you need someone to talk to Max, that’s going to have to be you. I have to tell him, but I’ll give you a week to do it yourself.”
And with that closing statement to the conversation, I had dealt with Max’s mom just as I had dealt with my own parents — putting the ball in their court.
. . . . .
It wasn’t easy telling Max, and it was even harder watching him that day when he came home from visiting his mother.
I had waited until the end of the week, and then broached the subject over dinner. Max demanded to know why I didn’t tell him immediately, and I explained what I had told his mother, that she would have to do the talking, and that I would give her a week.
Max didn’t blame me. In fact, he comforted me.
He saved his fury for his mother, and when he called her, I was sitting right next to him and heard the entire conversation. It was brutally heart-breaking, listening to Max’s voice go from stern to almost cracking, and watching his face droop as if he’d just found out he’d lost a family member. That’s how it felt to me, too.
Max drove up to her house alone and got home around midnight. He had called ahead to let me know when he was leaving, and I sat in a front room, reading a script and killing time, so I could see the headlights pull into the driveway.
I went out to meet him on the front porch.
When he got out of the car, he looked like he’d been through hell, and that’s just how he characterized the conversation with his mother.
We walked inside and sat on the couch in the den. I curled up next to him, trying to comfort him, but his body felt rigid.
“She’s lonely,” he said. “That’s what it all boils down to.”