Perfecting the Odds (4 page)

The fact of the matter was
this side of Karis intrigued him, and he couldn’t seem to get his feet to move one inch in the other direction…despite the emotional gale behind her eyes.

She
turned and made her way to the brick wall, leaning against it. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists. Michael was already tethered to her curvy body, and now her unstable emotions had him scrambling to hold onto her.

Just w
alk away.

Soon.
Definitely soon, but not yet…because that current still vibrated between them like an ignited spark--the catalyst to give him the courage to do…
more
.

“You have a lovely nose, Karis.” Her eyes flew open and stared right into his eyes, through them to his soul. Could a soul hurt? Because somehow his did. And then she laughed--belly laughed--until tears tracked in torrents down her face. That one statement apparently held enough power to lift the floodgates, freeing whatever she’d amassed inside. He studied her, almost guilty that he didn’t automatically console her, but even her frantic laugh-cry was beautiful. He couldn’t do anything but watch in awe of her strange abandon.

S
he bent over, placed her hands on her knees and took a few deep lungsful as if finishing a long distance run. Releasing a squeaky breath, she stood up and swiped her face.

“I’m
married
, Michael.”

“I know
. I just--” Michael managed, shame like tangible hands pulling him from her.

“Well then, let me tell you something you
don’t
know,” she said with unmistakable cynicism. He’d just opened a huge fucking can of Karis’s verbal beating.

“My husband, Robert, is at Johns Hopkins receiving palliative care. Palliative, meaning all doctors can do is
try
and relieve the pain because he has terminal cancer. It began as the “always-curable” testicular cancer. Unfortunately, he was too goddamned bullheaded to go to the doctor when he first had symptoms. He decided that hiding both the symptoms and diagnosis from me was to
protect
me…because that makes a lot of fucking sense.” She flashed a crooked smile with a snort of disgust. “The cancer metastasized to his lungs then his brain. And you know what, Michael?” Hooked to her confession, his name had him wedged between the bricks of the bar and her next statement. 

“I’m
. so. fucking. angry,” she growled, echoing her rage into still air. “There are moments I hate him so much I feel like I can’t stop the goddamn knot twisting in my stomach, and I run to bathroom and lose everything over and over…. so here I am.” She flung her hands in the air. “Wife-of-the-fucking-year! At a fucking bar. Getting hit on by fucking drunk guys. Indulging in a fucking stranger’s goddamn smile. And, you know what else?” Nearly trembling from her rant, he lifted his brows. “I couldn’t
wait
to get out of his goddamn hospital room.” Her chin quivered with the promise of more tears, but she stared beyond him. She was somewhere else at that moment, somewhere silently fighting her demons, and
fuck
, that gnashed at his gut. Michael willed his hand to stay at his side. He wanted nothing more than to thumb away the tears, press his lips to her head, and tell her it would be okay. But he knew all too well it wouldn’t be okay.

She
finally took a deep breath and nodded toward the bar. “My best friend in there, Eve…the one with the killer figure…she made me come out tonight. She said it would ‘do me some good’ to have fun.
Fun
!
” She laughed disparagingly before sitting down against the brick wall. Allowing a safe distance between them, he slid down next to her. Minute by minute passed as she slowed her breathing.

“I guess she has a point.  I’ve been watching Robert die for months now…
months
.” She shifted her eyes to him again. “The surgery, the radiation, the chemotherapy…waiting… estimating how much time I’ll have with him, watching him transform into something I don’t even recognize anymore.” — She paused— “He was intubated about a month ago, and if I’d known…Shit, who the hell knows what I would have done.” With trembling hands, she smeared the mascara lines into her cheeks. “The hardest time is at night. I press my face into his pillow and just breathe him in… I can’t help it…I just need to feel not so….alone.” Her voice broke, and Michael quickly shifted toward her to grab her hand, but just as suddenly, she stood and started pacing again.

Michael
stood, pressing his back against the wall.

“I’m so tired
of all of it! One day I want him to just die, to be out of misery. The next, I’m begging God to give him one more day. So tell me, Michael--.” He blinked rapidly as she paced. “How am I supposed to have fun when all I want to do is...is wrap my arms around him and tell him I hate him for lying to me...for not trusting me to be able to handle it… but that I’d trade places if I could!” She was sobbing now, clutching her knees.

Michael took a deep drag of air
. Why the fuck was she confessing to him? He knew it was selfish to even question her considering what she’d been through, but even when his own father died, when he was in tour after tour in shitty fucking countries, he had never seen such a display of helplessness or desperation. But what twisted his gut was that he didn’t the answers; she had chosen to reach out to a stranger. Him, of all people. Unfortunately, he was as helpless as she was. Words would be worth shit for comfort.

Michael
walked slowly and knelt down beside her. In a slow, timid gesture, he moved the stray hair from her tear streaked face. She flinched then relaxed a bit, still trying to slow her sobs. Then he softly took her hand in his. She stared down at their connection.

“Your hand
…it’s so warm,” she whispered. And just as suddenly as she exited the bar, she yanked her hand from his and walked toward the entrance, jerking the door open. He followed at a safe distance and waited at the bottom of the stairs. He watched her retrieve her friends then trail behind them as they made their way toward the exit. She passed, looking down to avoid his eyes, and then ascended the staircase. His eyes followed her, desperate to call her name. But she had blurred the line by opening up to him, but now the line was black and wide, and he couldn’t cross it.

Almost to the top, s
he glanced back at him and mouthed, “I’m so sorry.” Maybe he should have felt used, violated even, but sympathy welled within him.  Karis had professed her deepest, hidden thoughts—the depths of her suffering soul— to a complete stranger. Thoughts she probably had never admitted to herself.

He shook his head
to dismiss her apology and flashed a smile...the one and only consolation he could give her.

Three years later…

“7:00 a.m. on a Monday sucks,” Karis muttered quietly at the rear-view mirror of her silver Honda Accord. Mondays don’t discriminate either. They’ll launch their spirit-sucking tentacles at any pessimistic soul. In fact, the only other day the sucked more than Monday was probably Sunday night, when inevitably, Karis fixated on how sucky Monday morning would be.

After
delivering both children to their schools, Karis raced down the road toward Spring Meadow High School, hoping to arrive before the first period bell rang. She couldn’t afford to be late again. Her administrator, Jan Winston, had a serious case of I’m-the-new-sheriff-in-town syndrome, and Karis’s job meant more to her than a paycheck: it was her passion. Besides her two children, her job wretched her mind out the black hole of the life-that-used to-be. And even though teaching was as thankless as parenting, it was just as rewarding.

She squealed into the first parking spot available, slammed the lever into park, and jumped out clutching
to her shoulder her large Coach purse that would spur a double-take from Mary Poppins herself. Using her free hand to grip her laptop bag jam-packed with graded essays, she bolted toward the faculty entrance as the mild October air whipped her hair, blinding her vision. At the door, she jammed her hand in and out of her purse in search of the elusive ID swipe card.

“
Damn this purse!” she shouted, violently swiping her bangs from her eyes.

“Here,
Karis, I’ve got it. I see that you’re in a hurry.
Again
.”

Glancing over her
shoulder, she saw Winston’s eyes glaring at her. Karis shut her eyes a moment to ponder what lay before her:
I’m almost late—again. It’s suck-ass Monday. It’s Homecoming Week. Halloween is just a few days away. Next week is Career Day, which I stupidly signed-up to lead. Now my confidence-draining administrator is throwing her passive-aggressive bullshit my way.
She stifled a growl.

The week had barely begun, but
one thing was for sure: This Monday was only one rank ingredient in this shitcake of a week.

“
You haven’t missed the first bell yet, Mrs. Bennett.” Winston looked through her as the automatic door opened. Clearly disgusted, Winston jerked out her arm, gesturing for Karis to enter first.

Karis plastered on a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.
“Thank you, again, Ms. Winston.” Karis quickly passed her, trying to ignore the eyes burning judgment-packed holes into her back.

Skipping steps up the stairwell,
Karis nearly tripped as the bell rung. She bolted down the hallway and stopped before room B 222. All that cardio seemed to be paying off. She dropped her baggage, adjusted her pencil skirt, and smoothed her hair. Bringing her bags onto her shoulders again, she stepped inside, carrying with her a heavy air of authority.

“You’re late, Mrs.
Bennett.
Again
,” accused the always-eager, mouthy Abigail LaCoste seated in the front of the room.

“You look lovely as always today, Mrs.
Bennett,” purred Jonathan O’Brien, known to Karis as the boy who will do anything besides using what’s between his ears to get an A.

“
Excuse me, Abigail. I’ll have you know that Mrs. Bennett was never late before having children.”
And a dead husband
, she thought, reverting her standard cynical sarcasm.
Cut me a break, kid
. Teenagers these days were much more direct, teetering on rude. Karis would have never spoken to a teacher with such indignation, especially not a teacher like herself.
Not my Robby
, she thought, smiling to herself. “And Mr. O’Brien, not as lovely as your completed homework assignment, I’m sure.” Jonathan blushed furiously, and she smiled knowingly at him. So smart, yet so lazy.

“You hate when people refer to themselves in the third person. What gives?”

Karis narrowed her eyes at Abigail. “I am more annoyed by people who state the obvious.” The girl cowered at the response and quickly turned her attention to her notebook.

“
Scholars, please have out your red, green, blue, and black pens. We will revise these essays again. Why?”

In unison, the class responded, “We revise because writing is never finished, Mrs.
Bennett.”

***

2:45 p.m. Monday was finally over. Karis packed her stacks of essays, turned off the light, and locked her classroom door with a groan of relief. Walking down the hall, she thought about her after-school schedule this week: gymnastics and viola practice for Grace; Boy Scouts and guitar practice for Bobby. She hated when parents involved their children in too many activities. She and Robert had always agreed that school came first. But since his passing, the need to give them joy was quickly turning into a compulsion--to give them a full, richly active childhood, and more importantly, to protect them from pain, may it be physical or emotional.

She sacrificed most of her time for her children and her students, but every day after
school, she allowed herself “me” time. As she drove to the gym, she fought the urge to take any exit toward home.
Ahhhh, bed. Sweet relief.
With two kids who would definitely need homework help and the sixty essays in her bag, sleep sounded more than good; it would be downright therapeutic. But getting to the gym was the hardest part. Once she finished working out, the effects were always worth more than sleep: she felt awake, relaxed, and ready to tackle the rest of the evening.

Walking through the front doors of the gym, she wrinkled her nose at the pungent combination of sweat, chlorine, and rubber. Heading quickly for the locker room,
an all-too familiar voice interrupted her.

“Hello,
Karis, how’r you doing today?”

Jennifer
Williams. Turning toward her distraction, Karis muttered, “Fine. How are you?” How would a person describe the mediocre History teacher? A lesser woman would say aloud what she was-- the half-wit cocktail to start Karis’s “happy” hour: a shot of annoying, two shots of nosey, and a splash of judgmental. But no need to start a cat fight. That shit would filter through the faculty so fast, her head would spin. And people thought teenagers were the gossip whores? Pfft.

Jennifer
looked Karis up and down. “I’m so glad you’ve kept up with your workout regime. I really believe exercise does wonders for the mind. And aging women have to keep up their girlish figures. Am I right!”