Remember the Time (18 page)

Wiping her eyes one last time, Kate left Sheryl’s bathroom and went back into the living room. She quietly asked Mike to take her home.

“Mike, talk to me about the good times.” Kate’s voice had an hysterical edge to it he’d never heard before. “I know there were a lot of really good times. Help me remember them, please!”

He took his eyes off the road to look at her face and didn’t like what he saw. In an instant, he’d pulled the truck over and cut the engine. He reached for her, holding her against him, as dry sobs shook her body. “Katie, don’t do this. Please, darlin’,” he murmured.

“Tell me he loved me …”

Mike winced at her demand. “You know he did, Katie. He just didn’t know how to handle what life gave him. But he always loved you.” He stroked her hair, wondering when they’d ever be close without the shadow of Paul between them.

“I loved him so much … Was it too much, Mike?”

“How can you love someone too much, Katie?”

“I don’t know!” she wailed. “I don’t know what I did wrong!”

“Nothing. You did nothing wrong. Why can’t you see that?”

“He wanted a son. Next to his career, it was the one thing he wanted the most.”

“The thing he wanted the most was you. But you know how Paul was. He was used to getting everything, and didn’t know how to deal with disappointment. He had a huge ego. It got in the way and he knew it.” Mike heard the words coming out of his mouth, and hated saying them. “He tried to be the best husband he could.” Mike could feel her warm breath on his chest and thought he couldn’t do this anymore. Then she moved her head slightly, until it rested in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, and he
knew
he couldn’t do it anymore. His voice husky, he said, “But you’ve got to know how hard this is for me, Katie. Because, as much as Paul loved you, I love you more.” He kissed her hair. “Please. If you remember anything, remember how I’ve loved you.”

So slowly the movement was almost imperceptible, she turned her head and Mike felt her lips on his neck. His breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t move, sure that if he did he’d find he was dreaming.

But she was moving away from him.
No, please
 … Her arms, which had clutched his waist, were sliding away.
Ok, Katie, don’t go
 … He shut his eyes, praying for the pain to stop.

And then her hands were holding his face, and she brushed his mouth with a tentative, questioning kiss. He answered it softly. He tasted her lips, the corner of her mouth. Small, lingering kisses. He couldn’t stop himself. The tip of his tongue traced the line of her lips till they parted, allowing him entry. He groaned and grasped her shoulders, covering her mouth with his, silently begging for her response. When it didn’t come, he whispered, “Katie, please … please.” But it was too late.

She was pushing him away. “I shouldn’t have, Mike. I’m sorry.”

He shut his eyes tightly, trying to regain his equilibrium. “No, I’m sorry,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll take you home now.”

What he wanted to do was shake her, shout at her.
Did you feel anything?
But the short drive home was silent. Mike saw her to her door, then, leaving his truck parked outside her house, made the short walk across the street to his dark house.

The rain slapped at his face. He didn’t notice.

S
lamming the glass down on the counter, he poured himself three fingers of scotch. He took a long swallow and felt the liquor set fire to his stomach. He wanted to get blind, stinking drunk. He wanted to forget that Kate and Paul Armstrong ever existed, if only for a few hours. Pouring the rest of the amber liquid down his throat, he began to refill his glass when it hit him. If
he
felt this way, what was Kate’s reaction going to be?

You’re doing it again, Mike. Leave it alone
.

But his hand was already on the phone, dialing her number. He let it ring eleven times before smashing the receiver against the cabinet.

“Damn it, Kate! What did I ever do to deserve this?”

He was out the door, running across the road, and pounding on her front door. He could see her silhouetted behind the curtain in the glass of the door, unmoving. Rattling the knob, he shouted, “God damn it, open up! I mean it, Kate! If you don’t, I swear I’ll break the glass!”

She reached for the dead bolt, and when he heard the
snick
of it sliding open, he turned the knob. Before she had a chance to say a word, he pushed past her and headed for the kitchen.

Kate ran after him, grabbing his arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Shaking her off, Mike strode into the kitchen. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he turned back toward the den and flung open the door. It banged against the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster.

“Mike, for God’s sake!”

The bottle and glass were on the coffee table. He could see she’d already started. Picking them up, he said, “You’re not going to hide behind this shit anymore,” and he went back into the kitchen.

“How dare you!” she shouted, as he emptied the bottle into the sink.

“This has got to stop, Kate. Understand? All of it! If you and I aren’t meant to be, so be it. I can’t fight a ghost. And I can’t compete with a saint, which is what Paul’s become to you. But, for Christ’s sake, open up your eyes and grab on to a piece of reality!”

She turned her back to him, angrier than she ever remembered being. “I want you to get out of my house.”

“Not until you tell me where the rest of the wine is.”

“No!” She spun around, her face livid. “What’s this all about really, Mike? Is it because you couldn’t get poor, vulnerable Kate to put out?”

Mike’s anger matched hers. “As I recall, you started that. Not me! So
you
tell
me
. What’s this all about?” She didn’t answer him, and he continued. “Is it because maybe you felt something and you don’t know how to deal with it? Tell me the truth, Kate!”

“Get out!” she spat.

In a voice filled with wonder, he stated, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

She was blushing furiously, a combination of guilt and rage.

Mike leaned back against the counter, not sure what the appropriate emotion should be. Elation won out, and a slow smile spread across his face.

“I asked you to get out,” Kate said with less conviction.

“Okay, I’m getting.” He pushed away from the counter. “I can’t help you unless you want it. I won’t do anything, unless you want it. Understand? It’s all up to you from now on.” He walked past her. “See you tomorrow.” He suddenly felt lighter than air.

Kate waited for the front door to close, and then defiantly walked to the pantry and took out another bottle of wine. As she sat on the sofa, glass in one hand, TV remote in the other, Homer slunk in from wherever he’d been hiding since the shouting had begun.

Kate held up a glass in toast, and wryly said, “Here’s to us, Homer. Alone, and loving it.”

Homer wagged his tail.

“Hey, old boy. You need something to toast with. How about a Reese’s cup?” She opened the old biscuit tin she kept the candy in.

He seemed to smile, and Kate smiled back at him. Mike’s words echoed in her head. Unwanted. She reached for one of the photo albums on the shelf under the coffee table. This would help her remember something good.

The pages were filled with small moments in their lives. She looked very happy. In those small moments she
had
been very happy. Kate snorkeling in Hawaii. Paul holding up a live crab on Fisherman’s Wharf, a look of horror on his face. Kate holding out a handful of hay to one of the wild ponies on the Eastern Shore. Homer, lying with his face between his paws, surrounded by gold foil candy wrappers. He’d eaten nearly a whole bag of Reese’s cups before they’d discovered him. Paul teetering on a stool, trying to place the star on top of the Christmas tree.

The years flashed by in frozen images. She tried to see the changes in Paul, but they weren’t external. The camera hadn’t caught them, and she sighed in relief. The Paul Armstrong she wanted to remember was right there
in front of her—laughing, handsome, loving. It
had
been good. Had to have been. If it hadn’t, what was the point of being Paul’s wife all those years? Kate lay back on the couch.
Paul’s wife
. It was as if she’d never been anything else.
Paul’s career
. There hadn’t been anything else.

She flipped to the front of the album again.
What happened to me? Where’s Kate Moran?
Two photos caught her eye. Both were taken in their senior year in high school. The first was at the high school championship series. The game had just ended, with Paul hitting a mammoth home run to win the game and series. Kate had run out onto the field, along with all the other spectators and Paul’s teammates. Mike snapped the shutter just as Kate reached Paul’s side. She and Paul were surrounded by people. Kate’s hand clutched Paul’s arm and she was gazing up at him with a combination of adoration and expectation. But Paul’s face looked back over her shoulder and he was accepting a kiss on the cheek from another girl.

Kate peered closely at the photograph, unable to make out who it was. She was shorter than Kate. Blond. Familiar. But her face was hidden by Paul’s head. It didn’t matter. Immediately after the picture was taken, he had turned back to Kate and kissed her on the mouth, accepting her congratulations. She remembered that clearly.

The other photo, just beneath the first, was of Kate and Mike. It had been taken by a photographer on the annual staff, on their school’s Earth Day celebration. Kate and Mike had headed the recyling committee, and on this day they were in the old gym, sitting at a long table along with all the other committee heads. The local press was there for the event, and Staunton, Waynesboro, and Harrisonburg reporters took turns asking questions and snapping photos of the students. Kate was standing in front of an easel that held a graph, and as she turned to explain the chart using her pencil as a pointer,
the shutter clicked. Kate looked earnest—in control. Mike was sitting, leaning against one elbow on the table, gazing up at her with a closemouthed smile of pride. Before giving it to her, the photographer had written
“The future as seen by Kate Moran
” across the bottom.

Her eyes drifted back to the other photo and, without thinking, she pried it loose from the little flaps that held it in place. She stared at what she’d written on the back. In block letters, she had printed “
PAUL’S
GIRL
.”

A nightmare plagued her sleep. She was standing at the head of a classroom. Her parents, Mike, Sheryl, Paul, and even Matt, sat at the small desks. Suddenly her mother raised her hand and asked, “Where is Kate Moran?” Puzzled, Kate answered, “I’m here, Mom.” They were all talking at once, but the question they all repeated was, “Where is Kate?” Kate was shouting at them—“I’m here! Can’t you see me? I’m right here!” But no one heard her.

“Kate? Where are you?” Mike’s voice was raised above the rest.

Terrified now—unable to make them see her, she screamed “I’m still here!” over and over again.

“Is she okay?” She recognized Matt’s voice.

“She’s dreaming. Get out before she wakes up.”

Kate came awake with a start, her eyes flew open, and with great clarity asked, “Where did I go?”

Mike was kneeling in front of her. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead with a cool hand, and said, “You’re right here, Kate. You were dreaming, darlin’.”

Her hand reached out for his, gripping it tightly. “I was dreaming,” she repeated.

“Yes. You’re all right.”

She nodded, and slowly sat up.

Mike hadn’t failed to see the remnants of last night’s binge littering the coffee table, but he didn’t say anything.
Instead, he told her, “The rain’s quit. We’re going to work outside today.”

Again she nodded, not willing to look him in the eye.

“Can I get you anything before we start?”

She shook her head, saying, “No. I’m fine,” finally relinquishing his hand.

For the next few days Mike watched as Kate pretended nothing had happened between them. Her studied politeness toward him was in stark contrast with her treatment of Matt. She went out of her way to provide any comfort the young man might need. And Matt, who didn’t have any idea why Kate was treating him like visiting royalty, basked in the attention.

Whenever they were alone, Matt would step up his flirting a notch or two. And Kate, who had always enjoyed the wordplay between the male and female of the species, went along with it. It was harmless, it was fun, and it helped take her mind off the truths that Mike was baring. Besides, it wasn’t hard to take from someone who looked like Matt Keller. Not hard at all.

One morning, Kate was putting groceries away in the pantry. She sang along with Linda Ronstadt on the radio, oblivious to everything else. She was bending over, picking up the forty-pound bag of dog food, trying to get it on the top shelf out of Homer’s reach, when it was suddenly taken out of her hands.

“Let me do that for you,” came Matt’s voice from behind her, and he lifted the bag to the shelf, deliberately brushing up against her.

The whole process seemed to be taking longer than it should, and Kate found herself trapped between Matt and the shelves. She smiled at this obvious attempt at intimacy, and as Matt brought his arms down and his hands “accidentally” swept over her shoulders, she said with a swoon in her voice, “Oh, Matt. You’re so big and
strong.” She slowly turned around to face him. “What would I do without you?”

He looked down at her and playfully asked, “What would you do
with
me?”

Kate leaned back against the shelves, and Matt’s body followed. She abruptly craned her neck to look over his shoulder, and exclaimed, “Mike! I thought you were outside.”

Under his breath, Matt said, “Oh, shit,” and quickly turned to see an empty kitchen.

Kate scooted past him, laughing. “You’re dealing with a seasoned pro, Matt. I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive.” She watched him grin, and said, “Now quit reminding me how old I am and get back to work.”