Undertow (26 page)

She regretted not making their getaway then. Now, there was no way around the stupid ritual. Marissa reluctantly joined the throng, staking out a spot toward the back where she wouldn’t have to view the bride, and planned to duck when the bouquet left her hand. The moment the flowers were airborne, however, Marissa’s arms flung up of their own will. As if guided by a honing device on some heat-seeking missile, the projectile soared past the jumping girls in the front rows and landed solidly in Marissa’s outreached hands. A disappointed crowd pivoted as one to see who captured the prize.

Exposed, Marissa stood frozen in shock.

The redhead to her left crowed, “From one fiancé to the next!” A cheer went up around her; the world started to go dark and she feared she would faint. Or die. Fifteen feet away, the bride met her eyes, a sly smile playing on her lips.

Marissa searched for Jim; maybe she could dump the bouquet before he saw her. He was wedged between two guys. The closet one jabbed him with his elbow and the other shouted, “Way to go, Dude!” Jim grinned.

Heat rose to her cheeks, but she couldn’t help smiling.

A month later, Marissa held another bouquet as she stood beside her mother in Shakespeare’s Garden. George and her mother wrote their own vows, apparently not trusting in the standard “till death do us part.” Her mother now appeared enraptured by the drivel that George was reciting, an original ode to Norse queens or some such crap from what Marissa could decode.

Forcing her feet to remain still and her eyes un-crossed, she distracted herself by guessing how many years their marriage would last. What was the longest-lasting relationship she knew of? Her father and Claudia had been married for about five years; they still seemed happy.

If it
was
possible for her father to be happy, she corrected herself.
What if she was like him, too cynical and judgmental to ever be happy, or even content, with life?
The opposite of Jim, who must have been born with a happy gene.

Could people ever truly change? Marissa wondered this a lot lately. It seemed maybe her father had. He called last week out of the blue; her father
never
called her, except on birthdays or holidays.

Without even saying “hello” first, he’d blurted through the phone: “So, Shannon’s finally getting married, huh?”

Her mother must have told him
.
“Yeah. Looks like it.”

“I had no idea they were so serious.”

A fishing expedition, she figured.
“I wouldn’t call George all that serious,” she said. “He’s kind of lame, actually.”

A chuckle, followed by a full laugh. “Still my witty little girl. So, how long’s your mother been dating him?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

Her challenge hung in the moment like stale smoke. “It seemed inappropriate,” he finally admitted.

“And asking me didn’t?”

“Checkmate, as usual.” A pause, then he continued, “What I meant to say, I guess, is whether you think this guy will be good for Shannon? Make her happy?”

She thought about this for a moment. Weird George, with his quirky dry humor. But then she pictured George and the way he got all soft every time he looked at her mother. “Yeah, Dad. I think so. He’s a good guy.”

“Like Jim?”

Here we go
, she thought.
I’m eighteen, and
now
he asks about my boyfriends
?
Little late, Dad
. She bit her tongue. “Yeah. Jim’s a good guy too.” At least he had stuck around, more than her father could manage.

Her father sighed. “He better be.” The threat was slight, and unexpected.

“Thanks for caring, Dad. I’m touched.”

He snapped. “Of course I care. For crying out loud, Marissa. Do you always have to be so difficult?”

Hoping to forestall a rerun of the episodes they'd shared over the past few years, she said, “I’m sorry.”

Another sigh. “No. Don’t be. I deserved that, didn’t I?” Not getting an answer from her, he said, “I’m the one who should apologize, honey. That’s why I called. To tell you I’m sorry.”

Stunned into silence, Marissa wondered if her father had ever apologized to her before and was pretty sure the answer was negative.

Again, he waited for a response before going on. “I’m sorry, Marissa. About everything. Not being around more while you were growing up, having to leave you and your mom, knowing how hard it would be on you two. Even though she wanted me to leave—we should have made the relationship work. For your sake.”

The anguish in his words made the dam in her heart shift and start to fail. “Dad . . .”

“Stop. Just hear me out, okay? Maybe I don’t deserve it. Hell, I
know
I don’t deserve it. But just let me talk, Marissa. I need you to know.” He inhaled loudly, a sound that always promised some horrible event would follow.

She cursed herself for taking his call.

“I need you to know how sorry I am for what happened with Gilbert. I should have protected you. I’m your father . . . it was my job . . .” His voice cracked.

The wall inside her crumbled, all the unspoken agreements that held back her bitterness and blame for all those years. Rage. Accusation:
He was your own brother, Dad.
And now the words she’d so longed to hear, so long overdue:
I'm
sorry
. Shallow words, lacking the power she imagined they would hold. Just the sad words of an ordinary man, not the omnipotent father she once adored.

“Marissa?”

She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t her father’s fault; not really. He couldn't have prevented what happened to Bethany, maybe not even what Uncle Gil had done to her. All her blaming and recriminations were misplaced. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

“Okay.” Resignation eroded his voice to a whisper. “There’s something else I want to tell you.”

Her throat was tight, locked around her vocal chords. She forced it to relax. “Go ahead.”

“About what happened this year, your . . . hospitalization. I wish I’d told you, or your mom. Before all this …”

 “What are you talking about?”

Her father’s breath was long and uneven. “Your grandfather.”

“He died before I was born. What’s he got to do with anything?”

The words tumbled out. “Quite a lot, Maribelles. Your grandfather has a lot to do with your episode. What I never told your mother, never told anybody, is that he spent years in and out of the hospital before he died. Manic, psychotic, whatever they were calling it that year.”

She fell to her knees, all her strength gone. The room swirled around her and she thought she would vomit. Already knowing the answer, she asked anyway: “How did he die?”

A long pause. “Suicide.”

Fear and horror blotted everything else out after that. Dropping the phone, she fell to the floor and rocked, her head pressed to her knees. From miles away, her father’s assurances wafted up from the phone, “. . . it didn’t have to happen . . .”

Her mother’s voice broke the trance. Marissa tightened her fists around the bouquet until her knuckles turned white. Letting go of the memory of her father’s phone call, she forced herself to focus on her mother, blushing like some girl at her Junior Prom.

Eyes fixed on George’s, she said, “I promise to cherish you, always.”

The earnestness and hope in her mother’s quivering voice made Marissa want to cheer like a spectator watching a boxer come up swinging before the count
.
It was about time her mom had a shot at happiness, at love.

Maybe I do, too,
she thought.

Turning her head slightly toward the audience, she found Jim in his folding chair on the third row, transfixed by the middle aged love birds on the dais. Seeing his smile was like flipping the switch on a gas fireplace in her chest.

A cheer went up, and George wrapped his arms around her mother and pressed his mouth to hers in a ferocious kiss. Marissa stole a sideways glance to Jim, who met her eyes and winked. Her cheeks burned and she winked back. A delicious grin spread across his face and she thought her heart might burst into flames any minute.

How much the world had changed since last August, she thought. For her mother, and for herself, too.

Thirty-six

“T
he ‘rents sent me a little moolah for the big two - one.” Jim waved his hand in her face, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. The sun was already forcing its way past the blind to lighten the room. It was a record for how late he let her sleep in. Sunday, even.
How did she ever hook up with such an early bird?
She groaned and rolled over, covering her head with the pillow. “Let’s go spend it up. Our anniversary, right?”

She propped herself up on her elbows. Stubble covered his chin and cheeks, his loose blond curls fanned across his pillow
. He’s definitely adorable,
she thought. Her brain was still fuzzy. “Anniversary?”

“Hell yeah! Twelve months since I saw you and your pretty little face at that party. Gotta celebrate the moments, babe.” He grinned at her.

The warm September sun energized her. She held Jim’s hand while they strolled around Cannon Beach.
We’re like a couple of new lovers. Or old people
, she thought.  During summer, the town crawled with throngs of women who lunched and window shopped in the art galleries in the shadow of picturesque Haystack Rock. Younger families mostly stayed north in Seaside to play at the arcades and eat pizza. This time of year, it was relatively quiet.

“You’re smiling, sugar. I like that.” Jim said.

“Was I? Smiling?” Marissa frowned.

“Uh-huh. Definite upward turn of your lips.” He laughed. “Can’t you even tell when you’re happy?”

She pondered for a minute. Was she happy?
Yes, she decided; maybe even better than happy. There was a sense of rightness about her life lately, especially whenever she was with Jim. His presence displaced the gnawing anxiety that kicked in whenever she was alone and the memories of that awful time, just a few months ago, started to haunt her. She’d been crazy. Even worse; she could go crazy again. Anytime.
The thought terrified her.

“So I have this idea,” Jim said. “Let’s go hike tomorrow.” Before she could protest, he added, “Crescent Beach.”

Marissa tensed.
Ecola
.
No!
She shook her head vigorously.

He took her other hand and turned her toward him. Looking gently into her eyes, he said,  “Baby. You need to go back. Face those demons. I’ll be there. Just like on the plane, remember? I’ll keep you safe—I swear.”

“But . . .”

“Nah! Sooner you do this thing, sooner you’ll kick that fear. Get back in the saddle, right?”

Marissa blinked and fought back the swell of fear that rose up and pushed against her esophagus. Jim knew the whole awful story now.
And he loved her anyway. She couldn’t turn him down. Reluctantly, she nodded.

The next day, Marissa kept Jim’s hand in a steel lock the entire way as they gingerly crept along the trail. He distracted her with stupid jokes, an occasional kiss and pinch, making her laugh. Every few minutes he checked in: “How you doing? Almost there, sugar.” The fear which seized her when they began descending the path to the beach released its grip enough for her feet to keep moving.