"What are you doing here?" Walsh was afraid he already knew.
"I'm here … I'm here to see your mother." Martin came as close to stuttering as Walsh had ever heard. "You should've called me."
"You asked me to keep you apprised of her condition." Walsh wasn't sure what his father expected other than a call notifying him she had passed. His parents hadn't had an amicable relationship after their bitter divorce. "And you were in Hong Kong."
"Claire got a hold of me." Martin flexed a muscle in his lean jaw. "Your uncle James called."
"Uncle James?" A frown knotted Walsh's forehead. "Really? Dad, am I missing something?"
"No, I just want to … I want to see your mother before-" Martin smashed the sentence before he finished.
Walsh had never seen his father any less than perfectly composed. Arrogantly striding through the luxuriously appointed offices of Bennett Enterprises with a line of employees/minions trailing behind him, yes. Commanding a boardroom full of executives like they were royal subjects, yes. Charming a thousand people at a business convention, yes.
Discomposed? Never.
"Where's your uncle James?" Martin cut into Walsh's bewildered thoughts.
"In his study." Walsh nodded toward Uncle James's lair. "Look, I was on my way up to take Mom some tea. If you come up, come quietly just in case she's asleep."
His father watched him for an extra moment before turning on his heel toward Unc's study. Walsh climbed the stairs, still turning it all over in his head, once again balancing the tray. At the top of the stairs he drew in a deep breath, bracing himself for the sight of his mother, so different than how he had always known her. Vibrant. Glowing. Unassailable.
Walsh nudged the door open centimeters at a time with his shoulder. The sight of the small figure huddled beneath the down comforter dragged out all the ugly emotions he'd been wrestling. Depthless fear and pain clawed their way up through his belly like from the bottom of a dark well, up through his constricted air passages, asphyxiating him.
The bright paisley scarf tied around her head peeped out from beneath the bed covers. His eyes roamed the still-beautiful face. The strong bones jutted proudly from beneath the skin pulled so tautly over them. He knew beneath the covers she was almost skeletal, but somehow, even in a fitful sleep, even ravaged by this voracious cancer eating the very life from her, she still managed to radiate strength.
He noticed her bare feet peeking out from beneath the comforter and remembered her cashmere slippers. He could at least slip those on her feet. Placing the tray down beside the bed, he slipped into a closet the size of most people's bedrooms and looked around for the slippers. For a moment he just absorbed the lavishness of the wardrobe. Pants, shoes, dresses, suits, hats, scarves, jewelry-all of the very highest quality. She loved to give, but she loved to have, too. And without any sense of guilt. How could someone who gave so much feel guilty for what she had?
He resumed his search for the slippers. Movement and a whisper out in the bedroom distracted him from his self-appointed task. He started toward the door, which was ajar.
"Martin," he heard his mother rasp drowsily.
She had called for her long-dead mother, father, cousins, close friends. She was in and out of her head at this point, with windows of lucid thought, like what they'd shared last night, growing smaller and smaller every day.
"I'm here, baby," Walsh heard his father respond, immobilizing Walsh with the intimacy of his words.
His father must have entered the room while Walsh was looking for the slippers. Should he interrupt? Shoo his dad out so his mother could rest?
"I knew you'd come." She sounded more alert than Walsh had heard her in days. "I knew it."
"Of course, I'm here." Martin's voice was stripped of the steel and stone Walsh was used to hearing. It was so soft Walsh barely recognized it. "I'll stay, if you want. If you'll let me."
"Oh, Martin. I've always wanted you to stay."
"No, that's not true, Kris, but I'm glad you want me here now. I wasn't sure."
"Yes, you were." Her laugh was dimmed, but throaty. "You've always been sure of me, haven't you?"
"Not always. I thought we'd … " His words trailed off, but his mother seemed to know the rest.
"So did I, Martin." Her voice vibrated with tears. "We were both so stubborn. Both so … "
Kristeene's unfinished sentence lay there in a silence growing between his parents, thickening with an emotion Walsh couldn't place. He had not heard civil words exchanged between them since he was thirteen years old, but this conversation sounded intimate, punctuated with longing and … love?
Walsh stared at the door of the huge closet, separating him from his parents, and felt that he'd somehow stepped into a Narnian wardrobe, the other side populated with satyrs and witches and other impossibilities, no less fantastical than the notion that his parents still loved each other. He took one silent step toward the door, ready to reveal himself before things became more awkward.
"I'm sorry, Kris," his father said in a rush, as if afraid the words would retract like acid reflux if he didn't get them out. "I'm sorry about Laura. It was stupid. I was lonely. We were fighting all the time. There's so many excuses I could make, that I did make, but it just boils down to me fucking everything up. Fucking my whole life up. You were my life, Kris. You know that."
"I thought I knew that," his mother replied so softly Walsh found himself leaning forward to catch the words. "That's why … "
Walsh could hear her struggling to get the words out, though whether it was the cancer, making every bodily function more and more laborious, or whether it was this emotion he hadn't known still existed between them that was choking her speech, Walsh wasn't sure.
"That's why it was such a betrayal," she finally managed to say. "I knew you loved me. To throw it all away like that. At the time, I didn't think we could ever go back. I didn't think you could be the man I married, the man I fell in love with, and do that to us. I felt like I was married to a stranger."
"I know, Kris." Walsh was astounded to hear tears soaking his father's words. "I wasn't sure what I was capable of anymore, either, if I could do that to you. I think I've been lost ever since."
"Martin, you aren't lost."
"I don't know how to get back, Kris. I always thought … eventually that we would be together again. How could we not be together? And the years just … "
"I know." His mother's words shook. "Everything got so twisted around. And now it's the end."
"No, we can fight this," Martin cut in, his voice gaining strength. "And then we'll-"
"We'll what? We'll be together?" She softened the sharp edges around her words. "Martin, I am dying."
"No," he cut her off, underlining the word with denial.
"Yes," she insisted, her voice still firm but gentling. "I'm dying and we don't get that second chance I thought we'd have, but know this. I never, not ever, no matter what we said in court, no matter how we fought, never stopped loving you. That was the biggest battle of all. Fighting myself not to come back to you. I couldn't do that. Not after Laura. I know some women get past those things, but I was too possessive."
"I would have responded the same way." The regret in his father's voice chafed Walsh's ears. "I've hated myself, and I think I hated you, Kris, for not forgiving me. For not getting past it so we could be together again."
"Martin, we don't have long." Pain reduced his mother's words to a hiss. "I … I, there's a bottle of pills on the nightstand. I need to take my medication, but after I take it, I'll be no good. Back asleep or out of my head. I need you to make me a promise."
"No, not now, baby. Let me get the pills." Walsh heard his father moving, rising to get the medicine. "We can talk later."
Walsh stepped to the crack in the door, watching to make sure his mother didn't need anything other than the pills. Kristeene had grabbed his father's wrist with surprising strength, staying his fist, which was clutching the bottle of pills.
"No, I don't know if I'll … I don't know if there will be time, Martin." The finality of that pronouncement sat like lead in the room, weighing the air with pending grief.