“I’m not . . .”
Denise stopped him by raising her hands.
“You don’t come over much anymore, you didn’t call while you were away, you snuck out of here yesterday morning, then didn’t show up later . . .”
“I’ve already explained that.”
“Yes, you did-you explained each and every situation. But don’t you see the pattern?”
He turned toward the clock on the wall, staring at it, stubbornly avoiding her question.
Denise ran her hand through her hair. “But more than that, you don’t talk to me anymore. And I’m beginning to wonder whether you ever really did.”
Taylor glanced back at her, and Denise caught his gaze. She’d been down this road before with him-the denial of any problem-and didn’t want to go there again. Hearing Melissa’s voice, she decided to go to the heart of the matter. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“What happened to your father?”
Immediately she saw him tense.
“Why does that matter?” he asked, suddenly wary.
“Because I think that it might have something to do with the way you’ve been acting lately.”
Instead of responding, Taylor shook his head, his mood changing to something just short of anger.
“What gives you that idea?”
She tried again. “It doesn’t really matter. I just want to know what happened.”
“We’ve already talked about this,” he said curtly.
“No, we haven’t. I’ve asked you about him, and you’ve told me some things. But you haven’t told me the whole story.”
Taylor gritted his teeth. He was opening and closing one of his hands, without seeming to realize it. “He died, okay? I’ve already told you that.”
“And?”
“And what?” he burst out. “What do you want me to say?”
She reached toward his hand and took it in hers. “Melissa said that you blame yourself.”
Taylor pulled his hand away. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
Denise kept her voice calm. “There was a fire, right?”
Taylor closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, she saw a kind of fury there that she had never seen before.
“He died, that’s all. That’s all there is.”
“Why won’t you answer me?” she asked. “Why can’t you talk to me?”
“Christ!” he spat out, his voice booming off the walls. “Can’t you just drop it?”
His outburst surprised her, and her eyes widened a little.
“No, I can’t,” she persisted, her heart suddenly racing. “Not if it’s something that concerns us.”
He stood from the couch.
“It doesn’t concern us! What the hell is all this about, anyway? I’m getting sick and tired of you grilling me all the time!”
She leaned forward, hands extended. “I’m not grilling you, Taylor, I-I’m just trying to talk,” she stammered.
“What do you want from me?” he said, not listening, his face flushed.
“I just want to know what’s going on so we can work on it.”
“Work on what? We’re not married, Denise,” he said. “Where the hell do you get off trying to pry?”
The words stung. “I’m not prying,” she said defensively.
“Sure you are. You’re trying to get into my head so you can try to fix what’s wrong. But nothing’s wrong, Denise, at least not with me. I am who I am, and if you can’t handle it, maybe you shouldn’t try.”
He glared at her from where he was standing, and Denise took a deep breath. Before she could say anything else, Taylor shook his head and took a step backward.
“Look, you don’t need a ride and I don’t want to be here right now. So think about what I said, okay? I’m getting out of here.”
With that, Taylor spun and made his way to the door, leaving the house as Denise sat on the couch, stunned.
Think about what I said?
“I would,” she whispered, “if you’d made any sense at all.”
The next few days passed uneventfully, except, of course, for the flowers that arrived the day after their argument.
The note was simple:
I’m sorry for the way I acted. I just need a couple days to think things through. Can you give me that?
Part of her wanted to throw the flowers away, another part wanted to keep them. Part of her wanted to end the relationship right now, another part wanted to plead for another chance. So what else is new? she thought to herself.
Outside her window, the storm had returned. The sky was gray and cold, rain sheeting itself against the windows, strong winds bending the trees almost double.
She lifted the receiver and called Rhonda, then turned her attention to the classified ads. This weekend she’d buy herself a car.
Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so trapped.
On Saturday Kyle celebrated his birthday. Melissa, Mitch and their four boys, and Judy were the only ones in attendance. When asked about Taylor, Denise explained that Taylor was coming by later to take Kyle to a baseball game, which was why he wasn’t here now.
“Kyle’s been looking forward to it all week,” she said, downplaying any problem.
It was only because of Kyle that she didn’t worry. Despite everything, Taylor hadn’t changed at all when it concerned her son. He would come, she knew. There was no way on earth that he wouldn’t.
He’d be here around five, he’d take Kyle to the game.
The hours ticked by, more slowly than usual.
At twenty past five, Denise was playing catch with Kyle in the yard, a pit in her stomach and on the verge of crying.
Kyle looked adorable dressed in jeans and a baseball hat. With his mitt-a new one, courtesy of Melissa-he caught Denise’s latest toss. Gripping the ball, he held it out in front of him, looking at Denise.
“Taylor’s coming,” he said. (Tayer’s cummeen)
Denise glanced at her watch for the hundredth time, then swallowed hard, feeling nauseated. She’d called three times; he wasn’t home. Nor, it seemed, was he on his way.
“I don’t think so, honey.”
“Taylor’s coming,” he repeated.
That one brought tears to her eyes. Denise approached him and squatted to be at eye level.
“Taylor is busy. I don’t think he’s going to take you to the game. You can come with Mommy to work, okay?”
Saying the words hurt more than it seemed possible.
Kyle looked up at her, the words slowly sinking in.
“Tayer’s gone,” he finally said.
Denise reached out for him. “Yes, he is,” she said sadly.
Kyle dropped the ball and walked past her, toward the house, looking as dejected as she’d ever seen him.
Denise lowered her face into her hands.
Taylor came by the following morning, a wrapped gift under his arm. Before Denise could get to the door, Kyle was outside, reaching for the package, the fact that he hadn’t shown up yesterday already forgotten. If children had one advantage over their elders, Denise reflected, it was their ability to forgive quickly.
But she wasn’t a child. She stepped outside, her arms crossed, obviously upset. Kyle had taken the gift and was already unwrapping it, ripping off the paper in an excited frenzy. Deciding not to say anything until he was done, Denise watched as Kyle’s eyes grew wider.
“Legos!” he cried joyfully, holding up the box for Denise to see. (Weggoes)
“It sure is,” she said, agreeing with him. Without looking at Taylor, she brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “Kyle, say, ‘Thank you.’ ”
“Kenk you,” he said, staring at the box.
“Here,” Taylor said, removing a small pocketknife from his pants and squatting, “let me open that for you.”
He cut the tape on the box and removed the cover. Kyle reached in and pulled out a set of wheels for one of the model cars.
Denise cleared her throat. “Kyle? Why don’t you take that inside. Mommy’s got to talk to Taylor.”
She held open the screen door, and Kyle dutifully did as she’d asked. Setting the box on the coffee table, he was immediately engrossed in the pieces.
Taylor stood, not making a move toward her.