Chapter title is a lyric from "Daybreak," by Snow Patrol. This one picks up right where 43 left off. And 45 *hopefully* should not be too far behind. Once again, I just had too much to say, so it's sort of a two-for-one, like the divorce chapters were…just unlike the divorce chapters, not a double post this time.
Content warning: implied child abuse/sexual abuse (not Mark or Addison). Sorry. I know that's…a lot. And it probably feels unnecessarily cruel, and it IS cruel, but this has been in my outline from the very beginning, and I have been building towards it in certain flashbacks along the way. There is a point to it; I'm not doing it to create intentional angst (end notes in future chapter 45 will have more on that). Most of the discussion centered around this warning is covered in 45, but the abuse is mentioned in this chapter, so I'm going to put the content warning in both this chapter and the next.
I deal with both these subjects consistently in my day-to-day work life, so please trust that I know how important it is to treat the discussion of abuse of any kind – especially that involving a child – with sensitivity, respect, and not to, like, sensationalize it, especially in writing (not that you need a prerequisite to write about a particular type of trauma, because you don't, but you should write about it responsibly). There is nothing descriptive, graphic, or violent. At best, there are just allusions to abuse. It's also historical. But it's still sad (45 in particular), and could possibly be upsetting for some, so please take care of yourselves and do what is best for you, because the absolute last thing I want to do is trigger someone. Also, this won't be an ongoing, overarching plot, so if you need to skim or skip, I promise it won't affect the remainder of your reading experience whenever this massive beast of a fic finally comes to a close (maybe a little more than 50 chapters, but not much). Thank you!
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Chapter 44. Sheer Force of Sky
Seventeen Years Earlier
"I think I'm going to make some cookies for you to take over to Carolyn's. Maybe white chocolate peppermint ones." Jenny's thumb pops in and out of the scratched-up, curling edges of the plastic menu sleeve while she talks to Mark. "You're going over there on Thursday to see Derek, right?"
"Yeah," Mark confirms. She always does this, even though it feels…a little juvenile, somehow. He can't quite say why, or if that is even the right word to ascribe to the feeling. Maybe it's not. And it's not like it's a pointless gesture, because Mark knows whenever he stops by Derek's during December, if he is carrying a tin of cookies on behalf of his mother, Carolyn will give him something to take back. He is never sure if the baked goods are specifically for the Sloans, or if Carolyn's remark of, "I have something for you to bring to Jenny, too, so come find me before you leave," is actually more of a go through the kitchen to re-gift a holiday treat from someone else sort of thing. The two women are not particularly close. They never were. Friendly to one another, sure, but not close. They are just too different. And after losing her husband, Carolyn has kept a lot of people at arm's length.
Mark feels like he is getting too old for this. Maybe that's why he is annoyed right now, as he and Jenny sit across from each other in the diner. An Elvis Christmas album sounds scratchy in the background while they wait for their waitress to return to take their order. Brenda. She always remembers them. Mark twists his glass of water (with a vague fingerprint smudge that isn't his near the rim, so thank God for the flimsy straw) between his cupped hands while he peeks around. The diner off Old Seneca Turnpike seems so run-down now. Or perhaps it has always been this way, but he never noticed because coming here was a special, just-for-them thing with Jenny that served as a fresh coat of paint over some of the uglier blemishes of his upbringing. But now, looking at the low-cost white and blue vinyl flooring, the splitting of some of the back material of the booths, and the odd half-curtains with roosters and chickens on them, it's all just dated and tacky. Mark turns back to face Jenny, but not before catching sight of the seasonal garland looped along the wall space behind the counter. It is hung in an up-and-down pattern like sand dunes, but it's uneven. The interior details fill Mark with the same sense of mournfulness he felt when he first saw a copy of Nighthawks in a textbook.
At least the diner has a fucking exit door though.
He looks at Jenny properly now. She is staring out the window with a slight grin on her face as the day grows brighter. There is a dad outside with two little boys, pudgy-looking in their winter coats, probably out there to run off some energy while they wait for their food to arrive. Jenny is older now, and the light pouring in from beneath the curtain shows markings that bracket her mouth and web-thin lines near her eyes that did not used to be there; Mark cannot say for certain when they first appeared. Jenny is still beautiful though. A head-turning kind of beautiful. Whoever said it to Mark is lost on him now, but he remembers someone saying it (Mrs. Hess, maybe?), and even though he didn't particularly want to hear it on account of it being about his mom, it is true.
"Just order a damn drink if you want to," he grumbles. As storybook-pure as the idea of Jenny gazing out the window is (probably a second away from turning to Mark and wistfully declaring with a princess-pretty smile, "You were that little once."), there is a folded drink menu wedged in the condiment caddy underneath the window. And Mark is not an idiot. His mother's eyes have flickered to it more than once.
"I don't want one." He raises an eyebrow at this response. Of course you want one. I know you. "But if you…" Jenny gives him a smile. "If you want to get something besides water and coffee, you should. I'm sure Brenda will be back any minute. I know you drove, but I don't mind driving us back."
"I don't want a drink. Or need one." Mark is careful not to emphasize any particular word, but still, there was truly no reason to add the second part. Carolyn would probably tell him that he is being mean just for the sake of being mean. Possibly. But he's also being mean because of how his mother makes him feel, if there is a difference between the two. He is not as close to Jenny as he once was. Maybe they weren't ever exactly close – theirs has always been a different kind of mother-son relationship – but they used to be closer, before Mark went away for college. And just…God, he doesn't know what the hell is wrong with him. He just wishes he could be back in Philly right now. Fuck, this is taking forever, he thinks. He observes Jenny go back over the food menu, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. She orders the same thing every time though.
"We should celebrate your birthday early since you're heading back on the thirtieth." Jenny looks up, again sharing a smile. "Maybe we could do dinner at Tommaso's, just the three of us. And Derek, if you wanted to invite him, too. It's been so long since I've seen him. And it's been a while since we've been to Tommaso's, now that I think about it," she adds, which causes Mark to grimace.
The last time you and Cindy went to Tommaso's, the manager had to call Everett to come pick you up. You were both too shit-canned to drive. It was two in the afternoon. The manager talked you into giving him your keys so that you wouldn't leave.
"There's seriously no one in here." Mark offers a snap-like flick of his wrist. It is just them and two other families. "You'd think they could move a little faster. It's fucking ridiculous." He watches as Jenny opens and closes her mouth, wordlessly. "What?" He pushes.
"I just…" Jenny's gaze drifts down to her lap, but not quick enough, and Mark feels his stomach tighten when he catches the wetness vibrating in her blue eyes. Shit. Her hands are still on the table, ripping her paper straw into pieces. "I know you're not a kid anymore, so it's probably not as fun to do the lake and pancakes thing. I'm sure you'd rather spend what time you have while you're home with Derek and your other friends, but it's hard to imagine giving this up. It's always been our thing. But you could have…I know we rescheduled to today, but you could have just been honest, if you didn't want to do this…"
"I wanted to do this, Jenny." Mark breathes in slowly, trying to calm himself. Stop being such an asshole to her. She isn't even doing anything. Regret feels scorching as it weaves its way across his face. "I'm glad I came home, and I'm glad we're doing this. I like doing the lake and pancakes thing with you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? School is just…really stressful right now." This is not the reason – is there a reason? – but it is also not incorrect. Mark has already started prepping for the MCAT, and he is working on his short-list of med schools he wants to apply to.
Jenny glances up, expression hopeful at this reassurance. "Maybe…maybe I'll just have one drink. Just one," she says, eyes that match Mark's a little brighter. "Tell me about school though. I'm sure you'll have a lot on your plate this next semester, but you're such a smart kid, and a hard worker. You'll get through it; I know you will. Columbia's still your top choice, right?"
"Yeah. It is. And it's Derek's top choice, too," he adds. "So hopefully we'll both get in."
"You'll both get in. I'm sure of it."
Mark holds back a sigh when Jenny reaches for the beverage menu. He asked for this, didn't he? Isn't there a fucked-up part of him that is sort of…smugly satisfied that she decided she wanted to order a drink after all? Filtered winter sunlight coats over one of Jenny's fingertips as she traces it down the length of the menu.
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Snow falls outside. A quiet, gentle fall, each ice crystal carried by the push of a minor breeze. The recent deposit is almost silken-looking to Mark from inside the confines of his childhood home. He stares for a moment, watching through the kitchen window. He is close enough to the living room that he can still hear Addison and his dad talking. Addison was a bit nervous about the visit, jittery over meeting – well, re-meeting – his dad ("I want him to like me, Mark."), but the two of them are getting along great, just like Mark knew they would; the conversation is flowing freely, easily. He would not have come into the kitchen to refill Addison's glass of water (Everett offered to first) if he felt that she needed his constant presence. She seems comfortable, and said comfortableness – Mark can now hear that raspy, almost musical-sounding laugh of hers, and Everett's gruffer one – allows him to linger in here longer.
The window faces the front yard. Everything looks relatively the same. The only thing missing is the roses along the split rail fence. The bushes are still there, just no flowers. They'll return, Mark supposes. Jenny somehow knew how to keep roses alive in winter. Not all of them made it, and they didn't look quite like the spring and summer ones – though the bursts of pink were always attention-grabbing against the backdrop of snow and pale skies. It looks like the roses are wearing fur. He remembers telling Jenny that when he was young, the first time he saw frost clinging to the petals.
Everett utilizes a gardening crew, but he usually halts the service for the winter months. Any casual desertion ends up being disguised by way of living in one of the snowiest cities in the country anyway. It's too big a house for one person though. Even growing up, it seemed to dwarf their small family with its long, wide layout and the extra bedrooms they did not need. Mark would ask why his dad still wants this much space and wants to have to deal with all the upkeep (support of a crew or not), but he knows the answer: Jenny lived here. Therefore, his dad is not going anywhere. It's a nice home though, with a few unique details Mark has always appreciated. And Addison picked up on one of them immediately.
"I love that round window…how it kind of sticks out," she said in reference to the porthole-style window in the dining room. "It's sort of like being inside a snow globe." The comment surprised Mark, just in the sense that given how much time Addison spent sailing as a child, he would have expected something more of the nautical variety; the window looks like ones that are on the sides of ships. Then again, it's almost Christmas, and it's snowing outside, and it's Addison. And he was even more surprised when Everett grinned and responded with, "Mark's mom said that, once." Mark can sort of picture Jenny saying it.
When he returns to the living room with the refilled glass, he notices the three sonogram photos they brought with them are now fanned out like cards on the coffee table. Addison is still on the couch, and Everett is in the faux leather recliner kitty-corner to her, both of them leaning forward while Addison walks him through the photos, pointing out each precious detail about the silhouette of their daughter, captured inside a storm of black, gray, and white.
"And then in this one…do you see right there?" Addison runs a finger along the photo while Mark takes a seat next to her. He grins, knowing which one she is showing Everett even before he puts eyes on it again; it is one of their favorites, and they have a similar one on their fridge. "See there? She's sucking her thumb." Addison glances up to make sure Everett can see it. "Thank you, Mark," she adds when he sets her glass back on a coaster that is just about as old as he is. "Those are the rest of her little fingers, there. And her fist is sort of open, see? Like a wave."
"I can't believe how…clear these are. And how close-up." Everett's eyes dart back to one of the other photos, the one Addison did not really need to describe. It's a profile shot, and even someone without much experience in the way of interpreting these things would be able to pick out the forehead, nose, mouth, and rounded chin. "You know…she sort of…I think she has your mom's nose." Everett looks at Mark, and then his gaze shifts over to Addison. "I don't know how to describe it, but Jenny had this sort of wispy nose." He does a swooping gesture with a finger that makes Mark think of a ski jump ramp.
"Celestial nose," Mark answers quietly. His mother had a perfect nose, actually. The actress kind of nose. The nose women come into Mark's office asking for. The sonograms of Clara come from a basic 2D ultrasound though, nothing fancy, nothing that really allows for the dramatic visualization of fetal structures. But Mark feels that his dad is probably seeing what he wants to see.
"Well, you would know better than anyone," Everett says, displaying a broad smile. Mark knows that his parents, no matter their shortcomings, are (and were, in Jenny's case) incredibly proud of his career, always excited to tell people about our son the surgeon. "Thank you." Everett slides the photos closer to Addison. "Thank you for showing me these."
"Oh, no." Addison shakes her head, and gently pushes them back. "These are for you. We have more at home." They had an appointment a few days ago, and left with a handful of photos of their daughter at twenty-eight weeks' gestation. "We brought these ones of Clara for you to have." They shared the name with Everett, and Lynette already knows, but otherwise, they are keeping it to themselves until she is born, wanting to have it just be for them (not that Savvy didn't attempt to use what Mark can only assume is every witness line of questioning tactic known to man to get them to reveal the name when they went over there last weekend).
"Thanks." Everett's smile is still so exuberant that for a few seconds Mark feels like his throat might seal shut. It has been a long, long time since he has seen his dad this happy about anything. "I'll put these on the fridge," he adds, and Addison gives Mark a quick grin, as though to say, Sound familiar? "But I'll have to get some picture frames, for pictures of her once she's born. I'd love to come visit and meet her, once you're settled in. I know with Jenny – she kind of wanted it to just be the three of us for a bit, before we had friends over to meet Mark."
Mark manages a small nod at this. The distinction is not lost on him. Friends. Not family.
"You're welcome anytime," Addison replies. "And next year, if you don't get snapped up for any work stuff, you should come down and have Christmas with us." It vaguely surprises Mark, how willing she is to offer this up. Everett always has tentative plans in the event that Mark reveals he will not be able to make it home for the holidays; it's all about contingency with the both of them in this post-Jenny world. And this year for Everett, it's time in Florida for some consulting event at a hotel chain and then a few days in Sarasota with friends who moved there several years ago. "Speaking of frames…" Addison points to the wall behind Everett, where wood collage frames hold a host of photos from Mark's childhood. "Is it okay if I look at your pictures a little closer? I'd love to see them."
Mark stands back while Everett shows Addison the pictures. He already knows every single one, and if he closes his eyes, he can still see the pictures exactly where they are positioned. Mark as a toddler, a fistful of dandelions squeezed in a chubby, dimple-creased fist, sitting in Jenny's lap. Mark in his hockey gear, standing between Jenny and Everett after one of his Mite-level games; Jenny is holding his stick, for some reason. The three of them at a Yankees game. The three of them at Tommaso's Restaurant, in a corner booth. Mark just shy of a year old sitting on Santa's lap, with a look on his face that indicates he is either about to smile or burst into tears; it could have gone either way. The three of them at the Jersey Shore. A shot of Jenny from her print modeling days, even though she told Everett having that one up there made her feel old. Jenny and Everett at some sort of party; Everett was looking at her when someone took the photo, and both of their mouths were circled in laughter. A close-up of Mark in his highchair as a baby, with a smear of applesauce on his cheek that Addison makes a soft cooing noise over. One of Mark spinning in Everett's office chair. Several pictures of Mark during high school football games, both post-game and more in-action style ones, the ball cradled between his chest and forearm as he breaks down the field. Ones of Jenny and Everett in Mykonos, Sanibel Island, Las Vegas, New Orleans, London, and Barcelona (trips that vaguely hurt Mark's feelings, because it felt like they were waiting for him to leave for college before their travelling kicked up several notches). A photo of Mark and Derek, maybe ten or eleven, holding up fishes they caught. Mark surrounded by a pile of paper airplanes he made, probably around the same age as the fishing one. Shots of Mark from each graduation: eighth grade, high school, college, and med school.
Mark is more focused on his dad and Addison than the pictures. Everett has a hand lightly resting on Addison's back while he narrates some of the stories that go along with the pictures. And right now, Addison is making a joke about a photo of Mark in his red and blue All Stars uniform, pants dirtied from his desire to slide whether or not he actually needed to avoid a tag, and a trademark smirk playing at the corners of his mouth – I know that look pretty well. And not for the first time, Mark finds himself wondering how could anyone not adore Addison. Especially an in-law. She is not perfect (it's hard for him to find flaws though, shirt-stealing habit aside), but she really is just genuinely thoughtful and kind. And her presence…it is not just seeing the sonogram printouts that has lifted the clouds that typically hang over Everett; Mark can tell. If Addison wasn't here – well, a lot of things would not be like this if she wasn't here.
He's not like how I remembered, she whispered when they first arrived, when Everett went to get drinks for them. And Mark agreed, but because it is different when it's not your own flesh and blood, when you're an outsider-looking-in, he can see why his dad's appearance – five years after Jenny's funeral – was more jarring for Addison. Grief has made Everett so much thinner, and although the natural process of aging has turned him silver-haired and pocked a previously smooth, unlined face, Mark feels certain losing Jenny took away a lot of his dad's youthfulness. You have his jawline. And the same ears, Addison said, giving Mark's arm a light squeeze. And he's handsome, just like you.
He feels such a strong wave of fondness for Addison in this moment, and it brings to mind last weekend, when they spent some time at Savvy and Weiss's. At one point, Mark was standing off to the side with Weiss (who, as it turns out, is a formidable tennis opponent, which makes it all the more fun for Mark), each with a beer in hand like a stereotype while the women were looking after Phoebe. Savvy and Addison were seated near each other on the floor, praising Phoebe as she crawled between them, palms smacking against the hardwood with each forward movement. Addison scooped Phoebe up when she made it back to her, pulling her into her lap and adjusting the hat they got her, a crochet one with little bear ears (they bought a matching one for Clara). Addison was smiling and laughing when she planted a kiss on Phoebe's velvet-soft cheek.
"The kid gets zero love from us, clearly." Weiss chuckled when Phoebe seemed to bask in the attention, wiggling happily and reaching up to pet her fingers over Addison's parted lips. "It sounds…well, Savvy would absolutely laugh her ass off at me for saying something so corny, and it is corny, but trust me: you'll fall in love all over again the second she's holding your kid and it's the three of you for the first time. And it happens regardless of whatever she yells at you during labor. I'm sure you can imagine how…colorful those few hours were for me with Sav – well, what am I saying, Addie was there, so you can just ask her."
Mark has no reason to doubt any of this. But when Addison twists back around to look at him after Everett has shown her all the photos, the fondness continues to flood over him. It turns out you can fall in love all over again for a lot of reasons.
They grab an early dinner (perhaps a sign more than anything else that Everett is older now) at Tommaso's, and then the three of them drive together to the hotel Mark and Addison are staying at so that Addison can be dropped off. That had been one of the first decisions Mark made once they decided to come visit Everett this weekend; staying at a hotel would be more ideal. Most of the bedrooms at his childhood home are cluttered with things Everett keeps saying he's going to go through, but hasn't yet. The only available bed is Mark's former one, which is a full, and the idea of a smaller bed for Addison, who is now sometimes so uncomfortable trying to sleep that she's practically a bulldozer rolling across the mattress, was laughable to them both. So the hotel had been the first decision, and Mark's second had been booking Addison an appointment for a prenatal massage at the hotel's spa. This evening has turned into a deviation from the original plan though, which was to drop Everett back home and then go to the hotel together. Addison pushed a little while they were at the restaurant, when Everett excused himself to use the restroom. You should go back with him, she said, eyes big and insistent in the muted light fanning out above their table. You can drop me off for my appointment, and then go back to your dad's for a bit. He mentioned he has some pictures he wants to show you, remember? So go there and look at the pictures, and spend a little more time with him before we go back there tomorrow morning for breakfast. I think he'd really love that.
Mark walks Addison into the hotel while Everett waits in the car. They make a right, heading to the entrance to the spa facility, and when Mark determines no one is in the hallway, which affords them some privacy, he takes Addison's face between his hands and kisses her. It is long and slow, and has enough of a smoldering effect on her that her eyes remain closed a little longer than necessary when he pulls away.
"What was that for?" Her eyes are dreamy-looking when they slide open.
"For being you." Mark touches her cheek. "Now go get all those muscles relaxed. I should be back by eight. With more pictures, I guess."
There are always more pictures. It's strange, because Mark never really felt like either parent always had a camera at the ready, but there is an entire closet shelf's worth of shoeboxes filled with loose photos that says otherwise, and each time Mark comes home, Everett likes to pull them out at random to show him. Mark indulges his father – like Addison would want, and because he typically does when each visit segues into this – as Everett pulls out a few photos he set aside and tucked in a booklet-sized envelope for Mark to take with him.
Mark studies ones of the pictures Everett has just given him. Jenny at one of his hockey games. She has a beige and red tweed scarf bundled around her neck, and one gloved hand is cradling her chin as she bends forward, caught up in the action on the rink. She is smiling, and the sweeping upturn of her small nose is prominent in the shot. Her other hand is hanging onto a hot chocolate. Jenny would always bring a thermos of it to Mark's games, or buy a cup from the snack bar if she didn't make some ahead of time. Mark wonders though, in the same stomach-tilting way he has always and will always wonder about pictures like this, if there was anything else in addition to hot chocolate in there.
"I think this might have been taken the same day as the picture we have up there," Everett says, indicating the photo in one of the collage frames of the three of them after one of Mark's games. "It's the same scarf, and the same white sweater. And it always took a while before Jenny would repeat an outfit, right?"
Mark nods as he sets the photo back down. True. His mother was like Addison in that way.
"We had some great times, the three of us," Everett continues. And like the always more pictures pattern, this is the next thing Mark is used to: footsteps walked over every memory, but with some generous rewrites on his father's part. The negligence and dysfunction are always glossed over. Mark breathes in deeply, trying not to let resentment curdle inside him for all that is coming. "She would have wanted to be around for this so much, to see you become a dad, and for you to be with someone special, no matter how you met her. And she would have loved the chance to hold Clara. And to babysit her, too."
"Well." Mark's fingers curl into fists near his thighs. He cannot seem to stop himself as the words leave his mouth, tone hushed, but also definitive: "It would have to be supervised, if she was watching Clara."
Mark does not do this. Or rarely does it, at least. Olivia says he needs to talk about it with his dad – all of it – but he has never been able to go there. Addison has also encouraged him to talk about it (while recognizing the fact that she is in a similar position with Bizzy). There have always been more reasons not to talk about this though. And it just never seemed like it would serve any purpose for Mark, to really share with his father how the parenting reframes make him feel; he has never felt, as frustrating as it is to have to listen to all of it, that there is any harm in allowing Everett to continue to paint a Walton-esque picture of Jenny or something.
Everett frowns at him. "She wouldn't drink if she was going to babysit. She wouldn't do that. Do you remember when the three of us went into the city to see The Nutcracker? Before we went to the play, we took you to that playground. Tarr, I think it was. There were all these things to climb, and you and Jenny were running around and -"
"Everett…don't. Please don't." Mark winces. "I know I never say anything about it, but just…" he unfurls one of his balled-up hands to pinch at the bridge of his nose. A massage – prenatal or otherwise – is starting to sound pretty damn great right now. "Don't do this thing where you build her up. You always do this when we talk. I know that she loved me, but Jenny wasn't a good mother. Or she could have at least been a hell of a lot better than she was. She might have tried her best – that was always the party line, wasn't it? – but she wasn't…it was a really, really dysfunctional and sometimes lonely upbringing. I know you didn't plan to have kids, but the reality is, you did have a kid." He waits for his father to dispute that, and although maybe it should hurt when Everett doesn't assure Mark that's not the case, it actually feels more like relief. "But neither of you acted like I was a kid. When I was little, I was like a pet. And when I was older, I was a buddy. It wasn't…it wasn't a normal parent-child relationship, with either of you. And I was just…I was kid. All that should have been expected of me was to be a kid. I know you both loved me, but you should have loved me better. Or Jenny could have at least tried harder not to be the kind of parent who tried to drink herself to death on a daily basis."
"We both…you were a surprise," Everett says softly, pushing at a picture on the table of Jenny and Mark sitting side-by-side on a diving board, feet skimming the rippling water below them. At Cindy Marino's house. Mark remembers that day. "I wasn't sure at first…we didn't plan to have kids. I'm glad we had you, but you can understand, right, why not everyone's gut reaction to a pregnancy is pure excitement…? Right?" Mark drops and lifts his chin in affirmation. Yes, he can. Better than most. "I was more on the fence, but Jenny…Jenny was all in. She didn't think she wanted to have a baby – the world is just too scary, that's what she would say – but as soon as she found out she was pregnant, well. She was in. And then I was in, too. I also…I thought it would be good for her, too. That having a child would settle her, maybe. But I didn't really…I parented how I was parented. You met my parents twice, but you would have been too little to remember their visits; they lived in North Carolina, and they were both gone by the time you were five – well, you know that. But how they parented…that was all I knew. I'm not trying to use that as an excuse, but it's the truth. And I sort of let Jenny take the lead, even though she didn't really know anything about being a parent either. And there were a few years there where I worked round-the-clock – money troubles from some bad investments. We were able to squeak through without you noticing, or losing the house…and then things got good again. You were in middle school at the time, I think. Or maybe a little younger than that. But I know I wasn't…I know I was absent, Mark. I have a lot of regrets about that, and I know you'll be ten times the dad I've been to you."
I'm sure talking about it is supposed to help – as well getting to hear my dad sort of apologize – but this really this sucks, so thanks for that. It might just be the first thing Mark says to Olivia at their next session.
"And I used to think…" Everett continues, voice still etched with softness. "You know, people like Cindy Marino, I used to think people like her were the problem, that people like her were your mom's enablers. Cindy drank like a fish…worse than your mother. And I didn't drink during the day. I could go out at night and not drink. I was never drunk in front of you. But that didn't mean I wasn't…" he sighs, once again moving around the pictures in front of them, like an unsolved magic trick. "I know I let it happen. I did try to talk to your mom. More than you know. I tried to talk to her about quitting cold turkey, or just slowly phasing alcohol out, or checking into some sort of facility. And I told her I could go with her when she talked to that horrible doctor she saw for all those years, but it never…she wanted to drink, Mark. And she wanted to take Valium and Ativan and whatever else she was prescribed or that Cindy gave her to play around with. It was what she wanted. It was how Jenny…how she lived. How she managed. We both partied and went out a lot while we were dating. Pretty much nightly. She was ten years younger than me, so she made me feel young again. And then early in the marriage, and after you came along, there was a part of me that wondered if it was worth it to stay in a relationship with someone who couldn't be sober and just…didn't want to be pent up. I didn't have to go out. But she did. The thought of leaving her though…I could never do that. But, yeah. I know I enabled it, too. I was the worst enabler of all, actually." Mark inhales nervously when Everett looks at him. His dad isn't crying, and he doesn't have tears in his eyes, but something about them is changed right now. "I loved her too much to issue an ultimatum though, and I couldn't ever take you from her. That would have killed her, to lose you, even if it was just while she got help. And I guess I always felt like, yeah, when things were bad, they were bad, but when things were good, they were good. Right? You were always safe with her, because it was never that bad when you couldn't really take care of yourself. It was when you got older…I mean, I know the time that she -"
Doing nothing is still a decision, Mark thinks, before he cuts his father off. And then he keeps going, knowing they are about to say something similar, but the perception will be different.
"She overdosed in front of me," he argues. "That's the furthest thing from safe, Everett. And I didn't…you played it down. And don't try the 'it was a different time' line. Just…you've done it before, and please don't. I always let it slide, but it's just not…" Mark shakes his head. "You told me afterwards, when everyone left, 'this whole thing turned into a circus' because of me. You acted like it was nothing, but it wasn't nothing. And I pretended I was fine, but I wasn't fine. I was a kid. I shouldn't have had to have made that phone call, let alone see what I saw. And I shouldn't have had to casually lie when the paramedic asked me if I was okay."
"No, you shouldn't have," Everett murmurs in agreement. "And I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry, Mark. I think I apologized the next day, but it wasn't…it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. I was mad at your mom for doing that, and mad at myself, for putting her in a position to do that to you. And I shouldn't have…what I did was wrong, making you downplay it. Jenny would've been broken though, if someone from social services showed up to place you with a foster family or something, or told her she needed to leave the home and get help before she could see you unsupervised again. That was sort of what…guided me that day. I didn't want to break her."
Mark shakes his head again, skeptical. "You don't think she was already broken? You left me alone at night. At least three times a week, since I was nine years old. She was the one who wanted to go out though. You could have put your foot down."
"Yes, and I should have. I think your mom…well, she did the best she could, like you said," Everett replies, and Mark wants to grab him by the shoulders and scream, for sounding so damn weak. The same thing he always accused Jenny of being in his head, and on some occasions, out loud. "She really did try, Mark. She was sick. But when it's someone you love and she's happy…you get stuck on the keeping her happy part. To me…it was Jenny being Jenny. And things like going out at night, even though you might not always want to – you do it because she wants to, because she likes to dance, because she says your son is old enough to be alone and the doors are locked and he's safe inside. And because she likes to get really tired so she can fall asleep right away, rather than lying awake and having to just…think. You just…you do it, even though you know you shouldn't. So if you're mad at anyone, Mark, it should be me. Not your mom. I was the pathetic one; not her."
I'm mad at both of you.
Everett reaches out for a picture tucked under the one in front of Cindy's pool. It's a new shot, one Mark is not certain he has seen before. It's him and Jenny at Skaneateles Lake, her hand resting on his shoulder, and Mark's lanky arm draped around her waist. Jenny's long, golden brown hair has been gathered in a high ponytail. The water sparkles in the background, and Mark can just make out the grains of sand dusted along his shins. Everett never came on those trips, so Jenny must have asked someone else to take the shot.
"I never understood the lake thing," Everett says, nudging at the picture.
"Lake and pancakes thing," Mark corrects, too muted for his dad to hear though.
"Jenny loved it, and I was glad it was something she did with you – because you liked it too, you know – but I didn't really get it. She would spend entire summers out there with her dad, in some sort of cabin rental. He was part of a group that was always hired to do seasonal maintenance and upkeep stuff there. All those hiking trails along the Finger Lakes that needed to be kept neat…something like that. He was…her dad was…" Everett trails off, fingers flexing uncertainly on the table.
"An alcoholic, right? I always figured that. And she said he was mean."
"Yes," Everett answers. "Yes, that much I know for sure. But he would also…she would never talk much about him – she didn't want to – but he wasn't a good man. So I guess maybe the lake was Jenny's way of saying, 'screw you, you don't get to take this place from me,' or something. Your mom…she taught herself to swim. Did you know that?" Mark shakes his head. "She was just a bitty-sized thing. Her dad didn't know how, but somehow…somehow Jenny taught herself when she was four. It seems so young, to teach yourself to do something like that and to not drown in the process, but she was insistent she was only four."
"She was a good swimmer." Mark picks up the photo, wanting to look a little closer at it. He feels such a strong pull to be back at Skaneateles Lake all of a sudden, a pull he has not felt in years. Maybe one day though, he could go with Addison and their daughter. Jenny would have loved for him to have carried on their tradition. "Really fast," he adds.
"She was," Everett agrees. "She swam in high school, and she set a record for her school's one-hundred freestyle. And she set a record for the butterfly, too. I'm sure someone has broken the records by now, but at the time…she shattered the previous ones. Well. Jenny told you that, right?" He asks, and Mark nods. That one he has heard before. "She liked being in the water. Any body of water. But the lake, for her, it was special for some reason. Skaneateles Lake…that was where she taught herself to swim, so maybe that's why. And she loved swimming, she did, but it was also…it was also self-preservation for her." Everett's voice drops. "Her dad couldn't swim, so as long as she was in the water, he couldn't…he couldn't touch her."
"Right," Mark murmurs distractedly, as reflexively as dragging in air. But it only takes a moment. "Wait." He looks away from the photo of his mother – perhaps a woman he did not actually know that well after all – as his head jerks sharply in Everett's direction. "Wait…what?"
. .
. .
Five Years Earlier
Mark feels subtle movement to his right. He doesn't shift his head, but out of the corner of his eye, he can tell that it's Addison reaching into her bag to grab a tissue. Stop it, he wants to snap. You never met her. Don't cry for her. He always assumed there were rules or something for WASPs and the top percents at funerals, and certainly, displays of emotion would not be on the pre-approved list of acceptable behavior to engage in while at his mother's funeral service. On Mark's other side is Derek, who fidgets every once in a while. It reminds him of Derek and Addison's wedding day, when the groom and groomsmen were in one of the back rooms at the church getting ready; Derek has always been a little restless (or maybe just uncomfortable) while wearing a suit, inclined to frequently twist at the sleeve buttons and adjust the lapels. Mark is more okay with the fidgeting than he is with tears right now though.
Not that Mark would say anything to Addison about it. Not after all she has done. When he introduced her to Everett before the service started, his dad had softly gripped Addison's arms, holding her out from a distance, and choked out some hoarse words of appreciation. Thank you, for all your help with making today happen. I'm so glad Mark has you and Derek.
"Blackbird" is being played on several acoustic guitars. The noise of it reels against the sky, words laid bare before the set of words to follow: the eulogy. It's a few musicians from a local bar Jenny and Everett went to, who wanted to pay their respects (of course they would be from a fucking bar, Mark thought when Everett told him, even though it felt uncharitable on his part to have such a thought). It's Jenny's favorite song. Or so Mark has been told. He knew Jenny liked The Beatles, but she also liked anything she could dance to. He didn't know her favorite song. He never thought to ask.
Mark's other more recent assumption is that when it comes to the stages of grief, he thought the anger one was simply about being angry at the universe for taking away the person who died. Never once did he consider it could mean just being angry at the person.
The eulogy will be delivered by Cindy Marino as soon as the song is over. His mother's closest friend. Closest partying friend. There's a distinction, in Mark's opinion. When he was a kid, Cindy and her then-husband and Jenny and Everett owned shares in a nightclub. Cindy had been around the house plenty of times back then, but Mark would not define the friendship she had with his mother as meaningful, as unbearably emotional as the observation is for him to have to make. Not meaningful like how his friendship is with Derek, at least. Addison, too. The head and heart of it all feels so different.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night.
Mark always shrugged Cindy off when she came over. Cindy did not have children. She could do what she wanted without consequence. She was no one's mother, so if she wanted to be weightless in her choices and pursue a life of messy inebriation instead of making sure her child grew up in a functional home and did not experience neglect of any classification, well, that was her fucking prerogative.
The eulogy will be almost entirely a regurgitation of what Mark and Everett have told Cindy, the same bits and pieces that Addison was kind enough to cobble into something coherent for the obituary. But Cindy offered to give the eulogy, and that was nice of her. Maybe she knew that Everett was in no shape to give it ("Jenny would understand that it would be too hard for us. And she knows how we felt about her," Everett said to Mark later). And maybe Cindy knew Mark…would maybe not have the spine to do it. Which is a good thing, because the memorializing thoughts that are coming to Mark right now – racing like poison-tipped arrows straight to the chest – are not particularly gracious ones.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
Jenny passed out on the couch at Christmas. The smell of urine overpowering fresh pine.
Jenny stumbling into the house, glassy-eyed and droopy-lidded. Dropping her purse in the entryway, and its contents spilling out, the rattling gasp of a pill bottle striking tile. Derek was there because the boys were studying for a calculus test. Mark had taken a risk by inviting him over – he so rarely did, because the Shepherd home was always something akin to Command Central for their friendship. This was the last time he took that risk.
Jenny calling Mark while he was asleep in his dorm room, slurry-voiced, presumably wanting someone to talk to because Everett was out of town. She called to ask Mark if he watched SNL a few hours ago. Just that. That was it.
Not being there for him – not being conscious – when he needed her on the day he found out what happened to Christopher Shepherd, which was perhaps the day he needed his mom most of all.
Having to take Jenny's useless, floppy hand to sign some sort of release form for his high school football camp. Mark could have just forged the damn signature, but apparently he was hit with a rare bout of integrity that day.
Twisting Jenny onto her side as she began to vomit, and calling 911.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Jenny passing out in the bathroom at Finnegan's Sports Bar, where Cindy's wedding reception was held. The front of her dress dampened from a drink she spilled.
Jenny leaving Mark alone at night.
Falling down once at the grocery store, in the baking aisle. Mark took the keys and drove them both home, even though he wasn't legally old enough to drive yet.
A friend helping Jenny home. A neighbor helping her home. Everett helping her home. A stranger from the mall helping her home. Mark helping her home.
Forgetting to take the brownies out of the oven, until smoke was billowing in the kitchen, far smokier than the fourth or fifth Smoked Old Fashioned Jenny was working her way through. Thankfully Mark was there for that one.
Too drunk or high, or a two-for-one combo, to sit through his commencement ceremony. She congratulated him later from the hotel bed she was lying in, a husk of a human.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night.
Mark is not a parent, nor does he plan to be, but because he has parents, he knows enough to know that being a parent means making sacrifices and carting around a fair amount of selflessness. But Jenny never gave up anything about herself.
She for damn sure did not give up the things she consumed.
Once upon a time, fifty-four would have felt ancient to Mark. Not anymore. It is young. Far too young. He thinks back to something drilled into his head all throughout his first year of residency: bodies are made to heal. Well, yes. When it is a relatively healthy body. When the owner of the body recognizes that heavy drinking shreds apart your cardiovascular system. He could never fix Jenny. He could – and does – fix other people, but not her.
And not himself.
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see.
He cannot imagine there is any other option for someone who is an alcoholic or an addict shucking away recovery than to affect their child adversely. There is no positive reframe for that, because what choice was there for Mark but to develop resiliency and lean into the long-term effects of parentification? He will always harbor a fear that one night instead of wanting a drink, he will need a drink. Same with medication. He fucked up his knee two years ago in a pick-up game with Sam and a few other buddies from med school who still lived locally, but he eschewed anything that wasn't over-the-counter while the injury healed. He struggles with attachments, because of the loss of control and the fear that others might acquire some sort of emotional ammunition on him. He can hide it well, but beneath the surface, he is insecure and maddeningly self-critical. And nothing is more important – almost nothing – than making sure that others around him are okay, that they feel good. And he knows how to make people (well, women) feel good.
Distrust means safety and safety means distrust.
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.
Grief feels sharp in his chest right now. And exhausting.
It has been designed to be a quick service. Fussy, no frills. Like Jenny would have wanted, Mark thinks. Just a few readings from the friends she has left – the ones who enabled her or just pretended to ignore the problems – and the song that's still playing, Cindy's short eulogy, and another closing song. And then a reception back at their house. Addison took care of the food by securing a catering company, and has blank cards that guests can fill out if they want to share memories of Jenny or express more condolences.
Mark shakes his head, trying to focus. It is almost time for the eulogy. A somewhat censored version. He talked to Cindy two days ago, when she stopped by his house with some frozen meals for Everett. Do not make it a fucking mockery. She made a mockery of her life all on her own, but I don't want any of it talked about, by you or anyone else. Do not get up there on Friday and talk about how she couldn't find her shoes and was barefoot during your wedding ceremony. Or the time you dared her to walk across hot charcoal in your fire pit table and she did. Or when you both danced on the bar at that place across from Tommaso's. Mark spoke so heatedly that Derek – who drove up with him, and was there, but was hanging back and wanting to give him a little space – finally intervened and dragged Mark away, offering a hasty apology to Cindy that Mark did not feel was deserved. But Cindy, who was almost annoyingly understanding about the whole thing, approached Mark later and showed him a copy of what she had written, most of it plucked from Jenny's obituary. A wife and mother. She volunteered at a local food pantry when she could. She liked going to Skaneateles Lake. She was an avid swimmer, and very athletic. She enjoyed cooking, especially breakfast food. She loved reading, socializing with friends, shopping, watching sports, travelling, and going to concerts.
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly.
But most of those things Jenny liked…they were really just a coded way of saying, she liked her booze and she liked her Valium and whatever else her doctor would dispense like gumballs from a quarter machine.
The only thing predictable about grief is that nothing about it is predictable. A burst of wind ruffles Mark's dress shirt, and he starts to think of all the things they left out of the obituary and the eulogy, the things that have left him with a quiet throat.
When he got stitches and Jenny held his hand the entire time; she requested the doctor tell them every single thing that was going to be done before it was done, so that there wouldn't be any surprises.
When he was little, she would let him smudge the windows when it rained, drawing out intricate loops in the cool, foggy glass – Mark does not think all mothers would appreciate having to clean their windows because of an on-purpose reason. Jenny cared a little more when Mark would spell out w-a-s-h m-e on the rear door of her Aston Martin, but she would always laugh at that, too.
Jenny's love of swimming was written in the obituary, and in the to-be-delivered eulogy, but the part about how she would always let Mark win their races until he told her to stop going easy on him has gone unmentioned. Everything about Jenny was effortless when she was in the water.
She loved picking out greeting cards.
Her favorite smell was wet pavement. Her favorite color was blue. Her favorite food was pancakes. Those are favorites that Mark knows for sure.
She would drive on field trips when he was in first or second grade, and the other kids in Mark's class seemed to really like her…things weren't as bad with Jenny then, he supposes. At least not every day.
She could spend such a long time in a flower shop, putting together unexpected arrangements, but sunflowers were always her favorite. Except maybe…maybe she liked whatever Mark picked for her in the backyard when he was little – dried-out weeds and dandelions, mostly – more than she liked sunflowers.
Mark needed her when he came home to tell her about Mr. Shepherd dying, and that entire day was a disaster, but after that day, Jenny stayed sober for the next two and-a-half weeks…possibly the longest stretch Mark had ever seen her go without drinking. She was constantly twisting at her hands, because they were trembling, but she marched over to Carolyn's one day and asked her what she could do. Not let me know if I can help, but tell me what I can do to help. And Jenny did help. Much like how the Shepherds took care of Sloan funeral flowers (Addison helped with ordering and arranging the ones for today's service), Jenny handled the flowers for Christopher Shepherd's funeral. And Carolyn, who is seated two rows behind Mark right now, sent him and Everett a sympathy spray that is in the Sloans' living room, where it will be visible during the reception.
All your life.
When Jenny sometimes came to pick Mark up at the Shepherd house, Amy would pull Jenny inside and show her all her latest drawings, the kitchen cabinet where the pink and purple fairies apparently lived, and her rows of lined-up race cars (formally Derek's) that carved an intricate pathway around the room she shared with Liz. And Jenny remembered that Amy liked white chocolate peppermint cookies, and sometimes she would make them and hand them off to Mark when he was going over to Derek's house. Amy loved Jenny, almost an absurd amount, in Mark's opinion. But, well. Birds of a feather.
Jenny saved copies of anything that mentioned Mark – weekly high school football stats in The Post-Standard, with his touchdowns and receiving yards. An article written about his All Star team when they sailed through Districts before succumbing to double elimination in Sectionals. Copies of medical journals that Mark told her he was published in.
Jenny's heart beat for him, and for his dad. She said that once.
Perhaps the line between anger and pain is a little thinner than Mark initially thought.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
It has only been two weeks since Jenny died. But already, her absence casts a long shadow.
Loss, it turns out, is every moment, every memory. Every beat of a heart.
. .
. .
References/Notes/Nods to Various Episodes
Nothing specific to either show in this chapter, strangely enough. Lyrics sprinkled throughout are (obviously) from "Blackbird," by The Beatles. More will be revealed next time. Addison and Mark reconnect in chapter 45, which will be an angst-fest, and gives Mark the opportunity to express some feelings (primarily due to this recent development of course, but also because he has shelved so many feelings in the post-getting-caught world). The end notes for that one will be a bit more detailed, with an explanation as to why I went this route, and also some character analysis stuff. Thanks for reading!