Chapter 3: Independence Day

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"Roger?" I call, "Roger, Maureen just called, they're going to be here in just a few minutes."

There's no answer. I glance over at Mark in the kitchen, but he's completely engrossed in lining up strawberries in the icing of the flag cake Joanne dropped off on her way to the office this morning. Leave it to Joanne to insist on working on the fourth of July.

"Roger!" I call again, louder this time.

Everything feels. . .off, somehow. On every other holiday that I can remember spending here, Roger's been in the kitchen annoying the hell out of Mark from the crack of dawn until the rest of the gang arrives. This morning he's been hiding in his room, working at some unknown task.

Over the last few days, life has resumed a sort of normality. It's not right, though. It has the feeling of a calm before the storm. There's something ominous about it. Or maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me again. That's probably it. Mark certainly doesn't seem affected.

I find Roger sitting on the floor in his bedroom, his back against the bed and his head in his hands. I can't tell if he's crying. I take a deep breath and force myself not to sigh. It's only been a few days, and already I'm tired of it. I'm tired of being upset all the time, and yet I feel disloyal when I'm happy.

"What happened?" I ask, for what feels like the millionth time this week.

He raises his head slightly at the sound of my voice. His eyes look dull in the late afternoon light.

"I just told my mom," he says softly. "She-she told me I got what I deserved. God, Mimi, how can she say that? She's my *mother* Mothers are supposed to love and comfort, not make you feel worse."

I nod silently, then grab his hands and attempt to pull him to his feet.

"They're gonna be here any minute, Rog, can we talk about this later?" I know he wants sympathy, but somehow I just don't have the strength right now. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for about a million years. But there's not time, never time. And always the nightmares.

"No," Roger mutters, "No, we can't talk about this later. And I'm not going out there."

"Roger, be reasonable, you know they all care about you."

"Exactly," he says, "They care. I don't want them to. I don't want anyone to care. I'm sick of people caring. Hell, *I* don't even care anymore."

"Roger, I know that's not true. Please come out and see everyone. They love you. I love you."

"No you don't!" he shouts, suddenly on his feet. "You don't! You only say that because you feel guilty! I've seen the way you look at me lately, you're thinking this was all a mistake!"

Vaguely, I hear the door opening and closing, and voices out in the living room.

"You're wishing you'd never met me!" Roger continues, "Because then you wouldn't have to worry about pretending you still love me when you know I'm dying. You're wishing you could just move on, find somebody new to screw around with! Get in as many as you can before *you* die!"

I can't take it anymore. It this is what the last few months are going to be like, maybe I *do* wish I could move on.

"Fine," I say softly, "Fine, think what you'd like."

Roger brushes roughly past me and is out the door before I can say anything more.

It's deathly still. Everyone must have left when I wasn't listening.

Slowly, I lie down on the bed and start to cry. Once the tears start, I'm completely helpless against them. I'm falling and there's nothing to grab hold of. I can't breathe. My chest hurts, and I feel light headed. I'm going to drown in my own tears.

"Hey, you okay?"

I lift my head slowly and see Mark, holding a box of tissues and looking very awkward.

"Where is everyone?" I ask, wondering how long it's been.

"Oh. . .um. . .they decided they were going to go to the Life this year instead."

I nod. In other words, they arrived, heard Roger and me yelling, and decided to take pity on us.

"Are you going to actually give me those, or did you just bring them here to tease me?" I ask, gesturing to the box of tissues.

Mark blushes.

"Oh. Here."

He hands me the box.

"I'm never sure what to do when women cry," he admits.

I offer him a weak smile.

"Take their side," I suggest, "Tell them the way they've just been treated is absolutely horrible. Tell them whoever made them cry was acting like a complete asshole."

Mark grins at me.

"Okay. The way you've just been treated is absolutely horrible." He parrots, completely deadpan, "Roger was acting like a complete asshole."

"I'm going to tell him you said that," I tease.

"Hey!" Mark protests, "No fair! You tricked me."

"Rule number two, Mark. Never trust a woman. We're a lying, scheming breed."

Mark laughs.

"I'll have to remember that." Then he turns somber again, "Seriously though, are you okay? What happened?"

"What happened. . .Roger just. . .blew up. Completely out of control. Said that I don't really love him anymore now that he's dying. That I want to move on. Am I okay. . .I don't know, Mark. I don't know anything anymore."

"Wow. . . " Mark looks completely blown away, "Well, I can see why you're upset. Roger. . .has trouble facing his own emotions. He's afraid to simply admit that he's upset, and so he has to blame it on someone else. He used to do the same thing to April. And to me."

"I know. . .but. . .Where did this come from? I mean . . .we were so happy. I thought we'd finally worked out all our problems and now. . .now this."

He shrugs.

"I guess. . .I guess that's life."

"Do you think he'll come back this time?" I ask, trying and failing to keep my voice from shaking.

"Yeah," Mark answers confidently, "Just give him some time to cool off. He'll be back here before you know it, with his tail between his legs, begging you to take him back."

I have to laugh at the image of Roger as a dog.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. . .for. . .understanding."

He blushes again.

"No problem."

Mark holds out his arms to me like a little kid wanting to be picked up. I lean forward and hug him gently. He smells like a mixture of aftershave and soap, and for some reason it makes my heart speed up. I pull away from him and mentally shake myself. This is *Mark*. He turns to leave, but turns back for a moment.

"Mimi?"

"What?"

"It hurts me too."

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