You could slit my throat
And with my one last gasping breath
I'd apologize for bleeding on your shirt
Taking Back Sunday, "You're So Last Summer"
It was a long time before Mark spoke to Stephanie again. It was she who broke their silent treatment after two weeks. She never imagined him being this livid about this—but she really couldn't blame him. He didn't speak to her. He spent the majority of his days either in his production room or at Collins'. He slept on the couch, suddenly struck with insomnia, and only sleeping for four to six hours a night.
Mark returned home from visiting Collins one evening around ten PM; he sat on the bed to remove his socks. Stephanie was sitting up, Indian-style, wearing another one of her silky nightgowns. This one was deep crimson, with cream-colored lace trim. "Mark?" He didn't respond. "Please, Mark…we need to talk about this."
Mark balled up his socks and threw them in the hamper. He began to change into his pajamas, continuing to ignore her.
"I know you're still not talking to me, but just listen, okay?" she said. "Maybe something will get through to you."
He sighed audibly, muttering something under his breath, as she continued.
"I…I want you to know that I only did it because I thought you didn't love me anymore," she admitted softly. He sat on the bed, his back to her. "I don't want our marriage to fail, Mark. I love you. I love you so much and when you act so distant…and you don't talk to me…and…well; you act like you don't want me anymore, like I'm a toy that you've gotten tired of playing with." She swallowed hard and blinked back tears. "I don't understand why you're acting like this. I know that it's hard that Collins—" she cut herself off when she saw Mark's shoulders tense. He turned his head to glare at her.
"You keep talking," he said, "but all you're doing is offering excuses. I don't hear an apology."
She paused. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm so incredibly sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could erase it. It was a stupid idea; I thought it would work, but Mark—I realized something."
"What?"
"That…it didn't work. You were just as distant as ever."
"So…you're saying I deserved this?"
"No. It was an experiment."
"So, I'm an experiment?"
"No!"
"Then what, Steph? What?" Mark shot. She bit her lip.
"I'm just sorry," she said softly. Mark sighed. "I want forgiveness. Can you forgive me?" She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.
After a few moments, Mark placed his hand over hers. A truce had fallen.
A few days after Mark and Stephanie reconciled, Mark's anger cooled off. As his own form of an apology (because that's the kid of person he was), he came home one afternoon with a gift for Stephanie: a small orange and white kitten. Mark figured that what Stephanie really needed was a companion, a small furry replacement for himself. Stephanie was surprised and moved by this gesture, and was quickly taken by the kitten, who, after further inspection, was revealed to be male. She named the kitten Spike, and Spike wasted no time in becoming Stephanie's shadow. Spike was constantly in her lap, on her shoulder, or on Mark's pillow when Mark wasn't in bed. Within the same amount of time, Mark discovered that not only was he mildly allergic to Spike, but that Spike hated him. Spike had seemed cute and cuddly when Mark handled him at the shelter, but looks were quite deceiving. Whenever Mark entered the room—especially if he dared to sit next to Stephanie—Spike made it a point to scamper up to him and dig his kitty claws into Mark's leg, scratching him through his jeans.
Mark actually stopped complaining about Spike within days, since Stephanie offered the same excuse over and over again: Kittens claw; that's what they do.
Mark was fighting a losing battle and he knew it, but if giving Stephanie a kitten would help heal the rift between them, he was willing to make the sacrifice. He tried to convince himself of this as he trudged up East Houston to meet Joanne for lunch at Katz's Deli.
It was nearly Labor Day by this point, but the heat did not yield. Mark wore his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, along with slacks and a button-down shirt, having just come from a meeting with NBC. They were pleased with his work, as always, but they were disappointed in the low quality. Low quality, Mark muttered to himself. He was working with some of the best equipment he could afford. If they wanted a higher quality, they could damn well buy him new computers and editing tools.
Joanne was waiting for him outside of the deli, wearing a pair of light brown pants and a lacy baby blue V-neck top. She wore a matching blue scarf around her head, gypsy-style, and gold teardrop earrings. Her brown purse was slung over her shoulder. "Hey," she greeted him with a smile. They embraced. "I'm glad you could make it." She pecked his cheek.
"So am I," he replied grimly.
"I'm guessing your meeting didn't go well?" she opened the door for him and they stepped inside, greeted by the wonderful clamor of a deli in New York City.
"The short answer is, I'm thinking of going back to school."
"That's great!"
"You think so?"
"Yes!" Joanne squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. "Go back to school to do what?"
"Get a teacher's certificate, I guess. I could teach, right?"
"It's like I tell my kids: you can do anything you set your mind to. What are you having?" Joanne craned her neck to read the menu printed on the wall. "I think I want pastrami."
"I don't think my stomach can handle food right now."
"Oh come on. What do you want?"
"A better life."
Joanne rolled her eyes. "I'm just going to order for you, then."
Several minutes later, they were seated across from each other, two plates heaping with pastrami and kosher dill pickles in front of them. Joanne watched Mark pick at his food.
"Don't let that meeting bother you," she advised, gesturing with her pickle. "You're one of the best editors they've got and they know it. They won't cut you loose."
"It's not that," Mark replied with a sigh. He pushed his plate off to the side and rested his elbows on the table. "It's…I just…stress. With everything."
Joanne nodded slowly. "It has been a stressful year so far," she agreed. She wiped pickle juice from her fingers and peeled off the top slice of rye bread from her sandwich. "But that's not it, Mark. Something else is bothering you."
Mark peered at her over the tops of his glasses. "How can you tell?"
"I have a very temperamental child at home. And a six-year-old," she joked. "Please? Talk to me?"
Another sigh. "It's Stephanie."
"Oh. Here we go…" she muttered. She smeared brown mustard onto the pastrami and picked up the top few slices with her fork. "Saw this coming a mile away."
"I don't think we're…working out."
"I've noticed."
"Have you?"
She chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and nodded. "We haven't said anything because we thought—"
"'We'? Maureen is discussing my marriage?"
"Don't say it like that, please. Despite all her faults, she's still my wife."
"Okay, okay. Sorry. But—you've really been…you know, talking about us?"
"We're observant," Joanne admitted. "Like how you never pay attention to her. She's like a dog waiting to be thrown a bone."
"Nice: comparing my wife to a dog."
"That's not what I meant. Look, I'm just saying, that if you don't start paying more attention to her, things are going to fall apart. No happy endings. There's only so much a woman can take. You've witnessed my relationship with Maureen. She would act out to get attention from me. That's why she had problems with cheating and with flirting. She had a constant need to be stroked, like a kitten."
"I got Stephanie a kitten."
"But once we realized that the problem was a little bit of me and a little bit of her, things ran more smoothly."
"I'm trying. I really am," Mark stressed. "It's just so hard to—"
"Please someone other than yourself? That's how marriage works, you know. Fifty-fifty. Give and take. Maybe you should try couples' therapy."
"Therapy? You're serious?" he raised an eyebrow.
"It worked for me and Maureen. I should give you his card," Joanne reached for her purse and rummaged through for her wallet, which she opened and pulled out a white business card. She held it out to Mark. He didn't take it. Joanne rolled her eyes and put it on the table in front of him. Dr. Raymond Sutton, PhD/MFT/LPC. "You never know. It might do you a world of good." Mark frowned at the card with contempt. "Just keep it, okay? It might come in handy."
"Yeah. Sure." Mark slipped the card in his back pocket. "Where'd you find this guy, anyway?"
"Dr. Sutton? From the most unlikely of sources," Joanne said with an ironic smile. "The one and only Benjamin Coffin the Third."
Mark nearly choked on his food. "Y—what?! How?"
Joanne shook her head, "Believe it or not, one of my partners is his divorce attorney. Imagine the shock on my face when he stopped by my office 'to say hi'."
"Divorce lawyer? He and Allison…?"
"Oh, yeah. You know, he screwed around almost their entire marriage."
"Yeah, I knew. Angel's funeral?"
"Right. Anyway, when he dropped by, he offered to take me out for coffee, to talk and catch up. He and his new wife had just started seeing Dr. Sutton and, well, he called me about a year later to tell me that Benjamin Coffin the Fourth had arrived."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"I kid you not. Mark, I'm serious. We don't want you to end up miserable. We love Stephanie; we love you. We want you both to be happy. Please, please try, okay?"
Mark gave a small nod. "I'll do my best."
A/N: Helga makes a triumphant return! And upon her return, I've mapped out the rest of the story—it should be complete, hopefully, within the next two or three weeks! Definitely before I leave for my vacation at the end of the month. Stay tuned, folks!
Yes, Spike the kitten is named after Anthony Rapp's cat.
Speaking of whom, you guys are going to hate me but—I scored discount tickets ($55) to see Adam Pascal and Anthony Rapp AGAIN on 8/9/07 and sat 6th row center orchestra! Twice in two days! I am such a whore … met Anthony, Tamyra Gray, Luther Creek and Nicolette Hart afterwards (but not Adam, oh no…he's too good for the stage door…). My friend Gaz gave Anthony a white stuffed monkey. It was amusing.