Chapter 12 The Night of Truth #2
I don’t know what expression I had on my face, but he certainly found it funny. He continued, “I guess I was waiting for some excitement, a thank-you, or something.”
“No!” I rushed to correct him. “It’s not that! I just… I had no idea you’d gotten me a present. When? I guess I’d just assumed after all that time had passed and all that you were too busy, or maybe didn’t feel like it.”
“It’s not that, Jen. I just…listen, I know I haven’t been my best self.
But I didn’t forget, and I want you to know I never would.
You mean too much to me for that.” He tossed it to me, and I barely managed to catch it.
Let’s be honest: I’m not the most coordinated person.
But it wasn’t my fault—it weighed a ton!
I have to give Jack one thing, though—the fear that I’d drop it startled me so much I stopped worrying about my damn outfit!
“Be careful with my present!” I said.
I sat down and opened it carefully. I was so moved by it, I didn’t even want to tear the wrapping paper or the bow. Jack hopped down beside me and watched me impatiently.
“Can you get on with it?” he asked.
“Be patient, Jackie.”
I finished, and I felt my heart stop. It was a dark wood box with the name Rembrandt carved on the top.
I didn’t say anything, and Jack got worried and started asking if I disliked it.
If I did, I could take it back, he told me, but it wasn’t that—I was moved, maybe more than I ever had been by a gift.
I removed the sticker over the hinge and opened it.
It had a silver palette inside, oil paints, brushes, charcoal, varnish…
every single thing you could imagine or ever need.
My fingers trembled as they touched the tips of the brushes.
I could almost sense the tension coming off his body.
“Don’t you like it? I got it because I hoped you’d start painting again. Honestly, I don’t know the first thing about art, but I asked my mom what to get, and this is what she recommended. I guess it’s her favorite brand… So are you going to say anything? I’m dying over here…”
“Jack, I just don’t know what to say,” I replied.
And that was true. My mind was a blank. It had been years since I’d taken any art classes; at most I’d just doodled in my notebooks, and I hadn’t touched a paintbrush since I was with Jack’s mom at their lake house.
The fact that he’d remembered that and had gone to the trouble to find something so perfect gave me a ticklish feeling in my stomach.
“You could say thanks,” he suggested. “That would probably work for me.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot. I think this is the first time I’ve gotten a present and thought, this person really knows me. Sorry for making you nervous, I was just stunned for a second. It’s wonderful!”
I threw my arms around him and, caught up in the moment, I kissed him.
Jack didn’t pull away. Still more, he stopped that awkward patting on the back that I think was meant to remind me we were just friends and reached down to squeeze my hip.
I thought he would get on top of me, but then he pulled away and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “If we start like this, I’m not going to go to that stupid dinner.”
“Fiiiiine,” I said, and set the box down beside the bed.
I dressed and looked at myself in the mirror to touch up my makeup.
Jack sat there staring at me in silence with a confused look on his face.
He picked up the box and started interrogating me: what was all that stuff in there, what was the point of the different brushes, why would you use a stick of charcoal instead of a regular pencil.
I thought he’d have known all that, having an artist for a mother, but his family life wasn’t easy, and maybe they’d never been able to have those kinds of conversations.
I tried to explain things patiently, but then I decided he was just acting stupid to get on my nerves, so I took the box from him, set it on the dresser, and said, “Thanks again, but we’ll have to finish our art lessons later. For now, we’ve got to go.”
I heard a voice in my head interrogating me insistently.
Why aren’t you nervous?
I am!
Not nervous enough. You’re walking straight into the lion’s den!
I know how to take care of myself.
Sure you do. Wait till Mr. Ross ambushes you again…
“What are you thinking about?” Jack asked. I was glad he couldn’t actually read my mind. Otherwise, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.
“I’m just thinking about how handsome you look in that sweatshirt,” I responded.
“You should be grateful to me for forcing you to go shopping.” He grunted and looked at the road ahead of him.
I was freaking out about seeing his dad—my eagerness for an argument was gone, and I was worried about making a scene—but I couldn’t admit that without getting into the whole episode with him and the check, which I still hadn’t told Jack about.
Mary and Agnes would be there, too, and I didn’t want things to be uncomfortable for them.
And what if Jack’s father brought it up—would I just admit in front of the whole family that it had been his mistake, and that I was keeping the money to send his son to rehab?
On a day when everything had supposedly been planned in my honor?
In the back seat, Mike didn’t say anything. That was weird for him. Maybe he sensed something bad was going to happen. Not that he needed psychic abilities to do so: that was par for the course when he saw his parents.
My premonition that things might turn ugly only got worse as I saw that huge white house with the black shutters again. In the garage was a Mercedes that I knew wasn’t Mary’s. After parking, Jack walked around, opened my door, and offered me his hand. I was surprised that he wasn’t more stressed.
The house was just as I remembered it, but that didn’t make it feel any less weird. We walked down the impersonal but very clean white hallway to the living room, where Mary was waiting for us in black jeans, a pink shirt, and oven mitts with a colorful pattern of cakes embroidered on them.
“Hey, guys!” she said and hurried over. The boys acted embarrassed when she kissed them on the cheek. I didn’t mind one bit.
“How are you, Jenna?” she asked. “I’m so glad you were able to make it.”
“I’m great,” I told her. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Mike,” she said, “may I ask what in the name of God you’ve done to your face?”
Mike had gotten creative with his morning shave and had decided to leave his mustache. He looked like a teenager who was trying to buy cigarettes. Sue had cracked up when she saw him. Now he crossed his arms, defiant. “Mustaches are coming back, Mom. You heard it here, first.”
“Oh, honey,” she replied. “You really should see a psychologist.”
While the brothers sat on the sofa, I followed Mary into the kitchen, where she proudly showed off all she had prepared, noting humbly that she wasn’t a very talented chef.
There was a salad, a roasted sea bass, mashed potatoes, chocolate cake…
it was too much for such a small group, but that wasn’t my concern.
It looked amazing, and she handed me a spoon to try the sauce for the fish, which I had to admit was incredible.
“I got the recipe from a cookbook someone gave me a few years ago. Trust me, none of this was easy, but I’m happy with how it all turned out. When I’m tired of the art world, I’ve got my next job all lined up.”
“You could do both,” I suggested, before changing the subject. “By the way, thanks for helping Jack out with my gift. You shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, did you like it? I’m so glad, the poor thing was an absolute bundle of nerves, he kept asking me over and over, Are you sure, Mom?
Isn’t this other one better? To tell the truth, it’s nice to see him worrying about another person, that hasn’t always been his strong point.
I meant to tell you, too,” she continued, her expression suddenly changing, “the boys told me about what happened on your birthday. You don’t know how sorry I am.
I know what it means to lose someone who matters to you on what’s supposed to be a special occasion.
My own mother died on Mother’s Day, and it was a terrible blow.
I was even younger than you were. And I lost my father not long afterward.
I think he just couldn’t bear the thought of living without her. ”
She was distracted as she said this, almost as if she were revisiting that moment in her mind as she stared into the oven and toyed with one of her bracelets.
“It wasn’t long after that when I met Jack’s father,” she added softly. “I wonder sometimes how different things would be if I hadn’t felt so alone in that moment.”
Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Why? Do you think you might not have married him?”
That had to be one of the top ten least appropriate things I’d ever said, but Mary took it in stride, responding in a melancholy tone, “I don’t know.
He gave me the attention I needed at a very vulnerable moment, and I let that sensation carry me away.
Would I have married him in other circumstances?
Maybe, maybe not. But I have to remind myself that without him, I wouldn’t have had my two kids, and they’re what I love most in the world.
When I consider that, I have to say, it wasn’t such a bad decision after all. ”
The conversation turned back to my grandmother, and I nearly cried as I told her the story.
I was thankful that she hadn’t suffered, but I still missed her every day.
As I spoke, I noticed Mary seemed impatient, and I wondered if I was boring her.
Finally, I told her I was going to stick my head into the living room to see Agnes and the boys.
Strangely, she seemed relieved to hear that.