CHAPTER EIGHT
She had made a fool of herself. Humiliation and regret swarmed through her. Meg ran the events from the previous night through her head carefully, but she could not figure out how she could have been so stupid. What on earth had led her to actually try and kiss Mark? And after all, why in the world would he kiss her back? No, nothing could erase what she had done last night; she could not simply hop into her personal time machine and go back and fix it all. This wasn't, after all, some science-fiction novel.
She sprawled herself on her bed, still in her nightgown. It was morning, and golden rays of sunshine streamed in through the slats on her blinds, making a striped pattern on the carpeted floor. The sunlight-filled room had the air of a Sunday, yet Meg knew that it was a Saturday. She felt a little sick to her stomach, as though she were feeling the beginnings of a cold. She figured it was the drink she'd had last night. Probably her very first hangover. And really, how strong had it been? Probably very. Her actions last night conveyed that of a young woman who had been loosened. She was supposed to go to the mall today with Amanda, but she felt like calling her up and saying that she couldn't make it. She wanted to close herself off in her room for a couple of days and just disappear from the face of the earth.
She picked up a paperback that she was in the middle of reading and went through ten pages. When she set the book down, two knocks sounded on her door. Without Meg even answering, the door swung open. "Megan, we have to have a talk."
Her mother was dressed in tight jeans and a cowl-neck sweater. Lines of concern etched her otherwise youthful face upon her forehead, and around the mouth. Her long, thin fingers were clasped tightly in front of her abdomen, and her posture was careful, worried. Her fair skin looked pale in the morning sunlight, as golden highlights from her naturally dark brown hair glinted in the sun.
"Yes, Mom?" Meg sat up on her elbows, then sat forward on top of her legs. She had not sounded as enthusiastic as she would have wanted to; fatigue had drained her of the energy.
Her mother breathed deeply through her nostrils. She took note of Meg's tidy room, and didn't say anything about it. Then she sat down carefully on top of Meg's crimson-and-fuschia flowered bedspread. "I saw you coming home with a gentleman other than Jeffrey last night," she stated, her voice flat and authoritative.
Meg rubbed her eyes, still sleepy but becoming more awake by the second. It is funny how sickness, when only very slight, is almost pleasant. "You did?"
"Who was it?" The lines of concern on her face had turned to lines of moderate severity.
Meg opened her mouth to answer. "It was someone I met at the dance..." She looked at her mother's pursed lips. "Jeff had to go home early... and I wanted to stay..."
"Don't lie to me, Meg. I know who it was."
Meg stared at her mother. "You do?"
Ann crossed her legs. "Late last night, after your father and I had gone to bed, I heard a car pulling up to our house. I was having trouble sleeping, so I went up to the window to peer out. It was you, alright. Arriving home. But not with whom I had expected."
"I can explain."
"Meg," she said calmly. "I know you're not giving me the whole story. Where did you go last night and whom were you with? Tell me the truth."
She knew it was useless to try and make something up. "I sort of went to a party after the dance."
Mrs. Mitchell's eyes widened. "You what?" She straightened the hair around her face, as though a neater mane would assuage her anger. "I figured as much. And this Jeffrey boy... he didn't come, did he?"
She shook her head, slowly.
"I didn't think so."
"He was going to, but..."
"But you found someone more interesting to traipse around with? Like Mark Powell, I presume?"
Meg nodded her head, slowly. She opened her palms to the ceiling. "It was just a party. All the kids nowadays are going to parties."
"Megan, you know you're not allowed to go to parties."
"I'm sorry Mom... it was just an innocent little get-together, I swear."
She studied her daughter. "Your father and I laid down the rules a long time ago, Megan: You are not to go to any parties, not even if it's a small group of friends that we've met and have approved of. But something tells me this party wasn't as innocent as you are letting on, my dear. The fact that you didn't even tell us that you were going is cause for concern."
"You're right. I should have told you."
"And one more thing: you're never to see that boy Mark again. Do you hear me?"
Meg blinked. "But Mom, why?"
She sighed sharply, with the beginnings of tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "You know damn well why, and I don't have to repeat it to you!" Meg flinched at hearing her mother swear. Her mother's sudden passion was shocking, and Meg was left struggling for words.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," she said, finally. "Is it because of the accident?"
Mrs. Mitchell turned her back to her daughter and crossed her arms. "It's much more complicated than that."
"Is it?"
She spoke through clenched teeth. "He was the one who killed your brother, Meg. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"I guess it just means a whole lot more to you than it does to me."
"Look, I just don't want you to have any sort of a relationship with this boy. From the looks of what I saw of him last night, with his long hair and dysfunctional-looking jacket, he's probably a shady person. Not the sort of young man I would want you to hang around. And just how long have you been prancing around with this fellow, anyways?" The woman turned back towards her daughter, eyes now dry.
"Not long. Since the beginning of school."
"That's what your father and I were afraid of. All sorts of funny characters hover around public schools."
"He's not a funny character, Mom."
"In my book he is, Meg. I know you're young and naïve right now, but you'll learn."
"If that's how you feel, then I understand."
Ann Mitchell raised her chin. "You're grounded for a week, Meg. For going to a party and breaking curfew. Now I hope you'll understand, but I don't care to talk about this subject any further." It was the end of discussion. No room for arguments, Meg knew.
She spent the day finishing up her homework and doing household chores. At dinnertime, her parents were still and silent. She made the meal: spaghetti and garlic toast.
After they had mostly finished eating, her father spoke. "Your mother tells me you broke curfew last night, and you went to a party."
"That's right."
"I'm glad that she grounded you, Meg. You know you're not supposed to do these things."
She folded her hands in her lap and looked at them. "You're right. I should have obeyed the rules. It's my fault."
Her mother and father made eye contact. "And this Mark Powell character... well, we thought we'd closed the book on him a long time ago, you see."
"And what did you conclude?"
They made eye contact a second time. Davis Mitchell said, "Honey, the incident with Mark Powell should not be discussed at the table when we're eating."
"But you've never wanted to talk about it. Ever. If now's not a good time, then when is?"
Davis sighed and adjusted his glasses. "Well, I suppose."
Meg dropped her fork on her plate and straightened the napkin in her lap. "How come Mark never came around after Cory died?" Meg asked, peering across the table at her father.
"Well..." he began. "I suppose he never had a reason to. Mark was friends with Cory, not with us. After the incident, Mark was put away for a while, and we lost contact."
"But you never made an effort to speak with him, did you?" demanded Meg.
"Sweetheart, our family was going through a crisis. And Mark was probably being well taken care of by his own family."
"So you never once spoke with him after that day?"
Davis scratched his temple. "No."
Her mother interjected, "We were the ones suffering a loss, Meg. Not him."
Meg shook her head. "I just think it's a shame. Considering the fact that his parents probably blamed him, too."
Her parents looked at each other. "Just what are you saying? That we blame Mark for our son's death?"
"What I'm saying," Meg began, "is that children of that age are still very impressionable. And knowing Mark the way that I do, I know that he was a very sensitive boy. Alienation can and does send out a strong message, one that is difficult to ignore."
"That's enough," he father said. "Now finish your food."
Meg crumpled up her napkin in her hands and threw it on the table, then she got up from her seat and moved to leave. "Sweetheart, honey, where are you going?" her mother called.
She looked over her shoulder. "If you don't want to talk about it then why should I stay?"
Dear Mark,
I'm writing this letter to you because I don't know if I'll ever see you again. My parents have told me not to talk to you ever again, and besides, I don't even know if you would want to, after what happened last night. I'm sitting in my room, thinking about the huge mistake I made when I tried to kiss you. I was completely out of line, and I should never have done that. But what bothers me most about this situation is, I don't know if I'll be able to stop the feelings I already have for you. You know, I think I'm in love with you, and I don't think anything can stop that. Not the fact that you have a girlfriend, not the dismissive attitudes of my parents, not the pain that I know you still feel and I still feel over losing Cory. And I don't know what to do about it. I have a sinking sensation that I'll never get a chance to hear your voice ever again, and it tears me apart. At least I have this letter to send to you, and hopefully my parents won't tear it out of my hands. Please write back.
Love, Meg
Meg balled the letter up in her left fist and lit it with a match. She watched the glowing flames lick up the sides of the paper, devouring it like prey, turning it into black ash. She let it drop into the bathtub, then washed the ashes down the drain. It was a stupid idea. As though he would care to even read it.
It was nighttime already. Her mother and father were downstairs watching television. Meg slipped noiselessly into the kitchen and retrieved a glass of orange juice. She swallowed the sweet liquid down quickly, then wiped her mouth with the back of her arm. The darkness outside was thick, and enclosing. She could faintly see the horizon through the window but mostly, just her reflection. She was wearing her blue terry-cloth robe, and nightshirt. Nothing on her feet. Wind tossed boughs of trees up against the glass, making howling and scraping noises. Meg checked to see if her parents were looking, then when she saw that they weren't, she discretely took a half-empty bottle of vodka from the cabinet and added some to the remainder of her orange juice. Within minutes, she was feeling a pleasant dizziness that she had only last night been introduced to. She carried her drink upstairs, feeling the soft fuzziness of the carpet under her toes, listening to the soft blare of the television set in the other room.
For about fifteen minutes she flipped through a Lady's Home Journal on her bed. Then she heard the familiar creaks and groans of the stairs as her parents made their way to their bedroom. She didn't want tonight to be boring. She had lost Mark, so why not try and have some fun?
When the lights outside her door were turned off, Meg changed back into a pair of jeans and a heavy sweatshirt. The wind outside was still restless; still tossing boughs this way and that, as though rain were threatening to blow in. But according to the forecast, rain would not reach Glenwood until the morning. She glanced at herself in the mirror, seeing the paleness of her own skin and the darkness of her hair, and smoothed out her jeans. After several minutes had passed since her parents had retired, she slowly opened the door to her bedroom. Sucking in her breath, she descended the stairs carefully, and tip-toed across the foyer into the living room, then into the kitchen. He rubber-soled sneakers barely made a noise against the linoleum, just very soft squeaks. She went through the kitchen, then opened the sliding door at the back of the house quietly and slipped quickly out into the cool night air.
The crickets and the tree-frogs were singing their nightly tune. She closed the sliding door carefully behind her. Wind whistled through the branches of the trees, which were beginning to bare in this the beginning of Fall, and from time to time Meg's hair was swept up with the current of the breeze and tossed in odd directions. Black branches looked like twisted, gnarly veins against a midnight blue sky. The trees themselves looked like huge, bowing bodies that swayed with the force of the wind. And the moon was not quite full; in just a day or two more, it would be.
While still close to the house, Meg tread lightly on the bed of pine needles and dead leaves underneath her feet, which crunched with each step. Still sucking in her breath, mostly out of superstition, she let out the air slowly and deliberately from her lungs. It was cool enough tonight for her breath to fog up a little bit in front of her face, but ever so slightly. Sounds echoed between the trees as she entered the woods, and she could hear herself breathing. Shadows from the trunks and branches of trees loomed over her path, and she was careful to test the earth ahead of her with her foot each time before setting her weight down upon it.
An owl hooted in the distance. She heard the sound of squirrels scurrying. The air smelled crisply of pine needles and fresh earth. Meg felt small amidst the tall, slender trees. She continued to walk, hugging her arms around her body to protect against the chill in the air, yet she was still shivering in her sweatshirt and tight jeans.
She came to the small clearing she where she often stopped to read or to rest. A huge rock jutted out from the soil at the top of a mild drop, at the bottom of which there was a small stream. It was fun to go fishing for crayfish in that stream, sitting on that rock... she and Cory used to do it all the time when they were growing up, using makeshift fishing poles. She placed a warm hand on the cool, damp surface of the rock, and brushed off the excess dirt. Then she tucked her hair behind her ears and sat down. She sat, hugging her knees with her arms, gazing at the moon, for quite some time.
At one point she thought she heard a noise, but it could only have been the soft gurgling of the stream below, because the sound was so quiet. It could have been any of a multitude of sounds already filling the night air. But when Meg heard it again, she knew that it was not coming from nature.
Instinctively, she rose to her feet. Before she made a sound, he placed a finger to her lips. "No, you don't have to get up," he whispered. She let out a soft cry of surprise. "Just me, Meg." It was Mark. Suddenly without her arms wrapped around her body, she shivered even more fiercely from the cold, and she looked at him with surprise and inquisitiveness.
She barely saw anything of him; his most distinctive feature was his reflective eyes. He was very close to her; he was breathing quickly, and deeply. That was the sound she had heard.
She was astonished that she had not been more frightened. It was as though she were expecting him.
His finger was still resting on her lips. Slowly, he lifted the other hand to her face, and softly touched it. "You're cold," Mark said. His breathing was heavy, as though he had been running.
She nodded, shivering. He clasped her hand. "But your hands are warm."
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, as the wind howled around them.
He leaned forward, still clasping her hand, and brushed her mouth with his lips in answer. She quivered as his hand reached down and brushed her right breast.
"What are you... why..." she broke off. His hand began to stroke her breast, while the other hand touched her thigh.
"I've come because I feel something for you," he breathed, as he kissed her mouth sweetly, gently. "Just as you feel something for me..."
She closed her eyes, and let out a soft breath as she embraced him.
"I shouldn't have pushed you away," he said.
"And I shouldn't have come on so strong."
"No." He kissed her lips. "You were perfect."
Never in her life had she been touched by a boy in that way before. It had been her first kiss. And she felt, instinctively, as though she wanted more.
He cupped her face in his broad hands and proceeded to press wet kisses upon her eyelids.
When she reached the nerve, she kissed him back. "Oh Mark, I thought I'd lost you. I wanted you to feel the way I feel about you."
"And I do." He kissed her neck.
"What are you doing here?" she repeated.
"I came because I couldn't stand to be apart from you any longer," he said. "I thought about what happened, and I realized I'd made a huge mistake, one that I'd never stop paying for unless I did something about it."
They embraced in a powerful, passionate kiss. Mark's long arms were completely wrapped around Meg's petite body, as Meg's hands were grasping Mark's shoulders.
"I don't care what the reason is," she said. "All that matters is that you're here..."
Somehow they made their way to the ground. Mark was lying on top of her caressing her hair. "I don't want anything to ever happen to you..." he said, gazing into her eyes. She could see the contacts in his large, intense eyes.
When Meg returned to her house that night, she knew with absolute certainty that nothing in her life would ever again be the same.