CHAPTER TWELVE
The bleachers filled up quickly with eager spectators as time neared kickoff for the weekend's big game. Meg was clad in her cheerleading skirt and sweater, holding her pom pons in front of her. Mark's friends, Dan and Drew, were big-time players for the team, and were predicted to be the stars of the season. Everyone was excited and happy; everyone, that is, except for Meg.
"Something on your mind?" Amanda asked, as they looked up at the crowds in the stands.
Meg glanced over at her friend. "Just nervous, that's all." It was more than that. Right now Mark was in a psychiatric hospital, and all she could think about was that she hadn't seen him in over a week. Why hadn't he called? Was there some reason for the separation? Perhaps they were telling him things, like why never to speak to her again.
She knew she was probably overreacting. But there had to be some connection between their relationship and his suicide attempt...he'd tried to kill himself just days after they first got together. Hadn't there?
Amanda nudged her. "The game's about to start."
When the band started up, that was their cue. They ran out onto the field and started to perform their cheer. Meg was confident and enthusiastic as she executed a pike jump and some fast-moving footwork, but as the group rotated positions halfway through the routine, a wayward foot poked out right into Meg's path. Thinking quickly, she tried to dodge the unknown person's foot by running around it, but her reflexes weren't quick enough. She ran right over it, and fell squarely onto her bottom, right in front of everyone.
"Oops," said a voice above her. Beth was standing there, the corners of her mouth twisted upwards in a grin.
Meg's cheeks flushed hotly into a deep shade of crimson as she looked up helplessly at her assailant, then at the crowd, and sat for a few moments in surprised confusion. Then, all together, she realized what had just taken place: Beth had stuck her foot out on purpose.
"Why did you trip me?" Meg asked, as she started to get up, lit with anger.
Beth shrugged her shoulders. "It was an accident."
Meg climbed up, aided by Amanda, and brushed off her bottom. "No, it wasn't," she said. "You wanted to make me fall. Why?"
The spectators were whispering amongst themselves in the bleachers as Meg realized that they'd stopped performing their routine. The football players were laughing. Amanda tugged at her elbow. "Let's just finish the routine, okay? People are watching."
Meg dusted off her elbows, still shaky from the fall, and relented. Reluctantly, she returned to position and they finished their routine.
But when they headed for the bleachers, Meg approached Beth. "Have you got something against me?" Meg asked, still shaky and flushed with embarrassment.
Beth wore an 'I'm-so-innocent' smile. "No. Have you got something against being a good cheerleader?"
Meg felt hot anger rising in her chest, but she firmly pressed it down, knowing that a bout of rage would most likely get her nowhere. "Is this about Mark?" she asked pointedly.
Beth laughed. "What ever gave you that idea?" Then she swung her long, blonde hair dramatically over her shoulder. "It's not like we were going anywhere."
"So you know."
She glared boldly into her eyes. "Of course I know; he admitted it to me."
"And you're angry at me because of it?"
She squinted her eyes and crossed her legs. "Mark was just a fling, Meg. A fling that turned out to be eight and a half months, no less, but definitely just a fling. I couldn't be happier that he's found someone he can genuinely be on the same level with."
"I'm sorry," Meg said, "I know you were together for a long time."
"Don't be," Beth answered, a lilt in her voice. "I was losing interest anyway. We were on different wavelengths; he was a screwup at school, and I was an overachiever. We would've never worked."
"Then why did you trip me?" Her anger was still churning, and once more, she fought it down.
Beth gave a wry smile. "Just like a loser," she said. "Doesn't even know why she's not invited."
Meg looked disbelievingly back at the head-cheerleader, who now had a jeer on her face. "What?" she asked.
"First Amanda, now Mark..."
"What's wrong with Mark?"
She lifted her chin. "Oh, he's great in bed, and all that, but frankly, he's got some serious psychological problems going on. Just look where he is right now."
Meg wanted to hit her. She wanted to smack her one right in the jaw.
"So you never cared about him?"
She shook her head slowly from left to right. "No...but I'm thinking he liked it that way. It's amazing how twisted people can be sometimes."
Meg was disgusted. As soon as the game was over, she walked off the field, and didn't look back.
"I'm going to see Mark in the hospital," Meg announced at dinner the next night. Her mother had done the cooking that evening; they were dining on rack of lamb and baby carrots on their good china. The table was covered by their nicest cream tablecloth, and candles lit the atmosphere.
Her parents sipped their port wines. They looked frankly disinterested, as though they had already tired of aruging about Mark. But just as cold as ever, her father remarked, "How is that young man doing?" and lazily set down his wine glass.
Meg was unfaltered. "How should I know? I haven't talked with or heard from him in over a week."
"And you're interested in seeing how he's doing?"
"I'm going to go see him," she agreed. And added, "Tomorrow, if I can." An unnatural silence followed. Meg, seeing that her parents weren't going to add anything positive to the subject without more probing, continued. "Amanda says that if I go see him, it will be a show of support, and I'm sure he needs a lot of that right now."
"Does she?" her mother said, now with slight irritation in her voice. Meg looked from parent to parent, hoping for some sign that they'd changed their minds about Mark after all, and saw the wisdom of her being a part of his life, and him being a part of hers.
But her father broke the silence by saying, "You continue to press this issue, Meg. I wish you would see how this is ultimately damaging to our family, but you just don't seem to care."
"But, Dad--"
"No, Meg. Listen to me. People go into the hospital all the time, but we can't feel sorry for them all, now can we?"
"He means a lot to me."
"Well, he shouldn't. Your mother and my feelings should come as the first priority to you right now, not some goof you found off the street."
Meg put down the forkfull of vegetables she was holding back down onto her plate and heaved a heavy sigh. "Nomatter what you say, I'm going to see him."
"And how will you get there?"
"His mother will drive me."
"And you're certain she will be willing to?"
Meg chewed and swallowed. "If she won't, I can always find another way to get there."
"I'm sorry, Meg, but we cannot allow you to go."
Meg set her glass down with a bang. "What is it that you two have so against Mark, anyway? It's not like he murdered Cory in cold blood. If you really think intelligently about the situation, it's more Cory's fault than it was Mark's. In fact, it's more Dad's fault than anyone's!"
Her mother gave her a razor-sharp look. "Your father's gun was locked in a safe which was, on top of that, in a locked drawer, the key being in a separate room. We took every precaution we were advised to. How Cory managed to open the drawer and to find the key means that his actions were very deliberate...what it tells us is that he wanted to impress his friend. As for our ownership of the gun...we had every right to own one...it was for our protection as well as yours. And what you must remember, Megan, is that Mark was the one who fired it. He was nine years old, and not a tiny child by any means. He should have known better, and the mistake he made cost us our son's life."
"So you do blame him, then."
There was little pause. "Now that things are out in the open, I suppose there's no cause in hiding it. Yes, we do."
"Dad, do you always shuffle your feet behind Mom and agree with what she says?"
"That's enough, Megan. I have a mind of my own but this time, your mother is right. I don't want you having any contact with Mark, even after what's happened."
"Not even if I could help him?"
"It's not our responsibility."
"It sounds to me like you're out for revenge. Maybe you agree with the 'eye for an eye' train of thought, but I don't. One life has been taken away, but I have the chance to save another. And I don't care what you say, I'm going."
There was something strange about this whole situation that Meg couldn't quite put her finger on. There was a pattern here...her parents downright blamed him for the accident, Mark's parents split up shortly after it happened, and everyone in his life either didn't seem to care or thought negatively of him because of it. Everyone, that is, except for Meg. And the night they were together, she had been so tender, so loving. It just didn't seem to make sense. No doubt blame and alienation had damaged Mark's self-esteem over the years, but somehow, Meg's kindness had sent him over the edge. Meg wanted to get to the bottom of it, and she wanted to know why it was possible for her presence to play a role in his self-harm.
Against her parents' wishes, she skipped cheerleading the next day and marched straight to Mark's front door. "I need to go see him," she explained to the now neatly-dressed, made-up woman.
"I don't know if they'll let you see him if you're not family," she answered, with a shrug and a sigh. With make-up on, she looked more severe and unforgiving than Meg remembered her to be. The lipstick was dark and matte, and the make-up did little to conceal the many frown-lines that had accumulated on her forehead and around her mouth.
"Well, at least let's try," Meg urged.
She sighed, seeming less willing to help today than she had the previous time they had met. "Then I'll phone them," she agreed, not looking up. Setting her purse down, she went into the kitchen to make the call. Meg, not having been invited in, sat down carefully onto the edge of the large, Victorian, living-room sofa, its seat-cushions a deep shade of burghundy. Large, fluffy pillows were thrown haphazardly onto its seats, and its backs were threadbare and torn. On the perpendicular wall there was a matching loveseat, and the set inspired a hint of romance amidst a rather dreary setting. She let her bookbag drop to the floor while still holding the shoulder straps, and looked around the room. Other than the aging grandfather clock and the sofa and loveseat, most of the decor was modern, yet heavily used and in need of throrough cleaning. The wall-to-wall carpet was standard grey, covered intermittently by plum and blue floral-patterned area rugs, and was obviously heavily trampled on. Beer-bottle lamps sat atop metal stands, and newspapers and magazines littered the metal coffeetable, and overflowed to the floor. Framed photographs of gardens lined the walls, while an old tapestry was nailed up near the front door. The old was beautiful yet damaged, and the new was already decomposing.
Barbara Powell re-entered the room. "You can come," she said, the beginnings of a frown on her lips. "They're giving you permission."
"Would you be willing to give me a ride?" Meg asked, feeling like she was becoming more and more of an imposition. "I've no way to get there."
"Alright," she agreed. "Just let me get my things." Meg eyed her as she picked up her purse again. She looked harrassed. She wasn't making much eye contact, which worried Meg.
They bustled to the car, an '89 red Toyota sedan. Mrs. Powell unlocked the door to allow Meg inside, then disappeared into the driver's side.
"Has he said anything about me?" Meg asked, as she turned the ignition and they started on their way.
Mrs. Powell peered into the rear-view mirror and frowned. "Oh, yes. He's asked about you. But I've been meaning to ask you about that..."
"Yes?"
"I was in such a rush that first day, I barely said hello to you. I was a mess."
"I can understand why."
Mrs. Powell paused. "Megan, what have you been doing all this time? And why do I suddenly see your face again?"
Meg detected the concern in the woman's voice. "I was at private school for eight years," she said.
"No, not that," broke in the older woman. "I mean, why did you suddenly decide to be a part of my son's life again?"
"Well, I've only now returned."
"And you've not seen Mark for all this time?"
"Well, no. I began speaking with him again the second day of school. I walked up to him at lunch...he wasn't too happy to see me at first."
"At first?"
"Right. But then he took me home one day, and we got to talking some more, and we became friends."
"More than friends?"
Meg felt that she owed this woman some honesty. "Er, yes. But not right away."
"I see." Then she said, "Meg, I hope you can imagine my concern...Mark was severely traumatized by what happened with your brother, and it was around the last time he saw you."
"I can imagine. We talked about it some."
"He was hospitalized the last time, did you know that?"
Meg said quietly, "Yes."
The woman had been casting occasional glances to her right, but now turned her full attention to the road ahead of her. "I'm going to be honest with you right now. Mark and I don't have the greatest of relationships. I'm sure nine days out of ten he'd rather be living with his father, and nine days out of ten I wish he'd grow up." Meg wondered why she was telling her this. Then she continued on. "But when something like this happens, it can scare you. You want to find any reason there could have been for it happening, and make sure that it never happens again."
Meg was quiet. When she spoke, it was in a mouse's voice. "If there's any way that I was involved, I want to apologize," she said.
The woman's laugh was gutteral. "I'm not blaming you, Meg," she said. "What I'm suggesting is that there might be a connection between your presence and his suicide attempt. There's a difference. One assumes fault, the other attempts to account for a connection."
Meg thought, privately, if only her own parents had been so fair to Mark. "What do you want to know?"
She flicked her turn signal. "Had you noticed anything strange about his behavior in the last several weeks? Has he said anything to you which might have led you to believe he was suicidal?"
She pondered the question. "Well, like I said, I've only just begun to speak with him again for a few weeks."
"You said he was unhappy to see you at first. Why do you think that was?"
She looked out the window. "He was surprised, I think. I came upon him too suddenly. He wasn't ready to see me."
"Are you sure that's why?"
Meg bit her thumb. "Why else?"
Mrs. Powell made a soft groan as someone ahead of her cut her off. "Teenaged drivers," she muttered. Then more audibly, "I have a fear that Mark is one of those reckless young drivers I see so often on the road, but he never lets me near his car." Meg waited patiently for the woman to respond.
"Why else?" Meg repeated.
She pulled in a deep breath. "That's what I'm trying to find out right now," she said, airily.
When they pulled into the parking lot the clouds in the sky were grey and puffy and threatened rain. The clouds on the horizon were thin and pink, making it look like sunset, even though it was early afternoon. The air was cool and damp, and the moisture clung to their clothes and skin. Meg thought the hospital looked like a cottage from the front, with the shudders against square windows and black shingles.
They breezed through the front double doors and announced their presence to the lady at the front desk.
"Are you here for a visit?"
"Yes."
"Wait just a moment. I'll have someone bring you back." Meg didn't like the receptionist. She glared at them as though they were a pair of rhinocerouses in a restaurant.
They took seats in the pleasant waiting room. It was adorned with plastic flowers in ceramic vases, and the walls were decked with framed watercolor landscapes. Elevator music piped in from speakers situated at the corners of the room. Oddly, it was nice, and Meg folded her hand patiently in her lap.
Five minutes later, a woman named Sarah Riggsbee appeared to bring them into the interior of the hospital. "Right this way," she said, in a calm, deep voice.
They followed her down a corridor to yet another set of double doors. She unlocked them, and allowed them inside. "Visiting hours are over at eight o'clock," she said. "When you're ready to leave, someone from the nurse's station will let you out."
They thanked her and she left. "Where's Mark?" Meg asked Mrs. Powell, whispering into her shoulder.
"Let's go check." They approached the nurse's station and told them who they were looking for. A pleasant-faced man with a badge paged Mark over the intercom.
Less than a minute later, Mark appeared. He was freshly shaven, but looked tired and worn. His cheeks were hollow, as were his eyes. The bandage was still in place, wrapped tightly around the breadth of his head, and he looked like he could have been a zombie in an old black-and-white film if he held his arms out in front of him and shuffled towards them.
"Hello, Mark." Their eyes met. Even with his messy hair, drugged eyes and worn face, he looked like he didn't belong here.
"Meg?" She felt the desire to run up to him and hug him, but with people watching, she decided not to.
"Your mother brought me," was her quick explanation.
"Let's go somewhere and talk, okay?" his mother said. He led them to a vacant room filled with chairs and they sat down.
"I'm not going to give you any explanations today, Mom," he said. "So if that's what you came for, you can forget it."
She lifted her hand. "Now, now," she said. "That isn't what I'm after. I just wanted to see you, that's all. Meg came by this afternoon and I thought it would cheer you up to see her, so I brought her."
"That's quite a change," he said, flicking his eyes towards Meg, letting them rest on her for several moments. "The person I remember you being is one who always has an agenda."
"Well, maybe I have changed," she said.
Meg was startled that he so openly argued with his mother in front of her. "You're pissed at me, aren't you?" he said.
"For what?"
"For trying to off myself. That would be your natural reaction, right? It was a selfish thing to do."
"No, Mark. Concerned." Meg listened in silence. "In fact, it's been kind of a wake-up call."
"That's why you brought Meg...that's why you wanted her to see me like this...in here..."
Mrs. Powell's eyes darkened. "I thought you would be pleased, Mark."
His eyes rested on her a second time, and his gaze looked distinctly sad this time, not matching the anger in his voice and words. "Well, you're here...so there's nothing I can do."
Mrs. Powell's frown deepened. "If you'd like to speak with Meg alone, I can give you some space."
Mark didn't respond, so after a moment the woman got up and left, leaving them to talk. Meg didn't know what to say at first. "Look, Mark..." she began, groping for words. He was looking down at his hands, but when she spoke, he looked up tentatively at her. "I don't look down on you for being here...Actually, I think it's a miracle that you're alive...I just wanted to see you, that's all...I hope that's alright with you."
He bounced his knee up and down. "My mom gets on my nerves," he growled.
She wished that there was not a camera pointing directly at them. "What does she do that makes you so angry?"
He blinked, now jiggling both his knees up and down, his hands under his legs. "She doesn't care that I'm here. It's her stupid reputation she's worried about. If I'd died it would have been better...she wouldn't have to tell her friends that her son had to be put in a nuthouse."
"Don't say that."
"Why?"
"I'm sure she cares. Why else would she come?"
He blinked again, with difficulty, as though the bandage made it hard for him to see. "I dunno. Maybe she feels she has to."
Meg gave him a half-smile. "Is it alright that I came?" she asked.
She was surprised when he began to cry, and through tears he looked at her. "Meg, you're the only person on Earth I wanted to come, even with the way things being the way they are." He covered his face with his hands and began to wipe the tears away.
She touched his arm. "It's okay, Mark. I'm sorry."
He answered back, "You've nothing to be sorry about. I'm the one who got myself into this stupid mess."
"But didn't it have something to do with me?"
"Is that what my mother told you?"
She shrugged. "Maybe."
He muttered, "That bitch."
Despite warnings about no touching on the unit, Meg felt the desire to embrace him. She took his hand and then slid her tiny arms around his body, but he pulled away. "I'll get you in trouble," he said.
Meg steered the conversation back to the subject. "But what if your mom's right?" she said. "The last time you went into the hospital, it was right after Cory died. Maybe I shouldn't even be here."
"No," he protested. "Don't go. It's not like that at all. Look, I know I'm a bit difficult to read, and I know I don't let people in on my feelings so much, but I'm going to start."
She sat up straight. "So what is this about?" She watched him dry his eyes. "You seem like you've had a miserable life since that day, eight years ago, when you accidentally shot Cory. Everyone I know and everyone I come in contact with call it, 'the incident' because they don't want to talk about it. My parents called you a murderer, you went into a hospital, your parents broke up...and since then you've been beating yourself into a pulp with drugs and God knows what else. Then I come along and fall in love with you, and it pushes you over the edge. It doesn't make sense, Mark. Please try and explain it to me."
He had been listening quietly. She'd just told him she was in love with him. "You're too good for me..." he began.
"I don't believe you," she answered.
He lifted up his palms. "I'm sorry, Meg..."
It was a moment before Meg realized that Mark was breaking up with her. She felt a sob rising in her throat. "So it's because you felt indebted to me, that's what you're saying?"
He nodded slowly and started to cry again. "I wasn't lying before when I told you that you were the only one I wanted to come and see me."
"Just not as a girlfriend?" He nodded and wiped a tear away. "I see," she said. The two fell into silence.
When his mother came back, the conversation was all but over. Meg returned her gaze to Mrs. Powell, stunned and confused. Hadn't their passion been real? Or had she just imagined it? What Mark just revealed to her made a lot of sense in relation to everything else, yet Meg didn't want to accept it. She looked into his dark brown eyes, almost covered by the white, gauzy bandages, and knew that he was being honest with himself.