CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The moon was a silver crescent sliver amidst thick blackness that was the night. Mark looked up at the sky, enthralled with its complexities. Passing clouds of various demure colors, looking like hovering gaseous mists, obscured most of the stars, but the stars that were visible, were brilliant. The violent winds from earlier in the evening were beginning to die down, and he could feel the gentle breeze against his face like a giant's cool, outward breath. It was Halloween, and Mark would have been content just to stay at home and sit in his backyard, staring at the sky.
But the squeal of the back door opening and his mother's footsteps awakened him from his entranced state. He pretended not to hear it until he could no longer ignore it; she was sitting right beside him on the other deck chair.
"The doctor called me today," she began, and her voice had a distinct edge to it.
Mark didn't give her a glance. He set his jaw, still looking up at the sky, whose clouds were moving briskly across the midnight blue. In contrast, depression and anxiety were hovering over him like a thick fog that night.
"You lied to me. You've been sneaking drugs," she said, with pleading in her voice. He could see her glaring at him from the corner of his eye. He didn't want to be bothered with her overreactions tonight--he was alone, without the company of friends, and he didn't want her irritation to accompany his gloomy loneliness.
He didn't answer.
She slammed her arm down on the arm rest, making a loud slapping noise against the cheap plastic. "My patience is at an end, Mark! Do you have hoards of drugs stored away in your room? I want an answer!"
Mark looked at her slowly. He was filled not with anger or fear or guilt the way some depressions consisted of anger or fear or guilt, but with sadness that night. During one of his now nightly escapades in his car through the residential streets of Glenwood, he had found his way to Meg's doorstep again. He had slowed his car and parked inconspicuously across the road when he'd spotted Meg standing on the front porch with another person. Then, as though some Divine intervention had led him to be there at precisely that time, Meg and her date had locked arms and kissed.
He would have never guessed that seeing her in an embrace with another boy would have felt so much like a punch to the stomach as it did. There he was, parked across the street and in the shadows, and Meg had gently wrapped her arms around this young boy, willingly letting him kiss her and hold her. He had never even thought that this would affect him so much, and yet it did.
His attention made its way back to the present as his mother was pounding on his arm. "Are you hearing me, Mark? Do you have any drugs?"
"What do you want to hear?" he asked his mother.
She sighed, looking at him strangely. She peered at him for a good long while, not saying anything. It was as though that was the last thing she would have expected him to say. Then, still peering at him, it was as though she were looking into his soul for the first time ever in his life, and she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. She looked rattled. Just before she spoke, Mark almost thought she was going to say something kind. But instead, her voice was just as clipped as before. "For starters, I'd like an apology."
He nodded his head, slowly. "I'm sorry."
She pursed her lips. "Good." They didn't speak for several long moments. Mark listened to the wind howling through the boughs of the trees, watched it play with the wayward strands of his mother's hair. Brown leaves floated up into the air, spun around, then drifted to the ground. The biting coldness did not bother him, and it seemed to bother his mother even less--she wasn't even wearing a coat. "Then you'll let me search your room, to make sure you don't have anything in your possession," she said, with a lift of her chin.
Mark looked away and calmly said, "I don't have anything, Mom."
She was more high-strung than she had been in a long time, he finally noticed. She'd not been so angry in a long time. "Then where did you get your dope the last time?"
He didn't answer.
She stared at his feet, adorned in back-and-white Converse sneakers, and sucked in a quick breath. "I wish you'd talk to me," she said. Her previously tight, sharp voice mellowed to a relatively softer, less grating tone. "I thought I'd been more than fair since you'd left the hospital. All I wanted was for things to change, you know? And I feel like they're going right back to where they were."
He chewed his lower lip, closing his eyes at her words. "It's not the same, Mom. I'm different. Anyone can tell you that."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then why can't I say that?" she said, pounding her fist down. "Is there something so wrong with me that you can open up to others but you can't open up to me?" The irony was, of course, that he wasn't opening up to anyone.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Mom."
She peered at him again, as though to remind herself that her son was an unsolvable puzzle. "Yeah, well it sure feels that way. I've been treating you with more patience ever since that dreadful suicide attempt, in all faith that you would get better, than I ever got during my entire childhood. Something tells me I need to start treating this whole thing for what it was--a selfish act."
Mark felt bad for her. She'd never been a part of his life. Not, at least, since the divorce. Her attempts to be an active mother were coming across as strained and unnatural. "So I screwed up, okay?" he blurted out, finally feeling defensive, but still, unusually mellow.
She gave him a sardonic smile. "Just don't think I'm going to clean up your mess after every time you make a mistake. That's what your father wanted me to do, and it nearly drove me insane."
Mark hadn't the slightest idea of what she was talking about. He thought about asking her what she'd meant by that, but thought better of it. Usually talking about Dad only made matters worse. Still, he felt a bit of annoyance at being compared with his father.
She smoothed out the creases in her skirt. "If I do find something in your room--"
"--Which you won't--"
"--or even if I don't, perhaps you should consider what the social worker suggested and go to AA."
Mark's previous calmness was beginning to wear thin. "All you've been doing is sending me off to all these programs and therapists. I don't need them, Mom. I don't need any of it."
"So why did you try to kill yourself?"
Mark stared, speechless.
"That's what we all want to know, and what none of us has found out."
Mark said nothing.
"You will go to these programs and therapists, Mark, until you make a breakthrough. We will continue to screen you for drugs, and if you don't get better, we may have to consider putting you back in full-time care."
Mark looked away as though he had been slapped in the face. Sitting there, arms folded across his chest, legs spread out, leaning back, he felt like a helpless baby being held prisoner in its crib.
"You were such a different boy back then," his mother breathed. "So smart, so full of promise. Why'd you have to screw it all up by shooting that poor little boy?"
She got up and left. When Mark heard the squeal of the back door opening and then the slam when it shut, he let out a deep breath.
He looked back up at the sky, and the clouds were racing across the backdrop of bright stars.
Halloween passed, and with the winds came billowing storm clouds, then heavy rains. Sheets of precipitation came down, flooding the streets, gushing down the sides and clogging the gutters. Mark looked out at the thick rain from under the awning over his front porch, liesurely smoking a cigarette.
A car drove up, one he didn't recognize. He squinted past his cloud of white smoke, waving at it with his hand, to try to see who it was. The black sedan slowly pulled into the driveway and squealed to a stop. The driver's side door opened with another, louder squeal, and a familiar figure stepped out.
"Uncle Harry?"
"Mark, it's you!"
Mark stepped out into the rain to greet his uncle. "Come on inside, it's pouring out!"
He was a tall man of about 6'4" and he towered over Mark's relatively meager 5'11". He had broad, masculine shoulders and a strong torso--in his college days he was a lacrosse star. As he gripped Mark's shoulders and then his hand his hold was firm and vigorous. His hair was thick and sandy brown, and though ten years younger than his sister, Barbara Powell, thick creases of laugh lines showed deeply into the skin surrounding his eyes--eyes that were the same color as the grey-blue sky. His skin was tanned, making his hair look comparatively blond, and rough in texture, giving him a rugged, tough-guy look.
He lived in upstate New York, and every few months he came to visit them in New Hampshire. He was a single man, never married, and enjoyed travelling.
"Did you get a new car?" Mark asked.
"Just signed the lease."
Once they were inside and had disposed of their doused jackets, Mark headed for the kitchen and asked, "Do you want anything to eat? I can fix you some coffee or a sandwich."
"Coffee would be perfect."
"Instant okay?"
"Sounds great to me."
Mark found the kettle in one of the kitchen cabinets and filled it with water from the tap. After he placed the filled kettle on the stove and turned on the heat, he walked back into the front living room and found that Harry had already made himself comfortable--legs kicked up on the coffeetable, head buried in a magazine.
"So what brings you here?" Mark asked.
Harry looked up from his magazine, eyes smiling. "Oh, I'm not going to stay long," he said. "Actually, I came to see you."
"Really?"
"Yeah," he said. "I was on my way to see a friend in Montreal and I thought I'd stop here on the way up. I heard about what happened. You know, the gun, the hospital, et cetera, et cetera..."
Mark gave his uncle a weak smile. "So you know." He lifted a splayed magazine from the sofa and sat down across from his uncle, who was sitting in one of the Victorian chairs. "You haven't been here in ages. I should have figured."
"And I should have come sooner," he said, giving Mark a serious look. "Didn't you know that suicide is a big deal where I come from?"
"Harry, you come from Syracuse."
"Exactly."
Mark smiled at him. Despite most of the people in his family, he really enjoyed Uncle Harry, nomatter how distant his relationship with the man was. "So that's why you came? To see how I was doing?"
He set down his magazine and threw it to the other side of the coffeetable, sighing. "Well, among other things," he said. "Plus, my visit is long overdue."
Mark heard the kettle whistling in the other room and jumped up. "Excuse me," he said. "I have to get your coffee."
When he came back with two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands, Harry was waiting patiently. Mark handed one to his uncle, then carefully sat down with his one of his own.
A short silence followed. "Have things been tough around here?" Harry asked, taking a drink.
Mark took a small sip from his mug. "Oh, you know. The usual."
Harry leaned forward. "You sure? I may be ten years younger than my sister, but I know she can be a real pain sometimes. You can tell me. I won't rat you out to anyone, I promise."
Mark relaxed, if only slightly. He looked around the room, as though he were searching for things to say. The depression he'd felt a few days earlier was no longer the sharp pain of a knife digging into his flesh, but more dull, less intense. "It's got its ups and downs," Mark said with a shrug.
Harry nodded sagely. "I hear they've got you on heavy medicines now. How's that going?"
Mark set his mug down. "I take 'em. They make me feel weird, kinda calm."
"But do they work?"
Mark shook his head. "Not completely," he said honestly.
"You think you need more?"
Mark shook his head vehemently. "I don't want any more. I feel like if they put me on a higher dose, I'll just be a zombie."
Harry frowned. "I guess the psych world isn't perfect, just like people aren't perfect," he said. "But at least you've got something, and at least it's helping you somewhat."
Mark agreed. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
Harry looked at him strangely then, as though something important had occurred to him but he had decided not to say anything. "You were really sensitive, weren't you?" asked Harry.
Mark looked up. "Excuse me?"
"When you were a boy, you were very sensitive, remember that? All the relatives said so."
Mark swallowed a gulp of black coffee. "I don't remember that..."
"Yeah, that's what everyone said about you. Shy and sensitive. Some even said it was a mark of intelligence."
Mark had a vague recollection of it now. "I suppose so."
Harry eyed him again. "Now what do they say about you? Reserved and emotionally unstable?"
Mark laughed. "It comes with the territory, I guess."
Harry shook his head. "It's no laughing matter. Back then, these were just personality traits, but now, they're diagnoses."
Mark nodded. "Things have changed. I've changed."
Harry had a puzzled look on his face. "It's funny, isn't it."
"What is?" His uncle's gaze drifted slowly to the window, where the rain was still drizzling down against the glass, sheeting down in rivulets.
"How people's perceptions of you can change in an instant. Like when you first discover that the trustworthy politician has been embezzling funds from government accounts."
"I don't see how any of this relates to what we were talking about," Mark said.
Harry turned back to his nephew, not seeming to have heard him. "Or worse, if a member of that politician's family had been caught with a prostitute, say, during election. The tide might turn in a heartbeat."
"What does this have anything to do with my diagnosis?"
Harry steadied his gaze on Mark. "Maybe nothing," he said. "Only that I think a long time ago people's perceptions of you changed, even though you may not have changed. Turned on a dime, I like to say."
Mark looked at him. "Do you really think so?"
Harry nodded. "I do."
"Why?"
"Well, it could be for any of a number of different reasons...the emotional problems you had as a child...the breakup of your parents...the trouble you've gotten into lately...people are desperate to judge and label you based on what's going on in your life."
Mark nodded. "So why do you think that is?"
"People are like that," Harry said. He leaned forward. "You see, you can't escape the judgments of others--they are part of what defines your life experience. They are everywhere--in your private life, home life, social life, work life...everywhere. Your success or lack of success in each of these areas is contingent on what people think of you, bottom line."
"I see what you're saying."
"Then let me propose this." He set his mug down on top of a coaster and sat up straighter, extending his index finger. "People judge you--and you know that--to be a certain way. Naturally, you're going to tend to fall in line with what people expect out of you. However," he said, holding up his hands. "If something were to suddenly provoke or disturb what people think they know about you, what happens? Your whole life changes."
Mark nodded his head, listening to the argument. What little light there was left in the room left a grey cast against the walls as time neared sunset. Uncle Harry was so enthusiastic about what he was talking about that Mark had somehow forgotten to turn on any lights. As a side effect, he was having some trouble keeping up with him. Nevertheless, he was interested in what his uncle was trying to say.
"Change is traumatic," Harry said, with a few wide gestures of his hands. "It's like when a storm front comes through. When temperatures collide, thunderstorms are created. Even if people are wrong about you, even if what they think they know is completely false, it still affects you."
"Are you saying that's what you think happened to me?" Mark asked, finishing his coffee.
"All I'm saying is that people sometimes place you in categories based on minimal facts--and this categorization can either make or break you, depending on the situation." Mark's head was spinning. "It was the mother," he said suddenly.
"What's that?"
"It was the mother," Mark repeated, staring at his hands which were grasping the empty coffee mug. "That's why I did it. It was because of what she said to me."
Harry was aghast, silent for several moments. "Who, Mark?" he said quietly.
"Cory's mom. And Meg's mom. She was their mother. It's because of what she said to me is why I did what I did."
Alarm appeared in Harry's creased face. He moved next to Mark on the sofa and draped an arm around the back of where he was sitting. "Go on," he said. "Who are these people and what did she do?"
"Cory was that little boy I shot all those years ago, before Mom and Dad got the divorce. Meg is his younger sister, and the mother..." he trailed off.
Harry's eyes were filled with concern. "When did you see her, and why? And what have you been doing hanging around with her? I thought you had nothing to do with that family anymore."
"That's the whole point," he said. "I wasn't going to at first, but Meg wanted to so badly, I felt I couldn't refuse..."
"Meg? You mean you somehow got involved with the daughter? What did the mother say to you?"
"I don't want to repeat it, I can't repeat it..."
"You don't have to," Harry said gently.
"No," Mark said, firmly planting his right fist down. "I should. She told me I'd ruined both her children now, without..."
"Without what?"
"Without even taking into account that I was in love with Meg."
Harry looked at him with the slightest trace of a smile, and together they talked the evening away.