CHAPTER NINETEEN
After a trip to the emergency room, he arrived home that night to find an empty house. His mother was out and had not left a note. And so, alone, he got himself ready for sleep, and slipped into the cool sheets on his bed.
He slept fitfully that night.
All of her family was there. Uncles, aunts, cousins, parents, and all dressed in black. The church was elegantly structured and decorated simply with white iris arrangements. As Mark walked into the chapel, he could hear the sound of his own footsteps echoing against the walls and the muffled sobs of the mourners. At the front of the church, the casket was open and people were viewing the body. Some of the people who looked at her broke down and cried.
He walked to the front of the church to see the body. As Mark walked by, he felt a deep sense of sorrow and guilt as he took note of how much she looked like Snow White--bouquet in hand, pale skin, dark hair. He wondered, if he were to kiss her, would she wake up?
But a darkness that he had never felt before was unsettling his spirit. Disturbing thoughts were plaguing his mind, like rats playing in a wall. For one thing, despite his love for her, he knew that he had meant to kill her. But even though he had done that, he knew that he had not meant to kill Cory. But where were the police? And why wasn't he being hauled off to jail?
A man put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "She's gone, son." It was Meg's father who spoke.
Just then, a sobbing woman approached the casket. "She's dead...my poor sweet girl is dead..." she moaned.
Mark looked at the woman, whom he now recognized as Meg's mother. He broke away from Davis Mitchell's comforting hand.
"Don't you know what's happened?" asked Mark, grasping the woman and shaking her. "Don't you hate me for what I did to your daughter?"
"You did nothing," she said, between sobs. "It was I who let her go out alone, and the fault lies with me. It's my fault that my daughter is now dead!"
Mark was wildly frustrated and confused. "But don't you see? I'm the one who shot her! I'm the one who did it! You should know that I meant to do what I did!"
The woman, masked in a black veil, shook her head and slowly walked away. "Did you hear me?" Mark cried, but the woman was leaving. "I murdered Megan! I murdered your daughter!"
But even though he had yelled it, the mourners seemed not to have noticed.
Mark walked away from the church and ran outside. Outside, the sun was shining brilliantly, in contrast to the dingy grey light he had seen inside the chapel. He looked up at the sky, shading his eyes, wondering how any sun could be so brilliant.
"Mark!" a boy's voice called.
He turned around. Cory was standing there, wearing a grey suit and black tie. "Cory?" he whispered.
Cory approached him, bearing a gift. "Give this to my sister," he said.
Mark looked down at his hands. He was carrying a Barbie doll, just like the one Cory had destroyed in the fireplace.
"But she's died, Cory," he said, helplessly.
"Look again," Cory said. "You might be surprised."
Mark woke up, but not in fear. He had a strange sensation, as though he had had that dream before.
Oddly, he felt refreshed, almost peaceful.
He woke up in the morning ready to go see his therapist.
After he was comfortably situated on the sofa and the pleasantries were over, Dr. Murphy began by asking what had been going on with Mark in the past week.
"She told me she loved me," he said, opening up his hands.
"And was this the first time she'd ever told you that?"
He hesitated. "Yes."
"How does that make you feel?"
"Honestly? Kind of scared."
Dr. Murphy pulled at his beard; he looked like the stereotypical therapist. "Did you tell her the same?"
"Yes, I did."
Mark had done a lot of thinking since last night, alone in his room, in the safety of his house. "Then where does the fear come from, do you think?"
Mark thought about it for a while. "There's so much uncertainty surrounding the two of us...her parents disliking me...how I told her I'd only been with her because I felt guilty over shooting her brother...her innocence..."
"Do you love her, Mark?"
Mark thought. "Yes. Yes, I do."
"And when was it that you told her that you'd been with her out of guilt?"
"A couple of months ago."
"So why do you think it took you this long to realize that you loved her, too?"
"To be honest, I don't know."
Dr. Murphy gave little pause responding. "That's a prefectly reasonable answer. And it may even be the best one."
Mark looked at the fronts and backs of his hands. "It's just that I feel like I put her through a lot that I didn't need to. Maybe I've not been taking enough responsibility for my actions, and I want to start."
"Like what actions?"
"Like trying to kill myself, for one."
"But, Mark, do you think she loves you any less for doing that?"
He hesitated. "No."
"She sounds special."
"She is."
And then a deeper question, "Do you think she loves you any less for shooting Cory?"
Somehow, he had known that Dr. Murphy was going to bring that up. "er...no."
"Let's switch topics for a moment. I know this situation with Meg is big on your mind right now, but I suggest we go back in time and touch briefly on what happened eight years ago. Are you willing to do that?"
Mark nodded. "Sure, I guess."
"Have you thought more about it in recent days?"
Mark knew that he had. "Yes."
"Have you been brooding about it?"
"...yes," Mark admitted.
Dr. Murphy shifted his sitting position. "Well, have you made any new conclusions?"
Mark was surprised by the question. "I feel like we've come full circle. Whenever there's a crisis or a major change, the incident is involved. It's like I can't escape it."
"Well, the reason I ask is that you talked a lot about it in the hospital. I just want to see how you're doing on that issue."
"Actually, I feel strange about it..."
"Strange?"
"You know, because I killed someone. It's funny, I had this dream recently that I killed Meg and that I didn't get in trouble for it, everybody just acted like it was their own fault. In life, they all blame me for Cory's death, including myself. Only I still don't get in trouble for it."
"Mark, it was an accident. You didn't mean to do it. It's okay, you can relax. If anyone blames you then that's their problem. Do you understand me?"
Mark nodded slowly. "But trying to kill myself was no accident," he said.
"Precisely," Dr. Murphy said. "Just don't turn a tragedy that you couldn't help into a tragedy that you could help, do you see?"
"What about the hospitalization?" Mark asked.
"The recent one?"
"No, the one when I was nine. It sent my parents' marriage into a tailspin."
"Mark, you're not at fault for that. You couldn't help it when you got sick."
Mark nodded. "Sometimes I think, if only I had been smarter and wondered if there really was a bullet in that gun, maybe none of this would have happened. From then up until now."
"The thing is, though, it did, and we have to work with what we have, wouldn't you agree?"
A small smile began on Mark's lips. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
Dr. Murphy changed the subject. "How's your mother doing?"
"She's alright. Back to her old cranky self."
"Anything different, though?"
"Actually, yes." Mark grinned. "She's started dating."
As he left the office that afternoon, the sun was breaking through a layer of thick, grey storm clouds that covered most of the sky, creating rays that splayed out in all different directions.
As he walked down the front steps, something occurred to him that had never occurred to him before, stopping him dead in his tracks. An emotion so powerful that he couldn't put it into words then washed over him, almost doubling him over. Without much warning, suddenly Mark felt the desire--need to do something he had been warned not to--speak to the one person who had clearly stated that she never wanted anything to do with him ever again. This emotion--this new, powerful force--was so poignant that he felt almost as though he was going to burst out in tears, but he held firm to his composure.
He needed to speak to this person, at whatever the cost, as soon as possible, and he knew that if he didn't, he would hate himself for a long time.
So, in the cool, damp air of early December, he got into his black covertible and began to drive. Almost as soon as he began on his way, nerves seized him. His hands began to shake with anxiety, and his stomach began to feel hollow. But he knew that he had to make this trip, nomatter how small and insignificant he felt on the inside.
His palms were sweating as he gripped the steering wheel and turned it onto Spruce Lane. There, he noticed one car parked in the driveway--the car belonging to Ann Mitchell.
Mark took a deep breath and steadied himself as he got out of the car. His heart was full, and his mind was racing. He followed the front walkway and walked up the front steps, hesitating for a few moments while he stood on the porch. Then he gathered his courage and rang the doorbell.
When her face appeared behind the glass in the door, Mark waved to her to say, yes, it's me.
She slowly opened the door with an expression on her face that was impossible to read.
"Hello, Mrs. Mitchell."
She glared at him for a good long while, grasping the edge of the door. She squinted as if she couldn't quite believe she was seeing what she was seeing. She didn't speak for a long time; Mark thought that it would be forever until one of them had said anything.
Finally, she spoke. "I don't believe it. I thought I told you never to come here again."
"Please, Mrs. Mitchell. I didn't come to see Meg. I came here to talk to you. I came to talk about something very important."
She eyed him up and down. "What is it you want?" she demanded.
He was shaking, and he hoped that she didn't see his trembles. That powerful, indescribable emotion still had its grip on him, more concentrated now than ever. Was it...joy? He looked down at his feet, then quickly reminded himself not to do that--it only made him look underconfident. "I want to talk about Cory."
She was no more welcoming than she had been when he'd taken Meg home, but Mark thought that he was getting through to her. She closed her eyes, tightly, and reeled as though she'd just taken a punch to the face. Her face scrunched up into an expression of pain as, to Mark's surprise, she said, "Come in."
He brushed past her and stepped into a warm, unnaturally cheery house. A bright fire was blazing in the fireplace, casting warm light against the tidy living room. The grey sectional was decorated with colorful throw rugs, as was the hardwood floor, which was shined thoroughly into a healthy polish. Fluffy pillows were neatly placed atop the couch, which looked brand new--clean and bright. Mark glanced up at the walls, where black-and-white photographs of the family, including some of Meg, were framed and hung. A grand piano stood in the corner by the bookshelves, and next to that, stood a grandfather clock.
It smelled like hot cocoa.
"Have a seat," Ann said.
Mark did as she requested, letting his eyes rest on a photograph of Meg smiling into the camera, braces on her teeth. She was sitting cross-legged underneath an oak tree, and she still had bangs--that, and her hair was shorter than it was now.
"You said you wanted to talk about Cory," she said, nonchalantly. She sat leaning foward, her arms dangling over the fronts of her knees.
Mark felt calm, all of a sudden. Even though he knew he may never have this chance again, and that that knowledge should have pressured him, he was feeling suddenly brave at being here, like he was in the eye in the middle of the storm. "Yes," Mark began. He looked at Meg's mother and immediately saw the resemblance: they both had long, swan-like necks, large eyes, full faces. The color of their hair was different and so were the color of their eyes, but their relationship was unmistakably that of mother and daughter.
"I don't have all day," she said. "What have you to say to me?"
Mark thought before beginning. "It was a long time ago," he said. "And I'm sure a lot has happened for you and your family since Cory died. I know that a lot happened for me.
"I just want to apologize, to start off with, right here, right now, for killing your son. I want to take responsibility for taking the gun in my own two hands and playing with it, without permission from an adult, and firing and killing Cory. I know that words cannot express the deep sorrow you must have felt in finding out that your child had been killed, and even though this is eight years in coming, I want to express my heartfelt condolences for the loss that you suffered.
"You see, I realized that through all my grief and self-doubts and suffering, I never apologized to you. I never openly said to you how sorry I was because the thought never occurred to me: I was too self-absorbed to even give it a thought.
"And, more importantly, one of the reasons why I am here is because another thing occurred to me, quite recently: I must never think that I am impressing anyone else with my depression or self-harm, because I am not thinking of how others feel, I am only thinking of how I feel. It didn't even occur to me that you, Mrs. Mitchell, must feel guilt over Cory's death just as much, maybe even more, than I ever did. And that is how I am truly sorry. For not being sensitive to either your grief or your feelings. I know there may be nothing I can do to make it up to you, but I at least want you to know that yes, I did fire the gun, and yes, I am truly and deeply sorry for it. When you told me I'd ruined both your son and your daughter now, and to never come by again, the thought didn't even cross my mind that perhaps my presence reminded you of something in your past that was difficult to face."
Ann Mitchell didn't speak for a while. When she did, Mark was surprised by her words. "You're right, Mark," she said. "I have felt some guilt about my son, and I suppose my way of coping with things has been to choose a scapegoat. That's probably not fair to you, but I guess I didn't know what else to do. Then I saw you with my daughter, and I felt as though she were slipping away from my grasp. I felt helpless to do anything. I felt as though she were being taken away, as well."
Mark looked at her, and she looked more human now--more on the same level. Her eyes no longer had the same cold glare that they had had just minutes ago, and her face was softer, her expression more vulnerable. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to make this apology," Mark said.
She looked up, and it was then that Mark could see that she had gotten teary-eyed. "Thank you," she whispered.
Mark let his gaze remain on her for several minutes as she cried. He wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her, but he knew that that would be too much, so instead, he just watched her. At first, she just cried gently, but gradually, her tears became sobs. Not a word was passed between them while this was taking place; Mark stayed silent until her sobs quieted.
"I love your daughter, Mrs. Mitchell," he said then. She barely looked up at him.
"I know," she said quietly. "She's threatened never to speak to me again if I don't accept you."
He saw her for the woman that he guessed she really was: alone, frightened, unsure of herself, unsure of her parenting abilities. Not sure whom to turn to. Threatened by a daughter who was maturing, blossoming into a woman and becoming more confident by the day; highly aware of her own aging status. Feeling trapped by her marriage. Seeing herself as emotionally weak. Mark felt tenderness towards her then. But pity, too. When he spoke of Meg candidly it was because he saw no reason not to. "At first, I didn't want to get involved with her because of all the baggage that was involved. I didn't even want to be her friend because I knew something like this would probably happen. I was selfish and shallow like that, and I made all kinds of excuses as to why I kept rejecting her. But then, it was guilt that led me to be with her more, because I felt like a jerk for shutting her out simply because I didn't want to be bothered by all the complexities of what was going on."
Ann's tears were tapering off, but she was still trembling, wiping moisture away from her ruddy cheeks with shaky fingers.
"The only thing is, at one point, I fell in love with her.
"I fell in love with her on the day she appeared on my front doorstep, high on drugs and drunk from alcohol...
"...I know that sounds strange, but it's true. It was then that I was faced with the realization that while I could have cared less about working on relationships, Meg would have gone to great lengths to impress me, in a good way, or in that case, a bad way. It was then that I knew that Meg would have risked her life for me--even though I had taken the life of her brother. Bad influence or no, I was astounded."
Mrs. Mitchell's trembles had settled down and she looked to have much more composure. Looking up soulfully into Mark's eyes, she said, "I had no idea."
"I saw her for the incredibly brave woman that she was that day--and, in contrast, I saw myself for the cowardly fool that I feared I'd been for a long time."
He turned to her so that he was looking directly into her eyes. "Mrs. Mitchell, she reached out to me despite the warnings of her parents. I can only say I'm sorry if I am partially to blame for any of her rebellious actions towards the two of you. I didn't mean to cause any unrest. It hurts me to hear of what she said to you, because I can fully understand why you might not ever want to accept me, considering our history. I'm not your flesh and blood but she is, and I don't think this is an important enough issue for a mother and daughter to be separated over."
"No, Mark, it's okay."
"No, it's not okay," he said. "One of the reasons why I broke up with her in the first place, when I was in the hospital, was because I didn't want to be a bad influence on her anymore." He straightened. "You see, the reason why your words were so powerful to me that day--you've now ruined them both, is because it was then that I came to the realization that I had not only killed my best friend eight years ago, but was now doing the same to Meg, without even realizing it. I wanted, somehow, to put a stop to it, and I thought that by killing myself, I could.
"Only now do I see that it was the ultimate act of selfishness I could have possibly committed, and at the same time, the turning point.
"You see, for the first time, I realized that what I did to myself was greatly affecting other people: When I woke up in the hospital, bandaged and hooked up to machines, I watched as my parents hovered around me. I watched their faces, their solemn expressions. I saw the deep concern and fear in their eyes. I watched as my mother cried, wondering if I was going to be alright. And then, when Meg came to see me, my heart literally broke as I watched her sweet, innocent face darken with pain as I told her I didn't want to see her anymore. As painful as it was, from then on I believe I began seeing life through other people's eyes. I then thought in terms of how my actions would affect others, and not simply myself.
"And so I did a lot of thinking and a lot of talking with people, and decided, at some point, that I wanted to recover...
"There's one thing I learned about recovery: you get nowhere if you don't first admit you have a problem. That's something I was never able to do before, but now I can: I can admit that I have a problem with drugs and with depression. And I know that without other people's help I can get nowhere, but I also know that I have made some progress. I don't blame you if you hate my guts for exposing your daughter to all of that, because, frankly, I did, myself."
She was no longer crying, but listening patiently. She balled up the tissue in her hand and spoke. "I don't hate you, Mark. I was just afraid. Afraid for my daughter."
Mark nodded. "I know. But your fears were justified."
She shook her head, slowly. "I treated you unfairly. I judged you based on minimal information. And, you're right, I wanted you as far away from me as possible because I didn't want to face what had happened."
Mark was confused. "But Cory's room...don't you go in there and sit from time to time? Surely you don't block out his memory completely."
She sniffed, rubbing her nose with a fresh tissue. "Not that, Mark. What I mean is, what I did to you. I didn't want to face all the horrible things that happened to you after he died. You went through a lot, and I feel partially to blame."
"Why?" Mark asked.
"You don't remember?"
He shook his head.
"When I came home that day, when I opened the door to Mr. Mitchell's study and found Cory lying there, bleeding...when I ran to him and held him and got all of his blood all over me, I should have told you to go into another room. I should have taken charge, been a parent, but instead, I yelled at you. And Mark, I should not have done that. You were traumatized already."
Mark was dumbfounded. It took him a long time to answer. "Mrs. Mitchell..."
"Yes?"
"...I don't know if you've noticed this, but we've been so busy passing blame around, that we've forgotten something very important."
"What?"
"The incident was an accident."
Mrs. Mitchell smiled enigmatically. After a moment, she got up. "Would you like me to make you some tea? I can fix you something to eat."
Mark waved it away. "No thank you, Mrs. Mitchell. Actually, I want to apologize for taking up your time. I just came here to tell you how sorry I was about Cory eight years ago, mostly. And I want to thank you for letting me come inside, especially after everything that's happened. That meant more to me than you'll ever know."
Ann Mitchell paused, heaving a great sigh. She tried half-successfully to smile through her tears as she set down her ball of tissues onto the coffeetable. But in response to what Mark had said, she added nothing.
After time had passed, he left the Mitchells' home. In the midst of a light drizzle, he drove back to his own house and hid himself underneath the covers of his bed, letting himself drift into a deep, peaceful sleep.