Chapter 4, Part 2
Maile
Tonight, Sam left the table after a slice and a half of cake to catch some interview with a baseball legend he’d wanted to see live on ESPN. Mark and I were in the middle of a passionate discussion about talent. Could hard work get you everywhere, or did some people have an innate level of talent that, despite all the grit in the world, cannot be learned?
“No matter how hard I try, Mark, I’m never going to be able to sing like Mariah Carey,” I said.
“There is no doubt that if you put in your 10,000 hours you’d be a far better singer than you are today, Maile,” Mark argued.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’d be good enough to get a record deal, or sell out stadiums because hundreds of thousands of people would want to pay to hear me sing!” I quipped.
“But everyone should be encouraged to try! If you were a child who loved singing Always Be My Baby into your hairbrush, I would’ve signed you up for lessons.”
This stung, as if Mark was judging my would-be tendencies as a mother. But I knew from experience not to let our heated, wine-fueled back-and-forths get personal. They were all meant in good fun, almost requiring one person to assume the role of devil’s advocate, and there was always a bit of truth to both sides.
“I appreciate that, Mark,” I said, reaching for his plate and settling it on top of mine. I walked toward the sink while Mark stayed at the table, quiet. I winced, realizing I’d left him alone there, hoping he wasn’t reminded of Sam’s mother because of this. But I remembered something he’d told me early on: He thinks of Jane all the time. Our presence is a joy, certainly, but never enough to make him forget.
I started washing the dinner plates when Mark met me at the sink, took a clean one, and began to dry it with a kitchen towel that said “Whip it good.”
“Maile, I want you to know that I appreciate these homemade dinners very much, but I never want you to feel like I expect them.”
My heart warmed, and I smiled, watching the water wash away bits of wilted arugula. I passed the plate to Mark and said, “I know. I like doing it.”
“I look forward to them all week.”
“When are you going to bring Elaine by?” I asked, trying to be casual. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.” Mark had been seeing a new woman for about six months, though Sam and I only found out about it three weeks ago. Mark was a good-looking man, tall and trim and still with a full head of gray hair—quite the trifecta at 65. Sam was happy about it, which didn’t surprise me. He loved his father, and he knew his father loved his mother very much. They all, always, only wanted one another to be happy. They were lucky like that.
“In due time, Maile.” With the last of the dishes wiped dry, Mark lifted a spoon from a drawer of utensils and crept over to the freezer, where he usually snuck a few scoops of coffee ice cream each night. Jane had always wanted him to watch his sugar, but now he could do whatever he wanted.
“Well I certainly hope she wants to meet us as much and Sam and I want to meet her.”
“Oh don’t say that. She’s giving me enough malarkey as it is.”
“Malarkey! What kind of malarkey is she giving you?” I pulled a second spoon out of the drawer, as Mark held the tub of Breyer’s toward me so I could get a scoop, too.
“The usual. I wanna meet your kids. Yada yada.”
“Kids? Does Sam have a secret brother I don’t know about?” Mark let out a deep, raspy chuckle.
“No, Maile. But I do think of you like a daughter. Not my daughter-in-law. My daughter.”
In bed that night, I thought back to the days when I was just beginning to know Mark, and he was beginning to know me. I was unsure about Sam for a long time, a sort of latent anguish after the instantaneous way we’d become an item. And I think Mark could sense that. We’d be over, watching a movie or drinking beers in the backyard. And I could feel his eyes on me every time I brushed away Sam’s hand, every time I snapped at something he said. When I imagined Mark’s first impression of me, I always felt a little embarrassed.
But I stayed.
Sam and I found a rhythm. Things got comfortable. I learned I loved waking up to someone, getting a sleepy kiss on the cheek even if I’d been too drunk the night before, spending all weekend making roast chickens and salads, pastas and cake. Sam’s undying adoration of me, whether I was covered in flour or wearing a full face of makeup.
I married Sam because I thought he’d be a good father. On one of our early dates, he told me how he used to volunteer at a hospital and that, one time, he spent the last day of the year blowing up 400 balloons to drop at midnight for the cancer patients. He even made a latch-and-pull for a single origami that a sick child wished to include. I imagined the two of us, sitting around our kitchen table, corralling three or four kids for dinner. I married Sam because I thought he’d be good at that, good at all of it: the tantrums and the diapers and fitting squirmy feet into cotton jammies. I married Sam for a baby. The only problem is, a baby never came.