Crossing the Lines Read online

  The next day, we have a fantastic turkey dinner around the large dining-room table in our suite, and I realize just how lucky I am to have not only my son but also the best friends I could ask for. I can’t help but think of Simon, all alone and halfway around the world in Europe somewhere, no one to celebrate with. It must be such a lonely time of year for him, and it’s no wonder he never decorates his house for Christmas. Maybe I should take Dave’s advice and bring some holiday cheer to the house, show Simon that he doesn’t have to be alone. I remember how he said to me that he was tired of coming home to an empty house at the end of the day, and even though he did hurt my feelings, I want to believe he didn’t do it to be cruel. After everything he’s done for me and Luke, all of the kindness and generosity he’s bestowed on us, should I give him the benefit of the doubt? I want to. More than anything, I want to be with him, to love him, and have him love me and my son in return. I want to show him what it’s like to have people waiting for him when he gets home from his trip. I need one last chance to make things right between us, to show him we can have a real relationship.

  Feeling inspired, I give Lila a call, wishing her and her family a happy Thanksgiving before asking if she’d like to go shopping for Christmas decorations when we get back from our trip. We make a plan, and once again I dare to feel cautiously hopeful.

  That night, in the privacy of my room while the others are watching a movie, I find the strength to make the call I’ve been dreading. I pull up my mother’s number, drawing deep breaths to calm my nerves. We haven’t spoken since the night she came to my old apartment, demanding that I come home. We didn’t exactly leave things on good terms, but she reached out to me again through the letter and the birthday card to Luke. The truth is I miss her and my dad. I miss having a big family, and it’s not something I want my son to miss out on if it’s possible to reconnect with mine.

  I wonder what my parents are doing right now, if they have their friends from church over as well as our extended family for Thanksgiving—just as we always did when I still lived at home. I dial and clutch the phone in my sweaty palm, listening to it ring and ring for a long time. My heart jumps when there’s finally an answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom.” Silence.

  “Abigail.” She breathes out my name as though she’s relieved to hear from me.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  There’s a strange squeaking noise on her end along with heavy breaths. “I’m so glad you called,” she says in a garbled voice. Is she crying? “How’s Luke doing? Did you get our card?”

  “I did. Thank you. We went and bought Legos for him the next day.” I hesitate for a second. “I have a picture of him playing with them here on my phone. I can send it to you, if you’d like?”

  “Really? Oh, that would be wonderful. Your father will want to see that.” She’s quiet again for a few seconds, sniffing softly.

  “Mom? How’s Dad?” I whisper.

  “He’s not well,” she whimpers, clearing her voice. “But he’s strong.”

  “I remember,” I murmur. My feelings about my father, about both my parents, are more than a little complicated. I’m angry with both of them for how they reacted when I became pregnant, and for how they raised me. But none of that is something I want to get into now. I’m choosing to view the letter and birthday card as an olive branch, and this is me showing them I’m willing to accept it and maybe start over with them.

  “Would you and Luke …”

  “Would we what?” I ask.

  “Consider coming home? For a visit,” she adds quickly.

  “We can’t right now.” I steel myself, preparing for the worst. I expect a scathing remark or a reprimand, but it never comes.

  “All right. I—I understand.”

  “It’s just that I got a job, Mom. A really good job.”

  “That’s wonderful.” It sounds like she actually means it.

  “And I don’t know how much my boss will need me. He travels a lot,” I explain. “But maybe between Christmas and New Year’s?”

  “Really?” Her voice is so filled with hope, I can hardly stand it. What happened to her to evoke this change? She didn’t want anything to do with us for so long. I desperately want to believe it’s genuine.

  “Really,” I say. “I’ll check with him and get back to you.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry for everything. I wasn’t a good mother, and I don’t expect you to forgive me for how I treated you.”

  I draw a deep breath. I’m not ready to forgive and forget, but hearing those words means a lot to me. “Thank you for saying that.” I hear Luke calling me in the distance. “I have to go now, Mom. Luke needs me.”

  “Of course. I have to get back too.”

  “Do you have people over?” I ask.

  “No, not this year. Happy Thanksgiving, Abigail.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  She hangs up, and I take a few seconds before joining Luke and the others again. I send her the picture of Luke before putting my phone on mute. I’m happy I made the call—it feels like I made the right decision, but now I’m even more nervous about what’s really going on. No guests on Thanksgiving? My father must be worse off than she let on.

  The rest of the holiday goes by smoothly, and everyone has a great time, but I’m looking forward to getting back. I don’t like the way I left things with Simon, so up in the air. I consider calling him, but decide against it. I can’t imagine having an honest talk about our future over the phone. It’ll have to wait until he gets home from his trip, which gives me more than a week to prepare myself.

  After Thanksgiving weekend, Luke goes back to school, and I resume my routine of taking care of the house, visiting with Lila next door almost daily. She’s become a good friend in such a short time and I’ve started giving her cooking lessons—something both she and her husband are happy about. I’m grateful for their help too, as all of us go out shopping and Dave helps me decorate Simon’s house on the outside, putting up twinkling lights around the windows and even in the bushes. It looks beautiful at night, and I hope he’ll like the surprise when he gets home sometime this weekend. Luke and I buy a small Christmas tree that we set up outside the front door—it’ll shed all of its needles if we bring it inside. We put lights on it, so it’s looking festive. Inside, I place red poinsettias in the kitchen window, and we hang up a few decorations around the house and arrange red votive candles on the kitchen and living-room tables. I don’t want it to be too over the top, but enough to feel like Christmas. I don’t know if it’ll make a difference to Simon, but for the first time this place actually looks like a home.

  The following Friday night, Luke and I are baking cookies when I notice him coughing. I feel his forehead, frowning. “You okay, hon?”

  “Uh-huh.” He looks up at me with glazed eyes, his cheeks flushed.

  “Oh, sweetie, I think you’re getting sick,” I say, picking him up. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  “But the cookies,” he protests weakly, resting his head on my shoulder as I carry him off.

  “We’ll make them later. Christmas is weeks away. There’s lots of time.”

  As the night passes, Luke’s fever climbs steadily until it reaches 101.5 degrees. It’s not alarming, but I don’t leave his side for more than a few minutes as I get him juice and cold cloths for his forehead. He’s been sick before, but it’s always awful to see him like this, and I can’t help but fuss over him—especially since his cough only gets worse. He drifts off into an uneasy sleep around eleven, and I head into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets, hoping to find something for his cough and possibly a painkiller that’s safe for kids. I come up empty and curse myself for not being prepared. I really don’t want to have to drive to a 24-hour pharmacy with my son at this time of night, but if he gets worse, I won’t have a choice.

  I’m making myself some coffee when I suddenly hear the front door slam, making my heart jump
into my throat. He’s home, and I feel both nervous and excited to see him again. Seconds later, I’m face to face with Simon—jaw clenched, face flushed, a murderous glare in his eyes. He’s livid.

  “What the fuck did you do to my house?” he demands, throwing out his right arm.

  Oh, shit. I try to quell the panic I feel, but my throat constricts painfully, making words impossible.

  “You had no right. No right!” he exclaims.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I gasp, gripping the kitchen counter behind me.

  “I want it gone. All of it. It’s bad enough I can’t go anywhere without seeing all of that shit everywhere,” he continues, pacing back and forth, still pinning me with his gaze. “Do you hear me, Abigail?”

  I nod quickly, fighting tears.

  “Stop looking at me like that!” he yells, making me jump.

  I lower my head, sniffing loudly. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

  “I don’t pay you to fucking think,” he snaps.

  I inhale sharply, raising my head again as anger surges through me. My gaze meets his, and I hold it. After a few seconds his shoulders drop, and the hard look in his eyes fades somewhat.

  “I’ll take it all down tomorrow,” I say as calmly as I can.

  “Now.” His voice is softer than before, but it’s still a command.

  “No.” My voice, on the other hand, is cold as ice. “All we did was try to make a nice homecoming for you. You don’t like it. Message received. But right now I have to take care of Luke. He’s sick.”

  Simon’s eyes widen, and his posture tenses even further. “What’s wrong with him? Where is he?”

  Before I can answer, he turns on his heel, heading out of the kitchen in long strides. I catch up to him as he stops abruptly just inside Luke’s room, staring at him in the bed. Luke coughs, letting out a low whine, and I brush past Simon to attend to my son. I help him sit up, and he drinks a little before his eyes flutter closed. I press my lips against his forehead, relieved that his fever doesn’t appear higher than the last time I checked. I’ll take his temperature again in half an hour, though, to be on the safe side. Stroking his damp hair, I ease him back against the pillows before grabbing the cloth from his bedside table, which needs cooling down again. Simon is still by the door, rooted to the spot as I walk past him on my way to the bathroom. I wring out the cloth and go back to Luke, placing it on his forehead. He whimpers but stays asleep. I turn my head. Simon’s still standing there, his hand curled tightly around the door handle. As Luke coughs behind me, I see him grimace before making his face neutral again.

  “He needs to go to the hospital,” he says.

  I shake my head slowly, but he’s already approaching the bed. He leans down and gently scoops Luke up into his arms.

  “Wait!” I whisper-yell, putting my hand on his arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

  “No! Are you crazy?” I exclaim. “It’s only a light fever and a cough. They’ll just send me home and tell me he needs rest and fluids. And they’ll still charge me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he mutters, walking around me with Luke still sleeping in his embrace.

  I jog next to them out into the garage, trying to reason with Simon, but it falls on deaf ears. He places Luke in the booster seat and tells me to strap him in. He returns after a minute, holding Luke’s duvet, which he hands to me.

  “Let’s go.” He turns for the driver-side door.

  “Stop!”

  He looks back at me.

  “This isn’t necessary,” I insist.

  “Yes, it is,” he says, getting into the car without another word.

  I strap myself in next to my son, tucking the duvet around him. I don’t want to sit up front with Simon. I watch him silently as he opens the garage door and backs out. This is so not necessary. Why is he reacting like this?

  We drive in silence. Simon’s shoulders are tense, his movements choppy as he steers the car through nearly empty streets. We reach the hospital, and I barely have time to get out of the car before he’s unstrapped Luke, whom he eases into my arms before marching us into the emergency room, his hand firm on my lower back.

  What happens next is mortifying. Simon makes what can only be described as a scene, barking out orders to the befuddled staff, demanding a doctor attend to my son at once. They ask him to sit down, to be calm, but it has the opposite effect. I send apologetic looks to the staff, clutching Luke to me. He’s awake now, but just barely, and lets out a cough.

  “Can’t you hear that?” Simon yells at the nurses, motioning to Luke. “He’s sick! Fix him!”

  Finally, a doctor arrives, an older man with a calm demeanor. He takes one look at Simon and orders him to settle down at once, or he’ll call security.

  “Try it,” Simon growls.

  Everyone around us looks tense, on alert. Holding Luke with one arm, I place my free hand on Simon’s arm, feeling him flinch.

  “Stop,” I say firmly. “Sit down.”

  His gaze instantly meets mine.

  “You’re not helping,” I continue. “They’ll kick us out. Let the doctor look at Luke. Please.”

  His jaw ticks several times before he backs away, taking a seat near the wall. I turn to the doctor, explaining Luke’s symptoms. He nods and leads us to a room where he examines my son and concludes what I already suspected: Luke has the flu. I’m to watch his temperature, give him cough syrup and fluids, and make sure he rests. I can also give him children’s painkillers to lower his fever so he can get some uninterrupted sleep. The doctor hands me a note to take to the pharmacy, giving me a look of concern.

  “Is it safe for you to go home?” he asks, his eyes shifting to the door for a moment.

  I gape at him before his meaning resonates with me. “Yes.” I nod my head. “Yes. Absolutely. He’d never … He was just concerned about Luke.”

  My words soften my heart. He really was concerned about Luke, much more so than Patrick’s ever been. It doesn’t excuse his overbearing, controlling behavior, though. I’m Luke’s mother and he didn’t even listen to me.

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. I can handle him.”

  The doctor chuckles, leading us back out. Simon jumps to his feet, his face a picture of anxiety.

  “Don’t worry,” the doctor says immediately, “your son is going to be just fine. I’ve given your wife instructions on how to take care of him.” He gives me a smile before leaving.

  I hardly dare look at Simon. After a few seconds he goes to the front desk, and I see him talking to the receptionist before coming back to us. His face is stony.

  “I have to go to the pharmacy,” I tell him, shifting Luke in my arms.

  Simon takes him from me, and we get the things on the doctor’s list. The car ride home is silent and tense, and Simon goes upstairs without saying a word to me. After I’ve given Luke some cough syrup and painkillers, I put on my pajamas and curl up in a chair at the end of his bed, exhausted and emotionally raw. I have no idea what is going to happen tomorrow, but I know it’ll be impossible to go back to the way things were after tonight.

  I don’t want that, anyway. I want more—but I don’t think I’ll ever get it. I just wish I knew why. He hasn’t given me any indication he doesn’t want me, and it’s obvious he cares about Luke. Even after getting angry about the Christmas decorations, he didn’t ask us to leave. He wanted them gone, not us. I don’t understand him at all.

  I startle awake at some point, confused as I stretch my body. I’m lying down. Lifting my head, I look around and find myself on the floor next to Luke’s bed, my mattress underneath me and my duvet covering me.

  I sit up and immediately notice him. He’s in the chair now, asleep, still in his suit from last night. I glance at my son, who’s sleeping peacefully, before getting up. Simon’s neck is bent at a weird angle, and I know he’ll be sore from it tomorrow.

  “Mr. Thorne?�
� I whisper, approaching him.

  He doesn’t move at all except for the rise and fall of his chest. I watch his face, so open and unguarded, and my heart clenches. He stayed up to watch over us.

  “Simon?” I murmur softly. Unable to stop myself, I brush my fingers across his cheek, the slight stubble tickling me. A second later, he’s on his feet, turning the chair over and pushing me away. Hard. I land on my ass, my lack of breath the only thing stopping me from crying out. I gasp, staring up at him. He’s against the wall, breathing hard, his eyes wide. They dart to mine for a second, and I can see the anguish in them before he pushes himself forward and storms out of Luke’s room. I get my bearings and climb to my feet, wincing at the pain in my tailbone. Luke is still asleep and thankfully didn’t see what happened. I feel his forehead, which is a little warm, but nothing compared to last night.

  I find Simon in the kitchen. He’s at the sink, clutching the edges of the countertop, still breathing heavily. At my approach, he whirls around, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face is ashen and glistening with perspiration.

  “I’m sorry,” I croak.

  He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

  “No. Not really, I mean.”

  He opens his eyes again but doesn’t look at me. Silence stretches between us, uncomfortable and charged.

  “Luke is a little better,” I say.