When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,
I CRY
Maya Angelou
The day could’ve made a postcard jealous. It was as if spring herself, who just a few days prior, had peeked around the corners of this city, watching the fleeting steps of winter’s lazy retreat, had finally gotten her chance.
With elegant force, she swept the sky of clouds and sprinkled jewels into the waters of the Potomac. She kissed the grass with emeralds and beckoned thirsty flower buds to reach their necks upward, their vine-wrapped arms, outward.
The sun was white hot. It screamed and glared against the towering monuments. But the birds didn’t seem to care as they dove and drank. They sang in chorus, in a tribute that made school children laugh again and weary neighbors smile again.
Sarah Mackenzie barely noticed.
Sarah was a child again as she drove the familiar route from Falls Church into D.C. Although she manned a $50,000 sports car and possessed the graceful lines, the body, the rank and position of a woman, the part of her that was this little girl had also awakened from her resting place.
She couldn’t blame the gentle nudge of the spring thaw. And it wasn’t just because of chance that she now felt so helpless, so small once again. Rather, it was all because of the pastel blue envelope, perched upon her lap, smelling of rosewater and cigarettes.
The letter had arrived in the mailroom three days prior. She’d almost missed it amongst the daily pile of business correspondence, requested files and inter-office memos. So tiny and nearly weightless, it had slipped downward like a wind-swept leaf. With the pile plastered against her chest and one hand fighting to keep her coffee mug upright, she caught it between two fingers. Her eyebrows drew into a deep “vee” as she studied the printing, the color, the shape of it.
There was no return address, but something inside her knew, something remembered. And almost at once each step back to her office became weighted and slow, as if she’d been wearing shackles. Anxiety came and had its way with her. She just couldn’t make it fast enough as nausea began to plague her stomach.
She slammed the door and drew the blinds, heaving the rest of the papers into a nearby side chair. She found her own chair as beads of sweat dotted her brow line.
She wasn’t exactly afraid of the contents, or the words she’d find there. But a cruel form of curiosity gnawed at her, in the very spot where questions had already burned. She just wasn’t sure she wanted the answers.
She opened it anyway.
Her hands shook as she read the few words printed on the single sheet of blue stationary. She entertained a varied guest list of feelings; disbelief, anger, sadness. And pity. Pity most of all.
As anxiety blurred into refined stoicism, she read it until she’d memorized every word, until she knew every detail of the singular request contained inside. Then she tucked it away into her bottom desk drawer. She vowed to tell no one. Not Harm, not Harriet, not the Admiral.
She had a decision to make. Alone.
It was during this drive that the child had come back to Sarah. It was the part of her that had once crouched in darkness, where, now the woman within her shined with intelligence and fortitude. It was the part of her that possessed a soul that had once longed so terribly for something, for someone to simply show her the way.
It surprised her that she’d actually done all right these past few days. It also surprised her that no one, especially the usual suspects, had said anything. Maybe they hadn’t noticed because there hadn’t been anything worthy of notice in the first place. Maybe this wasn’t the huge deal that it could’ve been, or should’ve been.
Or maybe she’d just gotten too damn good at pretending.
She knew one thing. This letter, its message, was a patient adversary. It let her work and mingle with focus. It allowed her to function and conduct herself normally through her work day. She marveled at its adept ability to settle itself into a deep, dark nook of her brain. Waiting.
She scoffed now as she drove, realizing that there had never been any decision at all. There had never been a question of whether or not she’d come. Only how she’d find the strength to come. And what would come away with her, as unwelcome souvenirs.
It would only be minutes until she’d have her answer. She turned down a tree-lined street bordering the Mall. The Lincoln Memorial caught the corner of her eye as she found a parking spot in a nearby side-lot. She breathed in deeply, as if this sort of breath might soon be called a luxury.
At the last minute she’d decided to bring the letter. Her heels clicked against the concrete path until the reflecting pool came into view. Her steps began to slow. Less than 30 yards away, she couldn’t even turn to look at her destination. She knew what she’d find there and, damn it, she couldn’t even look. And then she stopped altogether, shielded by a large oak tree, suddenly feeling that this had all been some terrible mistake.
It would be so easy now to flee. Her car was a minute’s walk away. She could toss the letter into a trash can. She could toss that life away too, the memories, the hurt, the past. So easy. So tempting.
She brushed away the solitary tear that had escaped from the corner of her eye. She willed away the rest as she took a step forward. Then another; knowing that she’d been let down so many times in her life. So many had failed her. What kind of person had she become if she’d let this sickening cycle go on? If she, now, did the letting-down?
And so she walked on.
Finally reaching the end of the reflecting pool, she craned her neck from side to side, searching for one person. Save a few weary tourists, all of the benches at either side of the memorial were empty. Her internal clock noted the appointed meeting time as a wave of reprieve rushed through her. Or was it disappointment?
Again, Mac felt the temptation rise within her to turn around and run as fast as protocol would allow. After all, she had done her part. She’d come. But her conscience asked for one more look. Her hand rose to block the sun from her face. This time, she looked forward, straight ahead towards the stack of marble steps that led to Lincoln’s throne.
She clutched the letter in her hand as she finally recognized its sender, seated low, halfway up the expanse of stairs that shone a brilliant white in the midday sun, like rows of clean teeth.
Mac realized that she was being watched by a head now raised, by eyes that were still too far to read, but dared to beckon nonetheless.
Expressionless, tearless, Mac paced herself through the remaining distance, climbing upward until, at last, she stood in front of this person who did not speak. Who only waited, clasping worried hands around knees, glancing up at her with a look of fear and relief and maybe even awe.
Mac knew that the courtesy, or, more likely the curse, of the first word belonged to her. It would release the inevitable flow of a hundred answers and the advent of a thousand more questions.
She spoke steadily, softy, uttering one singular word that floated helplessly in the breezy air between them, searching for a place to rest. “Mom.”
“You came,” Deanna Mackenzie said, releasing the breath held far too long.
Mac displayed the now-crumpled letter. “You asked.”
Chapter 2
Deanna Mackenzie freed a long sigh. “I suppose it’s time to explain.” Her eyes moved diagonally from her daughter’s face to the marble steps and back again in silent invitation.
Mac nodded, fighting off a chuckle at what could’ve been the number one candidate for Understatement of the Century. She sliced her body downward through the awkwardness, smoothing her skirt as she positioned her long legs over the hard surface of the stairs. She turned to face this quiet stranger who was her mother.
Deanna had changed in the four years since Mac had seen her last. There wasn’t much left of the image she’d carried away from that day, fresh from her father’s death bed. This image didn’t taunt or control as months had turned into years, but instead it fluttered around her mind from time to time. Like a lonely spirit stuck between two worlds.
Deanna had lost a good thirty pounds, Mac surmised. And the hair she’d remembered as a long, thick column of red now rested just at her shoulders, wispy layers framing her face. The face. It had changed too. There were new lines, new creases. And such dark, menacing shadows under her eyes. It was obvious she hadn’t slept much lately. And also obvious that the new, trimmer figure, clad in simple tan slacks and a black knit top, hadn’t been the prized result of a newfound healthy lifestyle. It was probably just the opposite.
This woman was hurting. So much, it had even brought her here.
“I’m sorry about the letter,” she began, twisting her fingers, daring a look at this incredible creature beside her. “I’d hoped to God I had the office right. I mean, I didn’t have your address or phone number...I did try. But you’re not listed.”
“It’s all right. You found me well enough.”
“I took a chance that your schedule would be clear. I’m sorry for that, too. It’s a rude presumption to make to a lawyer.”
Mac managed a small smile. Not forced, but courteous. “My CO thinks I’m at the dentist. He just got engaged. I took the chance that he wouldn’t remember that I had my teeth cleaned three weeks ago.”
Deanna returned a brief smile, taking the comfort of small talk as an unexpected gift. But she knew and Sarah knew – there was nothing comfortable about this. And it had all been her doing.
“Sarah, I know I was the last person you’d expected to hear from three days ago,” she whispered before pausing, lost once again in the sight of this taller, more elegant, more everything woman with silver oak leaves pinned to her collar. “I just…this time, I just didn’t know where else to go.”
Mac winced as anxiety morphed into hurt. She had been the last resort. She was her daughter, her flesh and blood, and she had been the final option at the end of God knows how many days of despair. This was the truth of it all, naked and raw. It still cut like a knife.
“Are you in trouble?” She managed, fighting to steady her voice.
“Not like you may think. Not with the law or anything.”
Mac nodded. “Go on.”
“I was living in Tucson – had myself a pretty good job too. I worked as a clerk in a health clinic, you know, taking care of billing and such. About four months ago, they had to let me go, something about cutbacks. I don’t know, I …” she stopped, pulling a carton of cigarettes out of her purse. She lit one quickly, her face forming an apology even as she took the first drag.
Mac’s eyes grew wide, “Smoking? When did you start this?” She looked down at the letter, remembering the odd mix of smells three days prior. Rosewater and cigarettes. Innocence and disillusionment. Familiar and foreign.
Deanna answered, flicking away ashes. “Some years back. It’s a nasty habit. I’m really trying to quit.”
Mac nodded, turning her face as puffs of smoke attacked the breeze. It was a subject better saved for a day she knew would probably never come. “You said ‘worked,’ as in past tense?”
“I guess you could say I haven’t been the best at putting away money. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t find another job. No one would hire me, Sarah. I lost my studio apartment, put all my stuff in storage. I thought a change in scenery would help. I stayed with some friends in Vegas, in Denver…nothin’. I wore out my welcome quicker than I could find work.”
Mac pinched the bridge of her nose. Ah, the nomad. Always the wanderer. Yes, this was the mother she knew. “So you made your way to D.C.?”
“Sarah,” she murmured, her eyes glazed and tired. So tired. “I came all this way. You’re all I have left.”
Mac simply stared out into the mall. It was so sick, this woman, this relationship, this wasted life. It had been doable, not easy, just doable to live without her mother all these years. She’d filled the absence with her career, with friends, with…damn…how it killed her now to watch the people in front of her. Mothers and little girls, having picnics and tea parties, dipping curious fingers into the reflecting pool. And grandmothers, laughing with pride, pushing strollers, walking next to grown daughters with swollen bellies.
And she had yet to touch this woman. Not a hug, not even a handshake or a tender pat on the arm. Just words, few and awkward, and perhaps even some lies. What had she expected - this child inside of her that now ached, wounded once again? And she would, once again, have to console her as she did four years ago.
Without hesitation, Mac pulled her purse into her lap. She took out her checkbook, scribbling letters and numbers on the appropriate lines.
“Start with this,” she said, ripping the check from the book and placing it on Deanna’s lap.
Deanna picked it up, pupils growing as she read the amount. Five thousand dollars. She shook her head. “No, Sarah. It’s too much. You can’t…”
Mac rolled her eyes, seething from the flimsy objection. “Stop, Mom, don’t insult me,” she commanded, pressing the check into her palm. “Just use it wisely. Get yourself rooted somewhere. You’ll find work if you’re not stressed out about money for awhile.”
Humbled, Deanna mouthed a simple thank-you. It was much more than she’d anticipated. And she really hadn’t come here looking for money. Really, she hadn’t. She’d just wanted help and advice, maybe a little direction from someone who seemed to have it all figured out. Her daughter. Her baby.
She wasn’t kidding herself, though. She knew the pale, crisp paper in her hand was given out of pity. Only pity. Again, it was all her doing and perhaps, far too late for changes.
“I…I need to get back, Mom.”
Both women rose and instinctively, Mac stood one step lower, leveling their height.
Deanna took one last look at Mac. They were saying goodbye again. And how many years would it be before they stood like this, face to face, close enough to smell one another’s perfumes? Still too far away to embrace.
She wanted, needed to hug her daughter, but she feared whatever she’d get in return would also stem from pity. So she settled for a half-embrace, grasping both of Mac’s forearms just below the elbows.
Mac did the same, rubbing her thumbs gently along the sides of her mother’s arms. She searched the older woman’s face, for what, she did not know. Maybe for the stories there that needed telling, maybe for the answers not yet given. And maybe just to find a semblance of herself in these worn features that could’ve been so beautiful.
But these features, this face now looked back as well, perhaps also searching for the parts she’d lost, for the remnants and roots that had miraculously grown child into woman, abuse into triumph.
Mac broke the contact first. “Goodbye, Mom.”
“Goodbye, Sarah. Thank you.”
Mac had only made it down two steps before she turned around. “Wait, Mom. You could call me, you know, to let me know you’re settled.” She wrote her number on a scrap of paper.
Deanna took it, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
The tears came now, as Mac walked back to her car. But they didn’t come fiercely, with angry sobs or heart wrenching pain. It was a soft and peaceful grief, quite diplomatic actually. It bathed her heart and soul in resignation as it revealed the truth in gauzy layers.
No, she would not call. Daughter, mother, they both knew it.
Commander Harmon Rabb Jr. flew into Mac’s office, employing one hand on her doorframe to halt the thunderous momentum of his body.
Mac lifted an eyebrow, half-expecting to see a red cape draped across his back.
“Court…late…Henderson file…”
She gestured to the top of her filing cabinet with a swift flick of her pencil.
He made it in a stride and a half. Relief rippled across his face as he snatched the manila folder. “Thanks, I’ll see you…” something made him stop as he got his first real look at her face.
“Harm, what?”
He slowed, fighting the adrenaline with steadied words. “Are you okay, Mac?” She looked tired, but it wasn’t the state of tiredness one reached from staring too long at briefs or computer screens. This was a brand of tired that sleep couldn’t fix.
“Yes, I’m fine.” No. She wasn’t.
Dammit, he didn’t believe her for a second. Nervously he glanced at the clock on the wall; it’s very ticking a new antagonist to this thing called friendship. He needed to go. Hell, he needed to stay.
He sighed in deep frustration, “No, you’re not fine and I want to know why, but right now I’ve got one minute to make it to a courtroom it takes four minutes to walk to.”
“Harm, it’s okay! Just go before Morris has your six for dinner and the rest of you for breakfast.”
“Mac...”
“Move it, Commander!”
He reluctantly obeyed. “We will talk later, Mac,” he stated, half the words lost in the empty threshold.
Drawing her thumb and forefinger to her pounding temples, she cursed inwardly. She believed him.
Chapter 3
Later turned out to be after 2000 hours. The bullpen was quiet now, and it had been for quite some time as fellow employees were eager to start their weekends with dinners and dates, or quiet evenings at home. The only real light came from Mac’s office, the only sound, the tap dance of her fingers across her keyboard.
She was swamped with work. She hadn’t realized that taking a few hours off the previous day would set her back so far. Of course, she’d kept that secret from her mother. It had obviously been difficult enough to be the one to make the contact, to send the letter. No need to make Deanna Mackenzie feel as though she were an inconvenience.
But what was she then? She hadn’t been a real mother for years. She wasn’t a friend, but she was much more than an acquaintance. She was someone who Mac had proven she could exist without.
But someone who was never forgotten.
And so it was this cruel remembering that gnawed at her now. Mac stopped the typing, leaning back into her chair, letting the burden settle upon her.
Her mind wandered to Harm as she rested her eyes. Maybe she hadn’t been as good at pretending as she’d originally thought. What, he’d been in her office for less than a minute, took one look at her face, and could read her like a predictable novel?
Earlier, she’d muttered a silent prayer of thanks as the Admiral had sent Rabb out the door to Norfolk not ten minutes after his hearing ended. It had been a small miracle, as miracles came. But it had been a start.
He felt like a thief, winding his way through the dimly lit bullpen, toward the glaring light stemming from her office.
He felt like a voyeur as he saw her, slumped in her chair, such tranquility blanketing such war beneath it. And why did she have to be so lovely?
Harm knocked softy, knowing that whatever he said or did would startle her.
Mac’s eyes shot open as she bolted upright. “God…Harm...!”
He lifted his hands in surrender, hoisting a large paper bag in one of them. He grinned sheepishly.
Mac scooted her chair close to her desk, her head cocked to one side in weary rebuke. “Lord, where do I start?”
He deposited the bag on her desk. “How about with hello?”
“I’ll get to that. First of all, what are you doing back here so late? How the heck did you know I was still here, and most importantly, couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?”
“Well, gosh Mac, silly me forgot his note pad, but I’ll do my best.” Harm paused briefly, finding the nearest chair. He almost smiled.
“The traffic back from Norfolk was a bear, no one answered at your apartment, and the gate guard said you hadn’t checked out yet.” His speech grew softer, slower, as he met her eyes with his own. “And no, Mac, it couldn’t have waited until tomorrow. Later is what I promised you. And it’s a whole lot later now.”
“Harm, I’m so behind here. And I’m tired.”
“I know you’re tired. And I’ll bet you’re hungry too. When was the last time you ate anything?”
She looked away. The sad part was, she couldn’t even remember.
Harm grabbed the bag. “I thought so. How does Chinese sound?”
“Harm, I...”
His stare nearly pinned her own to the ground. “Will you do me a small personal favor and eat, please?” He nudged a steaming carton towards her, sliding a set of chopsticks along with it. “And this isn’t from that cruddy place we tried last time. This, Mac, is Heaven in cardboard.”
She peeked into the carton. The chicken and noodles looked wonderful. They smelled even better. Damn, she hated when he was right. “If I eat this will you go away?” A morsel of a smile escaped her grasp.
“What do you think?”
Harm hadn’t pushed her during dinner. For that, Mac had been grateful. But he hadn’t left either. He just sat there, folding and unfolding the tiny strip of paper that had tumbled out of his fortune cookie.
“What does yours say?” she finally asked after the silence had become deafening. She knew he’d been waiting for her to talk. For now it was the best she could do.
Harm stopped the paper game, smoothing it along the desk with one finger. “Don’t hold onto dreams. Let them go, and follow.”
It made her think of airplanes. “How appropriate.”
The light from her desk lamp danced in his eyes. “And yours?”
She pulled it from the half-eaten cookie. “Follow your heart closely. It will never lead you wrong.” A burst of sarcastic laughter sputtered from her mouth. “Now that is a load of...”
“Mac,” he barely whispered, but loud enough to stop her. Or maybe it had been the pure sympathy in his eyes that had turned her face to stone right in front of him. He saw it all now – the pain, the raw wounds. He silently cursed who or what had done whatever had been done.
“What?”
“Tell me I wasn’t wrong this morning. Tell me there’s something going on...and tell me what it is,” he pleaded.
She nodded as the fight in her simply gave up and left her there. But not alone. “I saw my mom yesterday.”
“Where? Here?” he asked incredulously. Of all the things she could’ve said, this one had never made the short list.
“In D.C.”
“Tell me, Mac.”
And she did. All of it. She pulled out the letter to show him, relating every detail she could remember. When she finished and the words were finally freed, they left only their pungent aftertaste. Bitter, as if to mock her.
“I’m so sorry, Mac. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” It made him think of another time, years ago, after her father had died. For days, Mac had been quiet, distant, letting the hurt run its course.
And now, she’d have to start all over again.
She adjusted her posture. “I’m gonna be okay, Harm.”
He smiled a kind, toothless smile. “Of course you are, Marine.”
She rose, walking to the windowsill. She stared at the sea of black through the bare pane of glass. “It’s just that every time she does this, it’s like reliving that moment all over again. You know, when she left.”
“I do know. Can I pick a bone with you now?”
She turned with fire in her eyes. “What?”
“Easy, there.” Harm pointed to the letter on her desk. “You said you got that on Monday. It’s Friday, Mac. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Ah, the million dollar question. And her trusty ten cent answer. “It was something I had to do alone.”
He shook his head, trying his best to temper the aggravation building within him. “I wasn’t going to go down there with you. I just...I just would like to have known.”
“You know now.”
His voice raised a few decibels, “C’mon Mac, haven’t we reached a place where we can go to each other again? Where it doesn’t take a blasted translator to have a conversation? Where I don’t have hire a virtual mule team to drag out answers and explanations from you?”
“Have we, Harm? Have we really?” she challenged fiercely as he stood and moved towards her; as this conversation had somehow turned from one of mother and daughter to something altogether different.
He wasn’t going to go there. Not now. Besides, she’d just put up her defenses like a good marine should. He would’ve worried only if she hadn’t.
Harm pushed a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you so hard like that. Hell, especially after what you’ve been through.”
He closed half the distance between them, reaching out his arms. “C’mere, Mac.”
She shook her head as she folded her arms against her chest. “It’s okay, Harm. I am gonna be okay.”
He moved to her anyway, this reluctant creature. He wrapped the whole length of his arms around her. She fought it hard, the internal battle pounding, raging.
And he knew the exact moment she’d given up, too. He could feel the tension seep from her muscles, leaving this fragile shell behind as her arms slowly unraveled, snaking around his back. It had been far too long since he’d held her like this. Though the feelings were there, the ones he couldn’t explain, or dismiss; the ones he now had absolutely no clue what to do with, he almost felt as if he were holding a child.
It was fitting, as time and timing had never graced them with their blessings. But it was okay. This is what she needed from him now. And what he needed to give, needed to whisper. “Of course you are.”
Mac took her sorrows to the streets as she jogged through Georgetown, offering body and soul in sacrifice to the hardened god of pavement, brick and stone.
She’d never told anyone that she liked to run at night. It really wasn’t the safest of activities, but it wasn’t the most perilous either. Tonight she didn’t worry - it would take a brazen fool to even attempt to harm her. Her steps were furious, her movements primal.
This was her psychiatry. This was her therapy.
The pavement took from her. It stretched her muscles, steadily feeding her air as it opened pores and drained her body. And she loved it. Especially now, she loved the order of it all, the predictable rhythm, the lifting and planting. The burning and purging.
But she took from the pavement too, and from the streets. The night air was fresh and clean after an early morning rain. The breeze was melodious and filled with jasmine. And as she slowed from sprint, to trot, to walk she lifted her arms high, her face upward. The sky was like a deep, black bowl. The stars, the moon, the mist; it all poured into her, filling her with silence.
She always kept a little gym towel on the bottom step leading to her building. No one had ever messed with it. Tonight was no exception. She picked it up as she climbed to the second floor, sopping up the ribbons of sweat on her neck, her forehead.
Mac was barely halfway down the hall when she realized that she was not alone. Her mouth formed a perfect “O” as she saw the familiar stranger, sitting Indian-style at the foot of her door. It was her mother. And she had brought her suitcase.