The apartment was dark and quiet as he put away the last of the dinner dishes. Through the door, he could hear the low murmur of voices, but he couldn't tell whether they were Mac's and his mother's or the television set. The dishes were done and the kitchen was clean, but he didn't want to leave its shelter. It was warm, still fragrant from dinner and bright. It felt like an oasis. He needed to find something to do to keep him in the kitchen.
Glancing guiltily at the white painted door that divided the kitchen from the rest of the apartment, he filled up Mac's teapot and searched the cupboards for teabags or an infuser. His mother's voice floated through the doorway asking, "Harm, what are you doing in there?"
"Making tea, do you want some?" He pushed open the door and saw his mother and Mac sitting next to each other on the couch. Mac caught his eyes and nodded a little, while his mother shook her head in decline. An odd sensation settled in his stomach as he watched the women interact. He wasn't positive, unsure of whether he was actually seeing results because they were there or because he needed, badly, to see them, but Mac seemed to have relaxed. Her muscles didn't look as rigid, her jaw less clenched.
Trish said something to Mac, in a voice too low for him to hear the words, and stood up. She followed Harm back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Mac wanted honey and lemon in her tea," she explained.
"I could have made it," he protested. He turned the burner to high and leaned against the counter. Folding his arms across his chest, he watched his mother slice a lemon in half.
"I know you could." Trish squeezed lemon juice into a mug. She hitched a shoulder and looked up at him from under her bangs. "It's kind of nice," she admitted, "having someone to mother." She smiled fully, "Even if she's a fully grown adult and I have to give her back."
Seeing his answering smile, she added, patting his cheek, "You grew up way too fast for my taste."
"Mom," he complained, barely keeping the whine out of his voice. In a normal tone, he said, "I'm glad you two are getting along."
Trish rested her hands lightly on the counter and sighed. Staring up at the cabinets, she inhaled deeply. "Harm," she started and stopped.
"What?"
Turning to face him, she brushed her bangs off her face with the back of her hand. "Harm," she started again, "I just want to make sure you'll be okay."
"We'll be fine," he assured her.
"No, not the two of you. You," she emphasized. "I want to make sure your aren't in over your head."
He straightened against the counter and his muscles tensed. "Did she tell you something?"
"Harm," she paused. Giving herself a minute, she tidied the already neat counters and put the other lemon half back into the refrigerator. "She's been through a lot."
"I know." Beside him, the teapot began to bubble, he could hear the steam ready to force itself out.
Trish put a teaspoonful of honey in with the lemon juice. She took out another mug and dropped the teabags into them. "It's a terrible thing," she said. "She had to ask for things you should never have to ask for from people."
Harm contemplated the door and turned his attention back to his mother. She was still talking. "Sometimes, I wonder," she paused and looked at him, "I wonder if you both did."
"What?"
"You know that I love you and that I'm proud of you, right?" Trish checked. "That I'd be proud of you no matter what you were doing? I don't know if I tell you that enough."
"I know," he reassured her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned his chin against her head. "I know."
The teapot began to shriek and Trish pulled away, laughing a little at the tears in her eyes. "Good," she said, running a finger under her eyes to check for smeared mascara. She poured the boiling water into the mugs and handed him one. "Now you go drink your tea and I think I'm going to retire," she said.
He followed her into the living room, where she deposited a mug with Mac and patted her on the head. "I have an early flight tomorrow and unlike you young ones, I need my rest. Good-night."
"Night, Mom."
"Night, Trish."
He waited until the door had closed behind his mother and then turned to Mac. "So," he raised an eyebrow, "you and my mother seem to be getting along."
Mac cupped her mug between her hands and blew gently across the water's surface. She gave him a tiny smile over the brim of the mug. "She didn't tell me any embarrassing stories about you, if that's what you're worried about."
He relaxed against the couch. "I'm worried that you're plotting my death and just biding your time until my mother is gone."
"You're safe," she told him.
"Well, that's a load off my mind," he joked. He set his mug down and rested his forearms against his thighs. "Seriously," he angled his head so he could see her, "I'm glad you're not angry."
"I'm really okay," she said. "Really."
"I just needed to know that someone was looking out for you." He shifted restlessly. "Mac," he said quietly, "I-" He tried to push the words past his lips, but they seemed to catch on his teeth. He didn't doubt them. He knew what they meant and that he would mean them when he could finally say them. But, as it always seemed to do, time mocked him. He couldn't tell her now, not while everything was still so uncertain.
She laid her hand against his forearm and said gently, "I know. I know, so you don't have to say it."
He brushed his fingers over the back of her hand. "Then, please, try to get better. Please." He was reduced to begging. He was pleading for fifth and sixth chances, for a future.
"I'm trying," she said. "Really, I am."
"That's all I can ask for." He needed to move away from this conversation. He motioned to stand up.
Her grip tightened on his arm. "I'm trying. But, Harm," she smiled sadly, unsure how to tell him what he needed to hear, "sometimes we don't always get happy endings."
"Jesus, Mac." He shook her arm off and stomped away from the couch. "Jesus," he said again, pulling his fingers through his hair. "Why say something like that? Why think it?"
She flinched at his tone and sighed a little. "It's the truth." She shrugged. She shifted her body on the couch so she could pull her knees up to her chest. "I'm trying. But I'm so tired of fighting." She circled her calves with her arms. "I feel like I've been doing it for so long."
"Fighting what, Mac?" He asked sullenly. "Tell me and let me help."
"It's nothing you can fix, flyboy," she told him. She blinked rapidly to stave off the tears that were threatening. "It's just been a struggle my whole life it seems." She added quietly, "And now it's a struggle to find a reason to keep fighting."
He walked back over to the couch and lowered his body on to it. His arm brushed hers as he leaned back. "Sarah?" he asked softly.
"What?" She mumbled against her knees.
"While you're trying to find that reason, the reason to keep up the fight," he said.
"Yes?"
"Until you find your own reason," he reached up to cup her face, "how about you live for me?"
The tears spilled over on his hand and she curled
her hand around his thumb. Gently, he pulled her close to him and she
nodded against his chest. "I can do that."