Trish stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment studying Mac. As usual, Mac was either ignoring Trish's blatant staring or oblivious to it. Her television was on but Trish was willing to bet her gallery that Mac didn't know what she watching. Harm had been gone for two days and Trish dearly hoped that he was not expecting a miracle cure from his mother. Mac had been perfectly polite, even friendly, but Trish couldn't seem to find her. It seemed like the real Sarah, the one she'd first met, was gone, trapped somewhere in the other woman's body, and Trish didn't know how to get her back.
One thing was certain, she couldn't stay in the apartment another day without a break. If she felt that way after only a few days, then Mac most definitely had to feel the same. Walking over to the couch, she patted Mac's feet to make her scoot over and perched her body on the edge of the cushion. "What are you watching?"
"A cooking show," Mac answered vaguely. On the screen, the host moved about a large, bright kitchen and chattered about chicken stock.
Good thing no one had been around to take her up on the bet, Trish thought. "My mother used to think all the world's ills could be solved through food," she said after a minute.
Mac continued to watch the television, her features not giving any indication that she'd heard Trish until she spoke up, "My mother didn't like to cook much."
"Mine thought every problem was fixable with the right food." Trish arched an eyebrow and emphasized, "Every problem. Broken hearts, I believe, called for something sweet. When I was feeling insecure, I got mashed potatoes or some other type of starch to fortify myself, I guess." She looked down at her lap and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "When Harm's father was shot down," she continued quietly, "I was plied with casseroles. I didn't have to cook for months."
Mac nodded and fiddled with the edges of the afghan on her lap. Her dark hair fell into her eyes and Trish reached out a hand to brush it back. The move startled both women and Trish gave Mac a half-smile. "I've always hated cooking," she confessed. "Probably because my mother tried so hard to teach me when I was a teenager."
"I'm not really much good in the kitchen, either."
Trish knew this already. Over the years, she'd listened to Harm ramble about his dinner plans and what he was making for the two of them. Once, when she'd asked him why Mac never seemed to host their dinners, Harm made a comment about her kitchen being more for decoration purposes than actual use. "So, why are you watching this?" She waved a hand in the general direction of the television set.
"I don't know." Mac shrugged her shoulders and watched the chef slice vegetables. "It seemed less - less boring than anything else."
Sensing the opening she wanted, Trish watched the chef slide the vegetables into a pot on a stove before asking, "What time do you have to be at Dr. Hepburn's today?"
"Two o'clock, why?"
"Let's go out. I haven't been a tourist in the area in a long time."
Mac concentrated on folding the edges of the blanket into precise rows. "You need the fresh air," Trish cajoled. "Come on."
"I-"
"Mac," Trish interrupted firmly, "you need to get out. You can't stay in here all day long."
"I do."
"No. The doctor does not count."
"But..." Her objection trailed off and she stood up. "I need to change."
"I'll wait." Trish picked up a magazine and started to flip through it. She looked up when Mac didn't move. Hovering in the hallway leading to the bedroom, the younger woman bit her lip and shifted her weight. "What, dear?"
"Can I-" She cleared her throat. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, what?"
"What do you," she flushed, "what do you see when you look at me?"
Caught off guard, Trish didn't know how to answer her question. She had a feeling that her answer was important and mattered to Mac. Her mind flipped through a catalogue of acceptable answers before settling on the truth. "I see," she said at length, unsure of how to phrase her words, "a lovely woman who just lost her way for a little bit." She tilted her head and frowned a little. "Why? What do you think I should see?"
Mac tugged on the bottom of her sweater. "Nothing," she mumbled.
Trish's frown deepened. She didn't think Mac was evading her question. She was almost positive that that was what Mac expected her to see. "Mac - Sarah?" she asked softly.
Mac shook her head and raised a hand. "No. I'm sorry," she said. "Never mind. It was stupid." She nodded in the direction of her bedroom. "I'll go get changed and we can go."
"No." Trish's voice was firm. "Sit back down and tell me what you meant." She patted the cushion and arched an eyebrow. "You maybe a Marine, dear, but I'm a mother. I outrank you."
Mac's lower lip and chin trembled as she exhaled loudly. She shook her head again and didn't move, her hand still pulling on the hem of her sweater.
Walking over to her, Trish put an arm around her shoulders and guided her to the couch. "You're not nothing," she said gently. She rested her cheek briefly against Mac's head. "I'm sorry that someone ever gave you that impression." She felt Mac's head nod against her shoulder and commented, "It's amazing what sticks with you from your childhood."
Mac straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. "I forgave my parents a long time ago." She ran her fingers through her hair. "This mess is all me."
"Is it?"
"Well, who else would be to blame?" Mac demanded.
"Sarah, my son is almost forty-years old. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck." She brushed a hand over Sarah's hair. "You don't just suddenly start to think less of yourself one day. Someone treated you badly and at a very young age."
"I just said that I've forgiven them."
"Forgiving isn't the same thing as conquering the hurt it caused or even, sometimes, getting over it." She smiled. "Look at my hatred of cooking."
Mac let out a small laugh that ended in a sigh. She sniffled softly and pulled a pillow onto her lap. "When my father died," she said after a beat, "I got, um, I arrived at the hospice too late to talk to him. The priest, he said that my father told him that he was proud of me."
"Well, why wouldn't he be? Look at you and how far you've come."
"He never told me. He would say he loved me sometimes. When he was on one of his binges and I was little. When I got older, though, he never said anything kind. If he didn't ignore me, he yelled."
"I'm going to tell you something you already know, but humor me. Some people just aren't meant to be parents. It sounds like yours weren't. It's hard work and not always gratifying. Sometimes people just don't have the energy to do it right."
"The priest at the hospice, he kept trying to help me make amends with my father. He kept saying that my father was so proud of me. But I needed to hear it from my dad."
"I thought you said you forgave him?"
"I thought I did. Maybe, do you think it's possible for me to have forgiven Joe Mackenzie and not my father?"
"Yes." Pulling Mac into a loose hug, she added, "He was your dad. You wanted him to act like one. You deserved better."
"I just," she stopped. "It's hard to believe," she broke off again. Frustrated, her hands clenched into fists, before she uncurled her fingers, one by one. "If I believe what the priest told me, I have to believe that just because my father didn't hit me, didn't always yell, and just flat out ignored me, that that's a form of love."
"Instead of neglect?"
"I didn't get the words or the traditional gestures associated with love. I got ignored. Occasionally, on his good days, he was like the dad I had imagined, but they were so few and far between, it was easy to forget them. It was easy to feel insignificant." Mac pulled away from Trish and sighed. "Sometimes, as much as I think I can do it, get away from all that stuff, and as far as I think I've come, I still feel like I'm trapped in that house, waiting for someone to notice me."
"Mac, I meant it when I said it, you deserved better."
Mac smiled slightly and raised a shoulder slightly and let it fall. "Harm's lucky he has such a good mom." She stood up. "I'll go get changed and we can go." At the door, she paused again. "Trish?" she called. "Thank you."
Trish
smiled and waited until the bedroom door was closed before breathing deeply
and slumping against the couch. Harm loved Mac, of that she was certain.
But she'd never realized, she wasn't sure he knew either, what a lot of
work it was going to take to get Mac to understand it. Some people, she
thought again, should not be parents. Contemplating Mac's door, she thought,
and some people should. For the first time in months, she allowed herself
to imagine fat little grandbabies.