Chapter 7 - What Marlene Said When No One Was Watching
The hallway outside Karen's office was empty. Marlene stood at the far end by the window, looking down at the street. She didn't turn when I came out. She waited until I'd walked the whole length of the hall and stopped a few feet from her.
Then she turned.
She looked tired. Not one-bad-night tired. Something older than that.
"I'm not going to make a speech," she said.
"Okay."
"I'm not good at this." She looked down at her hands. "I didn't have a mother who was warm. I don't know how to do the warm thing. That's not an excuse. I know it's not."
I didn't say anything.
"When your dad and I got married, I told myself you just needed time. That you'd come around. And when you didn't, I—" She stopped. "I got frustrated. And then I got mean. And I told myself it was because you were difficult. But that was—" Another stop. "That was a lie I told myself."
Behind her the window showed a gray sky and the flat tops of buildings.
"The message about my mom," I said.
Marlene closed her eyes for a second. "Yes."
"You said she was useless too."
"I know what I said."
"Did you mean it?"
She was quiet a moment. "No. I said it because I knew it would hurt. And I wanted to hurt you." She opened her eyes. "That's an ugly thing to say out loud."
"Yeah," I said. "It is."
We stood there. A door opened somewhere down the hall and clicked shut again.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me," Marlene said. "I don't think I've earned it. I'm not sure I ever will." She looked right at me. "But I'm asking you to believe that I know what I did. Not the soft version where I got frustrated and said some things. The real one. Where I made a kid feel worthless in her own house. On purpose."
My throat went tight. I hadn't expected that.
"Why are you telling me this?" I said. "Diane could have handled all of it."
"Because Diane negotiates contracts," Marlene said. "And you're not a contract."
I looked at her. The woman who'd handed me a scrub brush in the dark. Who'd smiled when Bev called me a maid. Who'd told me I was exactly as useless as my mother.
She wasn't smiling now.
"I don't know if this can be fixed," I said.
"I don't either," she said. "But I think your dad deserves the chance to find out. And I think—" She stopped. Tried again. "I think you deserve a home where you don't have to keep a notebook."
I didn't answer.
She nodded once, like she hadn't expected me to. Then she walked back toward the conference room.
I stayed at the window a minute. The street below was nothing special — people walking, a bus pulling off, a woman pushing a stroller. Everything out there moving right along like nothing had happened in here.
I thought about the notebook. The forty-seven messages. The flashlight in the dark and the greasy stack of dishes and the word useless sitting in my chest for fourteen months.
Then I thought about what she'd just said. You deserve a home where you don't have to keep a notebook.
I didn't forgive her in that hallway. I want to be clear about that.
But something shifted. Something small and careful, like a window cracked open just enough to let the air move.
May you like
I walked back to the conference room.
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