The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [33]
“What?” Drew's head spins around. “A bad patch?” he says, stinging her with the old family joke: Ken's blithe dismissal of trouble, no matter its gravity, never more than that, just a bit of a bad patch.
“All the turmoil, Drew. I've been so wrapped up in my own problems I'm afraid I haven't taken your feelings into account.” She drives even slower. “I guess I was hoping you didn't care. Or notice what was going on. But of course you did, and that was selfish of me.” Suddenly blurry-eyed, she has to pull over. “I'm sorry. Oh,” she says, fumbling in her purse for tissues. “I don't want to be doing this. Crying like this. It's not fair to you, and I'm so, so sorry.” She covers her face with her hands. This is exactly what she doesn't want, to give in to her own pain again. “You're such a good boy. You are, and I've just been such a mess lately.”
“That's okay. It's okay, Mum.” He puts his hand on her arm.
“It's not okay.” She blows her nose and takes a deep breath. “Because we have to talk. That's the important thing. To be honest. To be able to tell one another the truth. I don't know what's going on with you. But that's my fault, not yours. Drew?” His struggle to contain himself is tearing her apart. His chest heaves in and out, his head bobs as he rubs his fist against his mouth. “Say it. Please. Please, baby,” she gasps, reaching for him. His arms and back are alarmingly bony as he leans toward her.
“Mum,” he cries, his newly deep voice cracking. “Don't get divorced. Please?” he sobs, tears and phlegm leaking down his cheeks and neck.
“No! No. Of course not,” she says, truly stunned, and for the first time realizing that in all her misery and anger she has never considered divorce. Not even as a threat.
“Clay said you're going to.” He looks at her. She has forgotten those enormous tears, how as a little boy they would pour from his eyes. Ignoring her tissue, he wipes his face on his sleeves. “He said it'd probably take a while, but you would.”
“Oh, really? And how would Clay know?” she says, trying to hide her old irritation with Clay. A hyper child who has grown into a near-manic adolescent, yet he and Drew have always been buddies.
“He wants it to happen. He hates his father. He thinks Dad's great. He said we'd be stepbrothers.”
She stops breathing. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“That's why, isn't it? You and Clay, you hardly ever—”
“I don't know.” He shrugs. “We're into different stuff now, that's all.”
Always the better athlete, Clay makes every team he tries out for. Until now, that never seemed to matter. Drew enjoyed not having to compete and still being able to hang out with the jocks who liked his quirky humor. Always such a good boy. Such a fine young man. Kind and sensitive. She blames herself for his moodiness these last few weeks, his bleak refuge in the den every day, the computer for solace.
“Your dad and I are trying to get through … to get past this. He's a wonderful man. You know that, right?” Her loyalty to Ken is all but destroyed, but the worst thing now is to turn him against his father.
Drew barely nods. The mask slips back over his face. His mother's son, she thinks. Afraid to ask for help.
“He is. He really is. And that makes it even more painful,” she tries to explain. “When something like this happens in a family, everyone's affected, not just Dad and me, but you and Chloe. You're going along just fine—or at least you think you are”—here, she regrets her mirthless little laugh—“and then all of a sudden the ground shifts and nothing feels safe anymore.”
He is chewing his thumbnail. She's lost him. Damn, she should have let him talk. Selfish to go on like this, trying to make herself feel better. “Drew? Is that how it feels?”
“I guess.”
“I know. You're sick of this, aren't you?” Leaning, she kisses his damp, bristly cheek. “That's okay. We can talk later.” She starts the car and pulls into the slow-moving traffic. “Just don't keep your feelings all bottled up. Your pain,” she says, straining over the wheel to