The Driveway

Mom did not move toward the door. Neither did I. David knocked again. Three slow knocks. “Laura?” he called from outside. “Please. I need to talk to Mark.” Mom wiped her face with both hands. “You should go upstairs,” she told me. “No.” “Emily.” “I’m not leaving.” She looked too tired to argue. The guest-room door opened behind us. Dad stepped into the hallway with his cane. He had changed into an old gray sweatshirt, the one he wore during chemotherapy because the sleeves were loose enough for the IV. He looked toward the front door. “Is that him?” Mom nodded. Dad walked slowly across the living room. “Mark, you don’t have to do this tonight,” she said. He did not answer. When he reached the door, he unlocked it but left the chain in place. David stood on the porch. His eyes were red. “I’m sorry,” David said immediately. Dad stared at him through the narrow opening. “You came back to say that?” “I came back because leaving felt worse.” Dad gave a tired laugh. “That is interesting.” “Mark—” “No. You do not get to say my name like we are still friends.” David lowered his eyes. Mom stood behind Dad. I stayed near the stairs. David saw me over Dad’s shoulder. His face changed. “Emily, I’m sorry you saw—” “Don’t talk to her,” Dad said. David stopped. Dad removed the chain and opened the door. For one second, I thought he was going to let David inside. Instead, Dad stepped onto the porch and pulled the door nearly closed behind him. I hurried to the front window. Mom did not stop me. Outside, Dad walked into the driveway. David followed. The evening air was cold. Dad wore no coat. He stood beside Mom’s car, leaning heavily on his cane. David kept several feet between them. “I never meant for this to happen,” David said. Dad looked at him. “That sentence usually means it has been happening for a while.” David shook his head. “There was no affair.” “Laura said the same thing.” “Because it’s true.” Dad looked toward the house. He could probably see my face in the window. I stepped back, but not far enough to stop watching. “How long have you loved her?” Dad asked. David’s mouth opened. Then closed. That was the moment everything changed. Until then, the kiss could still be called a mistake. A terrible one. But a mistake. David’s silence made it something else. Dad nodded slowly. “How long?” “I don’t know.” “That means long enough to be ashamed of the answer.” David wiped his face. “It started at the hospital.” Dad’s grip tightened around his cane. “Which hospital?” David flinched. Dad’s voice became sharper. “I was in three hospitals. Which one?” “The second one.” The second hospital. That was where Dad almost died from an infection. That was where Mom slept in a plastic chair for five nights. That was where David brought us clean clothes and food. Dad looked as if someone had struck him. “You fell in love with my wife while I was fighting for my life?” “No,” David said quickly. “That is not how it happened.” “Then explain it.” David stepped closer. Dad raised one hand. “Stay there.” David stopped. He looked smaller than I had ever seen him. “Laura was falling apart,” David said. “You were so sick, and she was trying to hold everything together.” “I know what my wife was doing.” “She would call me after you fell asleep.” Dad’s expression changed. Mom made a sound behind me. I turned. She was standing near the window now. Her face had gone pale. Dad heard the sound through the glass and looked toward the house. Then he faced David again. “How often did she call?” David stared at the ground. “Some nights.” “Some?” “Most nights near the end.” Dad closed his eyes. For a moment, the only sound was a car passing at the end of the street. David continued. “She needed someone who understood what was happening.” “I was there.” “You were in pain.” “I was still her husband.” “I know.” “No, you don’t.” Dad’s voice broke. David started crying. “I was trying to help.” Dad looked at him for a long time. Then he asked, “Why did you keep coming after I got better?” David said nothing. Dad waited. “You kept bringing groceries,” he said. “You kept fixing things. You kept finding reasons to be here.” “I care about all of you.” “That was not my question.” David looked toward the house. His eyes found Mom through the window. That look lasted only a second. But Dad saw it. So did I. Mom stepped away from the glass. Dad’s shoulders dropped. He no longer looked angry. He looked certain. “You were not coming for me,” he said. David started to speak. Dad shook his head. “Do not lie now. It is too late for that.” “I love you,” David said. Dad stared at him. “You love me?” “You are my brother.” Dad gave a short, painful laugh. “My brother does not kiss my wife in my garage.” David covered his face. Dad turned toward the house. “I never wanted to hurt you,” David called after him. Dad stopped. He did not turn around. “You held my hand when I was scared,” Dad said. “Do you remember that?” David lowered his hands. “Yes.” “I thought that was the safest I had ever been with another person.” Dad looked back at him. “Now I do not know which memories were real.” David’s face collapsed. Dad walked toward the porch. His leg dragged more with every step. I wanted to run outside and help him. But I knew he would hate needing help in front of David. So I stayed where I was. At the porch, Dad turned one final time. “Do not come back.” David nodded, crying. Dad entered the house and locked the door behind him. Mom moved toward him. Dad raised his hand before she could touch him. “Not tonight.” He walked toward the guest room. Mom stood in the middle of the living room. Outside, David remained in the driveway. He did not leave for several minutes. The next morning, I found Mom sitting at the kitchen table with her phone in front of her. She had not slept. Dad was still in the guest room. I poured cereal into a bowl and sat across from her. Mom stared at the phone. “What are you waiting for?” I asked. She looked at me. Then she pushed the phone across the table. A message from David was open. It said: Tell Mark the kiss was my fault. Don’t tell him about the night at the hospital.