Chapter Text
Mary had wanted nothing more than to go home and forget today. Forget about Lila, forget about school, forget about her dead father and her lonely afternoons and her mounting list of failures. She marched up the stairs. Jabbed the keys into the doorknob like she was gouging out a human heart. Flung the door open.
If anyone fucking looks at me, she thought, I’ll go ballistic, I swear to God.
She was not prepared to see Norman at the dining table, intently reading one of her books. Her books. Goddamnit, hadn’t everyone taken enough from her, Do you have the slightest idea how hard I worked to get those, I fought like hell so I could study literature, I busted my ass and I made my mother fucking hate me hate me hate me hate me and now you have the audacity to just—
She took a breath in. Swallowed her rage.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Norman jumped. “Huh? Oh! Hi, Mary! How was—“
“What are you doing?”
“I’m…”
For the first time, his stammer grated on her nerves. Mary was on the verge of a hernia, her teeth gritted, her throat dry, I will not snap, I will not yell, I will not turn into her.
“I— I’m reading,” Norman said. “I’m, uh, I just started, um…”
He checked the cover.
“…Homer’s Odyssey?” He said it tentatively, with a wide, sheepish grin, as though he would be penalized for getting it wrong. “You know, I think you were right when you said my eyes are bad. I—“
“Why?” Mary stood rigid in the doorway.
“Because…” Norman’s brow furrowed with confusion. “Because it was there. Why else?”
He finally took the hint.
“Are you alright?” he asked. He stood up, hesitated, then approached her. Something sparked in Mary. Something with teeth.
She stormed over to the couch. “Does it fucking look like it?”
“Language.” Norman closed the door.
“To Hell with my fucking language!” Mary whirled around and raised her voice. “Answer the question! Does it look like I’m alright?”
“No, but—“
“Exactly!” Seized by unholy vitriol, she took up her bag and flung it onto the floor, not caring if she broke anything. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to! Okay? I’m not alright and I don’t want to talk about it!”
Norman had cowered. Only when Mary threw herself onto the couch did he loosen up. She couldn’t allow herself to feel guilty. If she allowed it, she would cry. Tears already pricked at her eyes. She couldn’t risk coaxing them further. Norman almost tiptoed back to the table, as though Mary were a sleeping tiger, as though she’d maul him if he made too much noise. She might have. She didn’t entirely know.
She was being—
Selfish. Just like the rest of your generation. Lila’s voice still rang clear in her head. Mary wished Norman would allow liquor. How else was she meant to forget that damned phone call? I’m the only family you have! I’ve done everything for you, I do everything for you, and you abandon me! All for some slob you won’t even tell me about! It’s Bates again, isn’t it? Whatever he does to you, you’ll have had it coming! I’m done trying to—
“Mary?”
She needed a minute. Tears were rolling down her face now. Mary wiped them up with her sleeve and tightened her throat until it stopped shaking. “Yeah?”
“I…” Norman’s voice became firm. “I don’t like it when you talk to me like that. I’ve been nothing but kind to you, and I want to help, and… and… and I’ve been yelled at enough for one lifetime, okay? So please don’t do it again. Thanks.”
“Alright.” The dam cracked. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”
“I forgive y… are you crying?”
She’d burst into tears. That was all it took: I’m sorry, I forgive you. Words she’d heard precious little of before him. Words she didn’t deserve to hear. Not after how she’d treated him. Not after lashing out like that.
“No,” she said, voice fraught with desperation, fraying as pain overtook her chest. “I’m— I’m not— I’m—“
“Hey…”
Norman emerged into the room and sat, his movements careful and deliberate, on the couch next to Mary. She couldn’t look at his eyes. Whether it be her own pathetic reflection or a compassion held deep within them, she knew what she would see. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t offer to touch her. Didn’t come closer. Wouldn’t, until she told him to.
“Mary, what’s the matter?” he asked softly.
She bawled. “I don’t know why she hates me so much.”
“Who?”
“Her.”
“Your mother?”
“She’s not my mother!” Shit. The neighbors definitely heard that. “Lila! I don’t know why she hates me so fucking much! I don’t know what I did to her! All I ever did was love her and want to make her happy and try to be with her and please her ‘cause she’s been all alone since Dad died and— and— and—“
She buried her face in her hands and allowed the waves to overtake her. Mary wept. Drowned. From the way Norman reached out to embrace her… she couldn’t explain it, but the tenderness told her something. It must have hit close to home.
She didn’t bother pulling away.
“Come here,” he said, his voice a low rumble now. Like a cat’s purr. Mary allowed him to take hold of her; to bring her closer, until they echoed their positions from that warm, nerve-racking, fragile night last June. He held her head to his chest and ran his fingers through her hair. He should have been repulsed. He should have banished her to her room until she was normal again. Why didn’t he? They both knew that Mary was supposed to be the stable one, the rock in a tumultuous sea. She wasn’t supposed to allow the waves to overtake her. Her one job, her one duty to Norman, and she’d failed. She wasn’t good enough. She didn’t deserve to be his—
This is why you don’t have friends, Mary.
In his arms, she fell apart. God. She hadn’t done that since she was a little girl. But he was the perfect environment for it: a safe, quiet room, with some ambience or other running in the background, full of dusty pillows and well-loved toys and sunlight filtering through a grimy window. Every time she tried to speak— to say sorry, perhaps, though she couldn’t be sure— she only strained her throat fruitlessly. Norman wasn’t put off in the slightest. He only rubbed her back, scratched her head, shushed her whenever words failed. No doubt because it was her go-to whenever she comforted him. Her chest throbbed with emotions that couldn’t find their way out. She wanted to scream in abject pain. When the tears worsened still, Norman embraced her fully— both arms, this time— and rocked her back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“I’ve got you,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I’m here. Mary, I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Can you hear me?”
She nodded feebly.
“Good. Deep breaths, alright? In and out. Like you always tell me. Here. Listen to my heartbeat.”
She would have done anything to quiet the raging, screaming despair in her head. Mary pressed her ear to Norman’s chest.
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
Mary hadn’t expected it to be so steady. (Had Norman calmed himself for her? The notion made her want to weep again.) Nor had she expected to hear so much. The rhythmic pulse beneath his ribs; the rise and fall of his lungs; the occasional contraction of his gut. The place in his throat where every hush or hum or gentle word started. His inner workings. His machinations. He was human and alive; and she was human and alive; and recognizing that, already, was an improvement.
She must have calmed down considerably; because Norman patted her head and said, “There. See? Isn’t that better?”
Mary could only nod.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She buried her head in his chest, craned her neck to hear his viscera again, then cleared her throat. Her voice came out tight and nasally. “It’s just… I don’t know. She called me. And I wanted so badly to scream at her, and tell her to never contact me again, but I— I couldn’t. I can’t. I’ve felt so shitty about it all day. I just keep crawling back to her. I’ll leave for a little bit, but it always ends the same way. I want to say she makes me come back, but the truth is that I fucking let her. Every time!
“And then,” Mary continued, unable to stop now that she’d started, “because you never just feel shitty about one thing, right, that snowballed into me thinking about everything else. Like my dad, and how it’s like I’m in freshman year all over again, because everyone’s got this whole college thing down pat except for me, and I have no one but myself to blame for it. And— and the breakup with that asshole Rhonda, way back in January. You remember Rhonda, right? Who am I kidding, of course you do, I couldn’t shut the fuck up about her.
“Except, really, I was the asshole. I was stupid, and if I hadn’t been, we’d still be together. It’s been eating me alive ever since. The one time someone actually liked me back, actually gave a shit about me, and I blew it, like a moron. So now, here I am, feeling sorry for myself.”
Norman was incredulous, bordering on indignant. “You’re not stupid! Mary, you are not stupid. You made some mistakes, sure. I— I mean, I think. Based on what you told me. I don’t actually know. You could just be beating yourself up.”
”Deserved,” Mary said.
He ignored it. “But the point is, you’re probably the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah, well, you haven’t met a whole lot of people.”
Norman didn’t respond to this, either. He just kept rocking her back and forth. Probably because he knew she was right. But, if nothing else, Mary was beginning to understand why he liked repetitive motion so much. Unlike the rest of the world, it was predictable. Soothing. Safe.
“I’m really sorry.” It had taken him a while, but he finally spoke again. “It all just sounds so horrible. I… I’d feel sorry for myself, too, if I were you.”
He paused for a moment. Probably thinking. Mary resisted the urge to start rocking herself, to whine piteously until he continued.
Then: “Can I ask why you want to cut Lila off?”
“Because—“ oh, great, here came the waterworks again “—because I can’t deal with it anymore! She’s never happy with me. She hasn’t been since I was a kid. It’s almost like she’s mad at me for growing up, or something. And she hates you. And I feel like it’s all my fault, and I have worked my ass off trying to fix it, and—“
“How could it possibly be your fault?”
Mary had to stop and think.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “These things are usually my fault. You know. Interpersonal things. Maybe— maybe if I’d just tried harder, if I’d been better… there are so many things I could do to be enough for her. But why the hell would I do them? They make me fucking miserable. And it’s clear I make her miserable, too. I’m not the victim here. We’re just… not good for each other. Like a couple that didn’t work out.”
“A daughter is a poor substitute for a lover,” Norman said softly. Maybe to himself.
Mary had to make sure she heard him right. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh.”
She nuzzled his chest again. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
Norman’s voice stayed soft. “Do you want anything to drink? There’s still some Gatorade left in the fridge, if you’d like any.”
Mary shook her head.
“You sure?”
Nod.
“Alright. Are you hungry?”
No.
“Well, let me know if you need anything.”
Nod, again.
Silence.
“Hey, Mary?”
“Hm?”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I…” Norman hesitated. “I think you’re really brave.”
“Yeah, right. I’m such a pussy, I can’t even say no to my own mother.”
“But you try. You keep trying. Far more than I ever did. Your mother sounds a little like mine. They’re very different, of course, but they’re… similar.”
Norman swallowed.
“I wish I’d been as brave as you when I was your age,” he said. “Maybe things would be different.”
Mary was too tired to muse about what might have been. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“The point is,” Norman continued, “I’m proud of you, okay? That’s the first thing. Even if you don’t think I should be, I am. And I think you… well… I don’t know if you should break ties with her, but you still can. If you really want to. And it isn’t your fault. At least from what I hear.”
Mary found it in herself to smile. “That’s rich coming from you. Mr. ‘My-Mother-Wasn’t-That-Bad.’”
“I know.” Norman laughed softly. “I know. But everything I’ve said, I mean. Okay?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“I’m sorry for—“
“No.” His voice got firm again. “Don’t apologize to me. If I’m allowed to cry, so are you. Frankly, I can’t believe it took you this long.”
“But I can’t get like this. It’s not fair to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t help you when I’m like this!” More tears fell. She was back to sobbing before she knew it. “And you already go through enough! The last thing I want is to add to it! I just want to help you, Norman. I’m supposed to help you.”
“Mary…”
“And there’s all this shit I’ve done that I have to make up for, and… you deserve better than this. You deserve better than me.”
Norman shook his head. “That’s not true. We’re friends. You can’t be my doctor and my friend at the same time, can you?”
Well, when you put it that way…
“No, I… I guess not,” Mary said, clinging to him.
“I think…” Norman’s movements had turned absentminded. Mechanical. A brush of fingers against her hair, a moment of swaying— she could tell he was deep in thought now. “I think… you… you act like the kind of person you needed once.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… I— I think that’s why you’re so nice. And if that’s the kind of person you need… well, why push it away?”
“Because I’m the one who helps people. Not the one who is helped. That’s just how it is. I worked so hard to get where I am, and if I just let someone coddle me—“
“It’s not coddling.” He shook his head. “You know, I think you’re just not used to it. I used to feel a lot like that, too. Before I met you, I didn’t think I deserved help or friends or comfort.”
“I… I…” Mary spluttered. Before her? She had changed something for him? Made something better?
Norman shushed her again. “But that’s why we have each other. Look, whatever kind of person you need, I want to be that for you. Okay? You deserve to have a rock just as much as I do. But you’ve got to let people in. Because if you just give and give and get nothing back... that’s not living. I don’t know if I can be the person you need, but I want to try.”
Mary closed her eyes. Her voice was rough now, softened with exhaustion. “Why?” was all she could manage.
“Why not?” Norman asked, rubbing her back.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I’m a real handful.”
He shook his head. “Not to me, Mary. Never to me.”