Page 70 of The Session

“I assume she told you about my son, Kevin.”

Mark was beginning to understand that everything with these people was a game of intimidation and off-balancing, measuring how you reacted. From an athletic viewpoint, it was a sound strategy.

“About my brother? Yes.” Mark spoke deliberately to see how Mrs. Lightman would react to his undeniable connection to Kevin.

“Half brother,” she corrected.

“A few days ago, I never even knew I had one, so I’ll take it,” he said.

Marnie quickly switched topics. “How’s Carol doing?”

“She’s done pretty good for herself. She’s got good health—about everything you can ask for.”

“She’s the general manager of a dollar store, right?”

Mark was aware she knew much more than she was letting on, and the question seemed less about curiosity than about putting Carol in her place. He also understood that Marnie Lightman was grieving the loss of a son while Carol’s son was still alive, so he decided not to push back.

He nodded.

“If you hated me, I wouldn’t blame you,” Marnie said.

“I don’t know you. I don’t know my father either. So love or hate really isn’t even in the picture right now,” Mark replied honestly.

She nodded in agreement, already preparing her next probe.

“My husband’s brilliant, and he’s also a scoundrel. I’ve never had any ill will toward you. Perhaps some toward your mother, but I think I’m allowed that. But I want you to know I never wanted anything bad for you, and in fact, if you ask your mother, she will tell you—if she is being honest—that I made sure to check in on you, that you had shoes on your feet and clothes on your back.”

Every Christmas there had been at least one good outfit and a pair of Adidas or Nikes from Santa, even when times were tough. Mark always assumed his mother had scrimped and saved to manage such gifts. Now the realization sank in: Symbolic as the gesture might have been for someone with Marnie Lightman’s wealth, at least it had been a gesture.

“I was in North Georgia and saw your junior varsity game against . . . I think it was Cross Creek. You played quite well. That was the month before you hurt your knee,” Marnie recalled.

“You should have said hello.”

“I think your mother saw me, but she didn’t say anything, and I didn’t want to make it awkward.” Marnie sat back. “When you had your injury, we paid for a specialist to take a look at your case and provide advice to your doctors. I don’t even know if your mother knows that.”

“I appreciate that,” Mark said.

“According to the doctor, you made a full recovery by summer. I’ve always wondered why you didn’t keep playing.”

“I think I understood the difference between a good player and a great player,” he replied. “My senior year, I decided I wanted to spend more time coaching and helping other teammates than chasing a scholarship I didn’t think was waiting for me.”

“Have you ever met a seventeen-year-old capable of knowing the difference between good and great, and how much more they could bring out of themselves?” she asked.

Mark had thought about that a lot. It was easy to say he knew his limits, but it wasn’t necessarily honest to claim he had truly pushed them.

He had known players with less athletic potential who pushed themselves harder—getting up an hour earlier, spending more time in the weight room, fixating on their diet, running drills until the coaches were exhausted—because they desperately wanted to become more than the sum of their parts. And sometimes, though not often, it worked.

“We learn things as we get older. I think that’s why I decided I wanted to be a coach,” Mark said.

“And yet, up until quite recently, how has that worked out? You’ve operated a small-time charity, noble as it may be, but nowhere near as effective as it should be, given the amount of time and energy you and the others have put into it. You’ve sent out letters of inquiry to college and pro football teams, but you’ve only managed to get a handful of interviews, and in each case you didn’t make enough of an impression to lead to a promising career path.”

Damn. If this was how she spoke to him, Mark could only imagine what conversations with Kevin were like. Mark had assumed Kevin’s drug use was tied to pressure from his father. Now . . .

“On the other hand,” she continued, “you have a sense of duty and fearlessness to do the right thing, which makes for a very odd combination—someone capable of doing great things yet choosing not to.”

“When I want something, I’m pretty good at getting it,” he told her.

“Maybe, but I sense that you’re afraid to ask for more,” she observed.