Things You Save in a Fire(95)

DeStasio let that land. Then he said, “Fuck off.”

“You fuck off.”

He closed his eyes.

“It’s so obvious now that I see it,” I went on. “The lying, the aggression, the secretiveness, the hallucinations … How did it take me so long to catch on?”

DeStasio just glared at me.

“I don’t need you to admit it,” I said. “It’s plain to see.”

“I’m not going to come clean to the captain, if that’s what you’re thinking,” DeStasio said. “I’m two years from retirement. You think I’d give up my pension?”

“I never expected you to come clean.”

He’d as much as admitted it. If this were some other version of my life, I’d be wearing a wire, and I’d now have his confession on tape. I’d take it to the captain, exonerate myself, get my old job back, triumph, and roll credits.

But life’s not the movies. And that wasn’t why I’d come here.

What I was trying to do was bigger than that.

DeStasio tried to pretend I was only there for self-interest. “A thermos of soup’s not going to get me on your side.”

But I wasn’t having it. “You’re already on my side,” I said. “You just don’t know it yet.”

I thought I saw the tiniest flicker of a smile. Though maybe it was a wince. Always a fine line with him.

“On that note,” I said, “I have some good news. I forgive you.”

He gave a tiny snort, like an eye-roll. “For what?”

“For all of it. For disliking me. For being so small hearted and mean. For stalking me, and scaring me, and making me the target of all your misdirected rage. For blaming me for your grief. For taking the one thing in my life that made me feel strong and safe and happy and trying to rip it apart. I forgive you for all of it. I forgive you.”

He studied me for a long time. At last, he said, “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because that’s who I want to be,” I said.

And it was.

“Guess what else?” I said, on a roll now. “I don’t just forgive you. I forgive myself.”

For a second, he looked almost grateful before he turned away. “You can’t forgive me,” he said. “I won’t let you.”

“It’s not up to you.”

“I forbid it,” he said.

“I’m not doing it for you,” I said then. “I’m doing it for me.”

“Get out of here,” he said. “And take your damned soup.”

“I’m not taking the soup,” I said.

“Well, I’m not frigging eating it.”

“Fine,” I said. “Pour it out! It’s homemade by my dying mother, you bitter old pain in the ass, but pour it out.”

“Get out of my house!”

“I’m going,” I said, packing up my bag.

“And take your forgiveness with you!”

“No way in hell. The forgiveness stays!”

“Leave. Right now.”

“I am,” I said. But instead of moving away, I stepped closer. “I’m leaving. But I’m taking you with me.”

DeStasio checked my expression to see if I meant it.

I did.

I expected him to fight me, but as I reached out my hand, all the fight just seemed to drain out of him. Like he’d been fighting way too hard for way too long, and right at that moment, he decided to surrender.

Was it okay, what he’d done to me? Or to Owen? Or to himself? Did an addiction excuse everything? Did losing his son, and then his wife, give him the right to violate all standards of human decency? Of course not.

But did I suddenly want to do everything in my power to make sure that I never let my own grief and rage and disappointment do the very same thing to me?

You bet.

“Come on,” I said, helping him up.

He didn’t resist. “Where are we going?”

“I think you know where we’re going,” I said.

He took a second to get steady on his feet. “You’re taking me to the captain, is that it? Or to the police?”

“Neither, old man,” I said, shaking my head. “I am taking you to rehab.”





Twenty-nine


I FINISHED THAT day feeling strong.

True, DeStasio wasn’t going to confess anything. True, I wasn’t getting my job back. Technically, other than the fact that DeStasio wasn’t dead, I hadn’t accomplished all that much by confronting him.

It didn’t matter. I was proud of myself. I was proud of how I’d handled it all. I’d brought him soup, and gone to check on him, and chosen, over and over, to be compassionate, and to be human, and to do the right thing—no matter if he deserved it or not.

I’d risen above my anger. It wasn’t all gone yet, but it didn’t have to be.

I’d forgiven him. Or tried, at least.

When I’d spoken the words, honestly, I’d been faking. I’d said them on principle, not expecting to feel them. I’d expected the feeling would only follow later. Possibly years later. If at all.

But saying the words had somehow sparked the feeling, too.