This Is Not How It Ends(58)

Nothing is ever as it seems. There was no younger wife for Mom and me to poke fun at. Dad needed something else. I had waited years for this conversation, and he tapped on every raw emotion. My head hurt from all the unanswered questions.

He was beginning to cry. “I was in a very dark place . . . I didn’t want to live. I wanted to save you the suffering.”

Oh, the thoughts that pulsated through my brain. All the scenarios I’d dreamed up and cast out as frivolous bullshit. I wouldn’t say it aloud, how I’d thought it numerous times—that it might have been easier if he were dead. Far more tolerable than living with knowing he chose to stay away, leaving us with the uncertainty of a return. The latter was a faded wish I tucked so deep inside I could easily pretend it wasn’t there. Until now. Until he reappeared, debunking everything I thought was true.

“Charley, you’re an adult. You, your mother, you wouldn’t have been so understanding back then.”

The wound he’d inflicted gaped open, and a mix of emotions spilled through. Anger blended with relief, sadness shadowed surprise. All that we’d lost, all that we’d missed, made for a broken history. Broken because it didn’t have to be this way. Broken because he quashed my understanding of love, teaching me that it couldn’t be trusted, that I couldn’t be trusted.

He was silent, waiting for me to speak, but I was having difficulty finding the right words. This I hadn’t expected. Letting him go, casting him off as long-forgotten, was far easier when there was blame and a biased version of events. Hearing his story turned him into someone real and dimensional; it was impossible to separate the two, and the years that had gone by without as much as a phone call were hard to reconcile.

“You’re wondering why it took me so long?”

My throaty voice was unrecognizable. “We deserved to know, to make our own decision. You made the choice for us.”

“I know how painful deceit can be, Charley. I lived for years with my secret. It almost killed me. Time had passed, and I figured you and your mom were better off without me. I didn’t want to complicate your life. I was in a string of painful, dead-end relationships, and there was trouble with booze. Finally, I got some help. It took years to repair the damage.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

Ben entered the room and took a seat beside me on the couch. I didn’t pull away when he covered my hand with his.

“I don’t need anyone’s pity, Charley. I’ve lived with the regret for years, and I’ll live with it for the rest of my life, but I’ve also found a place of acceptance, both of myself, and of my mistakes.” He paused to let that sink in. “I know you might never forgive me, and I’ll live with that, too.”

Suddenly, all I could think about was my mother. She had died believing she wasn’t good enough. “I wish I could tell her,” I said.

“I know.”

“It wouldn’t change anything, but in some small way she’d draw some satisfaction, some comfort, knowing it wasn’t her fault. You deprived her of that.”

“I was sorry to hear about your mother, Charley. She was a good woman. She didn’t deserve this.”

I sank into Ben’s arms while the tears broke from my eyes. “I didn’t deserve this either.”





CHAPTER 26

September 2018

Once the tears began to fall, I couldn’t speak. I flung the phone and collapsed in Ben’s arms. It was too much information for me to process at once. I’d been told it wasn’t because of me that he left, but hearing it from my father’s mouth felt different. The belief had paralyzed me for years, and because of it, I’d foolishly closed myself off.

My brain was flooded with memories. Some I’d repressed, and others were too painful to conceal. Father’s Day, when Mom and I would go to a double feature. The empty space on a form that asked for my father’s occupation. I thought about the baby I had believed I was carrying, and the enormity of its loss. As far and as fast as my father ran from his parental duties, such was the longing with which I now wanted my own. The idea hitched itself to my heart. There was no denying, no more pretending. My mother gave me enough love to know I could do it. If there’s one thing my father gave me, it was the script to do it right.

Ben left me to cry. He didn’t intrude. He didn’t ask if I was okay, because he knew. He stroked my hair and wiped my tears. “I’m here.” It was two words, but it fed my soul and made the news less frightening.

I pulled back and searched his eyes. They reassured me I’d be okay. There was friendship and concern, and I forgot, for a moment, that we were in the path of a major storm. Jimmy’s footsteps neared, Sunny in tow, and I straightened, while Ben stood and headed for the kitchen. Sunny sniffed the air, sensing the changes, before parking himself by the glass door.

Jimmy carried a stack of games and plopped them on the chrome coffee table. “Are you crying, Charley?” he asked, handing me a tissue.

I nodded. “I’m missing some people in my life . . .” It covered enough. I blew my nose and opened the box on the top. Monopoly. “Get ready to have your bum kicked,” I joked, letting the anxiety seep out of me.

The conversation with my father wasn’t far from my mind during a fierce couple of games. I watched Jimmy maneuver his car around the colorful real estate, my eyes fixed on his expression, his hidden losses, his smile. Ben was planted in the kitchen preparing food, getting a head start on the anticipated power outages. CNN droned in the background with a windblown Anderson Cooper giving live updates from the Florida coast. Though there were comparisons to Irma’s path, the real issue for residents was heavy rain and flooding.