Before I Let You Go(75)

I could tell Sam that I’m a fixer—that I’m The Fixer in my family. I was the girl who could hold things together when they began to crumble. I was the girl who could, overnight, become an adult if it meant keeping my family together. I’m the woman who stops at nothing to restore order when it’s lost, not just in my life, but in my sister’s life.

That is who I am, in a way that’s somehow truer than any other aspect of my identity. And that’s why my failure to help Annie makes me question every single thing I know about myself. Her addiction has been a swirling abyss of risk in my life for six years now. If she succumbs to it, then somehow, I’m lost to it, too, because since Dad died, she and I have been linked in a way that I can’t separate or even fully understand.

But I’m not brave enough to give voice to any of that yet, and so instead of my vulnerability, Sam gets my defense mechanisms.

“How can you even ask me that?” I snap. He makes a sound that’s half groan, half sigh, and I push past him. I walk by the sofas and toward the stairs, and his pleading voice follows me—an open invitation to stop right now before I use the mess of my relationship with Annie to cause damage to my relationship with him.

“Honey, please don’t shut me out—”

“I’m going for a walk,” I say abruptly over my shoulder. “I just need some time to myself.”

I pull on workout clothes and I fix all of my thoughts on the cool air waiting outside. I’ll walk around the block a few times. I’ll soak up the atmosphere of our comfortable, affluent neighborhood in the early evening, until I can believe again that I belong here. I’ll look through windows, into the lamplit glow of the homes of normal families all around us, and I’ll tell myself that everything is going to be okay for Sam and me, too, eventually.

But when I come back downstairs, he is waiting for me at the front door. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his jaw is set—and when I look into his eyes I see not anger, but determination.

“Well?” I say, and he opens his arms and turns his palms upward, as if he’s surrendering. I look at his hands; strong hands, hands that hold life every single day. They are trustworthy and capable hands, and they belong to a man who shares those qualities.

A man who does not deserve to be shut out. I just wish that I knew how to let him in.

“I’ll drop it for now, okay? We don’t even have to talk.”

“I told you, I need a walk,” I say, and when Sam doesn’t react, I add pointedly, “by myself.”

“And I don’t want you walking around out there on your own in the dark. So I’ll forget about the conversation you obviously aren’t ready to have, but please let me walk with you. Okay?”

It’s my turn for a frustrated sigh, but I let him follow me around as I stomp my way through the neighborhood. When we finally walk back through the door forty-five minutes later, Sam speaks for the first time since we left. “I think I’ll cook pasta for dinner tonight. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes,” I say softly. “That sounds good. Thanks.”

“We haven’t watched a movie together in a while. Let’s open a bottle of wine and try to relax tonight, huh?”

He’s already on his way to the kitchen when I catch his hand. Sam turns back to me, eyebrows raised.

“Thanks,” I say a little reluctantly—because although I’m grateful for his patient support, I want to make sure that he understands that word is not an open invitation to resume a more in-depth discussion. Sam nods, then twists his wrist around and slides it back so that he can take my hand and pull me toward himself. Once I’m stiffly pressed against his chest, he wraps his arms around my body and just holds me. We stand in silence for a moment. Then Sam kisses the side of my head and murmurs, “I love you, Lexie.”

The terse walk didn’t relax me much, but somehow, that hug and those words reground me. I inhale deeply, and when I exhale, I feel the knotted muscles of my shoulders start to give, and I melt against him a little.

“I love you, too,” I whisper back.

“Tonight,” Sam tells me, “we relax. Together. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The next morning, Bill calls Sam to let him know that we’ve been appointed as Daisy’s legal guardian at his recommendation, with a review planned for the week before Annie is due to graduate from rehab.

“Why did he call you?” I frown when Sam tells me the good news.

“Does it matter?”

“No.” I sigh. “Not really.”

“Have they given you a more definite timeline for Daisy’s discharge?”

“Last I heard, they were thinking it would be toward the end of next week.”

“We better get some diapers this weekend, then.”

“I think diapers are the least of our worries. We better get some sleep.”

I’m caught off guard that afternoon when the pediatrician announces that they’re going to drop Daisy’s last few MLs of morphine quicker than they’d planned—her NAS scores have been stable enough to complete the final part of the weaning process.

“So, when do you think she’ll be discharged?” I ask hesitantly.

“Well, if she’s stable on this dose today, we’ll try her without anything for tomorrow. I’d like to observe her for a day, maybe two—but then we can discharge her.”