Stranger in the Lake(92)
The people in town have been kinder, rallying around me when things get too crazy, herding me into one of the shops and letting me escape through the back door. Oh, sure, they still whisper about me behind my back, still give me sideways glances, but Chet says they’re coming around, and so is Sam. Especially now that I’ve moved back to his—no, my side of the hill, his icy demeanor is starting to thaw. We’re not back to being friends yet, but we’ll get there.
He hasn’t said as much, but I can tell Sam respects me for refusing to take part in Grant’s podcast, even though he offered me a number that made my eyes bulge. Chet called me crazy when he heard, but I don’t expect him or anybody else to understand. I’m done profiting from Paul Keller.
Paul opens the door and I take him in, his familiar face with a few more wrinkles, the thread of gray at his temple, and I brace for the pang—sadness combined with lingering bitterness for the lies and betrayals he brought into our marriage. But Paul did the right thing that day I went to see him at the police station, and I owe it to our daughter to do the same.
“How are you? You look good.” His gaze dips to our daughter in my belly, a little small for her five months, but otherwise perfect.
“I feel good. The doctor says everything’s right on schedule.” I pull a slip of paper from my bag, small and gray and grainy. “Here, I brought you a picture.”
Episode 12 was the ugliest of all: “A Mother’s Love.” Diana’s genteel Southern cadence, her pretty voice saying all those horrible, awful words after Paul coaxed out a confession. His forgiveness, the promise of his forever devotion and love, but only if she turned herself in. She plunked herself down at Sam’s desk and told him how she’d lured Sienna to the edge of town then bashed in her skull with a garden shovel, which she ditched along with Jax’s necklace and the costume jewelry in a firepit at the Singing Waters campground. By the time Sam got to it, there was nothing but melted plastic and charred metal, licked clean of her fingerprints by weather and flames. But there wasn’t a lawyer on the planet who could keep Diana out of jail after that confession.
As ugly as Diana’s episode was, I could relate to a lot of what she said. That her entire world revolves around this beautiful being, a tiny piece of herself she was designed to love and protect. That motherhood changes you, that it leaves behind a ghostly afterbirth you can never quite scrub off. It didn’t happen to my mother, but I can feel it happening to me, this growing fire to give our daughter everything I never had. Security. Three meals eaten together at a table. Love. The things I was so desperate for when I met Paul, before I got blinded by all the glittery stuff.
I look around now, at the thick rugs, the expensive furniture, the sad man standing before me, and I feel nothing but pity.
He wipes his eyes with a sleeve, steps back to let me in. “Make yourself at home. I just have to run upstairs and grab the papers.”
The papers I’m to deliver to his attorney because he can’t, the ones granting me a divorce. Paul signed them without protest.
He takes the steps by twos and threes, his legs still strong thanks to the treadmill shoved against the window where the dining table once stood. Best view in the house, Paul always said, and now all he can do is look.
House arrest. People went nuts when they heard, but somehow that fancy lawyer of his managed to finagle a plea that included twenty-eight months in this glass palace plus a hefty fine to offset the costs of the monitor strapped to his ankle. Agreeing to testify against his mother helped some, but still. Money can’t buy happiness or bravery. It can’t save a marriage or bring a drug dealer back from the dead. But in these United States of America, especially here in the South, it can keep a white man out of prison.
It would have kept Jax out, too, but he pleaded guilty. The judge gave him sixty-four months, but Sam says he’ll be out a lot sooner. Especially now that he’s found religion, though he doesn’t call it that and he never mentions the word God. Jax preaches in his podcasts, The Path from Prison, that every being is divine and that nature is our church. He talks about other things, too, stuff like astral projection and moral diversity. I have no idea what half of it means, but I listen to him anyway. I like the idea he’s pushing, of people being basically good, that we make mistakes, but ultimately, everybody’s in charge of their own destinies.
Just like I am with mine. Twenty-six and pregnant, on the verge of divorce but still standing. Studying for my GED and then, hopefully, college. It won’t be easy with a baby, but Chet will help, and so will Paul. Between the three of us, we’ll figure out a way.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he says, returning with the papers.
“No, I can’t stay. I promised Chet I’d help him out at the food truck.”
Lake Crosby’s first of its kind. We park it every day at the edge of town, where Chet cooks and I serve until we sell out, usually by three o’clock every afternoon. Oh, the irony of us being back where we began—in a tiny metal trailer—but now we own it and it’s chock-full of food.
Paul holds out the papers, but when I try to take them, he doesn’t let go. “I really loved you, you know. Not the way I should have. Not the way you deserved. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for not letting you in the way you deserved to be. I’m sorry for hurting you.”
He pauses, and I believe him this time. I’m certain this apology is sincere.