All We Ever Wanted(95)

I tell myself to remember this moment later, if and when we are fighting over money. I tell myself that although I will try to get what is fair, I actually don’t want anything from him anymore.

I glance around the room, thinking back to when we bought this house, how excited I was when we moved in—even happier as I slowly decorated it with furnishings, rugs, and art. The memories make me feel sheepish and shallow, borderline nauseated, until something else dawns on me. I realize I never wanted it to be about accumulating beautiful things or presenting a mere fa?ade of a good life. It was always about creating a home. Something beautiful and real on the inside, too. Something meaningful for the core of our family.

But it all seems like a lie now. And even the parts that weren’t always a lie now feel tainted. Ruined.

   Just as I’m turning to go, I hear footsteps. I know it’s Finch before his face appears in the doorway. I feel sure that his father has put him up to it; there’s no way he’d come back here unless instructed.

Sure enough, he glances at my bag and says, “Mom? What’re you doing? Dad says you’re leaving us?”

I stare back at him, my heart breaking, as I say, “I’m leaving your father…and this house….But I’m not leaving you, Finch. I would never leave you.”

“Please don’t go, Mom,” he says, his voice nearly as deep as Kirk’s. “Don’t leave Dad. Don’t do this to him. To me.”

I want to scream at him. I want to shake him and tell him that his actions may have killed a girl. Instead, I walk over to him and take his face in my hands and kiss his forehead, inhaling his sweet, boyish scent. It is the same as it has always been, despite so many other changes.

“Don’t do this to me,” he says again.

“Oh, Finch. I’m not doing anything to you. I’m doing this for you.”

“Polly’s lying, Mom,” he says.

But unlike all the other times he’s told me this, his statement now rings hollow. It’s as if he’s no longer even trying to be convincing. It occurs to me that maybe Lyla already spoke to him about the photos. Maybe he knows that we somehow have proof.

Regardless, I shake my head and say, “No. She is not. You are.”

His lower lip quivers. I wait for more, but there is nothing else.

“Finch. Please confess,” I plead. “Please do the right thing. Princeton doesn’t matter. People matter….And it’s never too late to say you’re sorry.”

He nods ever so slightly. I have no idea if I’ve actually reached him on some level, or if he is just giving me what I want.

   Regardless, it’s not a battle I can fight tonight. I’ll start again tomorrow, and will fight as hard and long as it takes. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I say. “I’ll be at school for your hearing.”

“Okay, Mom,” he says.

I lean in closer, kiss his cheek, and whisper, “You’ll always be my baby, Finch. And no matter what, I will always love you.”

He inhales as if he’s about to reply. But he can’t, because he’s now crying. We both are. So I just whisper good night. Then I walk past him and right out the front door of what was once our family home.



* * *



—

WHEN I GET downtown to the Omni Hotel, I discover, from a young girl at the front desk, that my credit card has been declined. She is embarrassed for me—and I want to reassure her that a declined credit card is nothing in the scheme of life. I hand her another, although I suspect what will happen even before that card is also declined.

It is all so absurd—so classically Kirk—that I find myself laughing. This is why Julie told me to have my ducks in a row. Because she knew he was capable of this petty bullshit. I consider stepping aside to call her, but then remember that I still have fifteen thousand dollars in my purse. So I check in using some of those bills, then take the elevator to the eighteenth floor. I use the plastic key to unlock my door and walk into the room, looking out over the city where I’ve lived my entire adult life.

I feel as alone and devastated as I’ve ever been, including that horrible night at Vanderbilt.

But in some other ways, I’ve never felt stronger or more certain of my path. I take a shower, then put on my pajamas and get in bed. My curtains are still open, and as I stare out at the lights of Nashville, my phone rings.

   It’s Tom.

Feeling tremendous relief, I answer, saying hello.

Without saying hello back, he simply tells me that Polly’s going to be okay. “She’s staying at the hospital overnight, but she’s stable.”

“Oh, thank God,” I say. “How do you know?”

“Lyla tracked down her parents.”

Of course she did, I think, amazed by her once again. “Can I talk to her? Is she still awake?”

“No. She just fell asleep,” Tom says. “Pretty rough day.”

“I know,” I say, thinking back to standing with my mother in my parents’ kitchen early this morning. How that now seems like a lifetime ago.

“Want to hear the craziest part?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, adjusting my head on the pillow, listening.

“So right after you and Lyla left…guess who just happened to…show up?”