The List

by Alice Ward

  My baby boy. The good son. The best of all of us was slipping away.

  Marga was filled with grief, and she blubbered on and on about all the fights they had and how mean she’d been to him over the years. She was wracked with guilt and sought to absolve herself. She had little sympathy left for anyone else, including me.

  After a while, I grew very calm and I think I went into shock. People and things seemed to move in slow motion. I felt disconnected, as though I was free floating and only a hand touching me could bring me back. I thought I heard Mark’s voice once. He was calling to me from downstairs, and I leapt to my feet and into the hallway. I was sure it had all been a huge mistake; it had been someone else. But the entryway was empty, and Mark’s voice was silent.

  I’d staggered to the phone and called the hospital, certain he had died, and his ghost had visited to say goodbye. But he was still alive, they’d assured me. Barely.

  Worth came in. He looked horrible. He hadn’t slept or shaved or bathed. His voice sounded as if it came from someone else. “I’m sorry.”

  Pulling myself up from the bed, I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Sorry for what?”

  “You were right. All this is my fault. I’ve been a selfish bastard and our children have paid the price.”

  Compassion speared through me, even as anger warred with it. But I had no energy in which to find satisfaction in his confession. I simply pulled him down on the bed and we slept in each other’s arms for the first time in what felt like forever.

  The next morning, Liane returned to sit with me, and she helped me get into the shower. She turned the water on very hot and it was the closest I could come to feeling normal. While I showered, she stripped and changed the bed. Liane forced me to eat half a grilled cheese sandwich and then when I collapsed against the pillow with another pill, she slid beneath the sheets next to me and held my hand before we went back to the hospital to visit with Mark again.

  The days became a repeat of each other and it seemed like a nightmare that wouldn’t end. I remember Worth being there sometimes. Sometimes not. The not became more and more frequent as the days passed from one to another.

  I sank into a depression so deep, it sometimes became impossible to get out of bed. On those days, I was only aware of time passing by the light that did or did not appear through the window. From time to time, I heard movement in the house, often with voices and then they would fade away as I fell back asleep. Sleep was the only place I could live. Breathe without feeling the pain of each inhale.

  A turning point came when Hawk knocked on my door.

  “You need to get up,” he said. “You’ve spent your entire life being passive, then wondering why things were out of your control.” He pulled my blankets off, then grabbed my hand and pulled me to sitting. “Be the mother you want to be. Starting right now.”

  I’d cried again, knowing he was right but also not knowing where to begin. “How?” I asked my child, the tables being turned on us once again.

  “You begin by taking a shower each morning, brushing your teeth, eating breakfast, and getting dressed. Then you go to the hospital and talk to Mark. Do therapy for his arms and legs. Ask the therapists the right way to do it.”

  I looked up at him, startled. “How do you know that?”

  He lifted his chin. “Because I’ve been working with him twice a day. When he gets better, and he will get better, he will need his muscles working as soon as possible.” He walked to the window and threw open the drapes. “I’ve been looking at the layout of your land and think that area would be best for an indoor therapy pool and spa.”

  Stunned, I rose and walked to the window, my hand on the wall to steady myself. “For when he gets better?” The words felt wonderful on my tongue.

  “Yes. I’ll call the architect and get it started with your approval. I’ve already spoken to the therapists and know everything he will need.”

  I gazed up at my eldest son. “Thank you, Hawk.”

  He swallowed. “You’re welcome. Now, get showered and dressed. We’re going to the hospital, just you and me. I’ll be downstairs.”

  He turned and left the room, leaving me to my thoughts.

  Hawk was right. I knew I had to find strength. I knew I had to pull it together and resume the routine. I couldn’t continue to be drugged and sleeping all the time, wallowing in my self-pity.

  I stepped into the shower, then dressed in jeans and a shirt. I left the room that had become my prison and carefully descended the stairs. As I looked around, I realized I was searching for Worth. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been there with me. Why he had abandoned me. He must know I was hurting as much as he.

  Hawk kept his arm around my shoulder as we walked into the ICU that morning. This time I looked at my younger son through non-medicated eyes. The bruises were fading, the cuts closing into little red lines that would someday fade to white.

  Because there would be a someday, I thought for the first time.

  Yes, there would be a someday.

  It could have been my imagination, but I thought Mark’s eyelids fluttered when I spoke to him. I kept speaking and that became our new routine.

  Hours later, a hand fell on my shoulder. I looked up to see it belonged to Hawk. He smiled down at me. “You did good, Mom. Real good. It’s time to go, now. I’ll bring you back tomorrow.”

  I stood and reached for his face and pulled him down to kiss his cheek. He didn’t flinch or pull away, just let me press my lips into his warm skin. “Thank you, Hawk.”

  He smiled down at me. “You’re welcome, Mom.”

  With his arm around my shoulders again, he walked me to his car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Hawk

  I was trying to figure out how in the space of a week my life could have gone from joyous to a living hell. Typically, I looked for someone to blame and typically, my father won that honor. I couldn’t heap it on him completely — not this time. My hands were soiled as much as his.

  I tried to recall the conversation that terrible afternoon at Mom’s. I struggled to remember if there had been any kind words at all in Mark’s presence, but could think of none. Everything said had been poisonous and intentionally hurtful — his side and mine. The three LaViere men had taken one another on, and now one of their lives was uncertain.

  Liane, although sensitive to my maelstrom of emotions, knew she was needed more by my mother’s side. Someone had to take charge, and no one else was stepping up. The vicar had come out, but Mom had been sleeping and Father was missing most of the time, or so Liane told me. He extended his sympathies to Marga and Letty before coming up to see me.

  We sat next to one another on the patio. I noticed suddenly how the blades of grass bent in the breeze and in the distance, the redwing blackbirds rode the tips of swaying tall grasses seemingly without any support. He patted my shoulder and gave his sympathies, but he knew that was just a formality. He knew there was a deep, deep rift in my soul and it would not heal anytime soon.

  “You expect others to heal your hurt for you, Hawk,” the vicar said.

  “Ben, I don’t expect anything from anyone,” I spat back at him, then immediately apologized.

  “Oh, but you do. You feel wounded, and you have a right to, but you keep pouring salt into those open wounds. Hate is that salt, my son.”

  He was right, I knew it, but I didn’t know how to stop. When I asked him how, he shared one word, “Forgiveness.”

  I scoffed. “They don’t deserve my forgiveness.”

  He simply nodded. “Maybe not, but you do.”

  Surprised, I jerked my head toward him. “What do you mean?”

  “My son, forgiveness is never for those who have hurt you. Forgiveness is the key in which you unlock the door to your self-imposed prison. You can release the hate you feel with three words—I forgive you.”

  Hate curled its fist around my heart. “Forgive my mother and father for sending me away? Forgive my brother and sister
for taking what was mine? Impossible.”

  Ben sighed deeply. “Then maybe you should begin by forgiving yourself.”

  I stared at him and heat burned behind my eyes. I blinked rapidly and turned my head away.

  “How badly do you hate the young boy you once were?” he continued. “The hellion who did those terrible things?”

  “I was just a boy,” I defended myself.

  “Yes. So forgive that boy. Forgive the boy who screamed those terrible things, did those terrible things. Killed your uncle. Threatened your siblings. Scared your mother. Emasculated your father.”

  Fury rose inside me. “Emasculated my father? How can you say that? I was a boy; he was a grown man.”

  He frowned at me. “Your father has never been a grown man. He still isn’t to this day. He was abused as a child, Hawk. Horribly abused, emotionally and physically from what I understand. No matter the education he’s received or how hard he has tried to be the better man, he still carries the weight of that abuse with him. He still strives to protect himself at all costs first. Abused children often do that.”

  He was right. A deep part of me knew that. But a deeper part wasn’t ready to let go of the anger. Not yet.

  “Forgiveness is a process, son, one that doesn’t happen overnight as much as people want to believe. The day you become grateful for the lesson you received is the day the healing really begins.”

  I shook my head. “Grateful for the lesson. What do you mean?”

  “Well, what are some of the positives that have occurred in your life because your parents sent you away?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Well, I’m not a spoiled rotten little shit like Mark and Marga, that’s for sure.”

  The vicar nodded. “So, because you were sent away, you’re grateful that you learned to be independent and work for what you have?”

  Damn it. I walked right into that trap. “I suppose.”

  “Hawk, you are or you aren’t. Which is it?”

  Blowing out a deep breath, I answered, “I am. I just wish I could have had parents who loved me enough to help me become the man I am now rather than it having come to me the hard way.”

  “Yes. And I’m sure your father wishes he had a father who loved him. I’m sure your mother wishes she had a mother who loved her. I’m sure they both desperately wish they could have a do-over and make different choices and be different people than the ones they’ve become. But it isn’t possible. What’s done is done.”

  I scoffed. “So I should just forgive and forget?”

  “No. Just forgive. Always remember the lesson. Let it help you become the father you didn’t have.”

  He had left me then and Liane had taken his place, and I pulled her into my lap, needing her close.

  “You okay?” she asked me and I placed a hand on her stomach.

  “I am now.”

  She kissed my forehead and snuggled closer. “Nice chat with Dad?”

  I snorted and she laughed. “Yeah, I felt the conflict in you.”

  That surprised me. I’d expected her to feel my anger. But conflict? I gave it some thought and realized it was true. I was conflicted. I wanted my parent’s love as much as I wanted to hold onto the hate. I wanted to be a big brother as much as I wanted to despise my siblings.

  “Which will bring you more joy in the end?” she asked me, reading my mind. “Which legacy do you want to leave our child?”

  I rested my head on her chest, listening to her wise heart pulse beneath my ear. I already knew the answer to her question. I just wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

  ***

  Later that night, Liane came back from visiting my mother, distraught and looking so exhausted that I became concerned. “Your mother is beside herself. Worth has disappeared, and no one can find him. Hawk, she needs you. She needs a strong man beside her. You’ve got to find him. Forget what happened between you. You’ve got to find him and bring him home.”

  I reluctantly agreed and had there been anyone at all who could have taken the responsibility, I would have shifted it immediately. But there was no one but me. I made a few phone calls first, and no one could give me any information. I checked the clinic and called hotels. Nothing. It was getting very late, and the town had shut down for the night.

  I finally got into my car and decided to simply drive the roads. I looked by the river and went by the old LaViere farm. He was nowhere to be found. On the way back home, I passed by the road on which Mark had nearly lost his life. On a whim, I made a U-turn and turned onto the road. Sure enough, it was by that tree that I found Father. He was asleep, lying on the grass with his arms outstretched.

  I climbed out and bent over him. He’d been drinking heavily. I woke him and dragged him to an upright position. Despite the alcohol, he was coherent. He said nothing. He just looked at me, then folded his arms around me and began to cry.

  We sat that way for a long time, and I patted him on the back until at last he quieted. I helped him into my car and drove him to my house. There I made him a pot of black coffee and helped him shower. He borrowed some clothes from my closet and finally presented himself in the living room.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t,” I responded, the conflict still running through me. “Just don’t. Mother is beside herself and needs you. That’s the only reason I came looking for you.”

  “Hawk, let’s not do this.”

  “Do what, Father? Don’t pretend, not with me. It’s happened again, don’t you see? It’s the same story all over again.”

  He looked at me, his eyes narrowed, trying to comprehend my words. “What story?”

  “You know the one. It’s a classic around these parts. The good son is in an accident at the tender age of sixteen, and the bad son goes on to reproduce more bad seed.”

  Realization hit him, I saw it in his eyes the moment it did. He took a step backwards, then another until his hand was on the doorknob. “No, son. History tried to repeat itself, but it failed this time. The good son will live.” He opened the door and took a step out. “And the bad one…”

  He shook his head wearily and closed the door behind him. He never completed the sentence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Auggie

  Time heals all, I’m told. I disagree. I believe that time blunts the memory as a scab closes a wound. It never truly heals for that would make it completely disappear. But life moves on, and it’s up to each of us to make the best of it.

  Six weeks after his accident, my baby boy opened his eyes. Three days after that, they were able to take him off the respirator. He couldn’t speak at first, and we didn’t know if it was from brain damage or from being on a ventilator for so very long. At first, he could only blink his response, then he grew strong enough to squeeze my hand. Then, miracles upon miracles, he opened his mouth and said his first word. “Mom.”

  After that, things seemed to move quickly, more quickly than I thought they should. He was taken out of ICU and admitted to a rehab unit for intensive therapy. I wanted to scream at the doctors and nurses to stop. To give him time to rest. Time to recover. But no, they were getting him into a chair. Then on his feet. They didn’t listen to the cries of pain that tore at my soul.

  And it was a good thing because, slowly, he began to get better.

  I spent many hours at the hospital, sometimes with Worth and Marga. Sometimes alone. I would simply sit with Mark or we’d watch something stupid on TV. He was quiet, still getting his bearings, still trying to retrieve some of the memories he’d lost. His speech was still hard to understand at times, but his speech therapist was making a difference.

  “H-Hawk v-visited me this m-morning,” he said, and I understood those words clearly enough.

  I examined his face for any anxiety, but there was none. “Did you have a good visit?”

  “Y-yes. I d-discovered him. I mean….” His face turned red as he searched for the right word. “I m-mean… I remembered him.” He was getting frustr
ated with himself. Instead of babying him, I let him process his frustration on his own, the way the therapists told me to. He needed a mother, but he didn’t need to be mothered right now.

  “I’m sure he was glad you are so much better now,” I offered tentatively, still unsure if what he remembered was good or bad.

  He nodded. “He t-told me about the f-fight and asked me to f-forgive him. I asked him to f-forgive m-me too.”

  My face grew hot and I worked hard to blink away the tears. They came anyway, burning a line down my face. “That’s wonderful, honey,” I said, squeezing his hand.

  “Yes. F-family is im…” I waited for as long as he needed to finish the word and smiled when he did. “Important.”

  ***

  When I wasn’t at the rehab center, I turned my attention to the farm. Over the years, I’d found a continuity within nature that pulled me back from the brink. The horses welcomed me, and the exercise stimulated my blood. For the time being, I set aside relationships and problems. As I was learning, these were often resolved on their own and didn’t require my interference.

  One such example was Brandon and Lily. I wasn’t even sure that Brandon still had a law practice as his days were spent at our farm. He and Lily were a common sight, and I was amused to hear they had even begun to bicker a bit. This was always a sign of people being comfortable with one another. They no longer worried about making good impressions. At that point, relationships were like worn-in jeans or shoes — no matter how they appeared to the outsider, they just felt right.

  Lily confessed to me one day that they’d become quite attached to one another and was feeling me out about how I felt on that topic. I had a feeling where all that was headed. Sure enough, Brandon proposed and Lily accepted. They both still wanted to have a family, and that clock was rapidly winding down. Lily asked whether they might be married in the high pasture that fall. I not only told her that would be wonderful but opened the hotel to her and her guests for the reception and in case of inclement weather. It felt good to have some positive spirits around the place.