I can’t look at her. Because I don’t want to believe what she’s just said. I don’t want to hope, because before I allow myself to do that, I need to deal with what’s happened.
All of it.
“I don’t know how to forgive him, Mom.” And there it is.
The very idea of forgiving Kevin resembles something the size of the Hubbard Glacier in my mind. A few years ago we took an Alaskan cruise. I’ll never forget the feeling of standing on deck, staring at that massive stretch of blue ice, cold sea swirling around it. Every now and again blocks of frozen water would break away with a horrendous crack, the splash shaking the huge ship I stood on. And I remember feeling incredibly small, and in complete awe of God’s creation.
“Janice says I have to take him back. That it’s my duty.”
“Janice has some overzealous ideas.” Mom laughs, then gets serious again. “The choice is completely yours, darling. You don’t have to take him back, but I do believe, at some point, you need to forgive him. For both your sakes.”
“He hasn’t asked for my forgiveness.”
“No.” My mother’s eyes fill with sudden tears. “Perhaps he hasn’t. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t offer it.”
Paul returns just before lunch, a myriad of Christmas leftovers Mom, Janice, and I throw together. Kevin takes off without coming in and I’m okay with that. My brother picks at his meal in silence, not eating much, then disappears upstairs and stays there for most of the afternoon. Paul and Janice are leaving early tomorrow morning, and I want the chance to talk to him again before that. I hope he’s all right. Knowing how close he and Kevin were, I know he’s had a hard time with all this.
Haven’t we all?
Paul finds me in the kitchen later that night, nursing a cup of tea at the table.
His smile apologizes without words. He joins me at the table, bringing two glasses and a bottle of brandy with him.
I smile back and raise a brow. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.” Paul’s smile is his best feature. He’s always been more of the bookish type. He could pass for a college professor instead of a preacher. But he’s also a champion wrestler, something only a few people know. As far as I’m aware, he hasn’t put those skills to use since entering the ministry. I hope he didn’t try any of his old moves on Kevin this morning.
“Want to talk?” I ask, because I know he’s going to anyway, and he’s probably not sure I want to hear what he has to say.
“Don’t look at me like that. He asked me to meet him. I couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to say no.” He corrects himself and slides a generously filled glass toward me, and we offer a silent toast.
“Is Kevin okay?”
Paul shrugs, his eyes shimmering under the overhead lights. “I think he will be.”
“Are you okay?” My heart aches for him, for what their conversation must have cost him. Cost them both.
“I’m better than I was yesterday. Kevin and I have needed to talk for a long time. I thought about hopping on a plane a ton of times, you know, after you first called to tell me what was going on. But I was too angry. I didn’t trust myself not to plow him into the ground.”
“You didn’t . . .” For half a second I can still imagine that scenario.
Paul laughs and shakes his head. “No. We just talked.”
“Tell me what to do.” It’s a pointless request, but I make it anyway.
Paul’s amused laughter fills the warm kitchen. “Not a chance. I learned that lesson a long time ago.”
“Right.” When I was around nine, I got so sick and tired of my brother bossing me around that one day, after he commanded I turn off the television and go put the dishes away like I was supposed to be doing, I punched him in the stomach. He stopped telling me what to do after that. “If I promise not to punch you?”
“Savannah.” He rolls his eyes, drinks, and puts down the glass. “This is something you and Kevin have to work out. I can’t tell you what I’d do or what I think you should do. All I can do is be here for you, and trust that as you pray and think more on your situation, you will find the right answers.”
“Is that what you told Kevin?”
“Yes. Among other things.” He looks away, but I see his eyes mist over.
“Sometimes I think walking away would be easier.” I swirl my glass and watch amber liquid spin in circles, the way my thoughts have been doing all day. “If he’d just stayed with Alison, I could have started over. But now I don’t know which end is up. I don’t know what he wants.”
“I think you do know that.” Paul locks his gaze on me, smiles in that gentle way of his, and I can’t look away.
“He wants to reconcile.” It’s what I wanted weeks ago. But now . . . “What if I don’t?”
Paul’s gaze stays steady. “It’s your choice to make, Savannah. But if you both decide your marriage is worth saving, there will be work.”
“We’d have to go back, wouldn’t we? Rehash it all . . . talk about . . . about Shelby.” My hands begin to tremble and I slide them onto my lap.
“Grief manifests in many forms, Savannah. Sometimes it pushes people together. In other instances, especially in the death of a child, it can drive them apart.”
“Exhibit A.” I press my teeth into my bottom lip. Anger won’t do any good. I know that. But the moment I think I’ve conquered it, it charges back for another round. “Do you think our marriage is fixable? Have you seen couples go through this?”
“More times than I care to remember.” He splays his hands on the table, his eyes full of compassion.
“Do they stay together?”
“Some.”
“How?”
My brother pushes his fingers through his hair and shrugs. “Counseling. A lot of hard work from both parties. Patience and the willingness to rebuild the relationship, gain back the trust. I’m not going to sit here and tell you it’s easy. It’s not. And sometimes, no matter how hard a couple tries, it doesn’t work. Sometimes what they’re dealing with is too self-destructive, too damaging, and too dangerous. In some cases, they are better off apart.”
“You advise people to get divorced?” I wonder if Janice knows this.
“No. But I don’t condemn them if that’s the choice they eventually make. Yes, in a perfect world, happily ever after might exist. But we don’t live in that perfect world yet. Do I believe miracles can happen? Sure. But we have to step aside and let them. The answers aren’t always obvious. And sometimes things don’t happen the way we want or intend them to.”
“Tell me about it.” I finish my drink and rub a hand over my eyes. “It’s hard to look at him and not see her. Not think about what he did. I want to move past that, but I’m not sure how. I don’t know when or if that will happen.” Exhaustion is getting the better of me. But maybe I’ll sleep better tonight. Talking with Paul always helps.
He nods, his face grave. “I imagine that will be one of the biggest obstacles for you to overcome. For Kevin too. He’s going to have memories that won’t go away. He’s going to hate himself for a long time, Savannah.”
“He should.”
Paul props his elbows on the table, rests his chin over his clasped hands, and studies me through tired eyes. “I need to ask you something. I don’t want to hurt you, but I believe it’s something you need to think about, and work through. If you want to save your marriage, if you’re willing to fight for it, this must be dealt with.”
“Okay.” I give a shaky sigh, sit back, and grip my elbows. Then I remember what one of my therapists said about body language and how it can be perceived and make a tense situation even worse, so I let my arms go limp, breathe deeply, and fold my hands in my lap instead. “Go ahead. Ask.”
“Do you believe Kevin holds you responsible for Shelby’s death?”
“What?” The question shoots from my mouth like a gunshot, my blood pressure shooting right along with it.
“I said—”
“I heard what
you said! What I want to know is why you said it. Did he say it? This morning . . . did he tell you . . . No, never mind. I don’t want to know.” This was the last thing I expected to hear. Not from Paul. I have to calm down or I’ll lose it. But I don’t want to calm down. I don’t want to sit here a minute longer. I don’t want to have this conversation.
“Savannah, breathe.” Paul is annoyingly calm while I am frantic.
I study my shaking hands, twist the rings on my finger, and think about the gold wedding band on the chain that sits on the dresser upstairs. And suddenly it’s all too much.
“I can’t do this. Not now.” I push my chair back and rush from the room. If there had been a door to slam I would have slammed it. Hard.
CHAPTER 20
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
—OSCAR WILDE
Perhaps it was time he accepted his fate.
Brock folded another shirt and placed it in his suitcase. Clarice had caught Maysie’s cold but was feeling better, despite the lingering cough, and insisted he not postpone his trip. And if he were honest with himself, he couldn’t wait to get out of here. This past week, since Christmas Day really, life had been unbearable.
Lady Antebellum belted out a tune from the iPod dock across the room and he reached for the remote to turn the music down. Everything was too loud today. Too bright. He hadn’t bothered to open the curtains. The sun on snow was glaring. Even taking a shower hurt.
Brock hadn’t felt this much pain in months.
And it flat-out terrified him.
He planned to leave first thing tomorrow morning. He didn’t know yet when he was coming back or what answers he’d bring with him. He reached for a sweater and jumped at the sound of someone knocking on his bedroom door.
“Brock?” Savannah poked her head in and his pulse slowed. “Oh. You are here. Sorry. I let myself in. No one answered the doorbell.”
“Didn’t hear it.” Brock drank in the sight of her as she walked into the room. If he could commit that face to memory, freeze time and make like none of this was happening, he’d do it in an instant. He cleared his throat and avoided her questioning eyes. “Clarice and Maysie went to the store.”
“And you’re . . .” She rounded the bed, indicated the suitcase, and widened her eyes. “. . . going somewhere?”
“Business trip.”
“Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. Odd time to go on a business trip.”
“It is what it is.” Man, he could be a real jerk.
“O-kay.” He watched her try to hide her surprise. “Well, then I guess I won’t invite you for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Guess you won’t. I’m sure Clarice and Maysie are free, though.” Self-loathing curled in his stomach and he forced himself to face her and her confusion. “So. What are you doing here?”
Savannah leaned against his dresser, her coat unzipped. She wore that pink sweater he liked, her hair falling around her face in soft waves. But her eyes were sad; he’d chased away her smile the minute he opened his mouth.
She let out a breath and shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I came for Hope. Everybody’s gone now.”
“Oh. Right. Did I know you were coming?” Clarice probably told him, but his memory wasn’t working the way it should. Nothing was working the way it should this week. Even walking was a chore.
Shooting pain sliced up his neck and wrapped around his head like barbed wire. Brock inhaled and took slow, measured steps toward the chair by the window. The room began to spin. He swore, slumped into the chair, and leaned over his knees.
She was at his side at once. “What is it? Brock, what’s wrong?” Panic flared in her eyes. If only he could capture it and box it up, put it well out of reach with all the other nightmares he’d tried to kidnap over the years. Savannah crouched beside him, her hands on his arm. “What can I do?”
“Nothing.” He leaned back and offered a brief smile. He rested his other hand on hers, grateful for the contact. Nights and days of living alone through the screaming pain were getting to be almost unbearable. “It’ll pass.”
“Is it a migraine?”
“I wish.” He winced again, closed his eyes, and felt her hand against his forehead. “And it’s not the flu, so don’t go there.” He pointed to the dresser where an array of orange prescription bottles sat alongside the fresh jug of water Clarice set out for him twice daily, no matter how many times he told her it wasn’t necessary. “Grab me that first bottle, would you? The one with the red label, please.” Every word was excruciating. Not only because of the pain, but because of the other kind of pain he knew was coming. But he didn’t have a choice now.
He had to let her in.
She did as he asked but took a long look at the label after she’d handed him a pill and a glass of water.
Savannah crossed the faded rug to put the bottle back where she found it. Brock steadied his breathing as he waited for the meds to kick in and watched her stand at the dresser for a long time, her back to him.
At last she turned, still huddled inside her coat, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”
Brock clenched his fists and shut his eyes for a second.
He didn’t want to do this. Not here. Not now.
Not when he couldn’t trust himself to stand.
When he couldn’t even hold her.
“Go downstairs. I’ll be down soon.”
She shook her head, took off her coat, and hung it on the door-knob. She scanned the room and grabbed a footstool, sat in front of him, and nailed him with that stubborn look he was getting rather used to. “I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m fine.” He almost grinned at her annoyed expression but didn’t have the energy.
“Brock.”
“Okay.” He sighed, held her gaze, and said it. “Brain tumor.”
Her scowl deepened. “Very funny.”
Brock lifted his shoulders and let them sag. The thumping was beginning to lessen, but he’d probably have to puke in the next hour. “You asked.”
Her eyes puddled with fresh tears, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “No.” Savannah shook her head, took his hands in hers and held tight. “Brock, come on,” she whispered. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“It’s just a little one. About half the size of a golf ball right now.” He mustered a smile. “Only . . . they can’t touch it because the operation might kill me.”
She still didn’t look convinced. “If you’re making this up, Brock Chandler, you have a very warped sense of humor. And I will never forgive you.”
“Darlin’, I wish I were making it up. I can give you the number for my oncologist if you like.”
Silence surrounded them and made an admirable attempt at suffocating him. He forced his eyes to stay open until he saw the truth register in hers.
“You’re not kidding. Oh, Brock.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “How long have you known?”
“Almost a year. We’ve done everything, oral chemo, radiation. It’s not shrinking. I’m going to see a new doc in New York this week, but I don’t think he’s going to tell me anything I don’t already know.” He leaned forward and brushed her tears away with his thumbs. “The timing kind of sucks, I have to admit.”
“Does Maysie know?” She blinked, pulled his hands down, and clasped them in hers.
Brock sighed deep. He could happily sit here staring into her lovely face forever. Being with Savannah made him forget everything else. Even the one thing he dreaded most. Telling Maysie he probably wouldn’t be around to celebrate her next birthday.
Or for the rest of her life.
“Not yet. She knows I get a lot of headaches. That I don’t feel good sometimes. But I was waiting to see . . .” He let out a shaky sigh. “I was hoping for a better outcome.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Her whisper reached right through him and squeezed his heart.
Unwant
ed tears stung and he swallowed the rock in his throat. “I should have kept my distance from you. I knew that the first day I laid eyes on you.”
She studied her shoes, her long hair falling forward. He sat there and watched her shoulders shaking, heard her stifled sob, and wished for the thousandth time since they’d met that things could be different.
“Hey.” He slid one hand from hers and tipped her chin so he could see her. “I’m not dead yet.”
“Shut up.” Laughter hiccupped from her. “There must be something they can do. They can’t just tell you game over.”
“Oh . . .” He smiled and traced a finger down the side of her face. “Yes, they can.”
“But you were fine!” Anger flashed in her eyes, and he loved her all the more for it. “All this time, you—”
“I have good days and bad days. You just haven’t seen the bad ones.”
Savannah pushed her shoulders back and frowned. “Were you planning on telling me or did you think it’d be easier if I just stumbled across your obituary?”
“I would have told you. I was just being selfish. I wanted to enjoy being with you, without this hanging over us. But I guess that was wishful thinking on my part. Obviously it’s not something I can hide.” The searing pain returned for another round. Brock shuddered and clamped his jaw.
Fear flickered across her face. “What do you need me to do?”
“Think you can help me over to the bed?”
She nodded and somehow got him to his feet. He tried not to lean on her with his full weight, but it was difficult. Once they made it, she helped him swing his legs up, fluffed his pillows, pulled up the blankets, and sat on the edge, still teary-eyed.
Brock coughed, then tried a grin. “Thought we’d finish what we started before Christmas. You up for that?”
Her eyes flew wide; she opened her mouth, shut it, and then dissolved into laughter. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“No chance. And I’m sorry to say that if you’re intending to take me up on that offer, tempting as it is, I’m probably going to have to decline.”
“Just as well.” She smiled but fell silent. When she looked away, her eyes landed on the pictures on his bedside table. “Is this your wife?” Savannah reached for the framed photo, studying it with interest.
Where Hope Begins Page 18
