Logan stared at his knees while he wiped his damp palms on them. He let out a shaky breath and looked up at Trudy to ask, “Do they know why they’re here?”
“I told them on the way that you wanted to talk to them—alone—about the incident with their mother.”
“How’d they take it?”
“Hard for me to say, but if I had to put a name to it, I guess I’d say they’re in a ‘wait and see’ mode.”
That sure sounded like his girls to Logan. He glanced at the closed door that loomed so large right then, feeling as if his entire future hinged on what happened once he walked through it. “Any idea how I should do this?”
“Let them ask the questions. Answer them fully, but don’t give them more than they want. Understand?” Logan nodded and she patted his arm, asking, “Ready?”
Though he wondered how the hell he could ever really be ready for this moment, Logan announced, “Yeah, sure.” Without further comment, he walked into Trudy’s cramped office.
Each girl was sitting in one of the guest chairs, looking nervous and smaller than usual. Logan leaned down to hug first Krista and then Meghan and accept their subdued greetings; he then tried to decide where he was going to sit. It didn’t seem appropriate to sit behind Trudy’s desk, but there was no other chair in the room. He quickly pulled the chair out and wheeled it near them. “Why don’t you scoot over here so we can all see one another.” As they quickly complied, he said, “That’s it.”
Logan had hoped that Meghan, at least, would have some questions to ask about Trudy or the office, but his daughters were resolutely silent, and he realized there was nothing to do but plunge in. “I know Dr. Gerard told you what you’re doin’ here… right?”
A soft “yes” barely escaped from both mouths.
Talking to his own flesh and blood suddenly seemed harder than anything he’d ever done before—including burying his parents. Luckily Logan remembered Trudy’s advice and started, “I know you girls probably’ve had a lotta questions you been wantin’ to ask about why… why I hurt your mom like I did. And I’m finally gonna let you ask ’em—but first I got somethin’ I need to say.”
He looked into each set of bright eyes, searching for the courage to do this, but the push finally came from the memory of Cheryl saying, “I grew up thinkin’… thinkin’ that’s just the way it is.”
His voice was stronger than he would have expected when he said, “What I need you to understand is, I had no right to do that, and it was nobody’s fault but my own. Your mom didn’t cause it and neither did… anyone else. What I mean is, it sure wasn’t anything you girls ever did.” He tried to ignore the tears that were welling in both girls’ eyes, but Logan choked up slightly as he continued, “You gotta know, I didn’t mean to hurt her, and I’m awful sorry about it, but… but that doesn’t excuse it.”
He put a hand on the arm of each girl’s chair as he added firmly. “And no one ever has the right to do anythin’ like that to you. In fact… well, I’d kill any guy who tried—with my own bare hands.” It occurred to Logan that Trudy would probably object to that statement, since she would never condone any threat of violence, but it was God’s own truth and it felt right to him to say it.
“Now you go ahead and ask me what you want.” Neither girl spoke up but simply glanced timidly at her sister. “Come on, Krista, I know there’s things you been wantin’ to ask. It’s all right.”
On another day, Logan could have laughed at the sight of Krista staring at the carpet in unintentional mimicry of her father. Finally she looked up at him, asking, “You said you didn’t mean to hurt—to do that… so what happened?”
“I guess… I had a whole lotta things buildin’ up that I wasn’t dealin’ with like I should’ve. And it all came bustin’ out at the wrong time… and at the wrong person.”
“You didn’t wanta move from Elco, did you?” Meghan asked, joining the conversation.
“No, I didn’t; that was part of it.”
Krista cocked her head at her dad, inquiring in a soft voice, “What was the rest?”
“Oh….” Since he couldn’t deal with it right then—if ever—Logan ignored the picture of Nick Zales that flashed through his mind. “Money, work, and stuff like that.”
Leaning forward with genuine concern, Krista asked, “Is it gettin’ better? Is that what Dr. Gerard is helpin’ you with?”
“Yeah, she is. And I’m tryin’a take things head on now, instead’a lettin’ ’em eat at me like I used to.”
“That’s good, Dad,” Meghan said.
Breathing a slight sigh of relief, Logan answered, “Sure is.”
“So….” Krista was obviously screwing up her courage, and Logan nodded encouragingly. She glanced at Meghan, leaving Logan to surmise that this question was for both of them. “You’ll never do anything like that again?”
The realization that this fear had been haunting his daughters was a sorrow Logan suddenly felt he might carry to his grave. Nothing but unqualified honesty would do here. “I wish I could say no right out, honey—I really do.” Knowing some demons dogged him still, Logan offered, “I can tell you this. I’m gonna do whatever it takes to make sure I won’t. And I won’t be movin’ back home until I do.”
Both girls sat in silent contemplation while Logan looked for some sign that his answer had been sufficient reassurance. Instead Krista asked, “Does Mom know all of this?”
Logan let it go, slowly grasping that while a family could be shattered in an instant, healing couldn’t be accomplished in one short session of truth-telling. “She knows some… and she’ll know more when she starts seein’ Dr. Gerard with me.”
In a suddenly bright, high-pitched tone, Meghan said, “When will that be?”
“Real soon.”
“Are we—” Krista stopped short and swallowed down the rest of her question.
Logan was determined that no member of the Crane family was going to have to leave things unsaid anymore, so he prodded, “Go ’head. What were you gonna say?”
“Are we allowed to tell Mom what we talked about here?”
The most comfortable answer for him would have been “no,” but Logan felt that wouldn’t be fair to his daughters, so he answered, “If you feel you need to do that, then… then it’s okay by me. I want you to do whatever is gonna make all of this easier for you. Understand?”
“Yes,” Krista and Meghan chorused.
“Anything else?”
There were quite few more questions; some about how his therapy was helping him but mainly centered on the new visitation rules and when their dad would be ready to move back home. He answered each one as best he could, and over twenty minutes later, Logan ushered his girls out into the waiting room, where Trudy was making notes in report folders.
She rose gracefully to her feet, asking, “Ready to go home?” When both girls nodded, Trudy fished her keys out of her bag and looked at Logan to add, “We’ll debrief next week, Logan, but I’ll have the affidavit in the mediator’s office first thing Monday morning, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Logan watched them leave, enjoying the relief and happiness washing through him but plagued by the feeling that he had just fixed a flat but hadn’t started work on the engine.
ON THE other side of town, Nick was trying to keep his mind from straying to Logan and the monumental talk he was having with his daughters. His distraction techniques worked about as well as his attempts earlier in the week to avoid brooding about Logan—which was to say, not at all. Every time Logan intruded on his thoughts, Nick doggedly told himself that he was glad the totality of their relationship was destined to be nothing more than one heady, ill-conceived kiss. I’m glad, damn it, glad! The last thing I need is some stupid fascination with an abusive male.
When his self-lectures proved fruitless, though, Nick got even sterner. Goddamnit, Zales, you’re nothing but a fucking statistic. Do you need to go back and read some of your old textbooks? Do you even listen to yourself when y
ou’re counseling Cheryl? And that was another thing, Nick’s conscience insisted: he should be grateful his afternoon session was with Cheryl—a sobering reminder of the possible fate he’d just narrowly escaped.
When Trudy had popped her head into his office to tell him she would be spending the afternoon at her downtown office, Nick had tamped down his curiosity about her meeting with the Crane family. He carefully displayed only the most cursory interest and had offered nothing beyond, “Okay, have a good weekend.”
Nick spent the next forty minutes writing up notes on Marta Cabrera’s orientation sessions, stubbornly persistent in his task though he was managing to eke out only one word every three minutes. When Cheryl’s soft knock on the door interrupted his sluggish progress, he was finally actually truly glad about something that day. “Hey, Cheryl, come on in. How are you?”
“Good.” She flopped into one of the guest chairs, adding, “Tired, but good.”
“Long day in the child care center?”
“Oh, yeah. Eight hours in that place can sometimes feel more like sixteen.”
“I can always get you another assignment if it’s getting to be too much.”
“No, I really like it. It’s just towards the end of the day I look forward to just havin’ two to deal with.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Before I forget,” she said, digging in her pocket, “here’s the keys to the shop.”
She set the key ring on his desk, and Nick was compelled to ask, “How’d it go yesterday? What did you learn?”
“Tune-ups.”
“Great, that’s something you’ll be doing a lot when you get a car.” Stifling the urge to ask more questions about the module—all centered on the instructor—Nick flipped open Cheryl’s file and clicked his pen into the ready position. “Speaking of which, we need to start working on your transition plan.”
“Transition? To what?”
“To getting you out of here.”
Cheryl slid her palms against her denim-clad thighs, asking, “Is there a limit? I mean—do I have to be outta here by a certain date?”
“No, there’s no concrete deadline,” Nick assured her, refraining from explaining about all the paperwork he’d need to file if her stay extended past four months. “But I’m sure you want to be settled somewhere more permanent.” When Cheryl simply nodded, Nick asked, “Any idea where? You said you don’t want to go back to Wheeling….”
“Oh, no—I’m sure I’m the talk of the town there. ’Sides, that’s where… where Roger’s still living.”
“You’ve got a restraining order in place, and he seems ready to comply.”
“I know, but I just don’t wanta have to worry ’bout running into him every day—at the grocery store or the Big Lots or the movies—”
“I understand. Are you interested in staying in Pittsburgh?”
“Not really. My Great Aunt Catherine said I could come stay with her; she lives in Steubenville. Not far enough, but at least it ain’t Wheeling. And she never did care for my dad… or Roger. Said if he ever bothers me again she’d take a butcher knife to him.”
“I think I like your Aunt Catherine,” Nick laughed as he made a note in Cheryl’s file. “We’ll consider Steubenville to be the goal, then. And how are the sessions with Irene? I know she thinks you could find work in a daycare center; is that plan still a go?”
Nick watched Cheryl chew the inside of her cheek for a minute before she answered, “I guess….”
“It doesn’t have to be a lifelong career, just something to tide you over. Is there something else that would you like to do? Something we could start working towards?”
“I don’t know….”
Nick decided to pull out an old ploy that often served to uncover buried dreams. “What did you want to be back when you were in high school?”
“Oh… I mainly just wanted to get married.”
“Really?” He showed more surprise than he really felt with that question, knowing all too well that children from abusive homes often dreamt only of escape. Digging a little deeper, he asked, “You never wanted to be a fashion model or travel the world or sing in a band—”
“Nothin’ like that,” Cheryl cut in. “I did want to—see, before I started goin’ out with Roger, I was datin’ this guy Leroy, and he was gonna be a teacher. And back then I thought I did, too. We used to joke about how he wanted to teach high school and I wanted to teach first grade or maybe even kindergarten, so I’d start ’em out right and he’d get all the benefit.”
“A teacher, huh? That’s a great career, one I considered myself at one time. And you are good with children; that’s something you could definitely still pursue. What do you think?” When Cheryl simply squirmed in response, Nick asked, “What happened there? How did you go from wanting to teach to just wanting to get married?”
Cheryl’s frown deepened, and her brow furrowed. “I guess it was ’cause… ’cause of Roger. He sure didn’t like the idea of me goin’ off to college.”
“I’ll bet. What happened to Leroy?”
“I don’t know. I lost track of him when we broke up.”
“And what caused that?”
“I’m an idiot, that’s what caused that. I broke up with a nice guy who treated me better’an I—who treated me real good, so I could go out with a ‘cool guy’ who played football and treated me like dirt. Even back then.”
Seeing the tears well up in Cheryl’s eyes, Nick nudged his handy box of tissues towards her, saying, “You’re not an idiot. It’s just…. It happens to a lot of women who grow up with abusive dads.”
Cheryl wiped her eyes in a futile effort to stem the tide as she wailed, “I know you said that… but why?”
Good question. “The conventional wisdom is that we—that the child is trying to repeat the dysfunctional relationship, but looking for a better outcome. Trying to fix the original relationship with this new person, in other words.”
A derisive snort erupted from Cheryl. “Yeah, right, great idea.”
Figuring they’d both had enough of that topic, Nick steered the conversation back to Cheryl’s plans. “You don’t have to let the past dictate the future. You could still be a teacher, you know. If you do go live with your aunt, Steuby U. is right there. It’s a great school, turns out a lot of teachers.”
“I know… but… I’m too old for—”
“Cheryl, you’re twenty-five. That’s hardly too old.”
After a second of consideration, Cheryl shook her head dismissively. “It’s not just my age, you know. How ’bout money? Where’m I gonna get tuition money?”
“There are grants we can look into, and maybe scholarships, too.”
“Scholarships? You gotta be a genius to get one of them.”
“Not hardly—that’s how I went to college. Believe me, I was no genius.”
Cheryl cocked her head curiously, asking, “Was it a sports scholarship?”
Nick laughed, “No, as much as I love playing basketball, Carnegie-Mellon didn’t recruit me for that. It was a special scholarship for kids who—” Who had jailbird dads. “Who were poor,” Nick nimbly inserted, while shrugging off the white lie with the thought, Well, that’s true for most kids with a parent in prison.
A genuine smile broke across Cheryl’s face. “Okay, poor, I got that covered!”
“Great.” Nick, seeing her emergent spirit, couldn’t help but smile back. “Are you saying you want to look into it?”
“Yeah, let’s do that.”
Chapter 8:
To Hang a Question Mark
In all affairs it’s a healthy thing now and then to hang a question mark on the things you have long taken for granted.
—Bertrand Russell
SATURDAY, WHEN Nick’s mom hadn’t appeared by ten in the morning, he went up to check on her. After knocking softly and getting a feeble “Come in,” Nick opened the door to find his mother still in bed. “You okay, Mom?”
She rolled to face him, sayi
ng, “Just tired, son.”
“What’s wrong? Didn’t you sleep well?”
Plucking fretfully at her blanket, Agnes answered, “Not really. These hospitals are so noisy at night.”
“Mom.” Nick shook his head at her. “You’re not in the hospital.”
With a listless shrug, she amended, “Nursing home or whatever you call this place, then.”
Internally, Nick sighed, realizing his mom was lost in a nearly twenty-year-old memory, thinking herself back at the South Fayette Nursing Center. Since becoming his mom’s primary caregiver, Nick had always strongly insisted on reorienting her and wrenching her back to reality as much as possible, even though his efforts had never seemed to have much effect beyond upsetting her. Today he had neither the heart nor the energy, so he decided to simply play along. “Well, it’s quiet now. How ’bout I bring you up some tea and toast, and then you could try to catch a nap. How does that sound?”
“Why don’t you let one of those lazy nurses do it?”
“They’re all busy. I’ll do it.”
Ten minutes later, Nick sat in the chair between the window and the bed, watching Agnes idly munching her toast and sipping the tea; he noticed that she really did look more worn out than usual. “I think we should get you to the doctor for a check-up.”
“Why? So he can tell me that bonk on the head left me crazy? I don’t need to hear that again.”
“You’re not crazy, Mom, you’re just—”
“Confused, Nicky. I’m so confused.” She wearily pushed the graying strands of hair back from her face and sipped more tea before turning watery hazel eyes on him, saying, “I wish I could see your father. Do you think they’ll let him visit me?”
Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits Page 110
