by Geneva Lee
I’m left to wonder what Jude Mercer thinks is an unforgivable wrong.
“Faith showed up at the apartment, snatched Max out of bed. I could tell she was on coke. All the signs were there. Then there’s this guy Jason, and he takes one look at Max and says, ‘Well, he can’t be mine.’
“How did he know?”
I swirl my straw in my water. “Let’s say it was obvious.”
“Did Faith ever tell you who Max’s father was?”
I shake my head, swallowing hard. That is the truth. Faith never gave me a name. I discovered who he was on my own. “I convinced them that I needed to get his stuff together, and they left to go back to their hotel.”
“And?” Jude whispers.
“And I packed up everything of Max’s, his birth certificate, his clothes. I still had most of Faith’s things as well. She never bothered taking them with her when she ran off. What junkie thinks of needing a birth certificate?” My mouth is dry, scraping over the words, as I wonder if absolution comes at the end of this tale. “I packed it all up and left. I took a ferry, and then I got on a bus, and I just kept going until I reached the water. I saw the sign for the World’s End, and I thought it was God trying to tell me something. Nana wasn’t far away, and who was going to come looking for me here?”
“Did Faith ever come back?” he asks.
“No.”
Jude’s hands slide back to the edge of the table and grip it until his knuckles are white.
“Hearing she sent you that postcard is the first indication I’ve ever had that she knew where I’d gone,” I tell him.
“She must have known that Max was better off with you,” he says.
A hot tear pools at the edge of my eye. I blink and it spills onto my cheek. “Do you really believe that?”
“I know that, Sunshine.” His grip on the table loosens. “But why did she send me that postcard?”
“When she came back and she saw Max, she seemed to know who his father was.” I tell him, my voice going distant. I fade back to that scene in my apartment, watching her as she studied her son with recognition plastered on her face.
“Why did she send me that postcard?” he repeats, seeking an answer he already knows. It’s in his voice now.
“I think she sent it because you’re his father.” I’m not even certain my words are more than a breath, but Jude’s eyes close.
“Do you have any proof?”
“No.” It sounds silly to claim that they have the same eyes.
His throat slides on this. He’s doing what he can to keep his emotions in check, but our feelings are getting the better of both of us. “When is Max’s birthday?”
“June 2nd,” I tell him. “He’ll be five this year.” It’s less than a month away. My stomach cramps nervously, knowing this might be the last birthday I spend with him.
Jude remains silent, but I can see the gears turning as he counts back the days, months, and years. “The last time I saw her was October,” he tells me.
It lines up.
“You can have a paternity test,” I offer him, “but I’m certain he’s yours.”
There’s no other reason she would have sent him that postcard. In her own twisted way, Faith was trying to give Max what she could not.
“I’m not certain what I’m supposed to say to you,” he says. “Do you want something from me now? Why are you telling me now?”
The fragile band holding my heart together snaps. “I don’t want anything. I just wanted you to know.”
“How long have you known?” His voice pitches up a level as he struggles to keep himself calm.
“I figured it out the last time I saw you. I could tell you that there were clues or that we both must have been stupid not to see, but really, I just looked in his eyes and I saw you there.”
Silence descends over us. I can’t even hear myself breathe. It’s the supernatural hush that overpowers the world before lightning splits the sky, but there’s nowhere to take cover. No solid ground is safe. I have to face this storm.
Jude rubs the back of his neck with the heel of his hand absent-mindedly.
“You know I love him,” he tells me.
I freeze. I know where these words are taking us.
“I want to be part of his life,” he continues.
I don’t have the heart to ask where I fit into this picture.
“You have to say something,” he says at last. “He’s yours,” I tell him. “It doesn’t really matter what I say. You can take him away from me. You can take him to Los Angeles.”
The truth tastes bitter on my tongue.
“I’m not going to do that to him.”
“Why?” I explode. “I’m not his mother. I’ve been confronting that reality since that night. I spent the last few weeks learning how to call myself by my own name, and the one thing that’s taught me is that my world is made of lies.”
“You are not a lie to him,” Jude interrupts in a gentle voice. “I’m not going to take him from you, but you’re going to have to figure out how to forgive me because I’m going to be part of his life and…”
He trails away, leaving the rest of his sentence lingering in the air, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Does he want to be part of my life too?
I grab my menu and hide behind it as the tears begin to freely fall. The waitress takes this as a sign that she can finally approach our table. There must be nothing more awkward than hovering in the background while two people are fighting, except not realizing when one of them is in tears.
“Are you ready to order?” She taps her pencil on the pad of paper.
Jude looks to me expectantly, but I’m not ready. I’m not certain I ever will be. Instead, I drop my menu, muttering an apology, and run away. I haven’t learned anything after all, or maybe running is the only thing I know.
Chapter 28
“Winnie didn’t show up,” Amie calls into the office over the clatter of the kitchen. “Can you jump on the floor?”
“Do you think that’s safe?” The last time I waited on a table, a man received an iced tea shower.
Her round face appears around the doorframe, a teal handkerchief tied around her hair. “I’m desperate. Also, I’m so firing her, so this might be the last time.”
I mutter a string of curses as I grab an order pad.
Thankfully it’s the usual crowd of tourists who are too busy taking selfies in front of the large wall-size map to notice that I’m moving at the speed of a snail. If I’m careful I might make it through this. Grabbing an order, I back out of the kitchen and narrowly avoid running directly into a customer.
“I am so sorry!” I drop the plates on a nearby tray like they’re snakes. I knew I was going to wind up being bitten in the ass tonight.
“Don’t be.” It’s Sondra and now that my hands are free she throws her arms around me. I accept Sondra’s hugs with some hesitation. She pulls back, gripping my shoulders. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you.”
“It’s a really long story,” I say. “Even if I could tell you, I’m not sure where to begin.”
“Does this have anything to do with Jude? Both of you stopped coming at the same time.” Even her aquamarine eye shadow can’t undermine the shrewd squint of her eyes.
“We both attended under false pretenses, even though we both had good reasons to be there.”
“It’s easy to think you’re better,” she reminds me. “Especially when you’re in a new relationship. Take my word for it. You still have to make time for your sobriety.”
I lick my dry lips. This isn’t the time or place to discuss this. “I don’t think I belong there.”
“You belong anywhere you want to be. I’m going to come check on you again if I don’t see your beautiful face at group next week,” she warns me before she says goodbye.
I stare at the food I’ve left to get cold, wishing someone would deliver me.
I talk to Amie about it. I talk to Dr. Allen. I t
alk to myself. We all agree that I need to close that chapter of my life. “Isn’t this the step where I right the wrongs I’ve done to people?”
“That’s one way of looking at it, Grace.” She pushes her glasses to the tip of her nose and eyes me over the rims. “How long did you go to that group?”
“About four years,” I admit.
“During that time, was everyone there perfect?”
Not by any definition of the word. We’d had a few people filter in and out of our group, but for the most part there had always been a core group committed to attending, even when they had recently fallen off the wagon. “Not by a long shot.”
“So you’re telling me they screwed up? What did they do?”
“Lied, cheated, stole. Some of them wound up back in prison. Others lost their families.”
“Why do you think they came back and told you this?” she asks. “They didn’t have to be there. They chose to keep coming to the group. Why?”
“Because they knew we’d understand and that we’d listen.”
“Without judgement,” Dr. Allen tacks on.
I’m not entirely certain what I’ve done falls under the judgement free category, but I agree to go. They’ve always trusted me with their secrets, I need to trust them with my truths.
“If he’s there, what will you do?” Amie asks me that morning.
“He won’t be. Sondra says he’s not coming anymore.” I don’t tell her that Jude has called me every day this week and that I am too scared to listen to the messages. She wisely doesn’t say anything but we both know that I can’t avoid him much longer. Confronting this, spilling my guts to people who trusted me, is my warm up round. I thought I was ready to face Jude, and instead I ran out of the restaurant. This group gave me strength and a willingness to face my demons. Maybe they could help me one last time.
Everyone hugs me, even Anne. The meeting starts with recitation of some new affirmation Stephanie has found in one of her books. I don’t know it so I sit mutely, my heart counting each second until I’ll be put on the spot.
When they’re finished, Stephanie doesn’t call for volunteers and no one speaks. A few people glance in my direction. I’m being given the floor. I appreciate the pressure-free approach.
“I guess I’d like to share,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face, but before I continue, the door opens. Jude slips in, unnoticed by anyone but me. He doesn’t take a seat. Instead he waits in the shadows, arms crossed over his thin, gray t-shirt. Sunglasses cover his tell-tale eyes.
Sondra reaches out and pats me on the back, as if to encourage me to continue. I came here for this purpose and I might as well be judged all at once.
“My name is Grace,” I begin, knowing that will get everyone’s attention. A few people begin to whisper, but Stephanie hushes them. “That’s probably a surprise to you because you’ve always known me as Faith.
“Faith was my sister. She was a drug addict and a few years ago, she gave birth to a beautiful, little boy. He was lucky. His mother’s addiction only took his hearing. It could have taken so much more. She abandoned him with me and then when he was nine months old, she came back, looking for him.” I tell my story. I don’t gloss over the choices I made or the sins I committed. No one speaks. No one interrupts with the well-meaning advice so frequently shared in this group—but no one tells me to get out either.
“I came here looking for answers,” I tell them. “I wanted to understand how she could choose her habit over her son. What I learned was that I had been addicted to her. I’d fallen victim to the idea that I could fix her. So I kept coming back, seeking some magical formula and when I couldn’t find it, I let the guilt take over. If she couldn’t get clean, I would take her place. I would serve her time. I would raise her son.
“It took me a long time to understand why I did that. It probably sounds pretty stupid to you, but I lost sight of who I was. She swallowed me whole, without ever even trying. I found out she was a dead a few weeks ago.” Sondra moves her chair closer to mine and puts her arm around my shoulder. A few people mutter apologies.
“I spent all this time pretending to be her because I cared more about her than myself. I was obsessed with who she might have been if she’d gotten clean.
“Love makes us the people we hope to be. I thought if I loved her enough, she’d come back. She’d be the person that I always suspected she could be. I didn’t realize I was giving all that love away and keeping none for myself. My therapist urged me to come here,” I shrug, knowing more than a few people can relate to that. “She told me I needed to face the people I felt I had wronged. Sound familiar?”
Bob nods across the room.
“But really, I wanted to come back and say thank you. We’re all addicts. Most of us just turn a blind eye to that fact. None of you do. You face it head on. It took me far too long to see that you were showing me how to be strong. You were giving me the courage I needed to come to grips with my past. I’m so sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry that I breached the bond of trust that we all agree to when we walk through those doors, but I’m so very grateful that I found myself here.”
No one speaks but a few people wipe tears from their eyes. Jude slips back out the door. He’s already heard this story, and I’ve given him my apologies.
There’s no one left to forgive me but myself.
“I guess I should go,” I say, pushing onto my feet.
“You can stay,” Stephanie offers quietly, and a chorus of other voices join her but I shake my head. I don’t tell them that I’d found a new support group or about the rape. They’ve been carrying my burdens for far too long to carry another, but they’re not about to let me walk out the door.
Sondra draws me into a tight embrace. “We aren’t mad at you,” she whispers, “so it’s time to stop being mad at yourself.”
Anne doesn’t hug me a second time but she gives me a small smile. “Since I don’t think you’re coming back,” she guesses, “I have one last piece of advice. Face your past and then let it go.”
“I’m trying,” I promise. No one questions me on that because it’s all any of us can ever do—hope that we’re still capable of change and believe there are still blank pages to fill in our stories.
Chapter 29
The warm scent of vanilla calls me from my dreams, or at least it calls to my stomach, which begins to growl adamantly. I pull a pillow over my head, but it’s no use. I’m too hungry to sleep in now.
“Why do you have to torture me?” I ask Amie sleepily as I pour myself a cup of coffee.
“You never used to sleep in,” she says, jabbing the spatula in my direction. “You’re getting soft on me.”
I clutch my mug in both hands, waiting for it to cool. Max is already at the table, haphazardly cutting into a stack of pancakes. I abandon my mug and go over.
Want some help?
It’s amazing to think that by this time next week, I may not be signing to him at all. He shakes his head, a goofy grin plastered on his face. Behind me, Amie starts to hum. My heart beats when I recognize the melody. I still haven’t confirmed that Jude wrote the song, but I know it in my bones. It’s been on every radio station for the last two weeks. Every time it comes on, I sit and listen and pick it apart.
“You two are in an awfully good mood this morning,” I say, retrieving my cup of coffee.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Amie chirps. “The weather says it’s going to get all the way up to 60 degrees and sunny. Summer will be here before we know it.” She turns and catches Max’s eye. “Isn’t someone’s birthday coming up?”
He nods, his mouth partially open from the wad of pancake he’s stuffed inside. I slide his plate away from him and cut the stack into smaller bites.
“What do you want for your birthday?” I ask him. His eyes flicker to Amie, but before I can question what plot they’re hatching, metal crashes from behind the garage door.
I jump to my feet. “What was that?”
Amie wav
es me off dismissively. “Nothing, although you should probably go tell Jude that breakfast is ready.”
I gawk at her. Next to me, Max begins to giggle.
“You are in so much trouble,” I hiss at her, but I pause at the garage door and tuck my hair behind my ears. There’s nothing that can be done for the t-shirt and shorts I’m still in from last night, but running to my room to change will give her far too much satisfaction.
I crack the door and scream ‘breakfast,’ then shut it quickly behind me, but Amie blocks me from leaving the kitchen.
“Sit your butt down and eat some pancakes,” she orders, shoving a plate into my hands.
There’s another plate sitting at the table already. Jude comes inside and casually lifts his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead, revealing the perfect slab of abs underneath.
From the stove, Amie mouths, “You’re welcome.”
I wonder if that’s what she’ll say when I’m murdering her later.
His eyes meet mine, and I do the only thing I can think to do—I smile. It’s not warm and welcoming, but it’s not forced either. Rather it’s hesitant and shy— the kind of smile you give a stranger that you want to introduce yourself to.
“Your car was making a scraping noise. I heard it the other day.”
Not only is he standing in my kitchen, turning my body inside out, he’s also giving me bad news.
“Can you fix it?” Amie jumps in.
“There was a screw missing on the oil pan. It shouldn’t be an issue.”
I don’t know how to say thank you. The words stick in my throat.
He moves to the sink and begins to wash his hands, rubbing the soap along his forearms. I can’t help but appreciate how the water streams in tiny rivulets down his skin.
I am so incredibly screwed.
“Oh my God, look at the time,” Amie exclaims, tugging her apron over her head. “I promised I’d be in the restaurant before the brunch crowd arrives.” I glare at her. When I’m sitting at my murder trial, I’m going to use this as evidence that I was driven to my crime.
