A tremor of emotion flashes across my mother’s face, the first sign she’s shown of the turmoil she must feel. It’s gone a moment later, the stoic facade she’s maintained through this ordeal in place once more. Only in her eyes does she waiver, tears she won’t shed trapped deep inside But she doesn’t take back her claim, nor does anyone else. Dirty a deed as it is, it must be done. Virginia finally realizes this.
She stands abruptly, heat rising in her cheeks. “So be it,” she says. With that, she strides across the kitchen and disappears into the adjacent living room where some of the younger cousins sit, no longer wishing to take part in this.
“She has a point you know,” Richard says. “Might be best to take him out now.”
My father looks at him incredulously. “You can’t be serious?” he asks.
“Why not?” he challenges. “It’s like Virginia said: nobody can live on their own anymore. And if by some miracle he does survive, how do we know he won’t want revenge? We’ll be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives.”
He turns, appealing to those he knows he can convince. Sure enough, Ted nods his head in agreement, echoing the sentiment that we’ll always be looking over our shoulders should we let him go. More nods will follow the longer this plays out. What’s worse, I know Richard has a point in his argument: that it’s the only way to guarantee no retaliation will be made against us. Still, I can’t bring myself to agree with his plan. Killing is a brutal, yet inescapable part of living in the world today. I know only too well. But that shouldn’t make the taking of a life any less difficult. In a world where we are called upon to act as judge, jury, and executioner, we must exercise great caution with such power, lest we lose ourselves to it. He may deserve death for what he’s done, but it would be a mistake for us to take such action. To do so would destroy this family as surely as allowing him to stay would.
“My mom’s right,” I say, speaking up as my mom finishes condemning the idea. “Look, I know what he’s done and I know what he’s capable of. But killing him would be a mistake. It’s all well and good to talk about taking a life, but few in this room have actually been forced to do so. You don’t know what it’s like to relive those moments over and over in your head, or see the faces of those you killed haunt your nightmares. Be grateful for that. It’s a burden I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And make no mistake, it’s a burden you’ll be taking on if you allow this to happen. It won’t matter what justification you paint it in or assurances you tell yourselves. You’ll never be the same after. Is that what you want?”
My message hits home. First my mother, then my father voice their support, echoing my words that it would be a mistake to execute Mitch. Aunt Claire is the next to agree, closely followed by Uncle Will who nods his agreement after meeting his wife’s eyes. One by one, the room follows suit till all but Richard and Ted oppose. Richard eyes me but doesn’t try to sway the others.
“The road it is,” he says, conceding. “So how do we go about this?”
The night is an uneasy one. I lay awake for most of it, lost in my own thoughts as Lauren sleeps, her head peeking out from the mass of covers piled on the bed. Neither the twin bed in the far corner nor the rollaway cots that have been placed end to end are occupied. For the second straight night, we are granted privacy. For the second straight night, I watch over the girl I love, her face peaceful, lit by the glow of a single candle burning low on the end table. Giving what she went through, I’m grateful she can sleep so soundly. The same cannot be said for me, however.
Sleep claims me in gaps and stutters, haunted memories weaving in and out my dreams, making me wake with a start. Each time it’s the same process: confusion; racing pulse; eyes frantically searching the shadows of the room; find Lauren who remains fast asleep, mind untroubled; remember to breathe; in, out; remind myself it was only a dream; fight the urge to drift off again lest the cycle start anew. It’s out of relief when I wake to find the shadows gone and the first rays of the sun filtering through the window pane.
“You never came to bed,” Lauren says.
I rub the remaining sleep from my eyes before finding her. “You needed to rest,” I say, standing briefly to kiss her good morning. “You wouldn’t have got any if I had.” She nods, needing no further elaboration. My sleeping patterns are well known by now.
“I tried to wait up for you last night, but I just couldn’t keep my eyes open,” she admits. She pauses “So...what happened?”
“He’s out,” I say. “Should happen within the hour, I’d expect.” It feels surreal to say out loud. I know it has to be done, but the thought of watching him walk off the farm is one that brings me no joy, only a dull sadness it had to come to this.
“I want to be there when he does,” she says. I go to argue, but the look she fixes me with makes me relent. I won’t fight her on this.
Half an hour later we join the others downstairs. Not surprisingly, the dour mood from last night seems to have carried over into today. People’s faces are glum, as are their morning greetings. There’s nothing good about this situation. After a few minutes, my mother and Aunt Virginia emerge from the back room where Mitch has been confined to. Though she tries her best to compose herself, I can tell how much this hurts my mother. I can see it in her red, swollen eyes. Aunt Virginia, on the other hand, wears her pain openly. I don’t know which is worse.
Mitch comes next, hands bound behind his back, closely followed by Richard and my father. The look of stunned disbelief he wore last night has long since faded from his features. I watched as my mother broke the news of our decision to him. He didn’t seem to register then, staring at the wall with unfocused eyes, refusing to look at her. He understands now, alright. Tears fill his eyes as he looks around desperately, searching for a rescuing hand to pull to safety. None will come.
“Please. Don’t let them do this to me!” he pleads when he finds Aunt Virginia. “I’m your brother!” A tremor passes her face, but she does nothing except shake her head and disappear into the next room, too overcome with grief to continue watching. He must sense that his last and final hope has left, as the pleading quickly gives way to anger.
“Is this what family means to you?” he spits even as he’s forced along by Richard and my father. His eyes land on me, narrowing in hate before switching onto Lauren. His lip curls in disgust. “You’re going to side with a whore over your own flesh and blood?” he challenges scathingly.
I move forward without thinking, rage flaring inside me at his utter lack of remorse. How dare he meet her eyes? How dare he speak to her? My hands curl into fists, eager lay into him again. But then her hand is on my shoulder, and her voice reaches me through the blood pounding in my ears.
“Don’t,” she says. “He’s not worth it.”
I stop my advance, my breaths short and agitated as I try and calm myself. Focus on her words, on the feel of her warm hand. Slowly, my hands unfurl and I let them fall to my sides. Once they do, she squeezes my shoulder and steps forward, her eyes like frozen emeralds as she surveys her attacker.
“Call me what you like, Mitch,” she says. “It means nothing. Everyone here can see the man you are, now. That’s why you’re alone. But I want you to know that I don’t hate you. You disgust me, yes...but I don’t hate you. I know you’ll never own up to what you did, cowards never do. Just know that it won’t ever happen again. I’ll see you coming, and believe me when I tell you that I shoot to kill. Fair warning.”
Mitch stares her down with malevolent eyes, but Lauren stands her ground and refuses to look away. Ever since her attack I’ve been worrying over her as if she were something delicate—something that needed to be protected. In this moment I am reminded of exactly who she is. She’s more than capable of fighting her own battles. Indeed, it’s Mitch whose the first to look away, his stare now directed at me.
“Nothing to add?” he snarls.
“You’re dead to me,” I say as indifferent as I can manage. “Why waste words on dead m
en?”
His face twists in an ugly sneer as he looks about the room, sowing as much hate and guilt as he can. Many stare daggers right back. Others cast their eyes at the floor, the ceiling, avoiding his gaze altogether. His eyes linger on my mother, her face once again blank and unreadable despite the currents of emotion that ripple within her. Finally, he turns back toward Lauren and myself, damnation burning in his eyes—a look of unforgivable betrayal I will not soon forget.
Wordlessly, he allows himself to be guided out of the room by Richard and my father. Once past the threshold he stops and looks back at the assembled family one last time.
“Family,” he says, making a mockery of the word. “Once it meant something.” He spits on the ground. “I see now, it no longer does.” Richard and my father have heard enough and push him roughly along. “Remember, this was your choice. Your choice!” he yells even as he’s forced away. Eventually, he stops struggling and allows himself to be steered without resistance. I watch as they leave the farm and then disappear from view altogether, a leaden feeling of worry settling in my gut as they go.
It’s a gamble letting him walk. His hot temper and cold words proving just how much so. And as I stand here, I begin to doubt whether we made the right choice. Around me, I can feel that same trepidation rising from my family. Soon that feeling will expand and coalesce into that deep gloom that has been our companion these past weeks. It’s a cycle I’ve seen play out again and again—all the misplaced anger, and anxiety, and mistrust spreading from one person to another until we’re all affected, suffering it alone because we chose to divide ourselves rather than band together.
United we stand, divided we fall.
Once I thought it no more than a pompous cliche, the sort of thing said by politicians wishing to sound patriotic and inspire the electorate. Now I feel a fool for not heeding its warning even as my family fissured and split before my eyes. I was too busy playing the victim, burying myself under the guilt of my mistakes, my failures, creating layer after layer of excuses I could hide behind, convincing myself it was for the best—that I could no longer be the man people looked to. But the deep spine truth is that I was too much of a coward to own up to those mistakes and failures, terrified of making more. How was I to know that in itself would be a mistake? Well, I’m done hiding. Flawed as I am, afraid though I might be, eyes are still drawn to me. The time for pretending otherwise has passed.
“He’s wrong,” I say, breaking the chilled silence. “About family no longer meaning anything. It means everything. It’s the only thing that makes living in this cruel world worth it.”
For the first time in weeks, I feel the full attention of the family fall on me in all its intensity. Assurance. Unease. Doubt. A full spectrum of emotions stares at me as I look about the room, that old feeling of duty once again falling on my shoulders. It’s a feeling I refuse to shy away from, embracing it as I did when I first stepped foot onto the Colorado Trail all those months ago. So much has happened since then. So much has changed. The only constant being the love I hold in my heart for the people around me. I don’t know if I can be the man they believe me to be. But I do know that they deserve a hell of a lot more than the man I’ve been.
“It would be easy for me to stand here, and list all of the bad shit we’ve been through since all this started. There’s no shortage to choose from. Then I could go on and say that we only made it through because of each other and that if we just keep trying, we can pull through this too. There’s truth in that. It’s what we’ve done since the beginning: struggle, persevere, survive. And yeah, it’s kept us breathing. But is that really all this boils down to? Banding together for protection, doing whatever it takes to survive another day?”
I pause, shaking my head. “There’s so much more at play than that. I mean, why endure so much pain if you can’t find joy with those around you? Why suffer so much violence if you can’t feel at peace among those you love? All this time, I’ve held these grand aspirations about the future. I built it up in my head into this perfect, unattainable dream—this time and place where we would want for nothing and could live out our days in peace, protected from the outside world. Everything I’ve done since making it home has been in an effort to make that happen. But I was a fool, so caught up in my vision of the future that I overlooked everything I already had. That was a mistake. Because despite all the things I didn’t have, I still had you...”
I have to stop, suddenly overcome with emotion as my thoughts drift to Lauren and the hell she endured throughout her life. I always knew that not everyone was lucky enough to have been born into a family like mine. But it took her story to remind me just how lucky I was. How could I ever have taken so much for granted?
“I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate that more. Believe me when I tell you I won’t make that mistake again. Of course, I still dream of better days. We have to. But we can’t lose sight of what’s most important: that no matter what challenges we face, we face them together. Hold onto that. Put your faith in each other. We do that, and maybe one day we’ll live to see that brighter tomorrow. And if we don’t, find comfort in knowing that as cold as the world might grow, you will never be without the warmth and love of family...I love you all. If you don’t believe a word I said, please believe that.”
My words are not magic. They do not lift the skepticism entirely from the room, nor do they heal the many wounds we’ve inflicted upon each other these past weeks. Only time can do that. But standing here, I can’t ignore the feeling that a major shift is taking place. I feel it too—that energy, that spark—that fervor which grips the heart and stirs the soul in moments such as this. And as Lauren slides next to me, her hand fitting seamlessly inside my own, I feel hope blaze through me as it did when we sat watching the sunset over Rockridge once upon a time.
I can’t help but smile. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I finally feel like myself again.
Chapter 18: (Lauren)
Fat white flakes fall from the sky. Their progression slow. Movement lazy. As though savoring every second of their journey from heaven to earth. Icicles hang from the edges of the rooftops, the greenhouses, all along the railings of the pasture fence. The world has transformed overnight. Shoveled paths lead to the latrines, the well, the barn— all the areas of the farm we need frequent access to. Everywhere else remains unblemished. Snow blankets the fields, clings to the boughs and branches, the hillsides surrounding the farm the picture of a winter wonderland. To the north and west, mountains stand frozen and imposing, encased in ice and snow. Long has this day loomed before us, always in the back of our minds as we toiled away in determined preparation. Now, that day has arrived. Winter has come in all its fury.
And yet I smile.
Morgan and I kneel beside one another, three giant snowballs of varying sizes taking shape by our hands. Around us are an arrangement of seemingly useless items: sticks, rocks, and a threadbare scarf among others. They’ll be put to use soon enough. Abigale walks toward us now, her head barely clearing the largest of our snowballs. She notes our progress, unimpressed.
“Really?” she asks, impatience in her voice. “Vince and Kelly are almost done.” I look behind her and see that she’s right. Already they have advanced to adorning their scavenged decorations.
Morgan laughs. “This isn’t a race, Abe,” he says. “This is serious business. Don’t want to rush it.”
I throw a lump of snow at the back of his head, making the little girl laugh. He wheels about, yelping at the sudden cold. “Quit calling her Abe,” I warn. Catching her eye behind Morgan’s back, I wink. Morgan sees it and grins.
“You shouldn’t have done that, McCoy,” he says with a deep sigh. He gathers a lump of snow in his hand and carefully molds it into a ball. “Five seconds,” he warns
“Five”. I raise an eyebrow in challenge.
“Four.” Refuse to move.
“Three.” Cross my arms.
“Two.” Smile, seeing what he doe
s not.
“One.” Burst out laughing as he’s caught unaware.
From behind, Abigail launched her own offensive, dumping a handful of snow down Morgan’s back. Like a scene from a comedy, he hops up, howling at the sudden cold. Soon other laughs join mine and Abigail's: Vince and Kelly from a little ways away, their project momentarily forgotten; Leon, Emily, and Felix who are busy readying the smoker for today's meal; other relatives who have been drawn outside to indulge in the season’s first snow. It’s a minute before Morgan can remove all of the trapped snow. When he does, his eyes turn to Abigail with a grin. He holds up his hand, his fingers splayed wide.
“Five,” he says. Unlike me, Abigail bolts. She doesn’t get far, even with the headstart Morgan allows her. “Think you’re funny, do you?” he asks, scoping her into the air. “Is this funny?” He attacks her sides with his fingers making her writhe in his arms as she shrieks in laughter. Morgan lets up his attack, allowing her a moment to catch her breath.
“No more,” she says, breathless. “I’m sorry, Morgan.”
“You don’t want me to tickle your ribs anymore?” he asks.
“Please, no!” she says.
“Alright,” he says with a sigh. She lets out a breath of relief as he sets her down. Then his grip tightens on her and he takes her to the ground, his fingers this time aiming for her neck. If anything, her shrieks grow louder. “What?” he asks. “You didn’t say anything about your neck.”
This moment, watching Morgan with Abigail, hearing the laughter ringing in the air, I can’t help but be amazed at how quickly things have turned around. It’s hasn’t even been two weeks since Mitch was forced from the house, yet the atmosphere couldn’t be any more different. The bleak, dispirited air that had plagued the house for weeks has all but lifted. In its place rises hope. Belief. A renewed energy flowing among us. Morgan would never claim credit, but his words were the catalyst for that change.
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