"Even if she's supporting me, standing by me now? Doesn't her devotion mean something?" Even my tone sounded like a man with no hope. And right then and there, I already knew he'd won.
He always won.
My dad shook his head solemnly. "No. Unfortunately, they won't care how she feels about you now. All they will show to the public is a high school yearbook photo of a fifteen-year-old girl with the caption ‘victim.' And next to it will be a recent photo of you. No one cares to listen to details anymore these days. They'll see a teenager and a thirty-something-year-old man with a headline about child pornography. Are you willing to put her through that kind of humiliation-again?"
Thinking of what it would do to Novah twisted my gut and left me with the desire to heave. No matter how many years had passed, or how far I had come since returning, that one day, the one decision I made all those years ago, would always come back to haunt me.
It would always come back to harm her.
"We can fight it," I said desperately.
"How do you even know that's something she'd be willing to do? Huh? I'm sure she wouldn't want her image or name being dragged around again. I'm not talking about whether or not she inhaled marijuana when she was eighteen. This is about something personal. Something damaging. You've damaged her enough for one lifetime. Don't you think? She's destroyed enough of your life. It's time to let it go. I know you want to rectify what happened, but dating her and ripping her image apart isn't going to resolve anything. It'll only make it worse."
I nodded and then glanced around the nearly empty restaurant. That's when I realized I hadn't seen the waitress since we first arrived. She'd brought us both glasses of water, but since then, she'd kept her distance.
It suddenly all made sense. My dad had no desire to share a meal with me. He didn't invite me here to eat-it'd all been a ruse. Nothing more than an excuse to get me alone and listen to his demands under the guise of helping me.
"So what is it you want me to do … besides move to Tallahassee? Because it's not going to happen any time soon."
"There's a banquet dinner Tuesday night in Tampa. I'd like you to be there. I will be announcing my candidacy the following day at the college. I would appreciate it if you'd attend and show your support. Alone."
Alone. Of course he had to add that.
"Nothing else?"
"For now," he said with his spine as straight as a board. The muscles in his face were tight, but other than that, he gave nothing else away in his emotionless expression.
I nodded, unable to say anything more, and stood from the booth. I didn't even bother to glance back at him, shake his hand, give him a hug, or anything else before walking out and leaving him behind. He knew as well as I did I'd be there Tuesday.
Because I didn't have any other choice.
It was what I had do, much like everything else in my life. And I'd do it with very little complaint.
By the time I made it back to my condo, my mood had worsened. Everything became so dark around me, in me. I could've called Novah to let her know I would be free for dinner, but I decided against it. I didn't even know how I'd face her after everything my dad had to say.
And his words wouldn't leave me.
They swirled around in my mind, causing a headache. My stomach twisted and knotted and left me dry heaving alone in my bathroom with nothing but his voice in my head.
You've damaged her enough for one lifetime.
She's destroyed enough of your life.
I stripped off my clothes and removed the titanium leg, preparing to take a shower in the hopes it'd clear my mind. All I needed was to relax and calm down. But once I settled down on the tiled bench, the textured floor beneath my foot and the demeaning voice in my head became worse.
It wouldn't go away.
It grew louder and louder, harsher and meaner, until every ounce of hope vanished from inside.
I'd never be free of him.
"I can't handle his moods anymore," my father said in a hushed, yet stern voice. I'd gone downstairs for some water to take my medicine, but I stopped at the door when I heard him speaking.
"He only needs some time, Doug."
"He's had enough time!" A loud clap filtered through the small crack in the door-probably his hand on his desk. "He's been back for five years. When will he get better?"
"He's getting better. He just needs more time."
I hated it when my parents talked about me behind my back, because it was always "he" this and "he" that, as if I was some nameless person they cared nothing about. I knew it wasn't true with my mom, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was how my father felt.
"He doesn't need time. He needs help. Real help. More than what he's been getting. I can't do this anymore. How can I possibly focus on my career when I have an invalid in my home? How can I do my job and take care of the people who depend on me, when I have to deal with that?"
I wanted to be angry … but I couldn't. I felt too weak to be enraged over his words. It was clear he cared more about his job than he did about me-his son. People who depended on him? What about me? Did I not depend on him? He'd sent me off to war, and I came back … an invalid. Fuck. I wanted to be pissed. I wanted to barge in there and yell, shout, throw things until he understood exactly how damaged I really was. But I didn't. I only stood there, unable to move, unable to say anything, and listened to him complain about his disfigured, crippled, invalid son.
"Doug, don't talk like that. He's doing the best he can. Most young men never come back after what he's been through."
"Don't remind me. I'm fully aware how thankful I should be he's alive."
"Should be?" my mom asked the same question running through my own head.
"Am. How thankful I am." It didn't matter if he'd corrected himself; the damage had been done. "But something needs to change. He either needs to show some vast improvements … or he needs more intense treatment. Our lives have been put on hold for five years. It can't go on like this for five more."
Intense treatment? I didn't even want to contemplate what he meant by that. And I hated to hear him talk about how many years his life had been put on hold. What about mine?
I couldn't take it anymore and moved away from the door. I almost made it to the stairs before my mom came out of the office, noticing me.
"Everything all right, Nolan?"
I nodded, my words stuck in my throat.
"Why are you using the crutches?"
"The new leg is bothering me."
She came to me and halted my steps, keeping me from going anywhere. One of the biggest things I hated most about crutches was if people stood in your way, you couldn't get around them.
"Let me see."
"No, Mom. I think I'm just going to soak in the tub." It disgusted me to have her look at my stump. I didn't want anyone to see it. It was bad enough the doctors had to see and touch it regularly.
She helped me up the stairs, which I loathed and loved. I could only take one step at a time, and the process was painstakingly slow. But I felt better having her with me to ease the fear of losing my balance and falling backward. I didn't fear falling down the stairs to my death … my worry was over falling and breaking my neck, and then being completely immobile.
Once we got to my room, she started the bath for me and helped get clean clothes out. It made me feel useless, like I couldn't grab my own clothes out of my own drawers. Worse than a child, completely helpless.
Before she left, she moved the material of my shorts aside until she could see my thigh. I tried to push her away, but she wasn't having it. So I finally quit fighting and let her see a part of me I wished to hide from the world.
Her gasp hurt worse than my leg did.
"After your bath, call for me. I'll put some lotion on it. This is from your new leg?" She looked up at me, but I didn't meet her eyes, only nodded and waited for her to finish examining me. "Have you tried adding more socks?"
"Mom, if I add any more socks, it won't fit. I've tried fewer socks, more socks … nothing works. I told Dad this leg is painful, but all he's done is tell me how expensive it is and I need to adjust to it."
She shook her head slowly. A tear slipped down her face, but she caught it quickly with her finger. Mom hated to cry in front of me, but I knew without seeing the tears how distraught she was over this whole situation.
"We'll go tomorrow and have something done about this, okay? I don't care how much it was … you won't be forced to use something that leaves you in this much pain. There are other options, possibly better ones. And this time, I'll be with you. I'll let you make the decisions."
I nodded and sat still while she kissed my cheek and then left the room. Nothing she said made any difference at all, because I wouldn't be with her the next day. Or the day after.