Beautiful Boy(42)

"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.