“Why is it that you don’t want to be with her, yet you can’t leave her alone?”
I swallow hard as I think back to everything Brin said to me. I am confusing and contradictory. I want her, but I don’t want all of her. I want her to have me, but not all of me. I’d tell her to keep it simple, and then I’d complicate the hell out of everything with my actions.
“Because I love her and I don’t want to. I can’t. You know I can’t,” I finally say in a whisper. It feels like I’m taking my first breath ever as that admission travels free. I drop to the couch, stretching my legs out while staring at the ceiling. “When I’m with her, I forget. I forget it all. And it feels so damn good to just have her with me. It feels too good. And then I freak out, and I worry what I’ll do to her. It’s so much responsibility to have. I’ve already failed once.”
I can’t stop it. I don’t want to fucking cry like a girl, but I can’t help it. Wren drops to a chair in front of me, and nods slowly.
“Your mom suffered from a mental disease. What she did to you and herself was not her fault. It wasn’t your dad’s fault. And it sure as hell wasn’t your fault. Stop searching for something or someone to blame. And stop letting it destroy your life. There are five stages of grief. I’m pretty sure it’s time to move to stage five.”
His hand on my shoulder is less than comforting, but he tries. Then he walks out, and leaves me with my drunken tears and dark reality.
I want to be angry. It’s better than being miserable. I need that anger, and there’s only one person that can give me what I need.
I grab my keys, stagger outside, and get into my sad, tragic looking Porsche.
***
RYE
“Are you drunk?” Marilyn asks as I barge by her, but I ignore her as she practically purrs behind me.
“Dad!” I yell up the stairs, seeking an attempt at retribution.
He comes down the stairs promptly, and his eyes catch mine. He frowns while looking over my shoulder.
“Give us a minute,” he says to Marilyn.
The clicks of her heels promise me the bitch is leaving, but I never take my eyes off the man I hate the most in life.
“You’re here to blame me some more, I see,” he says, nodding. “Whatever you need to do or say, go ahead. But be prepared to hear the hard truth in return.”
My teeth grind as I move toward him, but the anger... Where the fuck is the anger?
When misery is all that clings to me and anger denies me a reprieve, I break. Years of repressed memories clutter my mind, and I fucking fall apart.
“Eight days. You were gone for eight days one time.”
His eyes water, and he takes a step backwards as my own tears fall. I can tell he wasn’t expecting that, and I sure as hell wasn’t expecting to bring it up. But there it is. I need him to make me angry, and he will. He always does.
“How could you not know she needed help after that?” I ask, my voice crackling.
He slowly lowers himself to the stairs, and the tears start dropping. “I thought... I didn’t know she did that to you until... It was already over by the time I learned everything. You know that. I had no idea, and you never told me. I never would have let her do that.”
The darkness of this house still consumes me and suffocates me every time I’m here. Being trapped, screaming for help, and feeling terrified and hungry for days at a time is something you never forget. You can bury it, but it claws its way to the surface and gnaws on you from the inside.
“She loved you. That’s all she’d ever say. She’d lock me in there and then say she was sorry, but she needed time. I was too much to deal with because she needed time to herself.”
When he starts sobbing, I back away. Where is my motherfucking anger? It’s still leaving me alone with the pain, and I don’t understand. I can’t breathe. It feels like my chest is trying to cave in on itself.
I roar like a fucking animal, gripping my hair as I stumble around.
“I don’t blame you for blaming me, son. I blame myself most of the time,” he says through his choked tone. “But I swear to you that I didn’t know she was sick. I would have gotten her help, and I would have never left you alone with her.”
My back slides against the wall as I sink to the floor across from the staircase.
“I prayed for her to die,” I almost whisper, and his head snaps up. The silence is almost deafening before I continue. “The last time... I prayed for her to die. Thirty-two days later, my prayers were answered.”
Until now, I’ve never spoken those words aloud. My father stands, preparing himself to come toward me. But I hold my hand up, silently pleading for him to stop. I need to get out of here. This isn’t why I came here. I don’t want to talk about it; I want to forget it. I want to hide it, lock it away, and I want to be pissed.