Eileen tilted her head, pausing for a moment. "It means I love you," she said. She gave me one small, fleeting smile before she left, closing the door of the coffee shop behind her.
Please. I love you. Please. I love you. That's what he'd said that night in the police station, the day I'd screamed at him and told him I'd never forgive him. Please, he'd begged me. I love you. And I'd turned away. Again.
Mo chroí. My heart.
I sat there for a long time, not drinking my tea, a lump clogging my throat as I simply stared at the wall.
**********
"What are you going to do?" Daisy asked, her eyes wide.
"I don't know, Daisy," I said, pacing across the plush carpet of her bedroom. She'd been getting ready for bed when I'd gotten home and I'd come straight to her room, needing to talk. "And anyway, why did you give Eileen the name of the shop I work at?"
She poured lotion from a small bottle on her bedside table and began rubbing it into one elbow. The soothing scent of lavender met my nose. "She seemed so distraught, Lydia."
I stopped pacing momentarily. "And I'm not distraught? I haven't been distraught for three months now?"
She changed elbows. "I thought maybe . . . well, perhaps you could help each other with your . . . distraughtedness."
"That's not a word," I snapped.
"Distraughtegy?"
I thinned my lips, noting her teasing expression.
"Distress. And this isn't funny. Not in the least." I folded my arms and continued pacing.
Daisy capped the lotion bottle, stood, and came over to me, halting my pacing by putting her hands on my upper arms. "Lydia," she said, "in these last three months, you've become like a sister to me. I like to think we've helped each other through our distress. But . . . I'm getting better, and you're . . . not. And I think it's because in my case, there are no loose ends, nothing to work through, but with Brogan, well, I think there might be. And I think you know that, too. I think it's eating you alive. And until you at least figure out how you feel about him and talk to him, it's going to continue to eat you alive."
I stared at her, wanting to reject her words, but knowing I couldn't. And now tonight, after talking to Eileen, I had so many doubts, so many unanswered questions I'd thought needed no explanation, could have no explanation. But what if . . . what if they could? I'd seen him in that restaurant and despite everything, my heart had still called out to him. My instinct had been to run into his arms and heal the terrible, heart-wrenching ache inside me-not grief over my brother's death, for that was healing on its own. The ache I still felt inside was the loss of . . . him. Either I was a complete and utter idiot, an explanation that wasn't completely off the table, or . . . or I still loved him, because my heart knew he was a good man who had made some bad choices, even if those bad choices had led at least partially to this terrible situation we were in now.
And yet, I didn't absolve myself of my own misguided actions. Perhaps I could have done more to help Stuart. He'd come to me first that day, and I'd known how messed up he'd been. I'd seen his desperation and his paranoia, and yet I'd let him walk right out the door, even giving him money, a measly fifty bucks, but still.
And before that, I'd made excuses for Stuart, worked double time to cover up his mistakes, which only allowed him to keep making them, leading eventually to him threatening Brogan with a gun. I wrapped my arms around myself, a shiver moving down my spine. I was far from blameless myself. "You're right," I whispered. "God, you're right."
Daisy let go of my arms and looked at me sympathetically. "Talk to him," she repeated.
I bit at my lip. "Eileen says he won't make it easy on me. She says he'll try not to let me forgive him, that he wants the punishment."
"Well," Daisy said, stepping back, "I guess you have to decide if you still believe he deserves it, and if not . . . what you're going to do about that."
"Yes." I hugged her tightly, holding on for a moment, wishing I could verbalize my love for her, too, but I was spent. Emotionally exhausted. I dragged myself to my room and quickly changed and brushed my teeth, falling into bed. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but surprisingly, once my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light almost immediately.
I was in a large room, open at the top. I craned my neck back, gazing at the bright blue sky, billowy white clouds floating lazily by. When I looked back down, I realized the walls around me were filled with artwork, swirls and splashes of color decorating every square inch.
Walking closer, I saw there were pictures woven into the splashes of color. One in particular caught my eye: it was a picture of our family home, the lush grounds beyond, horses in the distance. It was the one Stuart had drawn when he was young. I marveled at the beauty, the talent of which it spoke.
I felt a presence behind me and turned. Stuart was standing beside one of the walls, a brush in his hand. I took a disbelieving step toward him. "Stu?" I whispered? He smiled broadly.
"Simply wonderful, isn't it?" a voice asked from the other direction. I let out a small whimper, turning. It was my dad's voice. He was looking around at the walls, a proud smile on his face. And my mom stood next to him, as beautiful as I remembered her.
"Dad? Mom?" I breathed, holding out my hand as my heart leapt with joy. "Stuart?" They all smiled and I ran to them, Stuart joining us, as they wrapped their arms around me, forming a sort of huddle.
Tears ran down my cheeks as I caught Stuart's eye. He smiled softly and said, "Forgive me."
"Yes," I whispered. "Yes."
We held each other this way for a long time until I finally pulled back slightly, wanting to soak them in with my eyes, overwhelmed and filled with happiness. My dad smiled, taking my hand in his and placing something in my palm and closing it. I looked down, opening my hand slowly to reveal . . . a clover. I raised my eyes to my dad's and he nodded, his eyes warm with love, glancing at my mom who wore a soft smile on her lips.
I woke up sobbing. I clutched my pillow to my chest, as the last of my tears dried. I'd been crying-I missed them so much-and yet I felt . . . a deep peace settle over me.
A clover . . . they'd given me a clover. Brogan.
Yesterday, today and . . . tomorrow. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment.
Am I the villain? Brogan had asked. I keep losing track.
And I had lost track, too. Again and again. Even now, I wasn't exactly sure. Or maybe we were all villains sometimes, each one of us. Maybe the thing that determined how quickly we became heroes was the grace we were extended, not only by others, but by ourselves.
I had spoken to Brogan of forgiveness once, and yet I'd been unwilling to forgive, unwilling to extend him the very grace I'd suggested he needed in order to find peace. Forgiveness is a choice, I'd said. And yet I hadn't even given him the chance to explain, hadn't trusted him enough to even allow him that.
"I'll never forgive you," I'd screamed at him that night. I'd done the same thing to him that he had done to me, both of us caught in a vicious cycle of hurt and mistrust and revenge. I'd had good reasons, I could argue, but so had he. And frankly, I was done arguing, done justifying, done putting my pride and my hurt ahead of everything else, done speaking anything except the truth in my heart. Mo chroí.
My heart knew.
Brogan hadn't wanted to kill Stuart. Stuart had blamed Brogan for driving him to the edge, but in fact, Brogan had tried his damnedest to help him, paying off his debt and saving his life. Ironically, Brogan, who set out to ruin our lives had been the only one in a position to make them better. And that's just what he had attempted to do in the end.
If he had simply left us alone-if he had never set out to exact revenge-chances were that eventually, Stuart would've gotten himself killed by the mob, and perhaps me as well.
It was Stuart who had been so filled with resentment and self-pity and envy that he couldn't help himself, much less allow Brogan to. If he had, things could have been so different. I'd tried so hard to honor my mother's wish that I take care of Stuart. And yet, what I'd really done was enable his behavior by excusing him again and again. Brogan had been right about that. And so it had become a burden, not the act of love my mother had intended. I'd carried the guilt of that knowledge for so long, and it had kept me trapped, right along with Stuart.