Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [124]
A coil of anger wound itself around the solid brick of resentment in my gut, and I wanted to fling the entire contraption at Carl's parents. But a familiar breeze stirred in my consciousness. I leaned back as Carl continued.
“In fact, that night at the club when they found out you’d been at Brookforest for drinking, they wanted to talk to me because they knew this deal was in the works. Hate to say it, but they didn’t care about you. They were afraid of any scandal. That's what they told me that night. They wanted to know if very many people knew.” At this point in the telling, Carl's demeanor shifted. His indignation resurrected his betrayal.
“That depends if you count the AA people,” I said, “but we don’t share last names. Lucky for your parents.”
I pushed a chair over and propped my feet up. We never did install that fountain we talked about. It would have made for a much more soothing backdrop than the neighbor's kids jumping like human popcorn on their trampoline in the yard behind us. In a few years, there might be payback from this backyard. I consoled myself with that.
“What really infuriates me is they told me they did this for me,” he said. “To help me. To give me a chance at a life like theirs. They were saving me from myself. And what they were really saying is that I was too dumb to make my own decisions. They don’t understand what I’m so upset about. My mother suggested I was ungrateful.”
That breeze of recognition I felt earlier gathered wind. I understood more than he realized.
“After Vic's accident, they threw themselves into their business to kill the pain. They’d planned to turn it over to him. I knew that. But after he died, I was all they had. And I was never going to measure up.” He looked at me with genuine confusion in his eyes. “Did they think I was so stupid that I didn’t connect the beer they talked about in Vic's car to the crash?” He shook his head. “The home of the ‘no-talk’ rule. We all know Vic died because he drove drunk, but we’re not ever going to talk about it. I spent my whole life trying to be the good son. And look what it got me—betrayal. What was the point?”
He’d been talking to the cedar decking under his feet and didn’t look at me when he asked the question. The unspoken answer bored a hole through the family façade. Carl knew if he could see through the veneer that it meant everyone else could now see in. I reached for my glass and wished the water could dilute the swell of regret rising in my throat.
“When you went into Brookforest,” he said, “I felt like I do tonight. Betrayed, angry, resentful. Probably said some of the same things. Then you came out, and I expected the Leah who went in, but without a drink in your hand. But it hasn’t worked like that. Now my parents aren’t the people I thought they were. Or maybe they never were. Maybe they were like this the whole time, and I couldn’t see it. Where does that leave me?”
That leaves you where I began months ago.
I gathered his hands in mine. If trust could begin with this touch, with knowing our brokenness bound us to each other, it might be a place to begin. If not, it would be a place to end.
“I know you’re in pain,” I said, “and maybe this isn’t the ideal time to share this. But sometimes you can’t write a script for grace.”
He looked at me, a shade drawn over whatever expression might have been there.
I told him about Molly's breast cancer and what I learned was possible in a relationship. How friendship can sometimes take you places love is afraid to go.
I told him about the last two sessions with Melinda, what I had learned about myself, and how the seeds of fear that my mother planted grew in my relationship with him.
Serenity. Courage. Wisdom.
He didn’t say anything. The glare of street lights blocked the view of the stars. I felt surrounded by scowling white eyes.
“I blamed you for Alyssa's death,” I said. “I blamed you for not letting me go to her that night.” I