“By letting go of who I was.” I swiftly pick it up and tuck it under my arm. Proof for the court so they can finalize my petition.
I almost miss the head shake, it’s so subtle. “What does your therapist say about this?”
I stall with my tongue sliding over my teeth, deciding how I want to answer that. Is now a good time to tell him that I stopped going back in October, after four two-hundred-dollar sessions of the guy asking me how I feel and me telling him that I feel damn guilty and getting nowhere beyond that?
Another thing my mother knows that we haven’t enlightened my dad about.
But he’s smart enough to figure it out on his own, it would seem. He throws his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what to do, anymore, Cole. Please! Tell me how we can help you. Everyone else is putting their life back together and yet you don’t seem at all interested in helping yourself.” His tone, his words, the way he’s looking at me—all of it is sliding beneath my skin.
“I’m not discussing this decision. It’s mine to make and I’ve made it.”
“But this is crazy!” The confusion in his eyes is genuine. “You can’t move on by doing this, and you need to move on!”
“I don’t deserve to!” I bellow. My dad flinches with surprise. I can’t remember the last time I yelled at him like that, if ever, but I don’t stop now. He doesn’t get it. No one gets it, and they need to. “Why should I get to move on? Sasha and Derek can’t! Kacey Cleary can’t!” I’ve found myself thinking about her more than I do Sasha and Derek, lately. I haven’t stopped thinking about her. Every day, from the moment I open my eyes to the moment I drift off into oblivion, I can feel her shadow haunting my subconscious. She was so completely innocent in all of this.
It probably doesn’t help that I’ve saved a picture of her onto my phone and I check it at least ten times a day—every time I imagine a new way that she may be disfigured and I’m desperate to bleach the image from my mind, I fixate on her photo. On her smile.
Only it’s cyclic, because then I remember that that smile has surely been wiped away. By me. And I’m not even brave enough to face her in the hospital, to confess to my part in it. To say I’m so damn sorry. That I’d do anything to fix it.
I don’t remember what it’s like to not feel this toxic mixture anymore—pain and sadness and guilt that eats away at my insides, leaving me hollow and wishing that I’d just lay my head on my pillow one night and never have to lift it off again.
“Kacey Cleary will be released soon—” my dad begins to say, but I cut him off.
“To what? She has no one left! They’re all dead because of me!” The paper I just picked up goes flying across the room, hitting a glass that sits on the counter, knocking it to the ground, to shatter into countless pieces. “So how am I supposed to just move on? Please explain that to me, Dad! How? I’m just going to finish my degree and play ball and laugh and live? I don’t deserve to live! Don’t you two see that?” The words tumble out of my mouth, more than I’ve said in almost a year, more than I’ve admitted to anyone.
They seem to deflate my dad. The anger and frustration that contorted his face before slides off, leaving only a tired, wary man who falls into his chair, as if his legs can’t hold the weight of him anymore as his hope for his only son falls to the kitchen floor, to lie with the shattered glass.
A heavy silence hangs over us.
“You’re right, Sasha and Derek can’t,” my mom says shakily, stepping forward to take my hands. “But you can and we need you to. Please. For us. For everyone who loves you. For yourself.” Her eyes are watering. I’ve never seen my mom cry as much as I have in the last ten months. Hell, I’ve never cried as much as I have in the last ten months. And seeing my parents like this now, again—like they’re grasping at every last fiber that’s keeping them together, like they’re about to unwind into a heap—deflates whatever fight I have left. “We love you, Cole. And we miss you. Please,” her pleas turn into whispers. “I need my son back.”
I bow my head to avoid facing her pain. I’ve hurt so many people and I’m still doing it. I’m hurting my parents so much. I know it every time I look into their eyes.
“Yeah, Mom. I’ll try.”
For all that it’s worth.
Chapter 10
August 2009
“Any more boxes?” my dad asks.
“I’ve got it. I’ll meet you outside,” I holler back, the yellow folder staring up at me.
I should have known. Being the astute lawyer that he is, my dad has a file of information on the Cleary family. Notes about their ages, schools, the date that Kacey was released from the rehabilitation center. The address of her aunt and uncle’s, where she and her little sister now live. Where her parents are buried.
Her medical bills.
So many medical bills, which my parents are obviously taking care of.
Billy’s family settled with my parents out of court, for how much I can’t say, because neither of them will tell me. But I doubt they’ll be able to buy that summer home on the Cape anymore, and that guilt festers inside me.
It’s a complete fluke that I’ve come across this information. I opened the box with the intention of dividing the files into two boxes, because I knew there was no way my dad would be able to lift it. The Cleary name was right there, waiting for me.
I check over my shoulder to make sure he’s not at the door, watching me. I wish I had time to make copies of everything, but I don’t. So I do the next best thing. Pulling my phone out, I take pictures of all the most important information.
My dad’s waiting for me by his replacement Suburban, the back fully loaded. Mainly with office stuff and sentimental things. Most of his belongings are already at his place in New York—a semi-detached house in Astoria that he’s been renting for almost a year.
The place he will now call home.
The high school sweethearts voted most likely to grow old together have decided that they need time and space from each other, and the life they once seemed to cherish.
I still haven’t gotten more than a vague answer from either of them about why. Which makes me pretty certain that I know what the reason is.
I eye the loaded trunk. “You sure you don’t need my help on the other end?”
My dad slaps my bicep—my arms now bigger and stronger than they ever were during my years of college ball, thanks to all of the hours I spend at the gym. “I may be old, but I can handle a few boxes of books.”
“Right.” I give him a half-smirk. It’s the best I can manage but he seems happy to see it, chuckling to himself. Though still strained, our relationship is better than it has been in a while.
“Okay, well . . . You keep your mom in line here. I know she was talking about maybe taking a vacation or something. Just,” his eyes drift to the walkway, to the front door, where Bonnie Reynolds leans against the door frame, her lips pressed into a firm line, watching, “keep up with your courses and work and . . . getting your life back on track.”
Back on track.
Do they really believe that that’s what I’m doing? I suppose I’ve been successful at making it look like I am. I’ve put up a good front, learning how to force smiles and appear reserved versus emotionally unstable. I ask polite questions. The trick is to ask open-ended ones that force others to talk. And then just keep asking questions. That way they think you’re having a conversation. It’s hard and tiring, because my mind keeps drifting.