“Well, what are some of the positives that have occurred in your life because your parents sent you away?”
I gritted my teeth. “Well, I’m not a spoiled rotten little shit like Mark and Marga, that’s for sure.”
The vicar nodded. “So, because you were sent away, you’re grateful that you learned to be independent and work for what you have?”
Damn it. I walked right into that trap. “I suppose.”
“Hawk, you are or you aren’t. Which is it?”
Blowing out a deep breath, I answered, “I am. I just wish I could have had parents who loved me enough to help me become the man I am now rather than it having come to me the hard way.”
“Yes. And I’m sure your father wishes he had a father who loved him. I’m sure your mother wishes she had a mother who loved her. I’m sure they both desperately wish they could have a do-over and make different choices and be different people than the ones they’ve become. But it isn’t possible. What’s done is done.”
I scoffed. “So I should just forgive and forget?”
“No. Just forgive. Always remember the lesson. Let it help you become the father you didn’t have.”
He had left me then and Liane had taken his place, and I pulled her into my lap, needing her close.
“You okay?” she asked me and I placed a hand on her stomach.
“I am now.”
She kissed my forehead and snuggled closer. “Nice chat with Dad?”
I snorted and she laughed. “Yeah, I felt the conflict in you.”
That surprised me. I’d expected her to feel my anger. But conflict? I gave it some thought and realized it was true. I was conflicted. I wanted my parent’s love as much as I wanted to hold onto the hate. I wanted to be a big brother as much as I wanted to despise my siblings.
“Which will bring you more joy in the end?” she asked me, reading my mind. “Which legacy do you want to leave our child?”
I rested my head on her chest, listening to her wise heart pulse beneath my ear. I already knew the answer to her question. I just wasn’t ready to say it out loud.
***
Later that night, Liane came back from visiting my mother, distraught and looking so exhausted that I became concerned. “Your mother is beside herself. Worth has disappeared, and no one can find him. Hawk, she needs you. She needs a strong man beside her. You’ve got to find him. Forget what happened between you. You’ve got to find him and bring him home.”
I reluctantly agreed and had there been anyone at all who could have taken the responsibility, I would have shifted it immediately. But there was no one but me. I made a few phone calls first, and no one could give me any information. I checked the clinic and called hotels. Nothing. It was getting very late, and the town had shut down for the night.
I finally got into my car and decided to simply drive the roads. I looked by the river and went by the old LaViere farm. He was nowhere to be found. On the way back home, I passed by the road on which Mark had nearly lost his life. On a whim, I made a U-turn and turned onto the road. Sure enough, it was by that tree that I found Father. He was asleep, lying on the grass with his arms outstretched.
I climbed out and bent over him. He’d been drinking heavily. I woke him and dragged him to an upright position. Despite the alcohol, he was coherent. He said nothing. He just looked at me, then folded his arms around me and began to cry.
We sat that way for a long time, and I patted him on the back until at last he quieted. I helped him into my car and drove him to my house. There I made him a pot of black coffee and helped him shower. He borrowed some clothes from my closet and finally presented himself in the living room.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t,” I responded, the conflict still running through me. “Just don’t. Mother is beside herself and needs you. That’s the only reason I came looking for you.”
“Hawk, let’s not do this.”
“Do what, Father? Don’t pretend, not with me. It’s happened again, don’t you see? It’s the same story all over again.”
He looked at me, his eyes narrowed, trying to comprehend my words. “What story?”
“You know the one. It’s a classic around these parts. The good son is in an accident at the tender age of sixteen, and the bad son goes on to reproduce more bad seed.”
Realization hit him, I saw it in his eyes the moment it did. He took a step backwards, then another until his hand was on the doorknob. “No, son. History tried to repeat itself, but it failed this time. The good son will live.” He opened the door and took a step out. “And the bad one…”
He shook his head wearily and closed the door behind him. He never completed the sentence.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Auggie
Time heals all, I’m told. I disagree. I believe that time blunts the memory as a scab closes a wound. It never truly heals for that would make it completely disappear. But life moves on, and it’s up to each of us to make the best of it.
Six weeks after his accident, my baby boy opened his eyes. Three days after that, they were able to take him off the respirator. He couldn’t speak at first, and we didn’t know if it was from brain damage or from being on a ventilator for so very long. At first, he could only blink his response, then he grew strong enough to squeeze my hand. Then, miracles upon miracles, he opened his mouth and said his first word. “Mom.”
After that, things seemed to move quickly, more quickly than I thought they should. He was taken out of ICU and admitted to a rehab unit for intensive therapy. I wanted to scream at the doctors and nurses to stop. To give him time to rest. Time to recover. But no, they were getting him into a chair. Then on his feet. They didn’t listen to the cries of pain that tore at my soul.
And it was a good thing because, slowly, he began to get better.
I spent many hours at the hospital, sometimes with Worth and Marga. Sometimes alone. I would simply sit with Mark or we’d watch something stupid on TV. He was quiet, still getting his bearings, still trying to retrieve some of the memories he’d lost. His speech was still hard to understand at times, but his speech therapist was making a difference.
“H-Hawk v-visited me this m-morning,” he said, and I understood those words clearly enough.
I examined his face for any anxiety, but there was none. “Did you have a good visit?”
“Y-yes. I d-discovered him. I mean….” His face turned red as he searched for the right word. “I m-mean… I remembered him.” He was getting frustrated with himself. Instead of babying him, I let him process his frustration on his own, the way the therapists told me to. He needed a mother, but he didn’t need to be mothered right now.
“I’m sure he was glad you are so much better now,” I offered tentatively, still unsure if what he remembered was good or bad.