Tomorrow Faith would return. For the first time in a long time she had confidence in her sister’s actions. But Grace could see into a future that Faith could not. Faith would wind up back on the street when Jason grew tired of her, and what would happen to Max? Would he be tossed out like his mother? Or would Jason—a man with no ties to him, a man whose own children had been spirited away from him—keep him?
Like so many other moments in her life, Grace had no choice. She laid Max down in his crib and he smiled in his sleep. She was his mother if not by birth, then by heart—and blood. Grabbing a bag, she began to pile diapers and formula inside it. Slowly she collected all the things she knew Faith would need—his birth certificate, the small photo album Nana had put together before the Alzheimer’s overwhelmed her, the soft giraffe he liked to chew on. The last time she’d disappeared she’d left everything behind. Grace found the box of items she had saved for her sister. Faith’s whole life leading up to now fit in a box. She packed it up quickly although it felt like her world had slowed down as each moment ticked by, bringing her closer to one she couldn’t face.
Then she went to the closet and found her suitcase. They didn’t need much. Only what they could fit in the bags. She didn’t have a car at the moment, but the bus was still running and so was the ferry. Dumping a few toiletries on the top of the clothes that were clean in the drawer, which weren’t much, she paused and picked up the picture she had of her and Faith’s fifteenth birthday. The last one before things went horribly wrong. She pulled the photo from the frame, ripped it in half and tossed Faith’s photo on top of her things. Then she tore up the other half and zipped the suitcase closed.
Even as doubt clawed through her, she carried no guilt. Max had two mothers. By morning, he’d never need to know that.
Chapter 23
Loving an addict is to live torn between hope and mourning, caught in an endless repetition of the five stages of grief. Tonight stripped away the hope and left me with only sorrow.
Four years ago, I had run away with Max to protect him. I’d spent the intervening years trying to understand what had happened to my sister. Now that she’s gone, there are more questions than ever.
But the most disturbing one of all has nothing to do with her.
What’s happened to me?
Outside, rain begins to beat against the window in an out of tune rhythm that gradually builds to a dull roar as the storm grows in intensity. It’s uncharacteristically violent rain for the Pacific Northwest. I can’t help but think of when I was a child and my grandfather told me that when it rains it means God is crying. Something about that soothes the dull, aching, hollowness in my chest.
Amie took away the bottle and my car keys before she disappeared back into her room. I can’t blame her for leaving me here in the dark. And honestly, I should be comfortable alone, trapped with my own memories. I’ve been stuck in this space for so long. The truth hasn’t set me free. Instead, it’s brought me to my own personal judgement day.
I rap my fingers on the tabletop, trying to match that pitter-patter of the rain on the glass. It’s something to occupy me now that I’ve stopped crying. I’ll let God weep for me now. Perhaps he’s mourning Faith.
It’s funny to grow up with such heavy names. Faith. Grace. My mother believed in both concepts, and she took all that belief with her to the grave, leaving none for those of us she left behind.
Looking down, I realize I’m still in my pretty dress that I wore tonight for Jude.
Jude, the betrayer.
Jude, the collector of lost souls.
Jude, my Jude.
And the Jude that doesn’t belong to me at all.
I want to erase him from my mind. I’d known he was a hurricane of a man when we met, and now the storm has broken. Standing, I yank at the back of my dress, trying to reach my zipper and not caring if I tear it. He touched this fabric, and I want the memory of his fingers as far away from me as possible. With one swift yank, it puddles to the floor at my feet. But with it gone, I realize that I can’t erase my own skin. I can still feel where his fingertips blazed over my bare flesh. Maybe with time, that sensation will fade along with this expansive sorrow welling in me. But for now, the memory of him lingers on my skin.
I kick off my shoes and open the back door. The wind howls on its way to be swept back to the sea. As the first drops of water hit me, I release my own strangled cry. It isn’t a scream. Rather, it comes from a place I’ve kept locked away. It takes its time, clawing its way back out of me and into the world. I have spent the last five years in fear, wondering if I could protect the precious child I chose as my own. Tonight has stolen that comforting blanket of fear from me. My tears come again, encouraged by the water, baptizing me in the dark. I cry for the choices I have made, and for the sister I left behind. I cry for what is and will never be. I cry for myself. I cry until I don’t know what are tears and what is rain.