After lunch, I do my best to relax and enjoy the beauty that surrounds us, the sunlight filtering through the trees, the moist tang of soil mingling with a whisper of pine.
A crackling noise interrupts my quietude. I look up and see two birds perched side by side on an overhead branch. Without warning, one of them loses its balance. The bird flaps its wings, flutters, and rights itself back on the branch. The other bird sidles a little closer, and they gaze into each other’s eyes. In that brief instance, I sense profound unity between the two creatures that nearly takes my breath away. For them, imbalance and uncertainty have moved quickly into the past. Together, everything is just right in their world, exactly as it should be. I turn to Devon and realize he’s been watching, too.
Later, as we sit on a dock by the lake, Devon seems reflective, looking into the water and making circles in it with his feet. I wait, allowing him to find his own time to speak.
Eventually, he turns to me.
“Daddy?” he says, “We’re like those two birds, aren’t we.”
It’s not a question but rather a declaration, and the conviction in his voice, the unequivocal confidence, makes my heart swell so full that my chest can barely hold it. He sees us as unshakable, and I couldn’t love him any more than I do right now.
“Yes,” I say, “we’re just like that.”
37
You again.
The Evil Tree lies in wait up ahead.
If there were another road, some alternate, high-velocity flight path or time travel spiral, I’d take it. But there is only one way in and out of Loveland, so eluding the monster is unavoidable.
As I approach, I size up my opponent and see things are much the same—still hideous and threatening, intrinsic evil oozing from every branch like poisonous sap.
I hate that thing.
Burn it down.
Are you crazy?
No, but you are, so burn the motherfucker down.
I clench the wheel, angst and sweat holding my palms to it like epoxy. Now the tree is less than ten feet away, challenging me, daring me to cross its path.
Wanting to get past its powerful, toxic draw, I punch the accelerator, and like a gun throwing lead, my car fires forward and away from what I’m now sure is the filthiest patch of hell on earth. Though I maintain a fast and steady pace for the next several miles, I can feel that the Evil Tree has still sent its noxious vibes on the hunt for me.
That’s when I realize the beast’s control is more powerful than I’d first thought, its reach stretching far beyond the cursed spot where it tore through the ground to wreak havoc on my life.
38
The morning can often bring clarity. It can bring perspective. But on this morning, there is neither. In fact, this morning—as I return to work and know that seeing Adam is inevitable—I’m even more restless as my mind hashes over the embarrassing scene I created in his home. Humiliation has washed into regret, shock into achy disquiet, all of it pumping like dirty blood through my veins and out to every part of me.
This isn’t just about my off-color behavior or even about my inability to control it. What wrecks me is that I’ve hurt my closest friend. As messed up as I know Kayla is, as difficult as she can be, and even though I know she’s not right for Adam, I’ve worked hard to respect their relationship. What I did the other night may have destroyed a friendship that means a great deal to me.
I really screwed this one up.
I’m fully aware that my effort may be in vain, but I’ve got to try and fix this, to reconnect with Adam, to make this right.
At the office, I rise from my chair, draw a breath of courage, then head down the hall. I give Adam’s door a faint knock and poke my head inside. He looks up from his work, expression at first attentive, then after seeing me, strained by awkward discomfort.
I’m feeling it myself, probably more than he is.
I clear my throat, then say, “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” Adam nods. He motions me inside with a warm gesture that gives me the courage to step forward.
I drop into the visitor’s chair. I try to think.
“There is no excuse for my actions the other night, Adam,” I say, remorse giving me the proper amount of resolve I need at this moment, “so I’m not even going to try making any. All I can tell you—and all I want you to hear—is that I deeply regret what I did, and I wish there were a way to—”
“Chris,” he interrupts in a tone of compassion that I wasn’t at all expecting. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
“Well, no.” He laughs a little. “It’s not okay, but my concern for you far supersedes that. Look, I know you, Chris. I’ve known you for years, and that guy the other night? It wasn’t you.”
He has no idea.
He has every idea. He’s yanking your chain.
“That guy was someone else,” Adam continues. “Chris, you’re one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I know. So . . . I guess what I’m trying to say is that, well . . . I’ve been worried about you, buddy.”
I lower my head, close my eyes. “Me too.”
“And even though I can tell you’ve been trying to act strong, to keep your feelings from showing, I know you well enough to see past all that.”
“I feel so goddamned bad about this. How I hurt Kayla.”
He levels his eyes with mine. “Kayla will be just fine. Trust me. She’s the least of your concerns right now. If you really want to fix this . . .” He hesitates “. . . What matters most now is that we fix you, and I want to help.”
“You already are. You’re arranging the MRI.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the more important stuff. Look, I understand how you are, maybe even better than I understand myself, sometimes. I know what you do when you’re scared. The hiding thing, how you shift into that place where you think you’ve got to fight the toughest battles alone. Don’t do that. Not now, not at a time like this.”
His sentiment sounds painfully familiar.