Page 71 of Pity Play

I can see the exact moment this concept hits him upside the head. Hammering it home, I tell him, “Like I wantyouto be proud ofme.”

“I am proud of you, Luke.” He speaks so quietly I’m not really sure he said it.

“Then why are you so mad at me?”

He thinks for a minute. “I don’t know. I guess …”—he takes a beat to put his thoughts together—“I guess I figured that if I made my dad’s dream come true then I would somehow make things right with him.”

My heart feels like it’s in a vise. How has my father carried this pain around for so long and not seen that there is nothing for him to feel guilty about? “You raised kids. You know we get mad and say stupid stuff. You were just a kid yourself,” I remind him.

“Maybe, but my parents died knowing that I said something awful. They died not knowing how sorry I was for doing that.”

Standing up, I lean over and gently place my arms around my dad and let him cry on my shoulder. After several long minutes, I tell him, “Your parents forgave you immediately, Dad. It’s what parents do.”

His words come out as a hiccup. “But then Bobby died.”

“That wasn’t your fault, either,” I tell him. “Jim said he was hit by a drunk driver.”

“Ah, so Jim is the one who told you what happened.”

I don’t confirm or deny his assumption. That can be a fight for another day. “You didn’t kill your brother, Dad,” I affirm.

“I felt like it wasallmy fault,” he says. “If I’d never said that horrible thing maybe my parents wouldn’t have died, and neitherwould Bobby because he would have never gone to live with those other people.”

“How have you been carrying this burden for so long?” I ask. “You were a kid. You weren’t responsible for the bad things that happened to your family.”

“I know that in here.” He points to his head. Touching his heart, he adds, “In here it’s a different story.”

I walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of cold water. When I return to his bedside, I tell him, “Drink this. It’ll help.”

He smiles. “That’s what I always told you.”

“You were right, too. You were right about so much, Dad.”

After he drinks his water, I take his glass back to the kitchen. My father has always seemed like such a big, strong, functioning human, yet he was being eaten alive by anguish and regret over something that simply wasn’t his fault.

I have no idea how to help him heal from this, but I know one thing with great certainty: I will find a way because that’s what family does for each other.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

LORELAI

When I woke up this morning, I could tell something was different. The house felt empty, which it has not since Luke came to visit. Tiptoeing down the hall, I look into my room and discover all his things are gone. A wave of sadness fills me. He’s already left, and he didn’t say goodbye. I guess I can’t blame him after how moody I was, but I’m still disappointed.

Before I can second guess myself, I pick up my phone and fire off a text to him.

Me

I see you’ve already left. I hope you have a safe trip back to Chicago.

He responds quickly.

Luke

I’ll be in town for a few more days, but I’m staying with my parents. I was going to call you later to thankyou for everything.

Me

You’re welcome.

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