Page 91 of Everything We Give

“Wish I was.” Stu sucked on the cigarette like his life depended on it. Ian watched the smoke veil his dad’s face. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. Shallow creases marked his father’s forehead like yard lines on a football field. His dad had aged these past months. The trial had been difficult. He’d spent a lot of time traveling between home, Nevada, and his games. He still had to make a living, he told Ian. Someone had to put food on Ian’s table and keep the roof from collapsing on him.

“You said we could see her as soon as she could have visitors.” Ian had been waiting for months.

“We’re not on her list.”

“Then get us on it.” Ian clenched his hands and took a threatening step toward his dad.

Stu’s eyes narrowed in warning and Ian shrank back. “I can’t. It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” He was her son. How could she not want to see him?

“She’s sick, Ian.” Stu sucked at the cigarette. “She’s lucky she’s getting any treatment at all in there.”

“The doctors will fix her.”

“They’ll try, but there’s no guarantee.” He flicked the cigarette with a thumbnail. Ash dropped in the dirt. “Until she’s stable, no visits.” With the edge of his boot sole, he buried the ash.

“Do the doctors know why she’s sick?”

“Yes.”

“And?” Ian pushed. He wanted answers. He needed to make sense of why his mother’s behavior was so erratic.

“It’s confidential.” Ian held his father’s gaze, pleading for more information. Stu broke contact and looked at the ground. He scratched his lower lip with his thumb. “She had a rough childhood. Her stepfather wasn’t ...” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes. “He wasn’t nice to your mother. She shouldn’t have married me. She probably shouldn’t have had a kid either.”

Ian stumbled back a step. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Listen, I’ve got to make some calls.” Stu pushed off his thighs and stood. “Unpack the truck and get your chores done.”

“What about Mom? She’s waiting for us,” Ian protested.

“Dammit, Ian. Your mother doesn’t want to see you.”

Ian moved his head in a slow, disbelieving shake. “Liar.”

“She asked for space, so we’ve got no choice but to give it to her.”

“Liar!” Ian screamed. “I took care of her. She needs me.” Ian smacked his chest, and to his humiliation, the tears he tried hard to hide from his dad boiled over. “She loves me. She said she wouldalwayslove me. I want to see her. I have to make sure she’s all right.”

“She’s not your responsibility, Ian. Not now, not ever.” Stu retreated into the house.

Ian watched the screen door slam. His legs shook and a sick feeling twisted inside his stomach. He’d failed his mom at her trial, and he’d failed her with his life.

His mother had lied to him. She didn’t love him.

She hated him.

He never should have been born.

CHAPTER 27

AIMEE

Ian and I watch Lacy traipse along the drive. She ambles along in a straight line, one foot in front of the other, hands out like a gymnast on a balance beam. It’s almost childlike, the way she wobbles from time to time. She’s in no hurry, moving at a reluctant pace as though she wants to stay, to linger over mint tea and afternoon gossip. But she insisted on leaving to allow Ian the chance to absorb the impact of her words. If Lacy can be described as anything, I’d say she is a stealth bomber. She appears from out of nowhere, drops her payload on the unsuspecting citizens below, only to disappear as her targets try to make sense of—to survive in—the surrounding rubble and devastation of their lives.

I can’t imagine the guilt Ian must be feeling about his father. All the years he could have reached out to make amends.

A gust of wind cuts a path across the yard. We feel its impact on the porch. Air fills my ear with a pop. Ian’s arm hugs my waist a little tighter. I see Lacy’s skirt billow like a sail. She staggers, then does a quickstep to keep ahead of the current so she doesn’t stumble. Another flurry lifts and swirls the dried, crackly leaves at her feet. She’s in the vortex of a red, gold, and yellow dust devil. Everything is flying, ruffling in the wind. She shields her face with an arm and lets the eddy carry her along. I see Lacy as chalk marks on a board, and the swirl of wind, an eraser, expunging her from our lives. On to the next lesson. Time for a new chapter. As I watch her dance around and around with the wind the last few yards to the oak-tree-shaded mailbox on the edge of the road, I know in the way that I know my own heart that this is the last time Lacy’s path will intersect with ours.

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