Page 115 of Every Good Thing
Our spontaneous swims mimicked the feeling of my homecomings. Losing myself in her was a full-bodied relief. Easy. Familiar. Uncomplicated. A way of getting small, I realize now. It was called leave for a reason—I left every difficulty behind.
I take a sip of wine—too sweet for my taste—and catch a picture collage on the high wall near the front door. The family portraits have always been here, but many new pictures have been added. I scan them, hunting for Lauren.
Her standing proudly in front of scenic mountainscapes. Surrounded by children in what looks like schools and orphanages. With doctors in makeshift hospitals. The pictures change in the subtle ways she has over the years, revealing that she returns to these places frequently, committing herself to bettering others.
But in the pictures of her and her boys, she is most happy. Camping. At the beach. At school events. Basketball games. Her between them in Eagle Scout uniforms, both kissing her cheeks on either side.
She breathes a soft sigh beside me. “They’re my life.”
“I misjudged you.” The words emerge like heavy weights hitting the ground when my arms are too tired. “I was angry then. I said things I didn’t mean. I’m sorry.”
She nods, tears glassing her gray eyes. “We both messed up. I’m sorry, too.”
“If I’d been a better man, I would’ve… done things differently.”
She shrugs, and a tear slips out. She motions to the pictures. “I’m glad you didn’t. We were needed elsewhere.”
“Agreed.” I nod to the images again. “You should be on your father’s wall in his office. Not me. Your service is equally commendable.”
She pushes into my arms with an emotional surge. I don’t initiate it. I don’t know what to do at first. But hearing her soft “Thank you” in my ear, I accept her affection.
As she slowly pulls away, we understand each other. Her reaction to my scars no longer carries the pain it used to. Her expression makes me think she feels better, too, like the dark cloud of our breakup has finally dispersed.
She lingers in the inches between us, meeting my eyes with a hopeful question in hers. Her hands rest on my chest while mine slips over her back. It’s familiar but strange, too. It’s like hearing the instrumental of an old song and not being able to put a title to it. Not that I want to remember it.
She’s not Lena.
I step away so abruptly that she pitches forward in my absence. Then, I lose myself in the crowded living room.
At eight, I retreat to the beachside deck to call Ruthie and say goodnight. No one is out here, but inside enjoying dinner. I use the ocean as a background for the FaceTime call.
“Where are you, Daddy?” Ruthie asks, eyeballing the screen.
“The beach. I went for a walk.”
“When are you coming home? I don’t like it when you’re not here for bedtime.”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom says you’re figuring things out,” she continues. “But I don’t understand. You’re not lost. You know how to get home, right?”
“Yes. That’s not it.”
With a weepy voice, she says, “You can’t stay at Becca’s forever. We miss you.”
My hand rakes through my hair in frustration. I glance up from the phone, trying to find words.
Lauren stands on the open threshold of the sliding glass door, aghast over what she’s clearly overheard—my daughter in tears over my absence. She retreats inside with the refreshed wine glass she probably meant to hand me, mouthing an apology.
Fuck.
“Ruthie…”
“Dad, it’s not fair.”
I almost tell her that life isn’t fair.
“I know. I’m sorry, but I’m proud of you for being brave and patient with me. I’ll try to be there for tomorrow’s bedtime, okay?”
