Page 162 of Reckless Hearts
I’ve had to look my past in the eye—my sister, my mother, my father—and find a way to forgive myself, to believe I deserve more than self-destruction.
It’s been so slow.
But gradually, gradually, Dr. Emerson has helped me lift the veil of grief and guilt that I shrouded over the events in the past so I could examine them properly.
I’d been a child. And I’d made a mistake, like children do.
As Dr. Emerson pointed out, most children’s mistakes don’t have the consequences mine did.
My mother’s response to me telling her the truth was not my fault either. She was fighting her own battle I couldn’t see, let alone comprehend.
And now, memories of my family aren’t the explosions of guilt that used to detonate in my chest without warning.
Now, I remember Mum dancing in the kitchen to Elvis songs, flour on her nose as she taught Emmy and me how to make Anzac biscuits, her laugh echoing off the walls when we got more dough on ourselves than in the oven. I can remember Emmy following me around the yard with her butterfly net, convinced she could catch fairies if she just waited long enough.
I can even remember the day Dad taught us to make paper airplanes, turning the lounge into an airport, Emmy insisting on drawing passengers in every window of her planes before launching them into the sky.
As part of my healing process, I wrote a letter to my father about everything—the guilt, the grief, the years of silencebetween us, and most importantly, the child I was and the man I’ve become.
I haven’t received a response.
But that’s okay.
He’s on his own journey. And I hope that one day, he gets the help he needs to cope with the loss of his family.
The needle pulses against my skin like a tiny jackhammer, feeling like a bee sting in slow motion. But the pain of the needle on my skin is nothing compared to what I’ve had to go through this year.
I watch as my tattoo takes shape, stark black lines gradually resolving into the precise anatomy of a wing.
Because that’s what I’m tattooing into my skin.
A fairy tern.
It represents so much to me.
It’s a permanent reminder of Seb, of the fact that someone like him exists in the world, of all the other researchers and volunteers who work tirelessly for creatures that will never be able to thank them, yet they persist with their dedication.
It also signifies resilience, the fact that such a small bird is still surviving against all odds.
But most of all, it reminds me of the power of love to be a transforming force.
The artist works steadily, each stroke of the needle adding depth and detail as the complete fairy tern silhouette emerges, its wings outstretched as if in mid-flight.
“It’s kind of like a mutant bandit seagull,” the tattoo artist says as he fills in the coloring around the eyes.
“Yes,” I say with a smile. “It’s kind of like that.”
The fairy ternon my wrist flutters as I adjust my cufflinks.
“You ready for this?”
My new agent Helen is here, helping me get ready for the Academy Awards ceremony.
Jake and I parted ways soon after I left rehab when I realized I needed someone who would let me recover at my own rate, someone who saw me as a person first, not just a commodity to be exploited for the next big paycheck.
Helen was the one who suggested I audition forThe Weight of Whispers.
It’s a role I would have never considered playing before, an in-depth look at a father-son relationship. It felt like twisting the knife, like more than I could handle when I had a nonexistent relationship with my own father.
