Page 65 of Trusting Blake
“Is this about Mila and Blake dating?” Sheri questions with a dubious grimace, most likely assuming LeAnne has dragged us both here because we’re in trouble for breaking some unspoken rules. “It’s so clear they like each other, and I know it’s not my place to get involved, but—”
Blake clears his throat. “This isn’t about Mila and me,” he says.
“Oh.” Sheri is even more perplexed now as to why LeAnne is here, but she’s clearly reluctant to query further. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”
“We’ll come with you – if you don’t mind,” LeAnne says.
Sheri looks to me for a hint to what’s going on, but I only nod reassuringly, urging her to just go with it. This won’t be pretty, but it might redeem Dad, even if it means shining a less-than-flattering spotlight on Mom.
As Sheri hesitantly makes her way up the porch with LeAnne following close behind, Blake grasps my wrist.
“You sure you wanna be part of this?” he asks.
“This whole thing between our parents has been a nightmare,” I answer, pulling free of his grip. “It needs to be resolved.”
He seems unwilling to believe that this blowout will do anything other than make things worse, but we follow after Sheri and LeAnne, anyway. He’s close on my heels as we barge into the house behind them, straight to the living room.
Mom is filing her nails on the couch, rollers in her hair, and Popeye is aligning a shelf that has slipped from its bracket, holding it straight while Dad drills it into the wall. They all snap their heads around.
“LeAnne—” Dad accidentally releases his grip on the shelf as he shuts off the drill, one side swinging downward.
LeAnne doesn’t waste a second for the shock of her arrival to sink in. She nods at Mom and Popeye, then she’s across the room in nanoseconds, thrusting the folded letter into Dad’s chest. “Good morning, Everett. Do you remember this?”
Dad pulls the letter out from beneath her hand, staring suspiciously down at the paper as though he’s just been presented with a toxic substance.
“What are you doing here?” Mom asks, flustered. She’s on her feet and encroaching LeAnne’s personal space, but LeAnne’s not going to take her seriously with those rollers in her hair. She dismissively regards her for now.
“Does this look familiar, Everett?” LeAnne asks again, her whole demeanor like a force of nature; she is not a woman to be messed with.
Dad opens the letter to reveal the offending words written inside, and he starts shaking his head in denial before he’s even reached his name signed at the bottom. “I don’t know what this is,” he says, eyes flickering up. “Why are you showing me this, LeAnne? I didn’t write this.”
“Let me see that,” Popeye demands, leaving the shelf half dangling from the wall to snatch the letter from his hands. He squints extra hard, bringing the words up close to his face, and then gapes in disgust. “Good Lord, Everett. What kind of an excuse for a man are you!”
“Give me some credit, please,” Dad protests. “I didn’t write that!”
“That’s what I’m here to find out, Wesley,” LeAnne tells the room. “I received it seventeen years ago in response to a voicemail I left for Everett – and for some reason, whether sentimental or stupid, I didn’t throw it in the garbage where it belongs.”
And I keep my focus solely on my mother, gauging her reaction to LeAnne’s words, while I hear Dad ask, “What voicemail? When?” However skilled an actor he might be, it’s obvious his innocence is genuine. He has no idea what LeAnne is talking about – and not simply because it was all nearly two decades ago.
But Mom. . . Mom has backed away from LeAnne. Her complexion has changed, all of the color draining from her cheeks, and grim fear flashes in her eyes. It tells me everything I need to know, and my heart cracks. How could Mom do something so shabby and underhand? I think, again, how she and Dad really have got some serious trust issues poisoning their relationship.
LeAnne holds out her hand to Popeye and he carefully gives her the letter back.
We’re all watching, in an awkward semicircle of anticipation, as she tears the flimsy paper into dozens of tiny pieces right there in front of us, letting the tatters cascade to the floor. She angles her body toward Mom and says, “Maybe you should ask your wife.”
Dad shifts his intense eyes to Mom, a catch in his voice. “Marnie?”
I tense, holding back unexpected tears. My parents have only just started to get their marriage back on track, but this will derail them all over again, a total breach of loyalty and respect once more, but I can’t keep quiet about something like this. This has to be dealt with, but knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Blake edges closer to me, his pinky finger wrapping around mine in support. This can’t be easy for him to watch either. LeAnne may seem to hold her composure, but there are cracks appearing, years of hurt bubbling to the surface.
“Everett. . .” Mom mumbles pleadingly. She crosses the room and puts a hand on his arm, her expression drooping into middle age in a matter of seconds as she’s overcome with guilt and humiliation as the jealousies and mean-spiritedness of the past are exposed.
Dad takes a guarded step back. He’s still waiting for an explanation.
Sheri stands by Blake and me at the doorway, gnawing at her nails in anxiety. Popeye waits, too, arms folded in angry amazement, his good eye trained on my terrified mom.
“Youwrote that so-called letter, Marnie?” Dad asks, the rasp in his voice making it clear he doesn’t want to believe it.
