Page 137 of Carry On
“It does, but my choices were also to blame,” he said. “We didn’t get help back then, you know? It wasn’t like today. We didn’t see therapists or get medication. We were told to suck it up and be a productive part of society. And those of us who couldn’t, we tried to drown ourselves in a bottle. I failed my son. I failed his childhood. I have to live with that.”
Like father, like son. I wanted to say something, but I held my tongue. Instead, I listened.
“When Mitchell was older, his wife, Nora, insisted that he try to reconnect with me. We did good for a few years there. It was nice to be a part of their family. And Patrick… Nash… he was the sweetest kid on the planet.” He smiled. “And I’m not just saying that because he was my grandkid. He had a little heart of gold. Animals, other kids, adults… it didn’t matter who. He loved everyone. He was always sneaking food for stray animals, picking flowers for elderly neighbors, and taking other kids under his wing whenever he could to make sure they were taken care of. No one made him do it. That was just who he was.
“Oh, and music… he sang all the time. Just made up songs on the spot. It didn’t matter what he was doing. He just sang about it. His mom used to call him her little sunshine song.” He faltered, and I found myself desperately wanting to hear more. Maybe he wasn’t sunshine and happy, but there were pieces of that little boy in the man I loved. I wanted to know him more. “It takes an addict to know an addict, and I saw it in my son. I didn’t want him to lose his family how I did. I didn’t want Patrick to grow upwithout his father. I tried to talk Mitchell into getting some help, and it just…”
“He cut you out,” I finished for him, and he nodded slowly.
“Yeah, he did. And he wouldn’t let Nora come see me. I lost all three of them at once,” Jay said. “A few years ago, I saw him playing that guitar outside a coffee shop. It was his mom’s guitar. I would know. I gave it to her for her birthday. I never expected to see my grandson again, but to find him homeless…”
“Why didn’t you tell him?” I asked.
“The last thing he wanted was family,” he admitted sadly. He wasn’t wrong. “I could be more to him as just another homeless veteran than I ever could be as his grandfather. It took a long time for him to open up to me… to talk about some of his life. He never would’ve trusted me if he knew.”
“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t begin to imagine how that felt.
“I really thought he’d be the one to break the cycle, or maybe I just hoped that he would.”
We fell silent, the birds and the photo ignored as we both stared out across the park. That weight on my chest was heavy as ever, and I took controlled breaths to keep the rolling emotions from taking over.
“Are you the one he married?”
“I am. Lincoln Cassidy.”
“James Calhoun.” He offered me a hand, and I shook it. “Are you holding up enough?”
I was so fucking grateful he didn’t ask if I was okay. I was tired of being asked that.
“No,” I said. “I don’t know… I just… just keep wondering what if.”
“There are no heroes in this war, Lincoln,” Jay told me. “He had to save himself, and to be honest, he had been fighting alongtime… his whole life. It’s hard to live a life like that. You were a good thing… a good moment in his life. That much I know is true.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked, blinking back tears.
“Because he let you into his world. He let no one in. Not like that.”
I nodded slowly, dangerously close to crying as I processed that.
“It’s okay to let it out, Lincoln,” Jay said, his voice soft. He patted my knee before offering me another slice of bread. “You don’t have to talk, but feed some birds. It’s good for the soul.”
And so I did. We sat there for hours as I fed birds and tried to stave off the twisted darkness growing inside me.
CHAPTER 90
LINCOLN
I’dattendedseveralfuneralsin my lifetime, but hosting one was an uncomfortably awful experience. Was hosting the right word? Putting one on? That didn’t feel right either.
Whatever the hell this was called, I hated it. I hated every aspect of the whole damn thing.
I hated how performative it was.
And I mostly hated it because I knew just how much Nash would’ve despised it all. The pageantry was ridiculous. I didn’t know half the people who showed up. Yes, it was small, but there were still complete strangers making an appearance. People who made the hike from Pine Creek, random military members showed up, people from my office made an appearance, and more. All of them came to honor a fallen hero.
At least, that was the narrative. In reality, no one had a clue who he was. It damn near broke me. Shaking hands and accepting condolences hurt. Every interaction grated on my nerves until I couldn’t take it anymore. Without a word, I left all of them standing there, mingling around as they tried to figure out the right thing to say.
Outside, I leaned against the wall and sucked in a shaky breath. The heavy weight in my chest made breathing difficult. Even the fuckingweather was gloomy and downtrodden. Though, it was Seattle. I wasn’t expecting sunshine and fucking rainbows.
