Page 21 of The Ballad of Us
Chapters end so you can write new ones, and maybe, just maybe, this is how both Gray and I finally learn to write our own stories instead of being characters in each other’s tragedies. It dawns on me that maybe Gray isn’t the only one who needs professional help to heal from the pain of our relationship and my mom’s addiction. They left scars.
I recall a browser on my phone and search for Al-Anon groups and meetings in the local area. I’m not familiar with Dogwood Hollow or the surrounding towns and cities, so I research each listing on the national site to find the one closest to me.
There’s a meeting this upcoming Saturday over in Cedar Falls, which, according to Google, is just a twenty-minute drive away. Committing the details to memory and placing them on my phone’s calendar brings me more peace than I’ve felt in a long time.
Tonight, I’ll sleep better than I have in weeks. Not because my heart isn’t broken, but because the man I love is finally trying to put himself back together.
Six
GRAY
“Hey, baby. It’s me again. Day seven.”
I lean back in the phone booth, my daily ritual established as morning group, therapy, and evening meditation. I’ve had a week of one-sided conversations with Rhea’s voicemail—seven days of talking to her voice without actually speaking with her.
“Had a breakthrough in individual therapy today. My therapist helped me understand several things about myself that I’ve been running from for, well, most of my life. I wish I could tell you about it in person, but I understand why you can’t answer. I can understand how hearing my voice might hurt too much right now.” I listen to the sounds of the facility around me. Other people are healing, trying to put their broken pieces back together.
The words come easier now. I’ve had seven days of practice that have taught me how to distill my day into the span of a voicemail message. I pack remorse, hope, and desperate love into the time between the beep and the inevitable dial tone.
“I played guitar for two hours today and wrote something new, not about losing you, though God only knows I could write a hundred songs about that and never run out of material. This one’s about forgiving yourself for things you couldn’t control when you were just a kid.” My throat tightens, the therapy session still raw in my mind.
Bruce warned me it would be difficult, that trauma buried for decades doesn’t go quietly into the nightBut I hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel to finally speak the truth out loud.
"I love you, Rhea. I love you more than I've ever loved anything, including the bottle. That's new for me, baby. Being able to say that and mean it. I'll call tomorrow," I promise.
I hang up and make my way to the dining hall, where my roommate, Denny, waves me over to our usual table. The routine is comforting now. I have breakfast with a group of guys I’ve befriended, followed by morning group, individual therapy, an afternoon group, free time, dinner, an evening group, and finally, the blessed exhaustion that comes from doing emotionally heavy lifting all day.
"You look like shit, brother." Denny stops short of shoving food in his mouth with a fork to tell me I look terrible.
“Feel like it too. I had a breakthrough today with Bruce.” I lift a shoulder into a shrug, as if it’s not a profound weight lifted from my soul.
Denny nods sympathetically. “Those’ll gut you. I cried like a baby after my first real session. Twenty-eight years old, and I was bawling my eyes out about my daddy not hugging me enough.”
“Mine was about my ex-wife. The therapist made me write her a letter I’ll probably never send. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Randy has been quiet since I sat down, as is his way, but he joins the conversation now.
I appreciate their openness and the way trauma becomes less isolating when you’re surrounded by people who understand that everyone’s carrying invisible wounds. But what I discussed with Bruce today goes beyond the usual family dysfunction or relationship failures that brought most of us here.
“What did you work on?” Denny asks gently, not meaning any offense by it. He’s a supportive individual who likes to know how he can help.
I stare at my untouched food, wondering how to even begin. “My mom’s death. I’ve never really talked about it before, not the details anyway.”
The table goes quiet. In the week I’ve been here, we’ve all shared pieces of our stories, but there’s an unspoken understanding that some stories require invitation before they’re told.
“You don’t have to—” Denny starts.
“No, it’s okay. I think I need to say it out loud to people who get it.” I take a sip of coffee, gathering courage. “My stepfather killed her. Beat her half to death, then drowned her in our bathtub. I was seven. Andrew was nine.”
The silence stretches, heavy with the weight of words that can’t be taken back. I feel exposed, both relieved and anxious, as I watch them absorb what I've just shared.
“Fuckin’ A, Gray,” Randy whispers, his eyes widening in shock.
“We hid in my older brother, Andrew’s, bedroom closet while it happened. He covered my ears, but I could still hear everything. My stepfather was screaming at her and hitting her with a closed fist. Then the splash when he…” I swallow hard. “Then silence. The sirens seemed to grow closer at a snail’s pace. Our neighbor had called the police, but it was too late when they got there.”
Denny reaches across the table and squeezes my shoulder. “That’s some heavy shit to carry around, brother.”
”The worst part is, I’ve spent twenty-nine years thinking I should have done something. Seven years old, and I convinced myself I was a coward for not trying to save her.” How much farther would I be in life if I had dealt with my trauma earlier in my life?
“Your brother saved your life. If you’d tried to help, you’d probably both be dead.” Randy offers a way to see the silver lining in my story.
