I looked away, blinking. Emotions welled up in me. Dang it. I hated crying. Anything but crying. I tried to smile and play it off. “I think you’re making it a big deal.”
“Yeah? When I watched you risk your life, it became a big deal.” She turned to follow Blake back to the Jeep.
The trees rustled as the wind picked up. A strand of my hair stuck to the tear that had escaped on my cheek. I swiped at it and gathered my gear.
My legs were quaking, but now I wasn’t sure if it was because of the adrenaline, Gina, or the soul-crushing guilt I felt every moment of every day. Probably a combo of the three. The cocktail was a fierce current in my chest. I slung my harness over my shoulder and glanced at some climbers who had witnessed the whole thing. The lecture and all.
A few shook their heads. One gave me a thumbs-up and winked.
I took a couple deep breaths. Hatred for myself threatened to strangle the life out of me.
Will I always feel this empty?
I drug my feet, dreading the drive home.
NINETEEN
Patrick
Mama gave me a hard time for being a “half full-er” as she called it. Meant I was overly optimistic. She wanted me to have a more realistic expectation about the world and its inhabitants. Said if I didn’t, I’d end up disappointed.
I figured that was just Mama’s upbringing talking. The world had dealt her a bad hand. Abusive daddy, unstable mama, beginnings in poverty. It made sense her outlook was grim. It was what life taught her.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t imagine a better start. Everything in my life was beautiful. I’d go as far as calling it perfect. I had a great family, wonderful friends, and kind neighbors. My family was well-off, and I got to work with Daddy in his shop. I figured God must’ve really liked me or something. Felt like if I kept doing what I was doing—be kind, be responsible—everything in my life would turn out okay.
My philosophy took its first blow when I was fourteen years old.
I body slammed the side door of our Tennessee ranch-style home, the screen slapping the threshold behind me. I braced myself for the sharp, shrill reminder to take off my shoes. Mud covered my lower half and the water dripping from my clothes had already created a puddle on the floor.
When the reminder didn’t come, I backed up onto the rug and removed everything but my underwear. Leaving the soaking mess in a nice, big pile for Mama to handle.
The house was unnaturally quiet for a rainy afternoon. Mama’s afternoon coffee sat untouched in the pot, the red light switch on the side indicating it was still hot. She always made six cups. All six were present.
I plodded down the narrow hallway, my wet feet leaving a trail on the hardwood. The linen closet door creaked and I shuffled through the towel stack for my favorite orange one. I ran the towel over my matted hair and draped it around my shoulders.
“Mama?”
I followed the wraparound hallway to the front living room and found Mama sitting in her rocker, facing the picture window. Looking through it like she’d never seen nor heard a rain shower before.
“You okay?”
I sat across from her, adjusting the towel so my boxers wouldn’t soak the couch. Mama loved that silly couch. We couldn’t even eat popcorn on the blasted thing.
Her always colored lips were flat, unmoving. The vein under her hairline was pulsing, and the muscles in her neck pulled as she struggled to swallow. When I noticed how white her face was and how tightly she was gripping the handles of the rocker, all the blood rushed from my face, too.
“What’s wrong?” I glanced out the window to make sure she wasn’t seeing something I wasn’t. But there was nothing. Only the neighbors’ houses and the summer rain.
Mama had a strong personality. Not much could rattle the woman. Despite her five foot even height, she would come face to face with anyone and probably scare them off. She had the heart of a lion and the tongue of a viper. I’d only seen my own Mama cry maybe twice—unless cutting onions counts.
It was then, peering through the picture window, I heard the dial tone. The cordless phone was on the floor, next to the rocker, still buzzing like she forgot to hang up.
When I looked at her face again, locked eyes with her, and saw a tear trickle down her cheek, I knew.
My fingers dug into the fibers of the towel. The next breath caught in my throat, and my heart thumped as panic set in.
“Ma-Mama? Where’s Daddy?” I knocked over the flimsy side table when I lurched forward to grab her knees. I couldn’t help the fact that my voice was raising. “Where’s Daddy? Mama, why won’t you talk to me? Please! Where’s Daddy?”
Headlights flashed in the driveway. I jumped up to see Brother Michael’s Ford Ranger swing into the drive. Followed closely by Louisa Sanders’ Oldsmobile. The arrival of churchgoers told me all I needed to know.
