“Yes,” he admits. “But also because of the abuse you both endured in the system."
"If she remembered what happened that day," I say, the realization hitting me, "then seeing you must’ve triggered her."
He nods, wiping his lips with his napkin before placing it on the empty plate. “The therapist suggested I stop wearing my uniform whenever I came by the house. And when that didn’t help, I was basically ordered not to come around until she was ready.”
“When was she ready?” I ask, wondering how long it took Beth to forgive him… and how long it'll take me.
“She started asking where I was about a week later, when I was missing from Sunday dinner.” The smile that tugs at his lips is all the proof I need that their bond is deep and lasting. “My parents asked her if she wanted to see me, and she said yes.”
Envy and resentment gnaw at my insides. The idea that the man who separated us is also the one who shares such a strong sibling bond with her—a bond that should belong to me and no one else—is enough to break me.
“Elle, I’m sorry,” he says, sensing my unease and probably reading the look of pure disdain on my face.
“Don’t!” I snap, rising to my feet—only to feel a bolt of pain shoot from my ankle to my knee.
I lose my balance, but Cal is there to catch me. Like a knight in freaking shining armor, he’s just there. And I hate him for it.
“Let me go,” I spit, the anger spilling out of me like sweat from my pores.
I ease back into my chair, blinking hard against the sting of tears, both from the pain and the fury boiling just beneath the surface.
"I think you better go," I finally say. "Thank you for your help today. I appreciate it."
"Okay," he says, clearly aware that I'm on the brink of a meltdown. "Let me get you the crutches."
He picks them up from the sofa and brings them over. I stand, take each one, and slip them under my arms. With one hobbling foot and an unsteady grip, I make it to the couch just as Cal nods and gives me a slight smile.
“Don’t forget to take some ibuprofen,” he says, then walks out the door and shuts it without another word.
***
I must be either a quick learner or the most stubborn person on the planet. After Cal leaves, I take some ibuprofen and, with the help of my crutches, manage to get around just fine. I wash the dishes standing on one foot, take a shower without any major catastrophe, and tuck myself into bed without needing help from anyone.
Especially not Cal.
Not now.
Not ever.
The hours tick by, one by one.
Besides the excruciating pain in my ankle, I can't stop thinking about Cal's wounded expression when I told him to leave.
And I think about Beth… Izzy. The little girl I took care of for the first four years of her life.
I was only ten when we were placed in foster care, but for all intents and purposes, I was her mother. The only mother she ever knew.
I fed her. Dressed her. Gave her baths. Protected her from the monsters in our world.
I was all she knew. And she was all I had.
How do I forget that Cal took it all from me?
How do I forgive?
***
"Are you coming to my party?" Beth asks—a question I’m still not ready to answer. She asked me the same thing last month, and I told her I’d think about it. The truth is, I wasn’t ready then… and I’m not sure I’m ready now either.
