She chuckles, her gaze falling to the mug and the bowl again. “Well, Ethan, all I ever wanted was to be free.”
“You were,” I say.
“I wasn’t,” she replies.
“But…”
Her eyes cut back to me. “But nothing. I was never free. Not whilehewas alive. Not whilehedid those things to me. Not whilesheallowed it to happen.”
Her expression is vicious and sharp, and the pity I had felt earlier for her is back. She went through so much; no wonder she is so damaged. She still carries that anger with her, and I can understand that. I really can. If I’m being truthful, I’m still angry too. I carry that rage around with me every day. But I try not to let it ruin everything. Not like she has.
“Carrie,” I say, and I reach for her hands. I clasp them in mine. Her wrists are still bound together, but she doesn’t even try to pull away. “She was sick, your mom. She wouldn’t have let it happen if she could help it.”
I am right, and she knows I’m right, but she’s still holding onto the anger, that rage, and that’s okay.
We’ll make it in the end, Carrie.
“I bet if she wouldn’t have been sick, she would have done something,” I say.
She shakes her head, but there’s no conviction in it.
“Moms love their kids. It’s their programming,” I say. “But your dad, Carrie, he was a scary dude.”
Her shoulders are what fall first. They shake and tremor, and then her head falls to her chin as she cries. I lean over and pull her to me, and I hold her tight while she cries. And she doesn’t even pull away. It’s wrong that I smile while she cries on my shoulder thinking about how her mom loved her but not enough to stop drinking. But I do it anyway because she can’t see my face.
“She never helped, Ethan,” she whispers through her sobs.
She said my name again!I think, my heart soaring.
“Not once. And she knew. She fucking knew, and she didn’t help. She made it worse and worse, so that he’d stay away from her. So that he’d leave her to drink. Leave her to her own oblivion while I succumbed to his.”
Her voice is high-pitched, verging on hysteria. I let her go, and I take her by the shoulders and I look into her face, and I tell her,
“It’s over now. He can’t hurt you now.”
She nods in agreement and turns her face to her arm to wipe away her tears.
“Here, let me,” I say, and I go to her bathroom to get some toilet paper to wipe up her tears with. I catch a glimpse of myself in her mirror and I don’t like what I see, so I look away. But I know it won’t always be like this.
We might not end up married, with children and a beautiful home. But I still want to help her. I still want to fix her. To make her life better.
I go back in the room and she’s exactly where I left her. She hasn’t tried to run away this time.
Her tears are still wet on her cheeks.
Her bruises are still prominent on her pale face.
Her sadness is still all-consuming. Just like it always was.
I sit down next to her and I reach over and I wipe the tears away from her face. I shush her and I tell her that everything is going to be okay, and I let go of my anger for her. As much as I can, anyway.
‘Anger isn’t good for anyone,’Mr. fucking Jeffrey, my counselor-slash-therapist used to say. ‘It eats you up from the inside and destroys everything good.’
Better to be sorry than angry.
Better to be dead than mad.
Better to be sad than filled with hate.
