I’m helpless. My mother told me a good man makes it right, but I have no clue how to do that. If holding her and being there for her is enough, it doesn’t feel like it. Sage is in pain, and it’s all my fault.
I was a fool to assume it would pass when her throat healed.
It’s been three weeks since the attack, and she’s lost the glow she had the day I met her. There is no more bounce in her step and the sparkle in her eyes has dimmed—and there’s nothing I can do for her.
I just keep waiting for her to wake up feeling better, but no amount of rest seems to help. In fact, some days, she hardly gets up at all.
I’ve prayed just as much as I’ve cursed God. I’m desperate and angry. Out of all the people in the world to be hurt, why her?
As I pull up to my mother’s house, I’m pleased to see the extra security still in place. The media has died down. There are no longer hordes of cameras and reporters stationed around the gate of their house. My father, as far as we know, has secured himself a short-term living situation, and according to the judge at Austin Municipal Court, he has been ordered to stay at least one thousand feet away from this residence and Sage’s for the foreseeable future.
I should be relieved.
But I’ve never felt more unsettled.
My mom is standing by the side door, her hands on her hips and flour on her apron as she waits for me. When she notices that I’m alone, her mouth sets in a thin, worried line. I pull the bouquet of flowers and the bottle of wine from the passenger seat and pass them to my mother as she pecks me on the cheek.
The good Christian woman she is, my mother never drinks much. Well, never drank much. She’s made an exception as of late, a decision I fully support.
I’m early for Sunday dinner, but I’m here mostly because I just need to talk.
“How is she?” are the first words out of her mouth.
“No change,” I reply, hating that answer.
“Did you call the counselor Luke suggested?”
“She saw her two days ago,” I reply, stepping into the kitchen.
“And? Nothing?”
I shrug. Everything feels so uncertain. I know Sage is suffering from the trauma of what happened, and I can’t help but feel as if there’s more to it. More she’s not telling me. More worrying her and more threatening to tear us apart. And it kills me that I could be losing her without even knowing it.
The wine bottle pops as my mother pulls the corkscrew from the top. Then she pours two glasses and hands one to me. Together we walk to the front porch of the house. It’s a beautiful late summer evening, and here in Texas, that means it’s still humid enough to choke on the air but cool enough to withstand it.
We each take a seat, but I’m too upset to relax. So after a long drink of the dry red Cabernet, I hold it in my hand while leaning forward, my unkempt hair hanging over my eyes. Everything in my life feels unkempt at the moment.
“She’s healing, Adam. And healing takes time.”
“What if she’s not healing?” I ask. “What if…my presence is keeping her from getting better?”
With a tsk, she shakes her head. “I was afraid you were thinking that.”
“I mean…it was my father who did this to her. Does she think of him when she looks at me?”
When my mother remains silent, her thin lips pressed into an apologetic expression, I know the answer. And it’s not what I want to hear.
I could be the reason Sage isn’t getting better. Or at least healing slowly. As much as she says she’s not mad at me and she loves me and wants me with her, resentment buries itself deep. There’s a good chance Sage doesn’t even know it’s there, slowly poisoning her until, eventually, she’ll break.
“What do I do? Leave her?”
“I think patience is the only thing that’s going to work right now, Adam.”
I love that my mother’s knee-jerk reaction to this isn’t God or prayers or grace. I love that her faith can take a back seat to logic when needed.
But I still don’t love the answer, patience. Because every minute I spend waiting is a minute I spend worrying. And if I wait too long, I’m afraid it will be too late.
The last time I saw someone so shattered in grief and pain was my mother…the day we realized Isaac wasn’t coming back. It feels impossible to even bring it up, but the last time I thought something was impossible to talk about, it ended in Sage getting hurt. I’m not shying away from the impossible anymore.
“Mom…” I say, delicately approaching the topic. She sets down her wineglass and stares at me expectantly. Bringing up my brother feels like I’m hurting my mother intentionally, but I have to do it. “When Isaac…ran away. How long did it take you to recover?”
A slow, sad smile pulls across her face as tears gather in her eyes. “Honey, I never really recovered,” she replies. “Not from him leaving. Not from the way your father treated him.”
“Then why did you stay with him?” My voice cracks as I ask the question that feels like an assault.
As a tear slips over the pink blush of her cheek, she shrugs. “I was scared. And I have been so codependent on your father that I don’t know how to decide anything on my own.”
“I’m so sorry,” I reply, blinking salt trails over my own face as I stare in anguish at my mother and all of the pain I’ve caused her. “I should have been better. I should have helped you or him. I just…wanted to be a good son.”
“You are a good son, Adam.”
“To him,” I reply in agony. “I could have protected Isaac. I should have stood up for him. Offered him a safe place to stay or told him that I loved him. But I just…kept quiet. You lost Isaac because of me.”
I’m sobbing now, my hand soaked with my tears as I cover my face. When I feel her comforting touch on my shoulder, I force myself to look up.
“Adam, honey. I never lost him.”
When I swallow, it feels like needles in my throat. I wipe my face again, staring at her in confusion because it doesn’t make sense. Of course, she lost him. She’s only saying this to spare my feelings.
“No, Mom…” I reply with a shake of my head. “Isaac’s gone.”
“No, he’s not, Adam. I know…where Isaac is.”
I pause, frozen as I search her eyes for answers. “What?”
“I talk to your brother nearly every day.”
The muscles in my body clench with anxiety as I work to piece together what she’s telling me. “You…talk to Isaac?”
Tearfully, she nods.
All these years, I had nothing but hope that my brother was still alive. Gone without a trace, he stayed frozen in time at seventeen, but now I’m racking my brain trying to imagine a twenty-five-year-old man existing somewhere just out of my reach.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask in desperation.
Again, her lips tighten and her brows lift. Then she strokes my hand like she’s delivering bad news. Then it hits me.
“You were protecting him,” I say with another cracked sob.
She doesn’t have to nod for me to know. My mother was protecting my brother…from me. Because I am my father’s son. Because I was so focused on being like him when that’s the last fucking thing I should have ever wanted to be.
I burst out of my chair, dragging my hands through my hair with a feeling of panic. What the fuck is wrong with me? This whole time I thought I was ruining my reputation by rebelling against that man, but this whole time…I was worse when I was trying to emulate him.
It was never about the videos or the club or Sage. I never used her to get back at him. I used her…to get away from him. She was my lifeline. The lifeboat carrying me from the storm.
I’ve had it wrong this entire time.
The only bad thing I’ve ever done was try to be the next Truett Goode.
“Are you okay, honey?” my mother asks as she approaches me from behind, placing her hands on my back.
“Yeah,” I reply, nodding my head. “I just…realized something.”
“Adam, listen to me.” With her hands on my arms, she spins me until I’m facing her. Then with her hands on my cheeks, she forces me to look into her eyes. “You’re not like him, baby. You are a good man and a good son. It’s okay if you were lost or if your faith in one man led you astray. I taught my boys to think for themselves, but I was afraid he already had his claws in you.”
It’s like being punched in the heart, having my eyes opened for the first time in my life. Seeing my family for the people they are.
Touching her wrists, I realize what it is I desperately need to know about my mother.
“Did you…know?” I ask, searching her eyes for answers.
Her features fall, guilt written across her face. “Yes. I knew about your father.”
“Jesus,” I reply, turning away from her. Snatching the half-full glass of wine off the table, I guzzle it down without stopping. It’s not strong enough.
Turning my back to my mother and this little nugget of information I’m not quite ready to face, I head into the house and march straight up the stairs. She calls after me, but I don’t stop. Even when I reach the closed French doors of his office, I tear them open and walk directly to the bottle of whiskey he keeps in the small bar in the corner.
Hands shaking, I pour myself a glass. After tossing the stopper on the floor, I throw the shot back with a wince.
Once I feel the alcohol burn my throat and warm my bloodstream, I think about the bombshells my mother has dropped at my feet.
She knows where Isaac is.
She’s protecting him from me.
She knew about my father’s cheating ways the entire time.
Was I the only one in the dark? Did I have my head so far up that man’s ass that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me? What would have become of me if none of this would have happened?
I would have been the next Truett Goode. Liar, hypocrite, cheater, homophobic, abusing, murdering monstrous piece of shit.
“No,” I mutter to myself as I pour another shot. “No.”
It burns its way down like the first one.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m on the floor, my back to the wall as I sob with my head hanging between my knees.
That’s not me. I never lied and I wouldn’t in a million years have treated my family the way he did. I’d sooner chop my own hand off before I’d lay it on my child or a woman as innocent and perfect as my Peaches.
Thirty-seven years I devoted to that man and what do I have to show for it?
When my tears have dried and my sadness has melted into anger, I stand from the floor and walk over to his desk. Staring at the empty chair where he once sat, I think of all the things I’d like to say to him now.
Three weeks ago, he asked my mother to send me a message asking for a meeting with me. And I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or not, but I’m suddenly feeling ready for that conversation. But I want to go in prepared.
Making a mess of his desk, I shuffle papers from the various piles before I find the document I want.
Holding the deed between my fingers, I pull out my phone. After dialing his number, I hold it to my ear and wait while it rings.
His voice sounds weak and tired on the other side. “Adam?”
“You want to talk, motherfucker? Let’s fucking talk.”
