Chapter 26 Henry
Chapter 26
Henry
Lucy’s seated by the window in their room with her foot elevated while Henry tries to ignore the missiles attacking his phone. His father has his cell phone back, and he wants to talk. Henry has no fewer than thirteen missed calls and seventeen texts. He silenced his phone, but he didn’t have to. The thunder outside would have drowned out the noise.
The texts begin with Son ... we need to talk , followed by a series of question marks. Then he tries another tactic. I’m sorry.
He looks to Lucy, ready to ask for her sage advice, but changes his mind. Then a thunderous clap resounds, and the lights flicker off. They’re left on edge in the gray light from the window.
A knock at the door startles them, and Renée brings in a heaping tray of fruit, pancakes, omelets—and is that crème br?lée French toast he spies? A small ceramic vase sits at the center with a single pale rose. A notecard reads, Happy Everything .
He had almost forgotten. But then, so had Lucy. Ridiculous when they booked the same trip year after year. His birthday. Their umpteen years of friendship with the Kravitzes. But life had gotten in the way, and then Lucy fell. Their eyes meet when they recognize their mistake.
“Thank you, Renée,” Lucy says. “You always spoil us.”
She places the tray on the nearby table. “Not the party you had imagined, but there’s still much to celebrate.”
Weakly, they smile, and she reminds them to check out the games and books in the library. “Jean-Paul will provide you with endless snacks, and I’ll be there with wine—or champagne, because it is a special occasion.” She pauses, walking toward the window and drawing the curtains wider for some light. “Or stay here. It’s a perfect day to remember and reflect.”
The message scrawled across the thick, creamy card pricks at Henry’s skin, and they patiently wait for Renée to exit before they acknowledge what’s right there in front of them. The door closes, and Lucy sits upright.
“I think she has a touch of psychic in her ... like she knows what we’re thinking.”
They haven’t agreed on much lately, but they agree on this.
“What does he want?” she asks.
He had forgotten about his father. “You’re the psychic one.”
She sighs. “You think I don’t know who’s been calling and texting? I know you’ve worked hard to free yourself from him ... but are you sure that’s a good thing? Now that he’s out, how long do you think you can keep this up?”
Henry thinks about this, though he’d rather be studying the sky, tracking the lights outside their window so he can prepare himself for what comes next.
Henry prides himself on being a private man. He avoids social media, rarely engages in that six degrees of separation game everyone likes to play, and he does his best to avoid drawing attention to himself. It’s why he feels so comfortable behind his telescope staring at the sky. He feels as protected as the planets orbiting the sun.
Henry has wonderful memories of his childhood in Charleston. They were a close family. When they moved cross-country after he left for college, their bond remained, the distance a minor setback. But then his dad switched jobs and started working in a fast-paced world. A world that changed him. And years later, when he was arrested and sent to the Federal Detention Center, SeaTac, Henry made the choice to cut him off. The man he had worshipped, the man who had carried him on his shoulders, a man he had been proud to call his father was gone like a fallen star.
Henry never made it to the hearings. He never visited him in prison. His disappointment was so powerful it blinded him, kept him from using his telescope for almost a year. How could the man he admired, the man with whom he shared blood and an uncanny closeness, do what he’d done? Witnessing his father’s downfall and the awful aftermath had tested Henry’s faith in their relationship. Even if he had looked through his lens after his father was convicted, there was nothing for him to see.
“Henry?”
“Lucy?”
“Don’t you think it’s time to face this?”
He sighs. He couldn’t face it back then when his father’s crimes hit the Seattle news, or when victims came forth and cursed the day they’d met him, calling out his “flagrant irresponsibility.” Even though Henry hadn’t technically been conned, he felt as though he had. His love and adoration for his father were once immeasurable, his fall from grace, cataclysmic. It was time. The denial had seeped into their marriage. Collateral damage.
“I think ...” But then she stops. “Hear me out. This is me. Your wife. Not a therapist. All this distance ... it’s made it impossible to work through the emotions. You never had a chance to express your feelings ... manage your disappointment.”
He sits on the bed and drops his head in his hands. He thinks about the investors who lost all their money, the couple who felt they had no other choice but to end their lives. “People lost everything, Luce. Because of him. How can I reconcile with someone who’s proven to be a monster? How do you forgive someone like that?”
She tries to raise herself from the chair but falls back.
“Don’t,” he says. The last thing he needs is more pity.
The conversation makes him sick, much like the smells coming from the breakfast tray. A collection of words forms in his mind. Shame. Humiliation. How could he have been so blind? His lips purse, and if he taps into the emotions, he won’t be able to stop the flow. He’ll break under the pressure, drown in the flood.
He doesn’t have to look up to see the disappointment cross her face. He has felt it for some time. Their distance has more to do with him. He closed her out, so what did he expect when she became distant herself?
“You’re not the only one this has affected. He was like a father to me. I lost him too. And so did the kids.”
“I know.” It comes out a whisper.
“You can feel two things at once. You can love him and hate him. They’re not mutually exclusive.”
“Do you mean like us?”
The lights flicker, but they remain in the dark.