Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Finn
It’s taking everything inside of me not to push the gas pedal all the way to the floor.
I drive out to the farthest edge of my family’s property, white knuckles on the steering wheel, and a cloud of dust in my rearview mirror.
I wish that cloud could erase the past.
I’m headed to a small lake with a pristine view of the mountains. Something about it has always calmed me down.
And right now I need to calm down.
My phone keeps buzzing. I have three missed calls from my mom and one from my dad, but I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.
I don’t want to hear explanations of how this happened, excuses about why this was a good idea, none of it.
If Eileen was there—having a conversation with my mother about gift wrap—then that must mean they’ve all moved on.
Do my brothers and sisters know about this? Is everyone just okay with it?
What about Hunter?
I open the truck door, step out into the cold December air, and slam it shut with enough force to knock all of the loose change out of the inside door handle where Pop keeps it. It’s cold enough to shock my lungs, but not so much that it stings my skin.
I crunch toward the lake. There’s snow on it, but it’s not frozen yet. Once I reach the shoreline, I take a second to study the scene in front of me. Hunter’s spot. I don’t even know if my brothers and sisters know about it, but he showed it to me. Probably because I never left him alone.
I pull out my phone and find Raya’s number. I want to hear her voice. She’s the smartest person I know, and I need her opinion. I hit the button and hold the phone to my ear, waiting for the call to connect. I get nothing but silence.
I pull the phone down and look at it—no signal.
Normally I’d love that, getting unplugged, away from connectivity, but right now I feel like I need a connection. To her, specifically.
I turn the phone off, open the truck door, and try to toss it onto the seat. It hits the center console and flips down into the space between the console and the driver’s seat.
Gritting my teeth because of course it doesn’t do what I want it to, I bend over and try to fish it out. With my arm crooked under the seat, two fingers pinching the phone, I see the corner of one of those stupid letters sticking out of the case on the floor of the passenger side.
It’s there because I threw it there.
Something new rises up. Something other than anger or betrayal. It feels a lot like slamming the truck door.
Closure.
It’s time to put a stop to all of this. To rip off the Band-Aid and deal with it—whatever it is and however it makes me feel.
I won’t forgive her. I won’t do that to Hunter. But I need to put it behind me once and for all.
I reach inside the bag and pull out the first letter Eileen sent me a few years ago. I stare at it. It’s folded in half and crumpled on the edges because I’ve almost opened it so many times.
I never had the courage.
But today I do.
I tear it open, rip out the plain sheet of white paper, and read.
Dear Finn,
It’s been almost seven years since the day all of our lives changed. Years of regretting the stupid decision I made that day. The decision to drive after I’d had too much to drink. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Maybe I thought I didn’t have that much. Or maybe I thought I could handle the short drive home. Whatever I thought, I know now it was wrong.
I don’t know why I’m writing to you. I’m sure you hate me, and I don’t blame you. I hate me too. It’s going to be a very long time before I forgive myself for what I’ve done. Actually, I’m not sure I ever will.
And I don’t expect you or anyone in your family to forgive me either.
But I do want to tell you how sorry I am. I want you to know that my whole life is different now. I’m different now. And I’m going to dedicate the rest of my life to trying to make amends for what I’ve done. To figure out how I can help other people.
And I promise I’ll never have a drink again.
I know that’s no consolation considering what you lost, but I wanted you to know anyway.
When I think of the pain I’ve caused you and your family, it makes me sick. I go back to that night every time I close my eyes, and I wish I could hand the keys to someone else. I don’t have any excuses, only apologies.
A whole world of apologies.
I’m so, so sorry.
I’ll say Hunter’s name out loud every day until the day I die as a way to always remember him.
Sincerely,
Eileen Tierney
I stare at the last sentence of Eileen’s letter.
My first thought is maybe keep his name out of your mouth.
I make a point to not say Hunter’s name out loud. Every time he comes to my mind, I feel the sting of losing him all over again.
Time heals all wounds? Yeah, right.
Before Raya, I can’t remember the last time I told someone stories about the brother who was my best friend.
I haven’t talked about him in a long, long time.
But then a thought occurs to me. Why don’t I talk about the good things?
His lifetime of good things was erased by one horrific thing.
Isn’t talking about how awesome he was a way to remember him? Isn’t telling everyone how supportive, and crazy, and fun, and talented, and mischievous, and loving he was part of carrying on his memory?
Little by little, I’ve been erasing him from my life. Why? Because it hurts?
I look out at the lake. Have I been wrong?
Have I been wrong this whole time?
Lord. Maybe I have.
In silencing the hard things, I let the good things go quiet too.
And there were so many good things. The way he stuck up for everyone, whether he knew them or not.
The way he spread joy everywhere he went.
The loyalty he showed to his friends. The way he’d get up before dawn every day before school to practice because he had a dream he believed in.
He was fierce and loyal and good and kind.
All things he taught me to be.
My brother knew how to love with his whole heart. He never held back.
Nobody ever wondered where they stood with him.
He taught me that too.
Even his death taught me to appreciate every single day, every single experience.
A thought slips in without my permission. Hunter would forgive her.
I pretend the words aren’t there. I try to focus on the lake. The mountains. The sky. But as I do, I hear it again.
Hunter would forgive her. And I know it’s true. Because my brother never held grudges. Maybe he still has one more thing to teach me.
I sit with the word—forgiveness. It feels too good for her after what she did.
And then I remember what Raya said—“Forgiveness isn’t for her. It’s for you.”
Forgiving that woman isn’t going to bring him back. It’s not going to make it okay. But will it help me move on?
My legs stop supporting me, and I fall to my knees in front of the lake and the mountains. I feel small, insignificant.
And for the first time since Hunter’s funeral, I break down and cry.
I don’t try to stop it. Or hide it. I just let it all come, and I let myself feel the whole tidal wave of emotions. What should’ve happened years ago all happens now. I fall forward, my hands pressing into the snow to keep me from hitting the ground, and I mourn my brother.
I don’t know how long I’m there, or how many tears I have left in my eyes—but I stay, wracked with emotion, until the crying is done. And when it is, I wipe my face dry and sit back up. My hands aren’t cold, even though they’ve been plunged into the snow in front of me.
It’s quiet.
Snow has a sound-deadening effect, and there’s nothing except a quiet, almost silent crinkle of white noise.
I stand to my feet, brush off the snow, and walk down to the edge of the lake. I start to feel a quiet desire for a change, and I have to believe that’s a step in the right direction.
Maybe this is the way it works—in fits and starts. One step at a time.
On the other side of the water, a white-tailed deer walks into a clearing. She freezes, ears fluttering as she looks right at me. I hold my breath for a long moment, not wanting to spook her.
She bends down, looking for grass beneath the snow, and I watch her for another minute. With a huff, she slowly trots back into the trees, disappearing from view.
I know what I need to do.
I’m back at the community center twenty minutes later, years of hurt left on the snowy shore of Hunter’s lake. The letters, most still unopened, are in my pocket, except for the first one, which is balled up in my hand.
I pull the door open and walk into the lobby. There’s no music playing, but voices are coming from the room, so I walk through the door and look around.
Just like back in Chicago, this tutoring club switches gears on days when there’s no school. Instead of coaching kids in math and science, there are coloring pages, art projects, and Christmas crafts on the tables.
Down the hall, I hear the sound of foosball being played. I remember hauling the old table from the ranch’s basement, fixing the leg that my brothers and I broke during one specifically heated game, and setting it up in the game room here last year.
I look around, expecting my mother to try and intercept me, but a quick scan of the room comes up empty, and I wonder if she went home thinking she’d find me there.
And then my eyes lock onto Eileen’s. She’s sitting in a big, oversized armchair with a little girl on her lap, pointing into the pages of a Dr. Seuss book. She stops reading and doesn’t move.
I take a breath.
With my head, I motion back toward the door and nod a Will you come with me? at her. She catches her breath and stiffens, but then nods, handing the book and the child to another volunteer nearby.
I walk into the lobby first, not waiting for her. I keep my back to the door, but I don’t need to turn around to know she’s there.
“Finn, I—”
I hold up a hand. “I didn’t come here to have some big conversation with you.” I turn around, but it’s hard for me to look at her. I guess one emotional by-the-lake session isn’t enough to let go of years of habitual hatred.
And it’s hard to hold onto my hate when there’s a real human standing in front of me.
I hold up the balled-up letter. “I just read this today. It’s the first one you sent.”
Her face falls.
A battle wages inside of me. I want to yell years of pent-up rage at her, like a cannon, but I’m still clinging to the release I felt only a half hour ago.
“I’m not going to read the others, and I want you to stop sending them to me,” I say. “Every time I get one, it ruins my day, and it makes me feel like crap. Because I still hate you for what you did.”
She nods.
“And when I see your stupid name on the return address. . .” I ball up the letter tighter in my fist, holding it at her, letting the motion finish my sentence.
“I understand.”
“But I don’t like to be angry,” I say, the softer side of me taking the lead momentarily. “It’s not who I am.”
She doesn’t respond.
“It is not who I am.” It bears repeating.
I push a hand through my hair, then scratch the back of my head. What am I doing here? I turn a circle, not sure what to do next. I want to leave. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking that any of this is okay. It’s not.
Nothing about what happened is okay. Nothing about what she did is okay.
But I am on my way to being okay.
I realize that I’ve been going about this the wrong way—not talking about Hunter. Living like I mean it includes not forgetting the reason why.
I bite the inside of my lip and shove the letter back in my pocket. “I don’t like that you’re volunteering here, but I assume my mother said it was fine.”
“She did,” Eileen says. “And in one of the more recent letters, I asked for your permission to be here. To help if I can.”
“I didn’t read it,” I say coldly.
Her face falls. “I know.”
“This doesn’t make up for—”
“I know.” Her eyes are wet with unshed tears.
A small, faraway piece of me is moved. My compassion is fighting with my conviction.
“Forgiveness isn’t for her. It’s for you.”
I don’t feel like forgiving her. I don’t want to let her off the hook. I don’t like that she put me in this position, and I hate that it feels like I’m betraying my brother. But still, I draw in a shaky breath and blow it out slowly. “I . . .”
I look at her. Her eyes are full of hope, and I sense something inside me shift. I’m not cruel. I don’t want to become bitter or give my past the power to keep me from moving forward.
I hold the letter up at her once more, in my fisted hand. “I forgive you.” I choke the words out. They don’t feel honest, so I shove the paper in my pocket, put my hands on my hips, look her straight in the face, and say them again. “I forgive you.”
“I—”
I hold up a finger at her, stopping her from saying anything else. “That’s all I have to say.”
I turn around, walk out into the street, get in my car, and shut the door. I can feel my heart in my chest, and I blow out a nervous breath. I don’t feel like some huge weight has been lifted. I don’t feel like I just fixed everything. I feel as conflicted as ever.
This is something I’m going to have to do over and over again until those things happen.
Little by little.
One step at a time.