Chapter 22
MIGHT BE RIGHT
The unopened letter sits on my coffee table where it’s sat since the morning Dad delivered it. It’s been weeks. I haven’t been able to read the words Tate penned to me on the papers that weigh heavy inside.
After the news Dad broke to me that morning when I returned home from taking care of a deliriously ill Faye, a lot changed.
Not only was I haunted by the truth Dad gave me that morning, but I was haunted by the words Faye spoke in her delirium.
About him loving her through her love for me, and what that meant.
I take another swig of the beer, my eyes still fixed on the letter.
I can’t lie and say I’m not terrified of what I might read on those pages.
After the news Dad broke, I’m fucking scared shitless.
I replay the conversation again, as I’ve played it at least a thousand times since it occurred.
I’m trying to make sense of the insanity of it.
The sun is just beginning to paint the horizon by the time I arrive back to the condo from Faye’s.
Her fever broke. Finally. She’s sound asleep, and her mumblings had all but stopped.
Not wanting to explain my presence when she woke, I decided it was best to ditch.
I’d get Mom to check in on her in a few hours.
But when I park, I see Dad’s truck parked in visitor parking, him behind the wheel. He looks ashen as he exits.
“Should you be behind the wheel?”
“It was a knee replacement, boy. Not a heart transplant,” he grumbles, clearly not in the mood.
“Pop, it’s not even five in the morning.”
“You were at Faye’s, yeah?”
There’s no doubt he talked to Mom. “Yep.”
“Your mother said she was pretty bad. How’s she now?”
“Her fever broke around two-thirty this morning. She’s been sleeping soundly since. I’ll ask Mom to check on her today.”
“She made her homemade soup. I’ll tell her to take it by early.”
I nod, not wanting to ask him why he’s here. When I say nothing, he grumbles some nonsense about kids these days even though I’m I’m in my thirties. Then he starts his hobble to the lobby doors.
I take it he’s coming inside.
I usually take the stairs, but because I’ve got Dad with me, I take mercy on him and take the elevator.
We ride it in silence to my floor. I lead him through the hall to my door and let him in.
He grunts, “Nice place,” before he slides himself onto a chair at the table. His knee looks like it’s bugging him.
“How’s the knee, Pop?”
“Getting better every day.”
“Good.”
“You gonna make coffee?”
I wasn’t. I was going to drop into bed because I’ve been up all night watching my ex-girlfriend and widowed sister-in-law.
I start a pot and lean, arms folded over my chest, into the counter. “What’s going on, Pop?”
“Tate was dying.”
It’s the weirdest thing. Like dishes shattering in my mind. Ice shrapnel imbedding in my flesh. A fire-forged blade cutting clean through my heart. It’s chaos inside, and yet nothing around me moves.
“What?”
“Before he died, he was dying. Doctors said he had around sixteen months.” Dad lifts a hand to scrub at his jaw. It trembles. “Called it an inoperable glioblastoma. Non-hereditary, he checked.”
“What?” There should be another response—more words. But there aren’t.
“He refused treatment. Wanted to live out the time he had left with his family as they always knew him.” The whites of Dad’s eyes are bloodshot, but he’s not crying.
“The way he loved that girl…those kids.” He shakes his head.
“He never did tell Faye. She would have pushed for treatment, and for her, he’d have done anything.
He didn’t want to live his last days as a ghost of the man she knew.
He wanted her to remember him strong and alive.
Not clinging by a thread, drenched in death. ”
Those tears he’s been holding finally fall. He swipes roughly at them.
It’s the second time in my life that I’ve seen Herman Wilder cry. It’s worse than that fire-forged blade cutting clean and quick through my heart. This is a dull blade, serrated. It’s a slow, agonizing torture.
“He’d had the diagnosis for four months when he went ice fishing.
There were signs, more visible to your mother and me, that he was sick.
More visible because we knew. Faye was pressing him to see a doctor.
He’d had a few minor seizures.” He sniffles.
“We knew, Holt. Tate told us and swore us to secrecy. We honored him. We kept it. We brushed off Faye’s worries in respect for the decision he’d made. We grieved…”
“Pop…”
“He went fishing that day in February as he had so many times before, alone. I don’t think he went out there with the plan to die.
” Dad’s wet eyes meet mine. Through the ringing in my ears, I hear him speak.
“I think the ice broke and he fell in. He knew the protocol—knew how to save himself. He’d done plenty of classes with Doug on how to escape ice you’ve fallen into.
Dad’s eyes drop to his feet. His next words are quiet.
“I don’t think he went out there with the intent to die, but when God presented him with a way out before his body and mind failed…
I think he decided to take it. I don’t think he fought to climb out of that water, Holt.
I think he made a conscious decision to leave us all then, in that moment.
I think he decided to leave with his mind and body and memory intact. ”
I watch, frozen by shock, as Dad slides his hand into his jacket.
He pulls out an envelope. “Tate wrote this for you. He asked me to get you back here—to Rubble Ridge—for her.” His voice cracks again.
It’s another rough hack with that dull blade.
I can’t help but flinch. “He said I’d know when to give you this and I think, well, I think it’s time. ”
“I—”
“There’s more, but it’s not time for those. Not yet. He wrote Faye, too. Again, he said I’d know when it was time.” He taps a finger onto the envelope now on my table. “I don’t think it’s time for her yet.”
I watch Dad stand. He moves closer, claps a big hand on my shoulder and tells me, “Your brother loved you until the last breath he breathed. And he loved Faye. He loved her like you loved her, son. Like he hoped you’d still love her.
” He sniffles, shakes his head. “There was a time we were enraged with him—with them both for how they hurt you. But God has a plan. He’s always got a plan, and I believe now that she was the plan he wrote for both of you. ”
He drops his hand from my shoulder, bows his head and says, “I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive Tate for loving her. And I hope you can forgive her. Because I know you never, not for a single day, stopped loving that girl.”
He starts for the door. Bizarrely, I rasp, “Thought you wanted coffee?”
“For you, son.” He casts a sad look to the letter. “I think you’re going to need something strong and bitter when you read that.”
Dad was right, as usual. I need something bitter and strong to read this letter.
I stand and ditch my half-full beer on the counter to pour myself a whiskey neat. Then I take a gulp and savor the burn. With the glass on the table, I lift the envelope and tear into it.
I unfold the papers, take another burning gulp, and begin to read.
Holt…brother,
I guess since you’re reading this, I’m gone. The cancer finally took me, just as the doc’s said it would. Hey. Don’t cry for me, asshole. I lived a good life. A fucking beautiful life.
For a long time, I felt like an imposter, though. Felt like I was living a life meant for you. But I don’t think that anymore. Faye loved me, too.
She loved me the way a wife loves her husband, man.
I know this probably hurts to hear, but it’s true.
She didn’t fall for me as fast or as hard as she fell for you.
Ours was a slow burning love, gentle and quiet like a cool lazy river on a hot day, but no less true than the fire that burned between the two of you.
And I only ever loved her. I tried not to. I really did. I hope you can believe that. Hope you can see that I tried not to love her. Not to want her. I tried, and I failed.
Then she decided she wasn’t going to join you in Toronto.
She decided to break it off and stay in Rubble Ridge.
She wanted a quiet life for herself, but she wanted all the dreams you dreamed to come true for you.
For years, she kept up with you. She tried to hide it, but I knew.
I knew the way she stalked you on social media.
Knew how she celebrated every win you ever won.
I celebrated them all with her, quietly.
I’ve told you before, but I’ve got to say it again. I’m proud of you, Holt. I’m so proud to be your big brother…even if you’re not proud to have me in return.
As much as I wish I could have fallen for some other woman. Any other woman—I didn’t. I fell for our woman.
For a long time, I told myself I won her fair and square.
In the beginning, when she decided to stay and she broke things off with you, I vowed I’d let her go if you came back and fought for her.
Vowed it even though it killed me to do it.
And I would have, Holt. If you’d come and fought for her, I’d have let her go without a fight.
I’d have given her to you. Told her to go with you. To be yours.
But when you didn’t come, I told myself she was meant to be mine.
I’ve realized in these last few months, after the diagnosis, that I was right about that. She was always meant to be mine. But she was always meant to be yours, too.
It cuts me now to admit it, but it’s the truth I know in the deepest part of my soul. My life was never meant to be a long life. But what I lived; I was meant to share with her. With our kids.
They’re my joy, man. My family.
I didn’t know I could love something as much as I love them. The thought of leaving them…fuck. It hurts. I want to be sick just writing it.
I’m terrified Mabel won’t remember me.
I’m terrified Owen won’t move on from me.