Chapter 25 Lindsey
LINDSEY
Bells. Why are there so many freaking bells? The noise pries me from my dreams as I wipe sleep from my eyes.
I shoot upright, my breathing turning shallow as my phone rings again. Oliver’s name flashes across the screen.
“Oliver, I’m so sorry,” I answer immediately.
“Oh, thank God,” he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice. “Are you okay? I started getting worried when I didn’t hear from you.”
“Yes,” I say quickly, trying to think of any excuse to make this okay. “I’m fine. We had an emergency…um, at the clinic. Someone brought in a dog with…uh…a broken leg.”
“Wow. Really?” he asks.
I clear my throat. “Yep. That’s right. Poor thing took a tumble off the bed. Anyway, I’m just about to leave now and grab a change of clothes, and then I’m headed your way.”
The line goes quiet, and I think we’ve been disconnected. “Oliver?”
“That’s weird because I’m outside the clinic right now, and no one’s here,” he says, and my heart sinks. “I finally drove over when I didn’t hear anything. I was worried something was wrong—that you had a flat tire or God forbid, an accident on the way home.”
My throat goes dry, and my stomach churns. “I’m sorry. It’s not what it looks like.”
“Really?” he asks, the hurt in his voice so palpable I can feel it oozing from the phone. “Because what it looks like is that you lied to me.”
That’s exactly what I did, but it’s not for any of the awful reasons he probably thinks.
“Oliver, please. I can explain—”
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
“No,” I answer.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says softly. “Did you lie to me?”
Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision. I can’t bring myself to answer. To hurt him more than I already have.
“Okay,” he says.
“Please forgive me. I swear, it’s not what you think,” I plead. “Let me make it up to you.”
“The thing is, it’s exactly what I think. I’m sure you have a reasonable explanation, but instead of giving it to me, you lied. You lied like it was easy. And honestly, my experience with people who lie is that they usually do it because they have something to hide.”
Only myself. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. Can we talk about this?”
“Not tonight,” he says. “I need time to think and sleep this off. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I really am sorry.”
I hear him sigh. “Me too. Good night, Lindsey.”
The line goes dead, but I cradle the phone to my chest as though doing so might keep our connection alive a moment longer. As though somehow, he will feel my remorse through this little rectangle.
I allow myself to fall against the mattress and curl my legs against my chest. How did I let this get so messed up? I was trying to keep him from seeing me like this. Because what if it’s too much?
What if I’m too much?
There’s only one person I want to talk to right now, but he’s also the only person I can’t reach.
I wish heaven had cell reception because I’d give anything to hear my father’s voice.
For him to tell me everything will be okay.
Instead, I settle for the next best thing.
I get up and tiptoe to my mother’s home office next door where she keeps the family photo albums.
Stretching on my toes, I run my fingers along the tops of the built-in shelves until I feel the soft leather of the one I’m searching for. I pull down the photo album, hugging it to my chest as I carry it back to my bed.
The binding cracks slightly when I open it, and my breath catches in my throat.
On the first page is a collage of pictures from when I was a little girl.
In the first, I’m sitting on my dad’s shoulders with fistfuls of his hair clutched in my hands while he watches TV.
In another, Dad is asleep on the couch, holding a baby Lucy.
Then he’s in a rocking chair, reading to me and a diaper-clad Ben.
We’re snuggled into his arms, back when we believed no harm could come to us as long as Dad was around.
Somehow, we never considered that harm could come to him.
I suck in a breath and turn the page, taking in memory after beautiful memory.
Like that summer when I was eleven, when a hummingbird flew into the back door so hard, it stunned itself.
Dad scooped the little guy up, running his finger along the bird’s belly.
Mom snapped a picture of me watching him, my eyes wide with wonder, the moment before the tiny creature flew away.
I thought my father must be magic. And to me, he was.
By the time I get to the last page, tears are dripping onto the thin plastic sheets protecting each memory. I swipe my thumb over the portrait of my dad on the funeral program tucked inside the back of the book. It still knocks the wind out of me every time I see it.
I shut the album and lay it beside me before crawling under the covers, bringing my knees to my chest. My shoulders shake, and my breath comes in shuddered gasps.
I weep for my father. For the lessons he hadn’t gotten around to teaching me yet.
For the little girl locked inside that photo album, who doesn’t know what it means yet to have a broken heart. And for me, the woman who does.
I sense movement beside me, and it startles me awake.
“I’m sorry, honey,” my mother says softly. “I was heading to bed when I noticed your light still on. I was going to turn it off, but I saw the album and thought I better move it so you wouldn’t roll over on it in your sleep.”
“Oh.” I nod and rub at my puffy eyes as I sit up.. Catrick Swayze’s warmth is tucked against my hip.
“Sweetheart, are you all right?” Mom faces me as she sits on the edge of the bed, lightly scratching the cat’s head. “You don’t look like you feel well.”
“I don’t.” I shake my head. “I’ve ruined it.”
“Ruined what?” she asks.
I sniffle. “Everything with Oliver. I messed it all up.”
She places a gentle hand over my arm. “I can’t imagine that’s true. He’s crazy about you. I’m sure whatever happened is a misunderstanding.”
“It’s not,” I insist. “I know it’s not because I lied to him.”
“What?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “How? Why?”
She listens as I explain the events from the day, including the stupid cover story I made up that exploded in my face.
“Why didn’t you tell him the truth to start with? I can’t imagine Oliver being upset over something like this.”
“I know,” I say, raking my hands down my face.
“He’s wonderful. Hell, he probably would’ve sent me a care package on his birthday if he knew.
But that’s the thing. We just started dating.
I don’t want to drag him down or be this huge burden on his shoulders.
This should be fun. Especially this early in the game.
He should see me as happy and fun and carefree. ”
“You are not a burden,” she says. “And if he or anyone else thinks that, they’re not someone you want in your life. But I don’t think Oliver will feel that way. You should talk to him, sweetie. If you tell him what you’ve told me, I truly believe he’ll understand.”
I shrug. “I tried. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore tonight, and I can’t say I blame him. He caught me in a blatant lie, Mom. The reason I did it doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does. You were scared. That’s all,” she says, cupping my face in her hands. “Your illness is a deeply personal part of you, and it’s not something you share with everyone. Anyone worth their salt will get that.”
I swipe the moisture from beneath my eyes, then reach for the album on the bed, running my fingers along the binding. “I miss Dad.”
“Me too.” She gives me a bittersweet smile.
“Your father had a way about him. Just his presence was enough to comfort you kids. When y’all were little, he could walk in the room when one of you was having a total meltdown, and you’d crawl right into his arms. He’d have you smiling again in no time. ”
“Yeah, he did.”
“It was a lot simpler then. Back when your biggest problems were petty fights with your friends or being told to do your homework.” She sighs and covers my hand with hers. “There was little that couldn’t be fixed with a pep talk and a Shirley Temple.”
I smile. “I miss his pep talks. And the ice cream he let us sneak before dinner sometimes.”
She snorts. “You only thought you were being sneaky. I always knew.”
We sit together in silence for a moment, the only sound coming from Catrick Swayze’s soft purrs, each of us lost in our own memories.
“You should get some rest,” she says finally. “It’ll help you feel better, and you’ll wake up with a clearer head tomorrow. You and Oliver will work it out. This is just a small bump in the road.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say, lying back against the pillow.
She pulls the covers up to my chin, tucking them around me like she did when I was a kid.
The gesture makes my eyes well with tears again.
It reminds me of the many nights she and my father did this, despite my insistence that I was far too grown-up for it.
Then, one night they tucked me in for the last time.
I didn’t think much of it then, probably so dead set on acting more mature than I was.
But now, I wish I could go back. To savor those moments a little longer and carve them into my mind because one day, those memories will be all I have left of them both.
“You want the light on or off?” she asks, picking up the album.
“Off is good,” I say. “Thank you.”
The mattress shifts as she stands and turns off the lamp.
“Sweet dreams,” she says before padding out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
There, wrapped in darkness, I allow my mind to drift to a time when I was young and held close. When words and a sweet fizzy drink could fix anything. Long before I felt suffocated by the weight of my broken pieces.