Chapter 44
APRIL
THE DRIVE BACK TO DALLAS passes in thick silence.
I drive, and Leo looks out the window for the entire two hours.
It’s late when we pull up to his trailer and he finally tells me what happened.
Hand over my mouth in shock, I ask only if I can stay with him.
“In the trailer?”
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
A strained sound comes out of him as he yells, “What about what I want?”
It’s a shock after the silent drive. I swallow, waiting for him to let out whatever it is that needs to come out.
“You wanted me to connect with my dad, and look how that went!”
“That’s not really fair,” I say quietly. “You also wanted to find your parents.”
“But I wouldn’t have! You went to Waco, never able to leave well enough alone. Always with the compulsive caretaking, trying to fix everyone else because you can’t fix yourself.”
It stings. I look down at my hands in my lap. “That’s not what I was doing.”
“It’s what you always do. Your students, the kids, your dad, my dad, me. You offer little bandages to people with gaping wounds, and then you take your money and your perfect family, and you go on vacation and feel good about yourself.”
I clench my teeth, my fists. Leo doesn’t know me one single bit. If he did, he would know that I never feel good about myself.
He gets out of the car and slams the door.
As he stalks toward the trailer, I throw the car into reverse.
But then I shift it back into park and squeeze my eyes shut.
Leo is in pain. He just lost his mom. Actually, he didn’t even get to lose her.
He didn’t get to say goodbye or feel his heart shatter as her coffin was sealed.
I imagine her last moments and wonder if she thought of him.
He must be wondering it too. I think about how often one suicide follows another, how despair can be an epidemic, and I yank my keys out of the ignition.
I walk across our empty property, and I open Leo’s door without knocking.
He is facing away from me, hands on the counter on either side of him as though he might otherwise collapse.
He doesn’t turn around, and I stare at his shoulder blades, the knotted muscles beneath his shirt.
He is angry, and I’d rather be anywhere else.
But I set down my keys and say, “I’m staying here tonight. ”
Without turning around, and devoid of the energy that was in his voice a minute ago, he says, “I’ve lived without her most of my life. Nothing’s different.”
But we both know that isn’t true. The difference is permanence.
I stand behind him until he mutters, “Do what you want. Like always.”
Then he goes into the bedroom.
After a few minutes, I realize he’s not coming back out.
So I wash dishes, turn out lights, and lie down on the futon.
I pull out my phone and text Mom. I LOVE YOU.
Despite the hour, she responds right away. LOVE YOU TOO. WHAT’S THIS FOR?
I exhale, my gratitude as heavy as sorrow. IT’S FOR EVERY DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE.
I put down my phone and stare up at nothing, thinking of everything.
Later, in the darkest hour of night, I am woken by Leo’s hand on my shoulder.
I make space, and he lies beside me.
The smell of his shampoo, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his wound.
I wrap my arms around him, and I hold on for dear life.