Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Henry
August 30th, 2003
“It’s time, Henry.”
A glance in the rearview mirror tells me Delilah has tuned us out. She’s gazing out the window while swaying back and forth in her booster seat. Phil Collins’s croons fill the air. The girl’s got good taste. The smile that stretches my lips is lackluster, but it’s all I can manage. I’ve been spread so thin for so long I have nothing left to offer in the way of joy. It’s why I know Kimberly’s right, even if I don’t want her to be.
“You’ve done more for her than most kids would, but it’s time for us to live our own lives.” Kimberly doesn’t lower her voice, even with our daughter in the car. She never has. You coddle her too much, she says. It’s good for her to hear what real emotions sound like, what real problems are. She’ll be more prepared when she grows up.
Agree to disagree, I always retort. We’re a lot like a broken record these days.
Delilah hears that, too, and though she’s only five, she picks up on the tension between us. I see so much of myself in her, and so does Kimberly. Our daughter is sensitive, and she doesn’t like conflict. She makes herself smaller to leave room for everything—and everyone—who dares to be bigger than her. I worry one day this world will swallow her whole.
“What if I’m not ready?” My voice trembles. I don’t want it to, but it does. Even with the episodes getting more frequent, even with my mom’s care needs growing beyond what we can handle, the idea of leaving her in a facility somewhere feels impossibly cruel. After everything we’ve been through together, after she took Kimberly in and helped us care for Delilah while Kimberly finished her degree… These last two years of turmoil feel like a drop in the bucket of what I owe her.
The symptoms started off easy to ignore. She’d forget where she left something or how to properly load the laundry. No problem, I could put in a load after my shift at the factory. Kimberly could fold when she got home from class. Mom started to skip showering for days, then lie about it when we asked. She’d get angry. Belligerent. Still, we reasoned that she was just getting older. Quirky. A bit stubborn.
But then we got a call that Mom had shown up at the fire department with Delilah in tow, saying she’d found her in the woods and did they know this child? I drove straight over from work. Delilah was crying, begging for her nana, and my mother didn’t know who she was. Didn’t remember that I’d even had a child.
Delilah went to daycare. Kimberly started work. But every night when we came home, it became more and more clear that Mom needed round-the-clock care. After a year, I switched to nights to be home with her during the day, and Kimberly cut her hours to be there when I couldn’t be. Now even that doesn’t seem to be enough.
“What if I’m ready?” Kimberly bites out. Delilah notices, because she always does. I watch her gaze flit to her mother and widen. Kimberly continues, unaware or uncaring or both. “I know you love your mom; I do. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t worry which version I’m going to get of her each day, or that she’s going to run off the moment I turn my back. I deserve more than that. Your daughter deserves more than that.”
“I love Nana,” Delilah whimpers. She brushes her hair—the same muted brown tone as mine—back from her face with a flat palm. “She’s gonna be okay, right?”
I stop at a red light and turn to glance over my shoulder at her, offering my most reassuring smile. “Nana’s gonna be fine, sweet pea. She just hurt her ankle on her walk today, so they’re keeping her at the hospital till she’s all better.”
Delilah’s expression tells me she doesn’t believe me, but she keeps her lips pressed tight.
“She has to have surgery because she walked off into the woods in the middle of the night and broke her ankle. She’s not gonna be fine, Henry. A facility is what she needs, with a whole team of people. I’m one person. I can’t do it all.” Kimberly’s lips are pursed, just like her mother’s were the day we sat across that table. I want to reach for her, to smooth them out, but the light turns green and she jerks her chin forward. “Go.”
“I’m with you, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
I capture the hand on her lap and squeeze. “You’re not just one person. We’re in it together.”
“I wish that were enough for me, Henry, but it’s not.” She sighs, her shoulders sagging. Not with relief. With finality. “It’s not up for debate anymore. She goes, or I do.”
My spine stiffens and my throat dries. I glance in the rearview mirror. Delilah’s already looking at me, lashes damp with quiet tears. She hates when we argue, and we do it too much.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll start looking on Monday.”
“Today.” Kimberly slips her hand from beneath mine and crosses her arms over her chest. She stares straight ahead and doesn’t say another word for the rest of the drive home.
Before I’ve even placed the car in park, she’s unbuckling and opening the door. She rounds the hood and heads for the front steps without sparing a glance in mine or Delilah’s direction.
I watch her go, wishing I felt more than abject terror at the idea of her leaving me. Not heartbreak. Not sadness. Just fear—that she’d take Delilah with her to spite me. That I’d never see my daughter again.
Delilah is staring out the window again, this time in the direction of Abel Johnson’s farm. He passed last year, leaving the grass overgrown and the house abandoned. Delilah likes to watch it the way I always have. It’s a beautiful, peaceful place. Something we sorely lack in this house at the moment.
As much as I’ll feel like a failure of a son, if we keep going like this, I’ll be a failure as a dad. And I can’t fail my little girl.
A line forms between her pale brows. “Who’s at the farm?”
I follow her gaze. “Looks like someone’s finally moving in.”
There’s a trailer stacked high with furniture parked in front of Abel’s old house. I squint, a ripple of shock hitting me square in the chest when I realize it’s attached to Pastor Timothy’s white Ford. I snort, but there’s no humor in it. It amazes me that all this town sees when they look at him is the pastor who helps a church member move on the weekend, never mind the man who stood across from me as I planned my father’s funeral and threatened me to stay away from his daughter.
My eyes scrape like sandpaper when I blink. You’d think it wouldn’t hurt so bad anymore.
“Can we go say hi?”
I clear my throat. “Um, they’re probably really busy right now. Maybe another time, sweet pea.”
She kicks the back of my seat. “Please, Daddy! ”
Refusal dies on my lips when I catch a glimpse of long blonde hair disappearing behind the truck. Not possible.
“Look, they have a kid!”
Sure enough, a child races out of the house, trailing after the woman. They reappear at the back of the trailer, where she bends over to listen to something the little boy says. He takes off running for the edge of the nearest hill, where he lays down and starts to roll down the slope.
“I wanna go play, Daddy. Please!”
My heart hesitates to beat. From this distance it’s so hard to make out their individual features, but I swear my body knows it’s her even from here. Senses her. My stomach twists in on itself, but the words bubble up anyway, as if by their own volition.
“Sure, sweet pea. Let me just tell your mom.”
She squeals with delight and gets to work on releasing her seat belt. I rise from the car on shaky legs and help her from her booster seat. We hold hands as we walk toward the house, her skipping to keep up with my strides. I study the crown of her hair, the narrow bridge of her nose. It’s all I can see from this angle, but it’s enough.
She’s my whole world. The only thing that matters. And she deserves to play, to have fun like a normal kid. Especially after the morning we’ve had. If that means facing Lucy Barlow— Parker, I correct myself, wincing—for the first time in years, then so be it.
“Hey, Kim, it looks like there are new neighbors moving in. Delilah wants to say hi.” I shout it into the house through the open front door. “You wanna come?”
“They have a kid like me!” Delilah adds.
There’s no response. “Wait a sec,” I tell Delilah, and then I make my way to our bedroom and glance inside. Nothing. I retrace my steps, this time going toward the hall where the bathroom is. Light slips under the door, so I knock. “Babe, did you hear me? Delilah wants to go say hello to the new neighbors.”
“Go, then. I’m fucking exhausted. I’m gonna take a bath and then a nap while we have some peace and quiet in this house.”
I flatten my palm against the door and nod, though she can’t see me. “Got it. Give us a shout if you need anything.”
There’s an answering grumble that sounds a lot like, “ Like hell I will. ”
I drop my arm and return to Delilah, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. I smile, mussing her hair when she’s within reach. I think a lot about life when I look at my daughter. Not the life I once dreamed I’d have, like Kimberly sometimes tends to do when she drinks too much and waxes poetic about what could’ve been. Instead I think about the life I want Delilah to have. This one we’ve been living lately is not it.
I’ll do better, I promise her silently. Out loud I say, “Ready, Freddy?”
“My name’s not Freddy!”
“Is it not?” I mock surprise. “I could’ve sworn that’s what I wrote on the birth certificate.”
She giggles. “Can we go?”
“Yeah, we can go,” I say, laughing. Then I take her hand and we head for the farm.
The minute Lucy glances over her shoulder at us, all certainty that I’m man enough for this seeps out of my body. I’ve very purposely avoided stepping foot in that church since the day of the wedding, and between work and Mom’s doctor appointments, I don’t spend a lot of time out and about where I run the risk of bumping into people. I’ve managed to go five years without seeing Lucy for more than a split second at the grocery store or in passing at the post office. Seeing her now has my heart dropping all the way to the dirt beneath my shoes.
“Henry?” Her gray eyes widen. Her hand pulses at her side. For a split second I think she might reach for me. Cup my face in her palm. I think it because I want it to be true, not because it’s possible. Then her gaze drops to Delilah, and her smile falters. Briefly, but I see it. Then it goes so wide it resembles the late summer sun beating down overhead. “And who might this be?”
Delilah squares her shoulders, beaming up at Lucy with a toothy grin. “I’m Delilah! Do you have kids?”
Lucy laughs. “Wow, you don’t beat around the bush. Yes, I have a son. He’s playing on the hill if you’d like to join him. His name’s Truett.”
Delilah nods. “Thank you. Nice to meet you!”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, too.” Lucy pinches her shoulder playfully, then sends her on her way.
I watch her go, my throat suddenly thick with all these words I shouldn’t say. Couldn’t say.
Kimberly and I may have our problems, but that life I want Delilah to have? It involves two parents who love her. Who stay. I won’t do anything to jeopardize that.
“She’s a cutie,” Lucy says, breaking the quiet that’s settled between us. “How old is she now?”
“Five.”
“Truett, too.”
I glance back at her and try to ignore the way motherhood has softened her features, her curves. I’d heard they had a kid. It’s one thing to avoid crossing paths, but avoiding news of her altogether? Impossible in a town like this.
Still, I hadn’t realized his age. How close it was to Delilah’s. “Really?”
A blush floods her high cheekbones. “Yep. We got married that fall after you and Kimberly, and he was born nine months later. To the day, almost.”
A half smile tugs at my suddenly chapped lips. “I wasn’t questioning your virtue, Lucy. I just didn’t realize y’all had a baby so soon after us.”
“I know, I just…” She bites her full bottom lip, tilting her head as she gazes up at me, then shakes her head. “Never mind. How are you? How’s Kimberly?”
“I’m good; she’s good.” I glance at the ground, nudging a clump of dirt with my toe. Lying to Lucy doesn’t feel right. It sits on me like an itchy sweater. And why should I? She’s the one person I’ve always been able to tell the truth to. “Things have been hard lately. Mom has been having some health issues, and it’s getting to the point where it’s a bit too much for us to handle at home.”
Fingertips brush my forearm, drawing my attention upward. Her touch drops to my hand, where she squeezes once, tightly, then lets me go. “I’m really sorry. Anything we can do to help? As your new neighbors?”
“Did I hear someone say neighbors?”
My skin crawls as Waylon’s voice registers. He rounds the back end of the trailer, and Lucy takes a measured step back, putting distance between us. His arm settles on her narrow shoulders, locking in tightly with a squeeze.
“Hi, Waylon.” I nod at him and offer my hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
He clasps my hand and shakes it, jerking his chin in the direction of my house. “That you and the missus down there?”
“Yes, sir. And our little girl.” I point toward the two kids who are gearing up for another log roll down the hill. “Delilah.”
When I look back, Waylon’s shaking his head. “Well, let’s hope she’s nicer to Truett than her namesake was to Samson.”
Lucy squeezes her eyes shut. When they reopen, there’s an unspoken apology there. I wish she’d say it out loud. But I don’t get the vibe that Waylon is the type to take kindly to criticism, and I’m not trying to make her life harder than it needs to be.
“I’m sure any boy of yours can take it,” I say, voice flat.
His gaze hardens, while his smile remains perfectly lazy. “So what are you doing now, Henry?”
“Something with music, I hope,” Lucy adds. It’s meant to be a peace offering, but it lands more like a physical blow.
I shake my head. “Nope, I’m at the factory still. Had to put that dream to rest in light of the circumstances.”
Said circumstances come barreling toward us, dirt smudging her cheeks and eyes bright with laughter. Truett follows closely behind, giggling like a madman. He has his mother’s gray eyes and blond hair, slightly darker but still golden. His dad is there in the cut of his features but not in his laugh. It’s all music. All Lucy.
He grins up at his parents, mischief clear in his gaze. “Can Delilah stay for dinner?”
“Not tonight, bud. We’re still getting unpacked, and I’ve gotta get Grandpa’s truck back to him by this evening.” Waylon drops his arm from Lucy’s shoulders, and I swear I hear a sigh of relief. He sweeps that arm out toward the expanse of land between our houses and adds, “We’re starting a farm. I’m gonna raise Angus on this land. Get it back to its former glory.”
I follow the motion with my gaze, tracing the fields I’ve memorized at this point after all the years I’ve spent staring at them out my kitchen window. “They look pretty glorious to me.”
“What about tomorrow?” Truett presses, not swayed by his dad’s tangent.
“Another time,” Lucy replies, reaching out to tousle her son’s hair. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing lots of Delilah now that we live next door. ”
Delilah grins ear to ear, her gaze cutting from Truett to Lucy. “We can ride the school bus together and everything!”
“I don’t ride the school bus,” Truett says. “Mama drives me.”
“I’m a teacher now, so he rides with me to work,” Lucy explains.
“I told her she didn’t have to work, but she insisted.” Waylon rolls his eyes, leaning in toward me like we’re conspiring on the conversation. “Once the farm’s up and running, I’m sure she’ll change her mind. I’ll get her barefoot and pregnant again in no time.”
“How do you do that?” Delilah asks, nose wrinkling.
“I’ll explain later,” I reply, bracing a hand on her shoulder while shooting daggers at Waylon.
“I worked really hard to get my degree while raising that wild son of yours. Not giving it up anytime soon,” Lucy chides, pride sparking in her words. I feel it too, unfurling in my chest. I’m glad she stands up for herself, even in this small way. “You should consider teaching, Henry. Music teachers with talent like yours are hard to come by around here.”
I can see Waylon’s neck reddening, his gaze sharp, so I quickly speak up before he can cut her down. “Is that what you do? Teach music?”
“No,” she says, laughing, “English. Though I do piano lessons at the church a couple nights a week if you’re ever interested, Delilah. I’m sure your dad’s already taught you everything he knows, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve, too.”
“I have a keyboard!” Delilah says. “Well, it’s Dad’s. But he lets me play it sometimes.”
“All the time.” I haven’t played it in ages. Haven’t had time to. I squeeze her shoulder and smile. “She’s a natural.”
“I bet,” Lucy says. Her eyes are lost in memory even as she’s looking at my daughter. I wonder if she’s seeing what could’ve been .
I know I am.
“Well, we’ve gotta get going on the rest of this.” Waylon slaps a nearby dresser strapped to the trailer. “See y’all around?”
“Right. Yep. We’ll let y’all get back to it.” I capture Delilah’s hand in mine and take a step toward home. “See ya around.”
“Good luck with your mom,” Lucy says. Her gaze is laced with sympathy, hands folded at her hips. “We’re here now, if you ever need anything.”
“Thanks, Lucy.” I smile. It’s the closest to the real thing I’ve done in months. I just hope it’s convincing.
Waylon grabs a chair and starts heading toward the door. “Grab that other one, would ya, Luce?”
She frowns but says, “Yep. Coming.” Then, glancing down at Truett, “Why don’t you go get cleaned up, love?”
“Bye, Delilah!” He waves, a spot of dirt marring his palm, then follows after his dad.
“Think about what I said, Henry. You’ve got time to follow your dream.” She shrugs. “We’re still young, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Her hair dusts her shoulder as she hoists that chair up, turns back toward the house, and leaves my daughter and me standing together, holding hands. Leaves me feeling at once ancient, because so much time has passed since I last let myself consider the possibility of music, and at the same time impossibly young. I’ve spent five minutes with the woman, and already I feel like I’ve turned back time. Become the seventeen-year-old I was when I loved her.
I try to recall the exact moment when I stopped. It feels fuzzy. Just out of reach.
“They were so nice,” Delilah sighs as we make the long trek home. “I think he’s gonna be my new best friend.”
I smile. “I’ll bet he is.”
Kimberly is bent at the waist, peering into the refrigerator when we return. A fuzzy bathrobe hides most of her shape, but I still find myself pausing to admire her. For all our problems, my heart still stands still when she straightens, glancing down at our little girl who’s come up to hug her thigh.
“I made a friend, Mama!”
Kimberly smooths a hand over the crown of Delilah’s head. “Isn’t that nice? Wish I could make one.” Her eyes move to meet mine, sharp as barbs. “Just don’t seem to have the time these days.”
“You could be friends with his mom!” Delilah says. “What was her name, Daddy?”
“Lucy.” It comes out gargled, half choked on. I clear my throat. “Lucy and Waylon Parker bought the farm. They’ve got a boy about Delilah’s age.”
Kimberly stills. Her face is smooth, unreadable. “Of course they did.”
I shrug like, What can you do?
Kimberly shakes her head and turns away.