Chapter 31 The Big Circus—er, Night #2
“It wasn’t the man I am, the one you helped me rediscover on our trip.
” George glanced at Sandy, then back to Bianca.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you, but that wasn’t the way for me to leave, hiding behind a lie.
I totally get that you’re angry and you can’t wait till I’m on that plane, and . . .”
His words trailed off.
Bianca could see through all of him, knew him so well. He’d been exhibiting the same patterns all her life. Breaking and fixing things, over and over.
Had anything changed?
She didn’t know. But she thought of her father back home a few months ago, kicked to the curb by the company he’d dedicated his life to, faced with a lifetime full of regret and empty of purpose.
An image of him holding a pill bottle emerged.
But just as quickly it turned to smoke.
In the last couple of weeks, she’d seen flickers of light and hope that could be signs of change. He was trying. She could see that. He couldn’t have been more graceful and loving when he’d taken her into his arms after she’d said such unforgivable things to him in Rome.
And how could she let him return home in even worse condition than he was upon arrival? If she cut him loose now, how long till he held those pills in his hand again? Or considered buying a gun?
He’d just admitted to this group that he’d been suicidal! That level of awareness, the ability to admit your weaknesses, spoke to a man who was ready to change.
And who the hell did she think she was, riding in on her magic carpet of perfection? No, no, no. If anyone was flawed here, it was her. But, dammit, life was hard, and everybody needed a break sometimes.
She tucked a stray strand of hair around her ear, glanced at everyone, then went back to thinking. They could all sit and fucking wait if they had to, because she had things to figure out.
A choice had to be made. Shut him down and tell him to get out of the restaurant and her life. Or she could connect with him, forgive him. If she thought that he was going to do a sudden one-eighty and have it all figured out, then she was nothing more than a hopeless romantic.
It was okay to be damaged and to have screwed up and to have missed chances, because we’re all human. But we have the potential to resurrect, to forgive.
To love.
“Dad, I forgive you.”
The surprise on his face was an image she’d hold on to forever, because it marked a change in her relationship with herself and with him and with everything around her.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“Of course I don’t.” The stage was hers.
The table was dead silent. “I don’t want perfection, Dad.
I want trying, and I know you’re doing that.
Trying equals love. You admitting this to me, in front of friends, is what matters.
We’re all damaged, Dad. I have all the room in the world in my heart for damaged people who are trying to get better every day.
People like you. People like me and everyone else at this table.
For the first time in my life, I’m willing to start living despite being damaged. ”
She sighed. “I guess what I’m saying is, I’m here for you even when you mess up. And maybe you’d say the same to me.”
“You’re damn right, I would. There is no world, no possible reason, where I’m not there for you.”
“That’s enough to keep me going right there.”
“You and me both,” George whispered.
Bianca reached for his hand, knowing she’d never loved her father more than in this moment.
Shortly after, Sandy made one of the hardest decisions of her life.
“Okay, okay, I’ll jump in. I don’t like being left behind.
” For one, she wanted to spare George from more of the spotlight.
The sweet man had put it out there. And what a man for doing so.
It just about killed her to know he’d been suicidal; he’d never once hinted at it.
Thank God he was doing better. And she couldn’t remember seeing a dad care so much for his daughter. What a man, indeed.
“For the record, George,” Sandy said, “I know you do what you do out of love. Bianca knows that too. You’re both very lucky to have each other, and that’s why . . . why I want to—no—need to say this.”
Their ears perked up like Dobermans. Nobody touched their food.
“My son. Jack.” She felt for the coral in her purse. Sandy sighed, the weight of the world pulling her down. “He’s not coming back.”
“He’s mad at you?” Harold slurred.
A sharp pain hit her chest. Sandy could still see the two men who’d been waiting outside her apartment after work eight years ago.
It was a chilly December day, drawing near to Christmas.
Strings of lights illuminated Via Giulia.
Wreaths adorned many of the doors. And an embassy staffer and a marine in dress blues, younger than Jack, stood with their hands behind their backs.
Sandy had folded, her heart shattering.
Upstairs a few minutes later, as she brushed tears from her cheeks, the marine had said, “The Commandant of the Marine Corps has asked me to express his deepest regret that your son, Lance Corporal Jack Cooke, died last week during an enemy action in Syria.”
That was the day Sandy had died inside. She’d never told a soul in Bologna.
Till now.
“No,” Sandy said, finally able to get her tongue to work. “He was taken from us.”
“What?” Harold said. “I thought he was in the Middle East.”
She couldn’t believe she’d said it out loud. “Not anymore. I still call him, leave messages. I’ve kept his cell phone account active, just so I can keep hearing his voicemail, talk to him like he’s still here.”
Moira reached for Sandy’s hand. “I can’t imagine.”
Sandy dropped the piece of coral and collapsed her head onto her arms on the table, spilling out tears around her untouched course.
The other four swarmed her, patting her neck and back and assuring her it would be okay, and that they loved her and understood.
So much of Sandy wanted to either rise up and start swinging or slip down low and crawl out of there, but the rest of her felt their love and acceptance, and she let that part win.