Chapter Twenty-Three Lillian
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lillian
Even though I’d known that Grady and I would share a tent that night, I hadn’t expected us to share a sleeping bag—or rather, share our two bags zipped into one.
Of course we’d never had much luck resisting each other.
Curled against his side, I rested my cheek against the steady rise and fall of his chest. The thump of his heart mixed with the croak of bullfrogs, interrupted by the sharp call of a nighthawk.
The smoky scent of our campfire still clung to the air, but in a pleasing way, reminding me of s’mores and a kiss.
We’d left our shoes outside, a camping superstition that had practical implications.
I did worry, though, that the attempt to stay in luck’s good graces wouldn’t be enough to protect against future conflict.
Every moment of this trip tempted fate, and right now, mellow from Grady’s touch, I didn’t have the will to roll away.
The quiet community of campgrounds had a universal vibe, a sense of connection that I’d never found anywhere else.
So many people in one area slept with only the barest barriers between us, no brick walls.
I wondered at the trust of us all, strangers drifting off and totally vulnerable.
I’d grown less trusting of life in general over the past year.
Maybe that was why I needed the old campground peace to give me relief from the unrelenting stress and fear.
A small battery-powered lantern glowed from a hook overhead, the breezy night rustling the nylon.
I snuggled against Grady’s warmth, the chilly night air giving me an excuse.
He skimmed his fingers along my arm with the familiarity of an old married couple who understood the nuances of each other well, so much so it was easy to forget for a moment we were divorced.
“Lillian,” he said softly, “I meant to ask how your conversation went with Rosalynn when we got to the campground.”
“They didn’t answer.” But I’d called late, distracted by Grady. I felt guilty over that. “They could have been watching their movies. Earlier, Mom even mentioned taking Rosalynn to the laundromat.”
Grady laughed, low and raspy. “Ah, Della’s laundromat ministry. I’ll be interested to hear what Rosalynn thinks of spending her nana time passing out rolls of quarters and baggies full of detergent powder.”
“Since she idolizes my mother, I suspect she’ll beg to accompany Mom on a regular basis.”
“I can see that,” Grady said. “I could call my mother in the morning and have her swing by to check in.”
“If you want.” I wasn’t excited at the notion of Mimsy stopping by without me around. She had a particular talent for subtly hurtful Southern digs. “The neighbors promised to peek in, and they have our itinerary too.”
“I should have known you would have everything covered.”
“Is that a jab?” Like his mother would have delivered?
“No, ma’am. I’m ever in awe of you.” He kissed my forehead.
I tried to play off my need for it to be true, but I didn’t dare tip my face to read his expression for fear he would see my vulnerability. “I’m sorry your mother and I don’t get along. She never thought I was good enough for her precious prince of a son.”
“I know her precious prince of a son has never been good enough for you.”
“That’s lovely of you to say.” My heart all but melted in a way I hadn’t felt in so long.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re too good for me. I wondered sometimes if you married me because your mom was struggling and you needed to leave . . .”
Could he be serious? I angled up to my elbow to look into his face, regardless of the risk of him seeing mine. “It’s one thing for your mother to think such terrible things about our relationship. But how sad that you would believe that about yourself.”
His mouth tipped in that half smile of his, the remnant of nerve damage from that warehouse fire accident. “Chalk it up to my insecurity.”
The vulnerability in his voice caught me by surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Forget I said anything.” He sat up and reached to turn off the lantern. The sleeping bag slid down around his waist.
My mouth dried up.
I stopped him with a touch to his elbow. “Does this have something to do with our discussion earlier about you staying with the job? I know it’s been tough for you since the warehouse fire a couple of years ago. Your drinking got . . .”
“Worse then. Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand along his jaw. “Not the wisest coping mechanism.”
I’d known he was struggling, but I hadn’t grasped how deeply. “I’ve heard about people getting shell shock from traumatic events or repeated trauma. Such as an attack. Or like on the job for a police officer or firefighter . . .”
“Then you also will have heard about how a problem like that can end a career if word gets out. Which brings me right back to my earlier point about us needing the insurance.”
Even though we were no longer a couple, I didn’t want him to struggle this way. “We could look into a private counselor, off the books, pay cash.”
He cast a sideways glance at me, his brown eyes haunted. “Lillian, even if we had the money for me to see a therapist, there’s no amount of counseling that will help me get over what happened the night of Rosalynn’s accident.”
The worst day of our lives, no question, but I wasn’t sure what that had to do with his work stress. So I stayed silent and let him talk.
“When I saw her fall off the stage . . .” His throat moved in a long swallow.
“I know in my soul that I handled things correctly in every way. That I stabilized her head without moving her. That I kept others from interfering. My training went on autopilot. Except in my nightmares, I accidentally jostle her and worsen the injury. In my dreams, I’d been drinking that night even though in reality I know I hadn’t, since I’d come straight from work to the performance.
But I can’t escape the gut-sick feeling that I caused her paralysis.
The horror of that lingers for days. Then the dream comes again. ”
Stunned, I held myself still. How had I not realized he blamed himself for Rosalynn’s paralysis?
To me, it was clear that our daughter’s fall from the stage had been a tragic accident, and the only fault lay in the theater staff who hadn’t properly marked the edges.
Yet hadn’t I wrestled with nightmares about that day too?
Hadn’t I relived those short moments millions of times every day, imagining a different outcome if only one thing had been different?
Knowing the thoughts were toxic didn’t make me stop thinking them. It had gotten better, but still . . . I hadn’t realized how deeply Grady suffered too.
Elbows on his knees, Grady hung his head. “I realize that job stressors play into my nightmares. Except at work, I can lose myself in the routine. But this? With my child? How could I maintain professional calm?”
The pain and guilt in his voice cut me to the core.
I slid an arm around him and rested my head on his shoulder.
“I wish there was something I could say, but I don’t have a clue how to help.
Because I wrestle with the same thing. Blaming myself for enrolling her in lessons. For pushing her to succeed.”
“As if anyone could have stopped her from dancing,” he reminded me before his smile faltered. “And now she can’t.”
A new worry took shape inside me, a fear for his hard-won sobriety these past months.
“Maybe there’s someone at the hospital we can speak with to help us navigate these .
. . feelings . . . for Rosalynn’s sake.” Seeing his face close off, I rushed to add, “Just so we know how hard to push her versus how much to baby her now that we’re past the initial crisis .
. . past the first-year mark. There seems to be something profound about that point. ”
His eyes met mine for the first time since his admission. “Well, for one thing, that’s how long we agreed to wait before splitting.”
A chill crept through me, one that defied the thermal sleeping bag.
But he was right. Our divorce had been imminent before the accident because of financial stress, his drinking, my longing to go back to college.
We’d only delayed him moving out to give Rosalynn time to heal.
Ourselves too, perhaps. As I felt the loss of him all over again, I realized that on some level I’d begun to wonder if his sobriety would bring a change of mind.
And now? I wondered if exactly the opposite was true and if, even stone-cold sober, Grady still welcomed a life separate from me.