The room seems to be filled with things that need to be said, questions that beg to be asked, at least on my part, but I don’t know what to say, where to begin. Where do you start with someone you’ve known for what seems like forever when, in fact, you don’t know them at all?
I convinced myself that if I had him alone, I could instantly know if this was all a lie. I tried to convince myself that it was a lie. And now, just from the look in his eyes that always gave away so little and so much about him, I do know. I don’t see Cal. I hold on to my wrist and squeeze, a nervous habit I’ve developed.
“I don’t really know what to say to you, or where to start,” he begins in a quiet tone, his eyes looking into mine for the first time, as if he’s seeing me for the first time almost. It only lasts a second before he looks away. He opens his mouth to say something else, but then stops, as if he’s at a loss for words completely.
I try to think of something to say, to cut through the dead silence in the room. There are so many things I want to say, but not to him. Not to the person standing in front of me. Tears cloud my vision, and I fight with everything in me to keep them from falling. I turn away from him and wipe my eyes quickly. I see that his eyes are glued to his feet. I realize I have to talk to him for who he is, someone I know nothing about, and that’s one of the hardest realizations I’ve come to.
“Um,” I try to say, but my throat burns. I look at the ceiling, trying to be stronger than I feel right now. “I don’t know what to say to you either, to be honest.” I’m angry at the new tears falling down my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away and notice how uncomfortable he looks. “Your parents told you everything?”
He sighs, still avoiding eye contact. “They told me they’ve been lying to me all of this time. That when I didn’t remember things, another person was living my life for me, that they felt they should keep it from me,” he says with obvious bitterness. “Everyone I know and trust has been lying to me. My parents, my so-called doctor.” His mouth forms into a frown.
“Welcome to the club,” I mumble, rubbing my temples. I’ve had a continuous headache since I got here.
There’s another period of silence. I notice he’s wearing scuffed work boots. His jacket is clean, but it’s apparent that it’s been worn more than casually. His hair is different too, shorter almost. He looks like a model for Old Navy, so much more innocent than Cal. No dark colors, no mystery; it’s almost as if what you see is what you get.
“I should have known something was wrong,” he says quietly, his words snapping me from my thoughts once more. “I would wake up and days, sometimes months had gone by. I should have known it was bigger than they were telling me. They made it seem like I was okay, like they had me under control. I thought my treatments were working. I didn’t know how bad it’d gotten.” It’s as if he’s talking to himself instead of me. “The people I trusted most lied to me.”
“You can’t blame yourself. It’s human nature to want to believe things are always good. When I talked to your parents, they thought they were doing what was best for you. Your interest was the only one they were looking out for.”
He looks at me, a little surprised. I’m surprised myself; I don’t know why I just said that. I barely know the Scotts, and we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but it seems they truly love him—so much that they’d screw anyone else over for him. Though they did horrible things, they did it all for him.
“I didn’t expect for you defend them. Especially after… they lied to you too,” he says uncertainly.
“I’m not defending them,” I say quickly. “What they did was wrong; it hurt a lot of people. But I don’t think they did it to be malicious or cruel. They thought they were protecting you. As a parent, you’d do anything to protect your child from what you believe could hurt them. If I was in their situation, and I believed that I could keep you safe by lying to you, I would have.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he turns his attention to his pocket and pulls something out. He walks closer to me, and I swallow every nerve in my body. I feel my breathing speed up. I know he must think that I’m crazy, but his expression doesn’t show it. His earlier facial expression softens, and I find myself stepping away from him. He notices my discomfort and stops walking toward me, instead reaching out his hand.
“My mom said…” He drifts off, and I notice he’s holding the picture I gave Mrs. Scott of Caylen.
I feel a small smile spread across my face. His eyes are still locked on the picture, his expression a cross between puzzlement and worry.
“Caylen,” I say softly, touching her face on the picture. When I look up, I notice his eyes are on me, and we both look away.
“You named her after him… after Cal?” he asks.
I nod mechanically. His eyes stay locked on the picture as he makes his way over to the sofa and sits down.
“How old is she?” He releases a breath that he seems to have been holding in for a while.
“She just had her first birthday three days ago,” I tell him, sitting on the edge of the sofa, feeling more at ease with Caylen as the topic.
His eyebrow rises, and he turns fully toward me. “You’ve been raising her alone.” He looks at me sympathetically, which I feel angry about for some reason.
“No. My aunt and friends have been there since the beginning to help me with her. She doesn’t lack anything,” I explain.
“But a father,” he says quietly. He said it, not me. “Is… is she okay?”
“She’s fine.” I smile, missing her the more I think about her.
“I-I mean is… is she healthy?”
“As a one-year-old can be.”
“Are you sure?”
I frown as my gaze goes toward him. “Of course I’m sure,” I tell him, a bit annoyed. I’m her mother; I think I would know if she wasn’t.
“She doesn’t do anything strange?”
“Like what?”
“In general?”
“Caylen isn’t strange,” I tell him sharply.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I just wanted to make sure she was okay,” he says, trying to clean up his words.
I stand. “She’s been okay an entire year of her life without you making sure she was okay. I’ve made sure she’s okay!” I sound more bitter than I intend, but I’ve raised her alone since birth, and he thinks I wouldn’t know if my daughter was okay.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. I-I don’t know what I meant,” he says, seemingly genuine.
He offers the picture to me. I feel guilty for some reason, and it dawns on me he’s referring to his mental condition, even though it may be over-reaching. I guess that’s something I’ll need to worry about sooner or later, if this is hereditary, but that’ll have to go to the back of my queue of things to go crazy over.
“I’m sorry. I overreacted,” I say apologetically, “I’m-I’m just not used to this, all of this… It’s all—”
“No, it was my fault. I was out of line. I shouldn’t have asked such a stupid question,” he cuts me off.