“He said that if I could just give him some time, he’ll sort everything out and find a way to try to get the house back.” Her chin is up so high that if she were taller, she’d be looking down her nose at me. “And I’m certain that he will keep his word.”
Our gazes lock, and I clamp down hard on the retort that springs to my lips. I desperately want, make that need, to let loose on someone. But Dorothy is the only person who knows the truth, the only person I don’t have to keep up a front around.
I know exactly how it feels to want to believe the best about someone you love. How much I’d give to be able to erase what Mitch has done or somehow turn it into something less heinous. But that would require a level of denial that apparently only a person who gave birth to the perpetrator could possibly achieve.
“And I . . . I realize you have no obligation or reason to allow me to live here any longer.” Dorothy’s face is pinched, the words blunt and unadorned. “But . . . if you’ll let me stay . . . at least for a while, I can . . . My social security, I still have that. I can pay you rent.”
Her chin stays up, and she does not cry despite her obvious fear that she’s about to be chucked out onto the street. If your own son doesn’t care what happens to you, why should the daughter-in-law you’ve never gotten on with?
It’s my eyes that blur with tears.
Dorothy and I have never had a good relationship or seen eye to eye. The only things we have in common now are books and being betrayed by Mitchell. But I grew up virtually homeless, and I’m not going to be putting a seventy-five-year-old woman who’s only just recovered from surgery out on the street no matter who she’s given birth to. Which is, I assume, what Mitchell is counting on. Unless he actually cares as little for his mother as he does for me.
“I have no idea what’s going to happen next or how long . . . things . . . might take.” I’m not going to discuss my plans, or lack thereof, with someone who could so easily aid and abet the enemy. I’m somewhat shocked when I add, “But as long as I have the house, you can . . . you’re welcome to stay.”
“Thank you.” The words come out in a rasp, and I know what they cost her. I’m surprised when she cocks her head and continues, “I expect you’ll take this the wrong way, but I went online and put together a list of family law attorneys.” She holds up a two-page document. “They’re listed in order, based on reviews. The top five look very strong.”
When I hesitate, she pushes the pages toward me.
“Thank you.” The pages rustle in my hand, which seems to be shaking. “I think I’m going to need a glass of wine before I study this. Maybe two.”
“I understand. I just . . . if I were in your position, I would already be looking for representation.”
I stare at her in shock; does this mean she’s on my side? Her tone is brusque. But her face is ravaged by too many emotions to catalog. It looks the way mine feels.
“Would you like to join me?” I ask quietly. “I don’t think I can face drinking alone tonight.”
Eighteen
Erin
I drive by Walden High School on my way to work like I have every day since I moved in with my parents. What used to be a rambling hodgepodge of added-on wings and buildings has been replaced by a shiny new multistory structure. The sports fields that surround it, including the hill that houses the Badger baseball complex (sometimes referred to as a “mountain” in an attempt to frighten rivals), remain the same.
I slow down to a crawl as I drive past Badger Mountain. All three of my brothers played baseball here, and I spent most of my childhood in or running around the bleachers. On early March days like this one, I would sit wrapped in layers of wool and my brothers’ outgrown Under Armour, breathing in the cold, crisp air and listening for the crack of the bat, which sounds entirely different at the beginning of the season than it does in the sweaty playoff days of May.
My parents were always there to cheer on my brothers and their teammates and to support Badger Baseball. I love my brothers, annoying as they can be, and I do love the game. But what I loved most was watching Josh pitch.
I brace for the pain that follows any thought of Josh. Only this time it’s not the crippling blow I’m used to but more of a . . . small jab. I mentally feel around, prodding and nudging, but while there are bruises and tender spots, I’m not fighting back tears or the urge to turn around and go home so that I can climb back in bed. Maybe you really can grow past the pain. Or maybe it’s just gone on so long I’m finally numb to it.
Because I’ve left the house so early, traffic is light. When I arrive at the office, Gayle’s not at the front desk yet. I drop my things on my desk and am walking through the half-lit halls toward the break room when I hear voices coming from one of the smaller conference rooms ahead.
Larry Carpenter and an agency scout are seated at the oval table in the glass-fronted room staring up at a large television screen on the far wall, their backs to the glass. I glance up to see what they’re watching. My step falters when I recognize the windup of the pitcher on the mound. I’ve been watching a progressively more impressive version of it since I was a little girl. I hold my breath when Josh releases the ball, which flies over the plate, dropping at the last second, far too tempting for the batter not to swing at. Strike one.
Frozen, I watch the next pitch. There’s less movement on the ball this time, more velocity. Another swing and miss. A close-up of Josh’s face shows his concentration. The calm, focused look he gets when he’s in the zone.
The batter strikes out on a perfectly placed fastball. The truth hits me with all the power of that ninety-eight-mile-per-hour pitch. While I’ve been drowning in a well of self-pity and sadness, Josh has been going about his life, doing what he loves, achieving his dream.
I wait for the unhappiness to rise up and drown me, but the well is nowhere near as deep as it used to be. Somehow my feet have found the bottom, and I realize that if I push off strongly enough, I will break through the surface and shoot up into the air. Where I can finally breathe again. Where I can be me. I close my eyes briefly as I imagine it, see it. I am not some wussy princess who can’t get up until the prince comes back to kiss her awake. I am one of Disney’s newer kick-ass kind, who can wake up her damned self whenever she wants to.
“Erin?” I turn and see Rich Hanson striding down the empty hallway toward the conference room. “You’re quite the early bird, aren’t you?” He flashes a smile that I’m far too happy to dissect.
“Yes.” I smile back. Even though I’m more of a kick-ass princess with an impressive set of wings than a bird. “As soon as I chug some caffeine, I’m going to go catch a whole bunch of worms.”
He chuckles and reaches for the conference room door as I soar past.