Emory
“Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, ‘It might have been.’”
―Kurt Vonnegut
WE’RE ON THE way to the store where Madison had worked. Knox wants to ask some questions of other employees there. He’s already warned me we’ll have to wait if there’s any sign of other cops or detectives doing the same. Clearly, he’s trying to avoid another entanglement with his chief.
We’re sitting in traffic on I-66 when he looks over, one hand draped on the steering wheel. “What happened to your parents?” he asks, his eyes intent on mine.
I glance out the window of the Jeep, not sure how to voice the real answer. I could give him the one believed to be true by the rest of the world, the one that didn’t make me look like the awful person I know myself to be.
The silence expands to fill the vehicle with a heavy expectation. He says nothing further, just looks straight ahead, driving. When I finally speak, my voice is laced with the heavy, bitter price of regret. “I’m fairly sure I killed them.”
He swings a glance my way, and I can feel the question in his eyes. “What does that mean, Emory?”
“That people can die from hurt.”
“How did you hurt them?”
I’m quiet for a stretch, weighing the words. “By rejecting them. Rebelling against who they were.”
He’s quiet for a good bit, and then, “Do you think you’re unique in that?”
I shake my head, still refusing to look at him. “No. I’m sure I’m not. But that doesn’t make it any easier to live with.”
“I looked it up. Head-on with a drunk driver.”
I do look at him then, surprise underscoring the single word question. “Why?” And then I realize the answer. “Because I’m a suspect.”
“In the beginning, we have to consider all angles.”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Did you have a fight with your parents before that night?”
“Yes.”
“Said things you wish you could take back?”
“Yes.”
“We all have, Emory.”
I look down at my hands, see the places on my palm where I’ve dug my nails in. “But some of us get the chance to apologize. Ask for forgiveness.”
“True. But they loved you, right?”
“Yes. Although from here, I can’t imagine why.”
“Do you think they would want you to live with guilt over their deaths?”
“No. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.”
“My guess is you’ve devoted your life to your sister in an effort to make up for that guilt.”
“I love my sister. There wasn’t anyone else.”
“Not every eighteen-year-old would be willing to grow up overnight to raise a sibling.”
I consider this, but cannot imagine having made any other choice.
“Life took a horrible turn, and you made the most of it. Give yourself credit for that.”
“What kind of person would I have been to do anything other than what I did?”
“The kind I meet every day in my job. The kind who takes their shattered dreams out on their kid so they end up in the foster system. The kind who beats their dog because they had a bad day. The kind who dumps their old dad at the nursing home and never gets around to going to see him. A lot of people operate from the origin point of self first. So, yeah, you could have made some very different choices given your age and how much essentially becoming a parent was going to change your life.”
I let the words sink in, and, on some level, I do know that I’ve tried to do right by Mia, to make up in whatever way I could for the ragged ending of my relationship with my parents. “One of the things I find myself telling patients most often is the need to figure out how to forgive themselves for the things they can’t seem to let go of. And yet, I can’t do it myself. That doesn’t make me much of a psychiatrist, does it?”
“It’s a tall order,” he says, his voice dipping under a note of what sounds like empathy. “Believe me, I know.”
I want to ask how he knows, but I’m not sure either one of us needs to go there.