Chapter 13: Bethany
I woke up in the middle of the night with a sudden shock. There was someone at the door. I could hear them knocking.
“What the…” I slipped out of bed and shrugged on a nightgown, heading downstairs. I noticed the time on the way past. It was one am.
“Who could that be?” I felt nervous. Was it Rodney? There was only one reason he would be at mom’s house in the early hours. He had been in a car accident. Or he was hurt. Or endangered.
“Rodney?” I called through the door.
I heard Mom come out of her room. “Bethany? What is it?”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I said quickly. “I’ll get it.” The thought that it might be an intruder crossed my mind. If someone was going to get confronted by a man with a gun I was damned if it was going to be my mother.
I hauled the door open. Someone stumbled in.
“What the…Kyle?”
I felt my heart stop. It was Kyle! Dressed in a smart suit, his eyes ringed with gray, his hair disheveled, it was Kyle.
He stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. I realized he might be drunk. I stepped back.
“Kyle,” I whispered urgently. “What the heck? Why’re you here?”
“Bethany?” Mom called down, sounding scared. “What is it? Is it Rodney? Is he okay?”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I called up quickly. “I’ll deal with it.”
“You sure?” she called down. “Only, if it’s Rodney, I can…”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I called up again. “It’s not Rodney. But I’ll deal with it.”
She seemed to draw her own conclusions from that. I heard her door squeak.
“If you’re sure you’re okay. Night, baby.”
“Night, Mom,” I called up. My heart was thumping in my chest like I’d run a marathon. I looked at Kyle. He was gray-faced with weariness and swaying on his feet. He looked at me blearily.
“Kyle,” I hissed, astonished. “What the hell are you…come on, sit down,” I added as he swayed and stumbled. Hell, but he was drunk! I led him to the kitchen. He shrugged off my hand.
“I’m fine,” he said slowly. “I can walk.”
I raised a skeptical brow but didn’t say anything. It was safer not to. I followed him into the kitchen. He sat down heavily.
I turned to the counter to get him some water or something. It might help. He sighed.
“I’m okay,” he insisted firmly as I put some warm water down on the table in front of him. He drank it, though. He grimaced. It seemed to help clear his head. He closed his eyes and slumped forward, head in his hands.
“Kyle,” I said gently. I pulled out the chair at the head of the table, turned to face him. “Listen. What are you doing here? How did you get here?” I felt my heart clench at the thought that he drove here. He could have had an accident so easily! I shook my head.
“I drove,” he confirmed. “So messed up. Sorry,” he sighed.
“No, don’t be sorry,” I said gently. “Why are you sorry? I was just worried.”
He frowned. “Sorry, Bethany,” he said. “I just didn’t know what to say. I had to see you.”
I felt my heart twist painfully. I had gone to sleep quite upset—he hadn’t answered my texts and I had assumed he had no interest in me. Now he was here? In my mother’s house? Saying he had to see me?
I sighed. I remembered the conversation I’d had with Rodney yesterday. About Kyle. The story of his past was a troubling one. Go carefully. He’s wounded. He has a lot of pain inside.
“I’m glad you came,” I said gently. That was completely sincere. I was, I realized as I sat and looked at him, so pleased to see him. Drunk or not drunk, exhausted or alert, he was Kyle and he meant more to me than I’d suspected.
He blinked at me, those gray eyes troubled. “You are? No, you’re not,” he slurred. “It’s trouble for you. Too much trouble.”
I frowned. “Trouble? How is it trouble?” It might be one am on a weekday, but all he’d done was visit—and I really was glad to see him.
He let out a long, shaky breath. “Always trouble,” he said wearily. “Too much noise. Too much fuss. Making life hard for Mom.”
I tensed. As far as I knew, according to Rodney, he never mentioned his mother. He was letting me into something he rarely discussed. Maybe he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been drunk, I reasoned. But even so, he was here, with me, and the story had to come out. Like the missing bracket in Rodney’s program, it had to come to light.
“How hard?” I asked.
“Too much to do. Too much trouble.” Kyle shook his head. “Dad didn’t want kids. Mom did. He…it made him mad. Mad at her. All the fights. All my fault. Bad.”
I let out a long sigh. “Kyle, no. It’s not your fault. How could it be? It was their choice to have you! Not yours.”
In my heart, I was shocked. How could anyone have blamed a kid for his own existence? The thought was unbelievable. In my experience, kids were cherished by both parents. How would it feel, to think everything was your fault, just for being born?
You’d feel unlovable. Worthless. Shameful.
I closed my eyes. So many things were starting to make sense—his reluctance to get close, his coolness in public conversations, his rebellious streak.
He shook his head. “Not my choice, no,” he agreed. He grinned at me weakly, and I realized he wasn’t quite as drunk as I had previously thought. He was at least able to see me. He knew me.
“So?” I said gently. “How can you blame yourself? It wasn’t your fault.”
He looked at the table. His head rested in his cupped hands a moment. He sighed.
“Mom left when I was fifteen,” he said quietly. “Just walked out. Couldn’t handle it anymore. That’s what she said. Dad blamed me.”
“Blamed you!” I exploded. “Sorry,” I added as he blinked. “But what kind of a man is so bad at being accountable that he would blame a child for his marriage difficulties?” I was speechless. One A.M. or not, my blood was racing in my veins. If I’d had his father there in that moment, he would have gotten a piece of my mind.
Seems like he needs one, and a big piece at that.
Kyle frowned at me. “What do you mean?” he asked. He looked gray in the face and I was worried he might be sick. I tensed, poised between staying to talk and going to find a bucket for him.
“I mean,” I said gently, “that it couldn’t have been you. You were a boy. An innocent kid. They were two adults. If they couldn’t, as adults, figure out their differences, that’s too bad. But it was never, ever your fault. They were the grown-ups. It was on them to be accountable.”
I saw something shift in his eyes. Where before they had been dark gray screens, it felt as if a light had turned on. He understood something of what I had said. I felt a flare of hope inside me.
“Maybe,” he said. He sighed. “But I was a troublemaker. Not the son my dad wanted. I didn’t even finish school.”
It sounded to me like he was trying to cling onto this idea of himself as bad, reluctant to let it go, to allow for other explanations.
“You were a kid. You reacted to the situation the only way you knew how: to rebel. I don’t blame you. No one would.”
“Dad brought me back, though,” he sniffed. “He gave me a second chance. Kind. He didn’t have to… do that.”
I stared. “Yes, he did!” I raged. Kyle winced again and I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said. “But really, he was your father. He pushed you to the point that you ran off, and then you still think he was wonderful for taking you back! No way, Kyle.”
I felt furious—both mad at Kyle’s dad, who sounded like a piece of work, and at Kyle himself, for failing to notice how he was being used.
Kyle stared at me. “But…”
“No but,” I yelled. “Sorry,” I apologized again. “Sorry, Kyle. But really? You must be able to see that makes no sense whatsoever. A family is meant to help each other. Stone Age humans did that—it’s what led the human race to develop. Are you telling me your dad’s worse than a caveman?”
He laughed. “You haven’t met him.”
I smiled. His eyes met mine. Holding my stare, they seemed unclouded, as if he was sobering. I felt suddenly tired. I reached out and took his hand. He held mine.
“No, I haven’t,” I agreed with a giggle. “But if I had, he’d come off worse. Trust me.”
He smiled into my eyes, his hand gentle on mine. “I believe you,” he said.
Our gaze held. I felt almost as if his eyes on mine was a physical touch, closer than an embrace. We seemed to become closer in that moment, like his soul reached out and touched mine. It felt weird.
He smiled tiredly. His hand gripped mine. He looked much older than twenty-nine: weary, like he’d had a hard life in that small amount of years. He had.
“I’m tired,” he said.
I nodded. “You must be,” I agreed. It was 1:46 a.m., according to mom’s digital wall clock in the kitchen.
He yawned. “I should go,” he said. He was still drunk, I reckoned, but not as badly as he had been. I frowned.
“You’re not driving, Kyle—not now. Stay here.”
His eyes held mine. He reached out and took my hand. I ached, my whole body responding to his touch. In that moment, I would have done anything to have him hold me. I sighed.
“Come on, you,” I said. “You can stay in the living room. We’ll get you sorted out tomorrow morning. Sounds good?”
I talked gently, like I would to a child. His eyes met mine. He nodded.
“Bethany…I shouldn’t do this to you,” he said. “I should…go. Late for work tomorrow.” he shook his head. “Bad.”
“Come on, Kyle,” I said as he yawned again. He was standing now, swaying a little as he got up and leaned forward. I stood too. He let his weight rest on his fists, placed on the table for support.
“I’m okay,” he insisted.
“Come on, then,” I said gently. He walked forward and I walked beside him, ready to catch him if he did fall. I led him through across the narrow hallway to the living room. He sat on the chair.
“I shouldn’t stay,” he said. He looked so weary that I felt my heart twist for him. He couldn’t drive anywhere—not safely and not now.
“You absolutely should stay,” I said firmly. “Come on. You can sleep on the couch. I’ll see you tomorrow. Huh?”
He nodded. “See you tomorrow,” he whispered. He stood and lowered himself to the couch, then sat there, elbows propping his head up. He looked at his feet.
I walked out, leaving him to his rest.
“Goodnight,” I whispered as I went back into the hallway, through the kitchen and to the darkened stairwell. I felt my heart twist painfully as I headed up to bed. My mind was racing, full of the things he’d told me. I was fairly sure I was never going to sleep—not now.
Poor Kyle, I thought sadly. Poor, poor Kyle.
My heart ached, imagining the man as a frightened boy in a house of raging adults, the fingers pointing at him. He was the bad one, they told him. He dared to exist.
Some people, I said to myself angrily. I took off my night-robe and hung it up, then slipped between the sheets.
I lay there, eyes closed, thinking about Kyle. The thoughts of his family and his mother, his story and his hurt, were overridden by another, big thought. The thought that Kyle was downstairs, on my mom’s couch, a few paces away, fast asleep. I smiled.
My body felt a sweet warmth flow through it at that thought and, despite my expectations of staying awake, my eyelids grew heavy and I found my thoughts disjointed and undirected, settling down to sleep.