Chapter 29

ZANDER

Hurt Till It Hurts No More.

Twenty years is a long time to suffer. Getty’s right. It’s always going to be there, even if just a whisper of the pain. How come she can simply tell me it’s okay to be angry and I already feel better? How is it she can break through the bullshit clouding my head and make me really hear her? Validate my feelings with a simple statement?

Let someone in instead of shutting everyone out. . . . Sometimes it takes a new ear, a fresh voice, to put things in perspective for you. . . .

Colton’s words come back to me. Son of a bitch. How’d he know? I glance up to Getty, the faintest of memories coming back to me. Of after my mom . . . being at the House, the boys’ home where I was Rylee’s charge. And I’m not sure if it’s from hearing them tell my little brother Ace the story of how they met that’s created the memory, but it’s there: Rylee helping Colton overcome the trauma of his past. How she broke through and he actually heard her.

How in the end she helped him be the man he is today. The man who stepped up to the plate to adopt me, save me, set an example for the kind of man I want to be.

“Because he knew,” I murmur to myself as I stare out the window, my mind fucked, my emotions disjointed.

“Who knew?” Getty asks from behind me where she sits on the bed sorting through the papers.

“Nothing.” I give myself a mental swift kick in my ass for how I treated him. The things I said. The shit I did. The disrespect I showed to him. I sigh and run another hand through my hair. “Just something I should have known.”

I glance over to where Getty is stacking the unimpressive contents from the box on the bed. After we spent an hour going through it, I realized it looks like nothing more than the contents of a desk drawer upended and dumped into a cardboard box.

Maybe it was my dad’s desk. Maybe my mom’s junk drawer in the kitchen. I don’t know, but the inflammatory things I expected to find on the heels of her autopsy report just aren’t there.

And I’m not sure if I’m more upset or relieved that it doesn’t contain more about my past. More pieces of my mom to hold on to. A bigger insight into the life I lived and the man who stole it from me.

“Fuck.” I blow out a sigh and turn around to face the bed where Getty’s sitting, categorizing the items in piles. Old bills, maxed-out credit card statements, unpaid parking tickets, handwritten grocery lists, a warrant for my father for drug possession, an eviction notice. Nothing I can really draw conclusions from other than knowing what my mom’s penmanship looked like—she was still so young she signed our last name with a heart for the dot over the i—and that my parents were late on a lot of payments and about to lose the house.

I lift up the first thing on the stack closest to me, a folder from Child Protective Services. The letter inside turns out to be a warning addressed to my parents that the county had received a phone call from a concerned citizen about my well-being. CPS would be visiting unannounced to do well-checks on me.

I toss it back in the pile, then consider the humidor filled with the few things I wanted to keep. A picture I drew on a scrap of paper of two stick figures, both with belly buttons, one labeled Zee and the other Mom. The stack of pictures, a credit card slip with my mom’s signature on it, my original birth certificate, a cheap bookmark with a rainbow tassel that I remember used to hang out of the top of her paperback books, a red paper clip she had bent into the shape of a heart and had given me one night when we sat in my room and waited for all my dad’s friends to leave.

There’s one last item—a Matchbox Indy car. The tires barely roll and the paint is almost completely worn off from where I carried it with me everywhere, but I still see the shiny red paint. I still remember the elaborate tracks I’d make in my mind. And how I’d clutch it in my hand while I sat riveted to the television next to my dad for the one thing he’d make time to do with me, watch Indy racing.

Tears unexpectedly burn my eyes as I stare at this little piece of my past that somehow became such a huge part of my future. For the first time in forever, I wonder what my dad would say if he knew what I did for a living. Shouldn’t even think about that piece of shit, but at the same time, I wonder.

And that makes my mind shift to Colton. To the man who stepped up to the plate and took me as his own when no one else would. To the father I let down because I was too goddamn chickenshit to talk to him.

I set the old car back down beside my other mementos in despair at the depressing amount of things I have to represent the first seven years of my life.

“You okay?” Her voice is soft and her brown eyes are compassionate when I look up to meet them.

“Yeah. I’m just . . . I don’t know. I’m disappointed there’s not more and at the same time relieved there’s not the ticking time bomb I expected in there . . . if that makes any sense at all.”

“It does. It makes perfect sense.”

I exhale loudly and sit down on the bed beside her. The mattress dips, the old cardboard box falls onto the floor, and I grab her hand to stop her from getting up to retrieve it. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” She laughs softly at the phrasing and links her fingers with mine.

“What’s bugging you?”

“I’m pissed at myself.” I rifle through the perfect stacks she just spent time organizing and I love how she doesn’t rush me to finish the thought. There’s something about her silence that is comforting and encouraging. “I mean, why? I did all this, caused all of this bullshit for this box? And this is all there is? I hurt my family, fucked over the trust people had put in me, possibly screwed up my career, and for what? For a report I knew deep down wasn’t true and for some small trinkets of a life I’m probably glad I didn’t have to live?” My voice rises as I throw my hands up and walk back to look out the window, where the sky is darkening.

“Zan—”

“Shouldn’t I at least get some kind of closure? Some kind of valid explanation so I don’t look like the asshole I was when I have to go back and apologize to my family?”

God. Even that makes me sound like a prick. Like I’m not man enough to admit I overreacted and lashed out for no reason. Fuck, this is fucked.

“Zander.”

“What?” I hear myself snap at her and the minute I do, I cringe in regret. “I’m sorry, Getty, it’s just—” My words are cut off when I look to where she’s pulling something out of the box as she picks it up from the floor. “What’s that?”

Her eyes lift to meet mine. “The bottom flap was stuck. We didn’t see it. When the box fell off the bed, it jostled it loose.”

She hands me the white envelope, and I see that my name is scribbled on the front, with two hearts scrawled on either side of it that match the one my mom put above the i in her signature. My eyes flash up to Getty’s in shock and then back down.

Moving closer to the lamp, I perch on the edge of the bed and slide my finger under the lip of the sealed letter. It gives instantly, time lessening the adhesive’s effectiveness. When I look up, Getty is softly shutting the door behind her to give me privacy.

As if she already knows whatever is in this envelope is going to knock me on my ass.

With a lump in my throat and unsteady fingers, I carefully pull the paper from the envelope and unfold it.

Dear Zander—

If you’re getting this letter, something has happened to me. He’s finally followed through on his threats. I know you’re scared and you’re sad, but don’t be. I will always be with you. The greatest gift I’ve ever received was getting to be your mommy, so please, always remember how much I love you. You are my heart, my moon, my sun, and my stars. Please never doubt or forget that.

I’m sure you have so many questions and all I can hope is that maybe when you are older, this can help you make sense of everything that has happened.

Love can be pure. Love can be fierce. It can be volatile. It can turn black. But even when it does, you can’t always stop loving. The way I love you is pure. Nothing can ever take that away from us. The way I love your dad is all four of those things, even the black. It’s the kind of love that’s almost as bad as the drugs he loves.

I’ve tried to leave. We’ve stayed in a shelter. We’ve stayed with friends. But I’m weak. I can’t turn the love off. Even now when it’s black. Even knowing that if I walked away, I could protect you better. But I couldn’t. I’ve placed calls anonymously to CPS, telling them to check on the little boy in our house, in hopes that they’d see your dad’s addiction and make him get help. Then we’d be safe. Then we could start over.

I’ve failed you, Zee.

If you’re reading this, I’ve failed the only thing I’ve ever done in my life that is perfect—YOU.

I’m so sorry.

But I need you to do something for me. I need you to remember this advice I have for you. Because while we might not have much, while I might be a weak woman who stayed when she should have left, while I have done so many things wrong, you are the one thing I did right. So please, Zander . . . if you can live your life with this in mind, then you will keep me alive in your heart.

Love. Love fiercely. Love purely. Love blindly if you want, but never let love turn black. If it turns black, walk away and never look back. For me, because I couldn’t. Your heart only sees the good in everyone right now. I know that won’t last forever. Love is incredibly powerful when it’s right.

Live wildly. Not recklessly. Follow paths that wander. Take roads that are fast. Chase your dreams. Race into your future and forget about your past.

When you are older, find a woman who makes you laugh. One who is strong and who can fight her own battles because when you have to fight one together, you’ll be stronger knowing she can hold her own. Treat her well. It’s the little things that get lost in the big picture. Don’t forget this, Zee. Women like grand gestures just to know that you didn’t forget the little things. And love her with all your heart. We only accept the love we think we deserve, and you . . . you deserve the universe.

Make mistakes. It’s allowed. Don’t get upset over the little ones. Learn from the big ones. And whatever the mistake, right the wrong as soon as you can. If you don’t and you grow up to be anything like me, you’ll want to bury your head in the sand and put off fixing it, refuse to admit you were wrong—but don’t. You might never get the chance to fix it. I didn’t. If I had, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Have patience. But not too much. When there’s something you want, go after it. But if there’s something worth your while you want bad enough, be patient.

I hope you never have to read this. That I’m writing it as a reminder to myself why I need to leave and get help. A wake-up call.

There’s one more thing. You have something you love almost as much as me. It goes everywhere with you—even to bed. I left something for you inside it. Remember when I told your dad I lost it? I fibbed because I wanted to put it aside for you—just in case. I hope this makes sense. You’re such a smart boy, you’ve probably already figured it out. I hope that when you find it, it will bring you comfort.

I love you, my Zander, my Zee-man, my Zee-bug. I always will. Every time you feel the sun shine on your face, that’s me wrapping you in my arms and hugging you from Heaven.

Remember me always.

Mommy

I can barely breathe. I look again at the letter, ink splattered with my mom’s tears. My thoughts are all over the place. Salt on my lips. Tears, when I don’t cry. I wipe them off my cheeks. The letter trembles in my hand.

Then I read it again.

The numbness that burned within me for so long aches like a bitch, but I swear to God it’s because I’ve finally found some peace.

She knew. That’s all I can think over and over. She knew he would kill her and loved me as much as I remember she did and needed me to be okay.

She really loved me. What a stupid thought, a bittersweet emotion that threatens to overwhelm me.

“Getty.”

I don’t even know if I say it out loud or if I’m just thinking it, but when she pushes open the door, I get my answer. One look at me, and she’s across the room with her arms around my waist in an instant.

I can’t speak. Don’t know what to say, how to explain, so I shove the letter at her so she can understand.

Still lost in my own storm of emotion, I watch her read it. Her bottom lip trembling. Her other hand flying up to cover her mouth. Something clicks in my mind. A moment of clarity amid the haze. And I scramble for my suitcase shoved in the bottom of the closet.

I’m a madman. Throwing shit out of the way, unzipping it, flinging it open to find the one thing I grabbed at the last second on the way out the door before I left home. The errant thought to grab the only thing I had from my childhood, the ever-constant security blanket of sorts to maybe help with the sting of the goddamn box that had shown up in my life.

And of course after the fact I felt like such a pussy for grabbing it that I left the damn thing in my suitcase. Made it easier so I wouldn’t have to explain to Getty why a grown man toted around a ragged, lumpy, threadbare stuffed dog.

In haste I grab the dog, my childhood lifeline after my mother died, and fall back to my ass on the floor.

“Do you think . . . ?”

Getty’s voice startles me. I almost forgot she was there. But when I look up to meet her tearstained face, I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. She’s off the bed as my hands press and push at the lumpy stuffing inside the damn dog.

They are the same lumps that have always been there. The ones I’ve worried through the outside cover when I rocked myself to bed as a little kid, scared and mute from the fear. Lost in my own mind from the sadness.

Getty runs out of the room and returns in seconds with scissors, her eyes alive with encouragement as she hands them to me. “On the seam in the belly,” she says as she shows me. “I can sew that back together like new.”

Excitement and emotion and every other fucking thing I can’t even name courses through me as I try to steady the blade and snip a small opening in the seam. Carefully I make a two-inch-size hole, drop the scissors, and use my fingers to dig around inside. I can’t feel shit other than stuffing clumped together and turned stiff from age. The high hopes I had of finding this one last thing from my mother slowly crashing.

And then I hit something hard with my fingertip. My breath hitches. My heart races. The little circle inside the doggy that I used to rub my fingers around and always thought was just a part sewn inside.

“What is it?” Getty’s voice is loaded with the same emotion that I feel.

I know before I pull it from the hole. Know that it’s my mother’s way of letting me keep a piece of her with me forever.

I put the small gold band between my thumb and forefinger and hold it up so Getty can see. “It’s her wedding ring.”

She gasps.

I’m paralyzed. Swamped with memories.

Her arms go around me.

I break.

Every fucking thing I’ve been holding in since I was seven years old comes out.

The anger. The hate. The loneliness. The relentless questions. The need to feel my mother’s love again. The guilt.

Every single piece.

Except her love for me.

Because I know that was true.