Heart on a Chain (36 page)

He clears his throat, hands folded around his can of pop.

“
Kate, there’s something I want to tell you, if it’s okay.” His eyes are on the table.

“
Sure,” I wonder what other revelation he might give, if it will explode my world again.

“
I’m an alcoholic.” He says it so matter-of-factly that my mouth drops open a little. “Not that you didn’t already know that. Not that
I
didn’t already know that. But I couldn’t admit it before. I can now.”

He looks up at me.

“
I’ve been going to AA, getting help.”

“
That’s good,” I say, meaning it.

“
I should have done it years ago, though. Before you were born, before your mom and I were married, I was having drinking problems, and had gotten help then, though it didn’t last. I was doing well until I lost my job. That shouldn’t have been so bad but I was scared, she was pregnant with the baby we shouldn’t have been having, we already had you to be responsible for, this house with its mortgage, other bills. And instead of dealing with it, I turned to alcohol to numb the stress.

“
I know it doesn’t matter now, with all that has happened, but it’s important to me that you understand that most of the past ten years have been a drunken fog for me.” He holds up his hands as if I protested. “It’s not an excuse for what I have done. Or for what I
haven’t
done. Or for anything I allowed to happen to you. I take absolute responsibility for that. I was your father, and I didn’t ever act like it. But Kate, I always loved you. I did a really poor job of showing it, but I did.”

“
Why now?” I ask, curious. “Did something happen to make you decide to get help?”

“
You did,” he answers, as if it should have been obvious. “The last time you were here. You were so angry. And I realized that that was my doing.” He smiles sadly. “When I came home and you weren’t here, and then didn’t come back, I knew that I had let it destroy my life and take from me the one good thing I had.”

“
But you didn’t come find me.”

“
No,” he shakes his head. “I figured you hated me, and with good reason. I had no right to ask you to forgive me. But I know about you.”

“
You do?”

“
It took me some time to get sober. When I did I became truly aware of what I’d lost. So I asked around. I found out where you were living and I cornered Tom Bolen at the hardware store. It took some time and several conversations with him to convince him I was genuine in my concern and not trying to harm you before he would tell me anything.”

He waves his hand toward the wall next to the opening between the kitchen and living room and I see a white phone hanging on the wall.

“
I finally got a phone. I stay sober, so I can keep my job, so I can pay my phone bill, so I can talk to Tom about you.” He shakes his head. “Pathetic, huh?”

“
No, not pathetic. Responsible. Fatherly.”

His eyes flicker with something like hope, and the residual anger that is in my heart melts away. I pull a small notebook and pen out of my purse and scribble a number on it, passing it to him.

“
My cell phone number,” I tell him. “You can just call me direct now and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

“
I can call you?”

“
Sure.”

He’s staring at the paper, rubbing his thumb lightly over the print.

“
Do you think someday you might let me try to be your dad again?” he asks softly.

“
I’d like that.” I cover his hand with mine. He leans down and kisses my knuckles.

“
Can I stay for dinner? I could cook for us,” I say.

“
You can stay, but I’ll cook. I’ve become pretty handy with my grill out back. I’d like to show off for someone else besides me for once.”

I laugh.

“
Deal.”

Since that day I’ve talked to him on the phone almost daily. I go to his house a couple of times a week to have dinner with him. This new, sober man is a far cry from the drunken stranger I’d known before. He asked me once about Henry because Jessica’s dad had told him I had broken up with him, but I cut him off, refusing to talk about it, and unlike Jessica he let it drop and didn’t ask me again. Sometimes, though, I catch him watching me with a sad, puzzled look in his eyes and I know he
wants
to ask, wants to know what could have driven us apart, but he doesn’t ask.

The summer fades and rolls into fall, the mountains changing from green to red as the leaves change, and finally to white as winter comes and the snow falls. My life is a half-life, but even at that it’s more than it had been before Henry.

I go to school and do well, no longer feeling a need to keep unnoticed with mediocre grades. I go to work and don’t have to pretend to be anything because most of the patients have a hard time remembering me anyway from time to time. I go to movies with Jessica, and watch TV with her parents. I spend time with my father, even attending a few of his AA meetings with him. I see my psychiatrist and work through my guilt and lack of self-worth as much as possible. I smile and laugh when I’m supposed to.

I pretend that I’m not keenly aware that he’s gone now, wherever his destiny has taken him.

Just before Christmas I move back home with my father. I’m determined to keep a happy face for him, to help him stay sober and not drag him down with my sorrow.

At night I still cry, and dream of Henry, and miss him with an aching loneliness that threatens to overwhelm everything else in my life.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Spring comes early.
The snow and ice melt quickly, the spring flowers blooming when they shouldn’t be. I still walk as much as possible, so I’m glad about the flowers, especially when I’m on campus, because they are so beautiful. They feel like new life, new beginnings. I like walking from building to building to go to class, the sun warm on my back. I wear Henry’s jacket, which I kept, deciding that this little piece of self-torture is worth it to feel closer to him.

When I hear my name being called one spring afternoon by a voice more familiar than my own, I decide that it’s the power of wishful thinking, since I’m wearing his jacket. I turn anyway, schooling my smile to not show how much I wish the voice really does belong to him, expecting to see one of my classmates there.

My smile falls, arms going limp as my books scatter across the ground when my eyes light on him. He’s here, really here, standing ten feet away. He walks closer, a wry smile crossing his face as he takes in the strewn books. My heart twists painfully at the familiar expression, my hands curling into fists, nails digging in to keep me from crying out in pain.

“
Still not big on carrying a back pack, huh?” he asks, gaze coming to my face. I’m nearly knocked over by the pain I see reflected in his eyes. I squat down, scooping my books up to give myself a chance to regroup. Any chance of that is lost as he walks closer, his shoes right next to me now. Slowly I stand up, taking a breath, wanting to run away, but facing him anyway.

“
Why are you here?” I intend it to come out sounding careless, remote. Instead the words are nearly breathless, hurt underlying each syllable.

“
I don’t really know,” he says, his words a repeat of his answer the first time I talked to him, when I asked him why he wanted to be my friend.

“
You should go.” I order my feet to turn and walk away, but they disobey, fixed in place.

“
I can’t, Kate.” The sound of my name on his lips is like a physical blow. I rock back a little from the impact. “Not until I tell you what I came to say.”

“
Say it then,” I mumble, wanting this moment over now because I don’t think I can take it for much longer, but also wanting to draw it out so that I can drink in the sight of him, so much better in reality than in my dreams.

“
I think it’s time for you to stop being such a martyr,” his words come out harshly, his jaw clenching. He runs his fingers roughly through his hair, the gesture so endearingly familiar that I ache with it. He takes another step closer. “How much longer do we have to suffer apart until your sense of justice is fulfilled?”

“
What?” I gasp. “You think this is some kind of masochism, or self punishment?”

“
If not that, then what?” his voice is rising, and a few students nearby look our way.

“
It
can’t
work, Henry. I told you—”

“
You told me a load of crap! I’ve thought over everything you said, a hundred times a day, every day, and it makes no sense. The only thing that makes sense is that you think you’re not good enough for me, you think you don’t deserve me. You think you have to self-sacrifice in order to make everyone happy.”

This hits so close to home that hurt washes over me. I turn that pain into anger.

“
Pretty arrogant, Henry. Sounds like it’s
you
that thinks you’re too good for me.”

“
Don’t try to turn my words around, Kate.”

“
You were only with me because you pitied me. I was just some poor creature for you to rescue.”

“
No!” His denial is vehement. “Not at first. And then, okay, maybe a little.” I’m stunned by his admitting it. “But not after that.
You
, Kate, I fell in love with you! With your strength and courage, with your naiveté and innocence, your unschooled sense of humor. With your loyalty and how willingly you gave your love and trust.”

“
Not exactly flattering, Henry,” I flounder around, trying to find a part of his speech that isn’t singing through my heart, trying to maintain my anger. I finally find a word. “Loyal! Like a good dog.”

“
You’re turning my words around again,” he growls.

His face is only inches from mine as we yell at one another, so close that if I just lean in just a few more inches, our lips will be touching.

I see the moment when Henry realizes the same, when his face changes from anger to intensity, when he starts to make the move forward. I channel every ounce of self-control and will-power I have in me to jerk back and take a step away. His jaw tightens.

“
This is stupid, Kate. I
love
you. I want to be with you. Today, tomorrow,
always
. And I
know
you love me. Tell me I’m wrong about you, about why you left me. Tell me you don’t love me.”

I know I should open my mouth and say the words, say the lie, and then he can move on. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out, so I snap it shut.

“
You’re wearing my jacket,” the accusation is soaked with misery. I pull it tighter around me in response, my throat clogged with tears.

“
So here’s the deal,” he says when I remain silent, clearing his throat and drawing himself up. He reaches out toward me, then stops himself, his hand falling uselessly to his side. “I’m living at home, going to school here, at the university, which I will be doing for the next three years. And after that I don’t know where I will be, but wherever it is I want to be there with you. I don’t
want
to go without you, but I will. And then I’ll come back for you. If I have to wait one day or twenty years, I’ll wait for you. So when you decide you’re done with
this
…” he trails off searching for the right word. Apparently not finding it, he continues. “When you’ve punished us enough, you come to me. Because that’s what you’ve reduced me to—a man who will live a pathetically empty life, just waiting for you.”