Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

I doubt he ever will.

“With everything,” I continue. “With your father, how I let him treat me, treat us, how I stayed and kept us in that kind of home for your whole life.”

David is already wrapping me in another hug before I can finish, and a long sigh leaves his chest as he pulls me into it. “Don’t do that. Don’t beat yourself up over what’s in the past.”

“How could I not?” I cry. “I feel like my entire life is just one big mess, one mistake after another, years and years of screwing up.”

I fall silent, not speaking aloud the louder thoughts that echo those.

Will I ever be happy?

Do I even deserve to be?

“Mom, it’s not your fault.”

I laugh. “Explain that logic, please.”

David pulls back, his hands framing my arms. “Dad is an alcoholic. He’s an addict. Okay? You tried to love him through it. You tried to see past the disease and remember the man he was underneath it. But it took control. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I could have forced him to get help. I could have threatened to take you and get us both out of his life.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. He has to want to change. No one, not even you and I, can force him.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I know he’s right. At least, I’ve read literature that says he’s right.

But I can’t help but feel the weight of responsibility pressing in on me.

“I could have left sooner.”

“You left at exactly the right time,” David assures me.

My throat is thick with emotion I can’t swallow, and I just shake my head, looking out over the yard. “I feel so lost, David.”

He nods, pulling me into him again. “It’ll be okay.”

I don’t know if I believe him, but I hug him back like I do.

“You know, I’ve never told you, but… I’m really proud of you.”

I frown, peeking up at him. “You are?”

“Very few people in this world could go to college after not having been in school for thirty years. That takes real guts, Mom.”

I shrug. “I just want to provide for myself.”

“It’s more than that and you know it,” he challenges, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “You want to help people. You want to help women who are going through what you’ve survived. And you’re not just saying you want to — you’re taking actionable steps to make it happen.” He smiles. “Do you understand how incredible that is?”

I hide my face, swiping a tear before it can fall too far. “Will you still think I’m incredible if I’m alone forever?” I joke — though it feels truer than anything else in this conversation. “An old hag with a house full of cats who does nothing but watch soap operas all day?”

“That won’t happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You hate cats.”

“I could learn to love them.”

“You’re allergic.”

I frown. “Maybe birds…”

David smiles, squeezing my arm before he releases me. “You’re going to be the best therapist in the Bay, Mom. You won’t be alone.”

I swallow, wishing I could find comfort in that notion, in the thought that I could help people, that that would be enough for me.

But an image of Greg’s smile, the sound of his laugh, the feel of his arms around me… they crack my heart open like an egg, the yolk of the truth running out and making a sticky mess of everything.

“Yeah,” I say simply, pressing a hand over my heart as if to soothe it.

David’s brows tug inward, but Julia calls from the car, and I shoo him away.

“I love you. Thank you for still loving me.”

“That will never change, Mom.”

I nod, leaning in through the open window to give my grandson a kiss and squeeze my daughter-in-law’s arm, and then they pull away, and I stand in the drive and watch them go.

I stand there for longer than necessary, the night getting darker and darker around me, loneliness creeping in like an unwanted friend. It slips its arm around me as I walk back inside, the house too cold, too quiet.

I sit in the middle of the couch, staring at the blank television screen, at the bottle of wine on the counter beckoning me. My brain prays for me to numb the pain, my heart echoing the sentiment.

But for some reason, instead of reaching for the wine, I reach for my phone.

And I pull up the Internet and search the last thing I ever thought I would, all with one thought echoing in my mind.

I can’t live like this forever.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

AMANDA

The first day of December usually means one thing for me: Christmas decorations.

It’s the day I pull out the tree and the ornaments and the garland and all the tacky Santas I’ve collected throughout the years. I put on a Christmas playlist, belt out the songs at the top of my lungs, and dance around the house while I fill it with festive cheer.