Until We Fly (Beautifully Broken 4)

A minute later, though, Jacey calls me.

I hesitate at my bedroom door.

“Yes?” I call back.

“I looked in the box.”

Her words are simple, her tone calm.

Suddenly, I want to know. What the fuck did my father have to say? What could he possibly have to say to me?

I stride back to the living room and find Jacey standing over the shattered remains of the box. She turns to look at me, her face pale, her eyes huge.

There, dangling from her fingers, is the old sliding lock from my sister’s bedroom door.

The paint is peeling from it, it’s old and it’s rusty, but it’s as familiar to me as my own hand. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound it made when it slid into place every night before bed.

If I close my eyes, and imagine the sound, I also know something, something that I’ve purposely not thought about over the years, but something I’ve known since the night my sister died.

I didn’t hear the lock slide into place that night.

It’s something I’ve never told another living soul.

Jacey stares at me.

I stare at the lock.

“I knew my father didn’t lock Allison’s door that night,” I finally say. “I knew. I waited until he left for the bar, and I snuck downstairs for a snack, for some cookies. I meant to lock the door when I went back to bed, but I forgot. I walked right past and I forgot. I laid in bed that night, staring out my window, staring at what I thought was a silver

ball floating away in the water.”

I pause, and the silence is pregnant as Jacey waits.

“It wasn’t a ball,” I say starkly. “It was my sister.”

Jacey’s eyes widen a bit more, but she remains silent.

“So all along, my parents were right. I guess that’s why I always felt like I deserved whatever my father gave me,” I admit, my words wooden. “I knew her door wasn’t locked and I forgot to do anything about it. She’s dead and it’s as much my fault as it is anyone’s.”

The guilt, the guilt that I’ve carried my entire life feels like a weight now, a heavy weight, an albatross of iron around my neck.

I glance at Jacey. “So now you know. Everyone has been right all along. I’m just not good enough.”

There are tears streaking down Jacey’s face now and she drops the lock. It makes a heavy thump as it hits the floor and Jacey rushes to me, burying her face in my chest as she cries. But she’s not seeking comfort for once. This time, she’s the one comforting me.

“Brand, you’re amazing. So, so amazing. You were six years old. There’s no way that you could’ve known that your sister would get up that night. It wasn’t your responsibility to make sure that door was locked. It was your parents. People suck because they have to always find someone to blame for bad shit… someone besides themselves. You’ve been carrying this guilt for too long… and it’s not yours to carry. It’s your father’s. And I think… maybe…this was his way of saying that.”

I look down at her and she wipes at her eyes.

“Look.” She points with a shaky hand at the inside of the wooden lid. Inscribed with perfect craftsmanship, the words stand out starkly.

It was me.

“I think he’s finally trying to set you free.”

The silence of the house is huge, reverent.

My father’s guilt is not my burden anymore.