Page 142 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Henry

April 14th, 2015

Footsteps shuffle over the weather-beaten wood of my parents’ front porch. Despite owning the house outright since the day my mother died, I still think of it as theirs. A vessel keeping me, like I’m a ship built in a bottle. A thing that looks like it should sail but never actually has.

I glance up as Delilah, who refuses to make eye contact, moves past with the last suitcase from her room. The moving truck isn’t even half full. Turns out Kimberly’s parents didn’t want any of our hand-me-down furniture in their South Carolina estate. So boxes of clothes, some pictures, and Kimberly’s exercise equipment are all that made the cut. Everything else will stay, a museum of the family that once resided here, before I blew it all to bits.

Guilt is a half-starved rodent crawling around my insides, gnawing at anything it can get its paws on. Every day that passes takes another piece of me. Soon I’ll be nothing but the chewed-up consequences of my own poor decisions, with nothing but the walls to hear my apologies.

I’ve tried to give them to Delilah. At first she seemed like she wanted to talk. We built a bridge over morning coffee before she left for school each day, when her mom was still fast asleep. That all disintegrated Friday night when Kimberly burst into my office.

“She’s coming with me.” Kimberly’s eyes were bright with malice, her tone laced with it. She knew the weapon she held, and she wielded it perfectly. “Guess you can’t win ’em all, can you, Henry?”

I sat up in my makeshift bed on the window seat, heart throbbing in my chest. “What do you mean? Why would she leave? She loves it here.”

“What would you know about how she feels? You only ever think of yourself.” She laughed, shoulders lifting slightly. “Though that’ll be perfect, since yourself is all you’ll have left.”

I bite down hard on my tongue. Even remembering it has me panicking, my chest tight. I didn’t argue with her that night, and haven’t since. What do the details matter, after all, when the results are all the same? Semantics aside, I cheated. I ruined not only my life, but Delilah’s, too. I deserve everything I’ve lost. Am continuing to lose.

Delilah turns to me once the truck is loaded. Her hair is braided back from her face, which is mottled with the quiet tears she’s shed all morning. I rise to my feet, the bottom step creaking beneath my weight. When she finally lifts her gaze to meet mine, I swear I see an apology hiding behind the accusation.

I’m not sure which breaks my heart more.

I step down onto the dirt. A cloud of dust rises around my black Converse. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. I chance another step forward. When her eyes flare wide in warning, I stop. Close enough. This has to be close enough.

I haven’t hugged her since I left for the concert that night. Now I fear I’ll never get to again.

“I love you, sweet pea.” I place my hand over my heart, which has been hers since the day she was born. “And I’m so sorry. I’ll never be able to make it up to you. I know that.”

She whimpers, a tiny sound that escapes her parted lips. She clamps them closed.

“I want you to know that you’ll always have a place here. This will always be your home. You can come back whenever you’re ready. I—” My voice falters. I’ve never known how to put my feelings into words. Music? Sure. But this? It’s so much harder. How do you teach your seventeen-year-old daughter a lesson you’ve yet to learn? A moral you’re still trying to find in the rubble of your mistake?

“Dad…”

I strain to see her clearly through the blur caused by unshed tears. To memorize every freckle, every quirk. The way she tugs at her braid nervously while she tries to find her words. The arch of her brow when she does.

“You don’t have to—” She licks her lips. Glances behind me and grimaces. “Never mind. Bye, Dad.”

“I love you,” I repeat.

Her gaze is still trained over my shoulder. “You too.”

“I’ll call.”

“Don’t bother,” Kimberly says from behind me.

Delilah ducks her head and turns. I count each step as though it were her first, right up until she climbs into Kimberly’s car and closes the door. Thirty-eight. It takes thirty-eight steps for my daughter to walk out of my life. Selfish. I was so selfish. And now it has cost me the only thing that matters.

“You know, I really should thank you.”

I hear Kimberly approach, but don’t turn. I won’t take my eyes off Delilah till she’s gone completely. Even the top of her head through a car window is a lifeline, which I’ll hold on to till I lose even that.

Kimberly takes each step slowly. When she finally stands in front of me, duffel bag on one shoulder and purse on the other, she smirks. “My parents never would’ve approved if I left you because I wanted my own life. Even at thirty-seven. But cheating? From someone who was never good enough for me anyway?” She shakes her head, gaze scanning the length of me. Whatever she finds, it’s lacking. “You guaranteed I’ll have their full support.”

She reaches across her chest, spreads her purse open, and plucks a manilla folder from it. I take it from her hands and hold it limply at my side. I don’t have to open it to know it contains a divorce filing. I don’t have to read it to know I won’t contest.

She pauses like she’s waiting for me to beg. To try and change her mind. When I don’t, she narrows her gaze. Crinkles her nose at me in disgust.

---