Page 93 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

“Why do you always let me go home?”

It dawns on me as Gil’s mouth hangs ajar that in all the years I spent at the Crawfords’ house, I never once asked this question—not aloud, not even in my own head. It was enough to have my bruises iced and my wounds bandaged, to know that no matter what pain I was in, Gil Crawford would find a way to ease it. There were always ice packs and hot soup, even arm slings and walking boots exhumed from the attic. But then I went home and it happened again. A cycle of violence enabling a cycle of love. There are only so many times a bird can have its broken wings mended before it can no longer take flight.

“I don’t want to make more trouble, not for you or your mother.” The crackle of the radio dwarfs his voice. “Keep you here, make Tom mad. Call the cops, make Tom mad. I don’t think it’s doing the right thing if I’m just putting you in more danger.”

“I’m already in danger. Every second I’m there.”

“I know.”

“You could do more for me.”

“I wish I could.”

“No, Mr. Crawford.” I clutch his hand. “You could. You could, right now. Just don’t make me go home.”

“There’s nothing I want more than a universe where you never feel pain. Not a stubbed toe, nothing.” Now it is Gil whose words tighten with tears. When he tries to castle, he knocks over a pair of his pawns. “But certain things you can’t make right.”

“But it’s the trying that matters.”

“Maybe. Maybe I’ve never tried hard enough.”

I weigh his action against his inaction, every tenderhearted letter and worn paperback he sent me in prison against all the nights I returned to Cedar Street alone. The Crawfords were just as scared of my father as everyone else in Annesville, but they laced their acts of kindness with defiance. Piecing me back together was theirfuck youto him. And yes, it’s more than anyone else ever did for me, but more isn’t enough.

For most of my life, I’ve worried I am unlovable, a creature so repugnant that even my own mother never smiled at me warmly or cradled me in her arms. I thought that I was born unlovable the way some people are born deaf or blind, a simple fact of my existence. When I ran over my mother, it felt like fulfilling my birthright. Deprive me of love and I will deprive you of life. But I’m starting to understand I was not born unlovable. I grew into it because I was never given a chance to be anything else.

People love me. I am lovable.

Every time Gil sent me home, he stole another chance from me.

No, Providence. No, there’s nothing more I can do. No, my love for you has limits.

He could have sent me home ninety-nine times if only he let me stay on the hundredth.

Yes, Providence. Yes, I see you. Yes, I love you.

And Gil, I love you too, even if it was never enough.

The bones of his hands are slight like toothpicks when I squeeze them. My voice betrays me with a quiver. “Do you remember the words to ‘Lorena,’ Mr. Crawford?”

“Remember them? Ha! Marjorie’ll have them inscribed on our headstones.”

“Can you sing it for me?”

Gil chuckles. “I’ve never been much of a singer. Wait for Marjorie to get back. I’ll sound much better if she’s on the piano.”

“She won’t be home for a little while, and I have to go soon. Please, Mr. Crawford. I want to hear it before I leave.”

His smile reveals a newly missing tooth. He must have knocked it out when he fell. “You always come back.”

“I do. But let’s just think about right now, okay? Let me hear the song one more time.”

And it’s true—he isn’t much of a singer. His voice is hoarse and thin from age. But he remembers every word and every note, and his hands drum the keys of an imaginary piano. When I close my eyes, Marjorie is here, Connor too, all four of us in the living room. The open windows invite spring into the house, the air redolent with budding flowers. The carpet is blue. The stargazer lilies reach toward the sun. The chessboard is ready, and Gil plays white.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting on the curb outside the nursing home, barely breathing, certainly not moving. “Lorena” resounds through my skull beginning to end. Each time I begin the song anew, I lose one more word, one more layer of the melody, until it is pared back like a church hymn.

People pass, their conversations interrupting my song, but no one dares disturb me. They assume I am grieving a loved one in the facility. In a way, I guess I am.

As I contemplate the walk to the car, my phone buzzes.

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