Page 55 of When the Smoke Clears

I’m not sure she understands what she’s asking. This isn’t something I can tuck neatly in a box in the closet and forget about. I killed a man. Her son. I shot him as he shoved a knife into my gut, and he bled out on me while I wondered if we were going to die there together in a heap in my grandmother’s backyard.

But I share none of that with her. I press my lips together and nod. Because the only thing I can think of that might be worse than living with the guilt and trauma of this for the rest of my life would be doing it behind bars. Alone. Without Sutton, or the support of the amazing people in my life. Of which I have so many more now than I used to.

“I wish it had ended differently,” I finally manage. My heart rate picks up. I won’t be able to go into detail, and I hope that’s not what she wants. I recognize that people need closure in different ways, but I cannot provide that for her. Not those details. “I tried to talk to him, to reason with him, but it sounds like he was struggling with things far outside of my reach. I’m so, so sorry. I waited…”

My throat constricts, and it takes me a long moment to force it open. “I waited until I couldn’t anymore. I didn’t have a choice.”

Tears begin to stream down her cheeks and her hand falls away from the cup. Without thinking, I reach across and place my own on top of hers. I can’t take back what happened that night. Even if I wish that I could. But I can look into her eyes and tell her honestly that I’m sorry for her loss, because I am.

I’m sorry for mine, too.

There’s an innocence that I didn’t know I had that was stolen from me that night.

We stare at each other, silent tears falling from our cheeks onto the weathered bistro table. I can’t know if she’s being truthful about trying to convince the police department of my honesty, and she can’t know that I was acting in self-defense, but somehow we choose a mutual trust. In some way, maybe that heals a tiny part of each of our broken hearts.

“I’m sorry.” More tears escape her eyes. “And thank you.”

My breathing catches. My mouth opens, but the question won’t come out.

“There’s an unwritten rule that mothers constantly worry about our children. At least, it seems that way to me. You worry if they’ll get hurt, how they’ll do in school, if they’ll make the right friends. Then you worry if they’ll get into a car accident, drink too much at a party, get a girl pregnant. Sometimes you worry they’ll hurt themselves.” Her breathing catches into a sort of hiccup, and her words slow. “Or someone else. I don’t have to worry about him hurting someone anymore.” Her hands flash up to cover her face, and her elbows drop to the table as she begins to sob, her body wracked with heaving, disjointed breaths.

Behind her self-imposed shield, more words tumble out. “God, what an awful thing to say about your own child.” Her voice breaks and her body shakes harder. “I can’t believe I’m relieved. I’m an awful person.”

Fishing tissues from my crossbody bag, I pull one out and slide the pack across the table, nudging her elbow with it. Tears track my own cheeks, hot against the crisp air. She peeks through her fingers and takes in my face before accepting.

“Would it be okay if I come to Colt’s funeral?”

Melissa dabs at her cheeks and around her eyes. She studies me quietly. “Why would you want to do that?”

She’s right to think my offer seems out of left field. A large part of me is sorry for how Colt’s life came to an end, even if I’d choose my life over his again if I had to. Yet, a quote that I’ve heard from Mother Theresa sticks in my head. She said, “If you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”I’m no saint, so my desire is somewhat selfish. I’m hopeful that facing this will provide another way for me to heal, as much as I hope it gives a measure of comfort to Melissa. She seems truly and utterly alone, and that’s heartbreaking. So, I channel a bit of Nana’s grit and compassion, hoping I can achieve something good for all of us with this one action.

“Colt made some bad choices with dire consequences…but he was still loved. I’d like to show my condolences for his lost life.” I tuck my hands into my lap. “I won’t come if it will make you uncomfortable, though.”

She sniffs. “No, that’s fine. You’re welcome to come.” She folds the tissue and tucks it under the base of her cup. “As it is, I think I’ll be the only one there.” Her voice breaks and fat tears crest her cheeks again. “It’s next Wednesday. At eleven.”

“Ok. I’ll be there.” I hope my tone is reassuring, even though I keep it soft.

She composes herself again. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“I’m glad I did,” I say honestly.

She stands, still staying out of sidewalk traffic, and I follow suit. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Bye, Melissa.”

Melissa turns and walks down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. My feet remain planted until she turns into the parking lot, out of sight, before I turn and make my way through Town Square toward my Jeep.

Despite our open conversation, everything in me feels constricted. A new weight sits on my chest. Could I have done more to stop what happened?

At the final corner, a man I would guess to be about ten years older than me reaches the crosswalk at the same time as I do. “Hey there.” He grins at me.

I avert my eyes in annoyance. Does this puffy face and presumably red nose scream flirt with me?

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all by yourself?”

Disgusting.

I whip my head in his direction. “Does that really work for you?”

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