Page 95 of Everything We Give

“You saw Mom when she was released.”

“I set her up in her apartment. I found her a job as a seamstress.”

“And you’ve been supporting her ever since. That’s why you need me to manage the trust. After you’re gone.”

He nods. “Her term came up and she made me agree not to tell you. She didn’t want you to come looking for her. She thought it best for you to believe she didn’t care. That’s why I stayed away when I should have been your father. I thought you’d see right through me.”

“You knew what her leaving did to me. How could you agree to such a thing?”

“I swore that I’d keep her safe and you safe from her. I love her, Ian.” His eyes sheen and hands clench tighter on the cart handle. “I did it because I love her.”

I feel my face heat. I’m sure it’s as red as the leaves scattered around us. I want to punch him. How could he let her take herself away from me when I needed her most? My teen years were more confusing without her than my youth had been with her.

But as I stare at him, seething under my skin, something happens. An epiphany of sorts. That damn lightbulb goes off like a camera flash and frames the picture. I recognize something else of me in him. No matter what my wife does, or has done—yes, that includes kissing James and keeping his damn paintings on display at the café—I would always love her. Had Aimee been in my mom’s place, I would have done the same as my dad. I love her that much.

“I know you blame yourself. It’s not your fault, Ian,” he says. “Your mother’s leaving has never been your fault and I’m sorry I made it seem that way.”

Emotion wells and I can no longer contain it. I bend at the waist, a tree giving in to the wind, and I do something I haven’t done since I was fourteen. I weep.

CHAPTER 29

AIMEE

When Ian first told me about his mom’s arrest and imprisonment, he explained that he wanted to be up-front with me. James hadn’t been open and honest about his family history and Ian respected my need to know about his childhood, and why he was estranged from his dad. Over dinner one evening, he relayed the sequence of events, from being abandoned on the roadside to being dragged in a truck-stop parking lot, with the detachment one used as though talking about someone else. I listened in stunned silence, my heart going out to the young boy he’d been. My soul ached for the man he’d become. That detachment spoke volumes. His past was as much a part of him as the humor and carefree spirit that made up his character. And he hadn’t moved on from it.

Ian had told me previously his mom didn’t physically abuse him, but emotionally? I couldn’t understand why he wanted to find her after the years of turmoil he endured. His love for her, though, was unconditional. He didn’t blame her for how she was. It wasn’t her fault her mind fragmented. But after hearing the full story today, I better understand his pursuit, and his guilt. He believed he owed her an apology for taking the photos the prosecution subpoenaed—the photos he thought would help her case, not imprison her. He blamed himself for why things were the way they were with his parents. That’s an enormous burden to be carrying all these years.

I watch him talk with his dad, head bowed and hands on hips. Their voices are low and Ian keeps his face averted from mine. I can’t hear them so I don’t know how Ian’s taking everything in—seeing Stu for the first time in a long time, Stu’s sickness, and whatever Stu’s telling him—until he turns to me. They both look my way. While Stu’s expression is curious, Ian’s demeanor is all sorts of anger, confusion, and hurt.

I want to go to him. Everything inside me is pushing me his way. But other than waving, I don’t move a muscle. I give him the space he asked for.

Ian’s eyes latch onto mine. We watch one another for a long moment, and when I smile, a smidge of the tension straining his face eases.

They walk off together and talk under a large tree behind the house, a bench and leaf-sprinkled ground giving the yard a parklike setting. They talk for a long time, and I wait. I’d wait for as long as Ian needed me to, for he’ll need me when it’s over.

I catch up on e-mails. I call Kristen and ask about the new baby. Theo is nothing short of perfect. He’s a good eater and sleeper and isn’t fussy. It’s Kristen’s third child. I figure she has a good handle on motherhood by now and anything Theo does will seem like a stroll through peppermint frosting compared with the first child. Short of the usual exhaustion that accompanies a newborn, life is grand for the Garners.

I call my mom, dodging her questions about Idaho and Stu. This is Ian’s story to tell, and perhaps he will share it with her one day during our Sunday lunches at my parents’. For now, I let her know we’re flying home in the morning.

I’m reading a book I’d brought along with me when Ian settles on the porch chair beside me some ninety minutes later. His face is drawn, the conversation with Stu, jet lag, and theNational Geographicassignment taking its toll. He takes my hand, kisses each knuckle, and asks if I don’t mind spending the afternoon at the house, which I don’t. Finding my way into town, I buy us lunch, deli sandwiches and sodas. Ian spends the next five hours working himself to exhaustion. He patches the hole in the laundry room and repairs the porch. He’s sweaty and dusty by the time he’s done and I get the sense he’s making up for lost time by cramming as many odd jobs around the property as he can in these few hours.

We learn that Stu moved into an assisted-living facility five months ago. He makes it out to the farm every few weeks to check on the house. He collects the mail and papers, and when he agrees to my offer, I go online and arrange for both to be forwarded to his new address, little things he never got around to doing when he moved out.

It’s late afternoon when we say our good-byes. Ian reassures Stu he’ll call to schedule a date to sign the paperwork, for what, I don’t know. He’s quiet on the drive back to Boise, lost in his thoughts. I hold his hand so that he knows I’m here for him when he’s ready to find his way back.

We check in to a hotel near the airport and Ian immediately shuts himself in the bathroom and takes a shower. When he’s done, his hair still damp and jaw overdue for a shave, his skin smelling of soap, he settles at the table with his laptop.

“Al moved the feature up an issue. He wants my pictures tomorrow morning.” He powers up the laptop and types in his password.

“Did you just find that out?”

“He e-mailed this morning.”

“That doesn’t seem right. He isn’t giving you much time to edit your work.”

Ian shrugs.

“Does he expect you to edit them?”

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