Page 11 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest
stuff has been creeping in lately. I get fear, pain, anger, sorrow. It was part of the reason I wanted it back. There was no reason to have all the bad and none of the good.” He leaned back. “Can I also ask you something?”
I nodded. My biggest secrets were out anyway.
“What happened to you?”
I looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how did you get from being in college, on track to do what your dad did,
to dropping out, working at the coffee place and now smuggling? Thievery?”
“You have the gall to ask me that?” An inferno was rising in my chest. “Your father put mine behind bars,” I hissed. “It broke him. It destroyed him. Even after the charges were dropped, he came back a ruined man. His reputation was gone. Two years in jail for a sixty-year-old. And he wasn’t healthy to begin with.” The old rage had come back up, long pushed down, flooding every nerve with anger. I pushed my food away with some force. “You have the balls to ask what happened to me? I was a kid and he was gone. I was alone. You don’t think the day I came back and found him hanging from the balcony wouldn’t change the course of my life? He wasn’t the only one who died that day.” I choked on my last few words, the combination of sorrow and vitriol a potent one.
I felt the tears start to well up, so I pushed out of the booth, grabbing my purse and coat. I jogged toward the door, pushing it wide open. I saw Merv’s eyes widen. I’d check in with him later.
“Cora, wait!” Damien was fast on my trail.
He threw some money onto the table and followed me out the door. He had the advantage of natural athleticism and years of training. I was running on sheer rage and sorrow.
He tried to grab my arm but I pulled out of his grasp.
“Don’t!” The command came sharp.
“I’m so sorry, Cora. I tried to talk to you at the funeral, remember? You didn’t want
to hear it. I had nothing to do with my father’s work,” he implored.
“Yet you follow in his footsteps!” I shrieked.
“No, not entirely. Different focus and divisions. I’m sorry you were hurting but I
didn’t do that.” He truly believed it. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I stared him down, hot tears cresting down my face. “I’ve hated you and yours since that day. I’ll help you because it’s a mess I caused but after this leave me alone.”
I whirled around leaving him in the street. He didn’t come after me this time. I started jogging to help use up some of the tension and anger. It didn’t help much.
I got home and threw my stuff to the side, going to collapse on my bed. Anytime I thought of my father brought up unfathomable discomfort. He had been the greatest thing in my world and he just couldn’t dig himself out of the pain that the world had caused him. I couldn’t dig him out either. I would always remember that. It had taken a while to stop blaming myself.
Eventually the tears stopped. I walked to the kitchen to grab some water. My head was pounding and I had reconnaissance to do. As I drank down the cool liquid, I wondered out loud, “Damien, what did you do?”
Something happened then that I didn’t expect. The old guilt came rearing back.
In the beginning of when we drifted, I had some anger but some guilt as well. Mostly about what I’d done or not done to make him not want to talk to me anymore. Had I embarrassed him or not been cordial to his friends? Had I been rude to his parents, especially his judgmental father? What was it?
Now I felt that familiar squirm inside. What happened to him that was so drastic that this, THIS was the final result? Could I have helped him at all? I tried to swallow it down as I racked my brain with the few times I’d seen him in the last few years. It was mostly work. As far as I know, no major work disasters. I realize that his presence wasn’t the most comfortable in my life but maybe if he had reached out sooner? I shook my head, trying to clear the thoughts away. I meandered to the kitchen, grabbing a mug for tea. I sat down without it, thinking of the past.
Prom.Usually one of the happier times in a kid’s life. It was the Saturday of prom and as many do, they go to the nearest fast-food place in their finery. My father had been in jail for approximately eleven days and to say I was struggling would be putting it mildly. Even mild interactions with people could lead to tears if I wasn’t totally flat or monotone. I was a waitress at the diner. When I applied, Merv’s wife Sheila took in my application and looked at me tenderly. She asked me why I wanted the job and I told her quietly that I likely have some expenses coming up and that I was a hard worker. She put my resume down and pursed her lips, asking what my availability was and when I could start. I was still training when the prom kids were filling in. The elf I was shadowing, Arty, groaned and chewed on her lip, eyes flitting to the door. “Ughhh,” she groaned. “Not you, honey. I’ll get them if you want to start cleaning up over there.”
Arty flounced over to the table, faking enthusiasm for those piling in.
I had no desire to go to prom. The whispers about my father had shot my anxiety through the roof and now that school was ending, I needed more distraction.
I was piling glasses together into my bin, throwing my braid back over my shoulder.
“Hey.”
I stiffened. That’s the thing about small towns. Your graduating class is about ninety people, one of whom used to be your best friend.
