Page 57 of Mistaken Identity
I stayed there, waiting for the color to come back into his face.
When it didn’t, I turned around and placed my pineapples on the counter.
Before I could speak, though, Creole stepped inside and headed straight for Gunner.
“You weren’t responsible,” she said softly.
Gunner’s eyes went immediately blank.
“Not any more responsible than I was for my son’s leukemia,” she continued. “Blaming ourselves for stuff that’s outside of our control when it comes to our kids makes us a good parent. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. The parent dies first. That’s the laws of nature. But sometimes, that’s not the way it works, and we have to be strong. Because our lot in life as parents is to be strong, even when we don’t want to be. Would it be easier to fall into a hole and bury ourselves? Yes. But that’s not who we are. We fight. We continue to live, albeit unhappily, because that’s what we do for our kids. We fight.”
She had no clue that while she was giving Gunner a pep talk, she was also clearing me of guilt.
There she was, a victim of rape, having raised a child that should never have been.
She loved him.
Mourned him.
And still, she fought.
She didn’t try to take the easy way out.
She didn’t put the death of her second child above the life of her first.
She didn’t completely shut down for years before finally deciding that the world would make sense if she was no longer in it.
Thoughts swirled in my brain as Gunner and Creole talked some more.
I was only halfway listening to their conversation when Gunner said, “Aren’t you going to be late, man?”
I winced. “Yeah.”
I pointed at my pineapples and said, “Don’t eat all of those. No matter how good you think they are.”
Gunner’s lips twitched. “I don’t even like pineapples.”
“You’ll like these,” I promised at the same time Creole murmured, “You think that would matter, but it doesn’t. These pineapples are different.”
“Lorax!” Lottie screamed.
“Get to that, Dad,” Creole said as she patted Gunner’s shoulder.
Gunner didn’t pale like he had the first time I’d said it.
He smiled softly, touched Creole on the top of the head, and headed for the living room and his fifteenth showing of The Lorax.
Creole followed me outside, and when I expected her to go to her car that was parked at the curb, she walked with me to my work truck.
“Umm, what are you doing?” I asked, heart slightly pounding.
“Going with you to visit your mom,” she said. “Then you can bring me back here before you start work.”
She paused next to my bike and pointed at it. “Unless you want to go on your bike?”
Of fucking course I did.
The chance to have her pressed up against me for an hour?
