Page 76 of My Unfinished Heart

On September 10th, I walk into the courtroom where West will be judged guilty and sentenced to prison. Sitting in the row behind the defense table is a tall white woman with long, blonde hair tied into a low ponytail. In six years or a thousand, I would know her anywhere.

“Hey, Nell.”

She turns at the sound of my voice and stands when she sees me. Tears immediately spring to her pale blue eyes, and she sobs as she wraps her arms around me. I breathe in the soap and cotton scent of her. Helen’s scent today, just like the first time I met her at Cardigan, reminds me of the blanket my mother burned. I let her hold me because there is no one on earth I owe more to than this woman.

“Baby boy,” she whispers, pulling away to look at me. She pushes a stray lock of hair off my forehead before resting her cool hands on my cheeks. Her eyes show barely a hint of the time that’s passed. They’re the same as I remember.

I don’t know if she’s crying because of West or because of me, but I let her look me over, even as her sobs retreat into silent weeping. This is the woman who found my phone number. This is the woman who brought me home. Helen Miles gave me my first book on the history of art. She gave me a place to stay and a seat at her table, and she never once treated me like I was anything less than a member of her family. If you could call getting a master’s degree in art history a success, she’s the reason I succeeded.

“You’re so handsome,” she says, a smile breaking through her grief. “I missed you, Archer.”

All the questions I have don’t matter much now that I’m standing in front of her, and she’s looking at me like I’m dear to her. “I missed you too.”

She takes a tissue from her purse and dabs at her face. She looks exhausted. “Sorry for the waterworks. Sit with me.” She moves her purse so I can be beside her. “West told me you’re teaching at the community college? Art?”

I nod.

“How’s it going for you?”

“It’s been good so far. I like it.”

“Good…good. I’m proud of you.” Her hand on my knee gives a tight squeeze.

A door opens, and West enters the courtroom with his lawyer. He’s wearing a black suit fit for a funeral. Sometime in the last two days, he cut off his hair. All that’s left is half a centimeter of dark, new growth and the beard. West is a big guy—strong. The new look gives him an even sharper edge.

That’s smart. If I were going to prison for two to ten, I’d want to look intimidating, too.

He approaches Helen and me, giving his mom a long hug over the polished wooden barrier between us. He turns to me, and I get a hug, too. I take it. My walls are crumbling anyway. “You look good,” I tell him.

He nods, a grin on his face as he pulls away. “Thanks.” His smile fades, reality darkening his eyes. The cruelty of his new look shows in the steel set of his jaw and the blade of his cheekbone. The prominence of the neck tattoo.

I’ve painted his face a hundred times. I’ve never done it justice.

As it hardens, he does the most unexpected thing. He takes my hand. I look down at the grip we suddenly have on each other.

“Thank you, brother,” he says, the words pushing up from the bottom of his heart.

“I wish…you’d think I’d be able to do more.” With all the money is what I mean. Although I did a lot. Everything I could, including hiring him the best attorney—one with friends in the DAs office. He’s about to go someplace my money won’t help him, though.

He shakes his head. “You did enough. Look out for my mom, will you?”

I feel her hand on my back as I nod.

“She’s there for you, too,” he reminds me.

How could he possibly care about me right now? My eyes hold the question when I look at him. He reads it like it’s a traffic sign. Like he knows it by shape, and no words are necessary.

“We’re good. You know that, right? We’re square,” he says.

Helen’s arm tightens around my waist. She rests her head on my upper arm, not quite tall enough to reach my shoulder. “He knows,” she says.

West nods. He lets my hand go and sits down next to his lawyer.

Two hours later, he disappears from my life again. Vanishes.

I hold Helen’s hand as her son evaporates…recedes. He ceases to exist in any meaningful way.

Three years.