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ike I’m a man who’s not about to lose his shit. “I killed her.”
“You didn’t kill her, son,” he says, his voice soft like he’s talking to a wild animal that could startle and bolt. “It was a tragic accident.” He shakes his head. “It could have happened to any one of us, but it happened to you, and it’s unfortunate. But you don’t have to give up your life because she lost hers. She wouldn’t want that for you. She’d want you to be happy.”
“Well, she’s the only one,” I say, and I know I sound just like Mitchell did this weekend when I told him he couldn’t have any more marshmallows. I sound petulant and sorry for myself.
He tosses his hands up. “Fuck the rest of them.” He stares at me. He rocks his head from side to side, like he’s thinking something over. “Or you can choose to love the rest of them. Whichever suits you best will be just fine. You can ignore them, or you can embrace them. But that boy is yours, and he will suffer for want of a parent.”
“But my mom—”
He cuts me off. “Your mom is his grandmother. She’s not his mother.”
“What if I don’t know how to be a parent?” I feel like I’m grasping at straws here. I feel like I’m free-sliding down a ladder and can’t catch a rung to pull myself up.
He laughs loud and long, so loud and long that it’s annoying as shit. “Nobody knows how to be a parent, you dipshit,” he says. “We protect them from what can hurt them, and push them toward what can help them, and we love them even when they hate our guts. That’s parenting for you. It’s a thankless job, or at least it seems like it for a while. But I can assure you that almost any parent of an adult child that you talk to will tell you that they spend an awful lot of time trying to get their adult children to come home for a spell. Kids can drive us nuts, it’s true, but we sure do miss them when they’re gone.” He motions for me to follow him as he walks out the door. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”
I follow him down the lane toward Abigail’s cabin, but he stops at the one right next door.
He pulls a key out of his pocket and fits it in the lock, jiggles it a little, and the door clicks open. “I bought this one about twenty years ago. It belonged to a widow who only used it about one week out of the year. She died, and her family didn’t want it, so I volunteered to buy it. Sometimes I let people stay here who are a little down on their luck, and sometimes I rent it out. Depends on what’s needed at the time.” He walks inside and flips on the light switch. “This one needs some paint and some updating, but you could make it yours.”
I look around. It’s laid out just like Abigail’s grandmother’s place. I see it has two bedrooms and a single bathroom, just like hers. The second bedroom isn’t much bigger than a closet, but Mitchell would probably love it. There’s a bunk bed in the room, and I can already imagine him snuggling into the upper bunk as soon as he’s old enough.
“How much?” I ask.
He props himself in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, his shoulder against the doorjamb. “I had planned to offer it as part of your employment package.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want your charity, Mr. Jacobson.”
“If you knew me at all, you’d know I never give charity. I just give chances.” He holds out the key. I stare at it. “Here’s your chance, son,” he says. “Take it.”
So I reach out and wrap my hand around that little brass-colored key.
And I swallow past that lump that’s back in my throat so I can say, “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I scrub my hand down my face, a little frustrated by how much he’s made me feel tonight, how he’s made things so clear and yet so muddled all at the same time.
“Think about what I said, okay?” he says quietly. “About forgiveness.”
I nod. “I will.”
He’d said I need to forgive myself. I’m just not sure if I’m ready to do that yet. I’m closer now than I have been in a really long time, though. I feel more peaceful after this talk with Mr. Jacobson than I have since I got out of prison. He’s helped me to see things much more clearly.
One thing that I know is true is that while I may not feel worthy of my son, my son is worthy of having a father. And that just happens to be me.
26
Abigail
“You’re out of bed,” Ethan says as soon as he walks into my cabin. He didn’t even knock, which surprises me, but it doesn’t bother me. He walks over and feels my forehead with the back of his hand. “Your fever is down.”
I nod. “I took my meds all by myself.”
He looks down at his watch. “What time?”
I give him a weak smile. “The time I was supposed to take them.”
“Did somebody cut them up for you?” He drops a bag from the tackle shop onto the kitchen counter.
