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“Did you… do something?” She asks when I’ve been silent too long.
“No, sorry. I just... this is one thing I did not do, for a change.”
“If you didn’t do it, then I can’t be mad.”
I hope she remembers those words in the future.
“There’s no good way to say this. You know how my mom always said she hated me and resented me, didn’t want me?”
“Yes, and it’s her loss that she walked out of your life,” Emily tries to console me and look in my eyes, but I’m fixated on a bluebird on the wallpaper because staring at that ugly fucking thing is still better than what I might see if I look in Em’s eyes when I tell her this.
“It’s because Stan raped her. I’m the byproduct. That’s why she hates me, could never look at me. That’s why she left. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with it, Em, but the shame… I was afraid people could look at me and see the evil embedded in my genes, they could tell I was broken and came from violence. I was afraid if I ever had a son, he’d be a rapist, too. Just, so much fucking shame. It consumed me.”
On the plane, I had imagined I would feel the weight lifted off my shoulders when I finally released the words, but it’s the opposite. Because that’s just more silly shit that you hear about in movies.
Instead, I feel like the words are crushing down on me like a million pounds of shame trying to smash me through the earth’s crust. I’m not an idiot, I know I didn’t do the crime, and technically I shouldn’t feel ashamed.
But shame is not reasonable, logical, or kind. It is nagging and relentless, and it destroys you from the inside out. It is ever-present. It makes you listen to it, it makes you believe.
I need her to know I didn’t leave her because I wanted to. It sure as hell wasn’t anything she did. It was because I was filled with shame, and I allowed that to be exploited. It was my mistake and one I’ll live with forever, but never let happen again.
The room is so silent I can hear one of the dozen gilded antique clocks ticking as its pendulum swings.
“I’m not going to tell you I’m sorry, because I’m not sorry you’re here or that you exist, and you’re not looking for pity,” she says softly, her thumb rubbing small circles over my palm.
I dare a glance at her out of the corner of my eye, and she’s not crying or running away screaming.
“I wish you would have told me, of course,” she continues, “but only so I could have told you sooner that it would never change how I feel about you. This doesn’t define you, Cole.”
“I mean, it pretty much does, though. It’s the foundation of my very existence.”
“That’s just not true. Stan is a god-awful piece of shit, and I would never minimize your feelings, but I also won’t sit here and let you believe this somehow makes you defective or damaged.”
“I tried to get Kristy to press charges, looked up the statute of limitations. I offered to pay for an attorney or go with her to the police. She just laughed at me.”
Emily moves off the bed and kneels before me, making me look at her. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes, see what I see.”
“I could say the same, gorgeous girl.”
She curves her lips up and nods, “You’re right. I’ll do a better job of believing you if you’ll try to believe me. Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”
“I don’t know, do I?” I grin at her, try to lighten the mood a little because I’ve had years to process this. I've had years of mental coaching, and years to make peace with the facts, as much possible. My only remaining fear was that Emily would look at me differently.
But she isn’t looking at me differently, because that’s the kind of girl Emily is. She’ll criticize and beat the hell out of herself, but never anyone else.
“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You have no idea the resiliency and strength you have inside. You’re kind and generous, you’re funny and sweet. I know that you’d protect me with your life. You’re the first person I’d pick in any emergency situation, take with on a deserted island. You love unconditionally. You’ve worked your ass off to get to where you are.”
“You’re getting carried away,” I haul her up off the ancient rug—god only knows what its seen in its time—and she straddles my lap.
“I know the bad stuff is easier to believe, but you are a good man, Cole.”
God, when she looks me in the eyes like this, she makes me want to believe it. She makes me want to be that.
“You know, when we were teenagers, I used to feel guilty.” Her hands run through my hair. I can’t fathom what she ever had to feel guilty about.
“I would whine and complain about my parents, my problems, and all the while I knew you were dealing with bigger issues, real problems.”
“Your problems were just as real.”
