barely ever spoken about Kerris at all, much less let on how completely his best friend’s wife owned him. How had Trisha known?
He flopped down on the leather couch, one of the few pieces of furniture already in the room, and leaned back, feeling the flight and the sleepless night catching up to his body. Sleep wasn’t even a possibility, but at least he could close his eyes and rest. Only there was no rest. He had never felt so unsettled. Paradoxically, he felt compelled to move at the same time he longed for an anchor to hold him still and secure. He stood to his feet and headed toward the chapel. It was worth a try.
He sank into the front pew in the empty chapel and shook his head, silently deriding himself. Who was he fooling? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church. He did believe in God, but that was about it. He didn’t know that it would do him any good right now. He struggled to recall a prayer, a catechism, a hymn—any tradition that was supposed to make him feel a connection of some kind.
He had nothing.
His mind, his heart, his soul, his spirit were all consumed with fear and a wretched helplessness he couldn’t stand. This wasn’t something he could conquer or subdue or manipulate or charm. Kerris’s life was out of his hands, hanging in the balance, and there was nothing he could do about it. He leaned forward, turning his head so his temple rested against the pew.
It was too much.
He drew several shallow breaths, rehearsing all the hurts he’d endured, situations that had been out of his control and had all ended tragically, leaving him stumbling and grappling. His parents’ divorce. Iyani’s lost battle. His mother’s death, which had left him empty of everything that had held him together.
And Kerris. Losing her hadn’t been a physical death, but it was a gradual, ongoing demise of hope. Hope that someone would see him and know him—dark and light, good and bad, and still love him deeply. Nothing would ever convince him that Kerris was not that one. He’d held the cards in his hand and had misplayed them.
All these hurts had been like small tears, tiny rips in the fabric of his soul that had stretched into a gaping hole. Left unattended and unrepaired, they now threatened to swallow him entirely. If Kerris died, he couldn’t help but think it would leave him slashed open, permanently, irreparably torn. Like his father when his mother died. Assured and confident and certain on the outside, but beneath—adrift, lost, his certainty the hardened crust around a center turned to mush from irretrievable loss.
And then the words Walsh had heard his father say over and over at his mother’s deathbed rested on his lips. Silent at first and then approaching a whisper and then swelling to a moan that filled the cavernous chapel, the syllables melting from the heat of his pain until only he recognized the words. Aloud, it was the incoherent lament he’d heard from his father.
Lost, so lost. Please don’t go.
And then he was begging, begging a God he barely knew.
Don’t take her. Please, spare her.
It was not a song or a prayer or a tradition, but his original, personal pain that left him, even sitting erect, prostrate. Desperate.
He stood, mopping his wet cheeks without self-consciousness. He turned to leave, startled to see a dark-skinned woman leaning against the wall by the chapel entrance, her arms laid neatly behind her, hands pressed to the wall. He recognized her immediately from Cam’s Facebook pictures and posts. It had been Kerris’s birthday, and her happy face had been pressed against this woman’s. This was Mama Jess, the foster mother Kerris had told him so much about. Irrationally, Walsh wanted to hurl himself at her, throw his arms around her neck, and weep; he wanted to ask her to make it better. He cleared his throat, burning and raw from his sobs.
“Hi. Um…sorry about that.”
She didn’t respond, only continued watching, her eyes
He flopped down on the leather couch, one of the few pieces of furniture already in the room, and leaned back, feeling the flight and the sleepless night catching up to his body. Sleep wasn’t even a possibility, but at least he could close his eyes and rest. Only there was no rest. He had never felt so unsettled. Paradoxically, he felt compelled to move at the same time he longed for an anchor to hold him still and secure. He stood to his feet and headed toward the chapel. It was worth a try.
He sank into the front pew in the empty chapel and shook his head, silently deriding himself. Who was he fooling? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church. He did believe in God, but that was about it. He didn’t know that it would do him any good right now. He struggled to recall a prayer, a catechism, a hymn—any tradition that was supposed to make him feel a connection of some kind.
He had nothing.
His mind, his heart, his soul, his spirit were all consumed with fear and a wretched helplessness he couldn’t stand. This wasn’t something he could conquer or subdue or manipulate or charm. Kerris’s life was out of his hands, hanging in the balance, and there was nothing he could do about it. He leaned forward, turning his head so his temple rested against the pew.
It was too much.
He drew several shallow breaths, rehearsing all the hurts he’d endured, situations that had been out of his control and had all ended tragically, leaving him stumbling and grappling. His parents’ divorce. Iyani’s lost battle. His mother’s death, which had left him empty of everything that had held him together.
And Kerris. Losing her hadn’t been a physical death, but it was a gradual, ongoing demise of hope. Hope that someone would see him and know him—dark and light, good and bad, and still love him deeply. Nothing would ever convince him that Kerris was not that one. He’d held the cards in his hand and had misplayed them.
All these hurts had been like small tears, tiny rips in the fabric of his soul that had stretched into a gaping hole. Left unattended and unrepaired, they now threatened to swallow him entirely. If Kerris died, he couldn’t help but think it would leave him slashed open, permanently, irreparably torn. Like his father when his mother died. Assured and confident and certain on the outside, but beneath—adrift, lost, his certainty the hardened crust around a center turned to mush from irretrievable loss.
And then the words Walsh had heard his father say over and over at his mother’s deathbed rested on his lips. Silent at first and then approaching a whisper and then swelling to a moan that filled the cavernous chapel, the syllables melting from the heat of his pain until only he recognized the words. Aloud, it was the incoherent lament he’d heard from his father.
Lost, so lost. Please don’t go.
And then he was begging, begging a God he barely knew.
Don’t take her. Please, spare her.
It was not a song or a prayer or a tradition, but his original, personal pain that left him, even sitting erect, prostrate. Desperate.
He stood, mopping his wet cheeks without self-consciousness. He turned to leave, startled to see a dark-skinned woman leaning against the wall by the chapel entrance, her arms laid neatly behind her, hands pressed to the wall. He recognized her immediately from Cam’s Facebook pictures and posts. It had been Kerris’s birthday, and her happy face had been pressed against this woman’s. This was Mama Jess, the foster mother Kerris had told him so much about. Irrationally, Walsh wanted to hurl himself at her, throw his arms around her neck, and weep; he wanted to ask her to make it better. He cleared his throat, burning and raw from his sobs.
“Hi. Um…sorry about that.”
She didn’t respond, only continued watching, her eyes
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