don’t pay attention. I want to go east .”
“Because the schools are better?”
“That’s part of the reason.”
“Cole, what’s going on? You need to talk to me. Be honest.”
“I can’t,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”
“Whose fault is that?” I said.
“See—it’s always about fault and blame with you.”
He was right. But I didn’t understand his thought processes any better now than when he was fifteen or sixteen. Here’s something I learned long before my son was in diapers:
There is right and wrong. Always. I didn’t believe in black and white—extremes—but the truth was different. Something either happened or it didn’t. A conversation took place, certain things were said, or they weren’t.
In every argument, in every courtroom, and in every decision. Yes, there were always two sides to a story. And there were degrees of correctness. The challenge should be finding the right answer. Or the most correct. The most logical, or the better financial decision. But teens—and it seemed to me, Cole, still—landed on a square patch of ground and no matter what or who or how circumstances put them there, defended it to the death.
I, on the other hand, just wanted to know the facts. The truth. And the truth had long ago become vaporous between us when it mattered most. I told him the Golden Rule when he was younger. I said, “You can lie, and lie again, but the day you lose another person’s trust , it is over. Even if that person wants to believe you, they can’t. They’ll never know if the words coming out of your mouth are the real thing or another untruth, molded to your own designs. Once that happens, the choice is taken from the one who’s been lied to so much. They might even try, but it is then out of their control.”
It didn’t help that Cole was the best liar I’d ever known (and that was saying a truckload, me being a cop—all we did day in and out, it seemed, was deal with seasoned liars). Cole could look me in the eye, tell an elaborate story, and hook me like a big, fat trout skimming the surface of a placid lake, watching for bugs. I bit every time. For a while.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just want to know why the school you applied to is suddenly not right for you. I think it’s a fair question.”
Cole nodded. “It is a fair question. You’re right.”
Telling me what I wanted to hear. Like a fighter softening the other with body blows and hidden kidney shots.
“Talk to me, Cole. I swear, I’ll shut up and listen.”
“I want to go to Fordham. In New York.”
“Fordham Law?” I said, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Yes.”
“Pal, Fordham is top twenty or thirty in the country.”
“I know.”
“Colorado is ranked around fifty and they turned down your app. Your in state application.”
“I know .”
I stopped for a moment. I’d heard these short, non-informative answers before. There was most definitely something else happening; something was being withheld. Time to quit dancing.
“Fordham has a helluva Master’s program in Social Services, don’t they?” I said. I was a detective; did he really expect I would come into the conversation with no hole cards at all?
“I love her, dad. I really do. Like you and mom.”
“Her” was Brianne Finnegan. They’d been dating for three years; met at a class he took at the University of Denver, where Amber used to teach and where Brianne was finishing her undergrad degree in Social Science. Cole did look like I did when I first met Isabel.
Stunned, almost. Reverent. In love.
I remembered Isabel for the first time in a while— allowed myself the memories of my first honest love —and yes, the feelings I had for Isabel were far more than overwhelming. They were a living part of me. When she died it was as if they severed all my limbs.
“If you can get accepted,” I told Cole, taking a large bite of my hoagie, “we’ll figure out a way.”
Cole’s eyes
“Because the schools are better?”
“That’s part of the reason.”
“Cole, what’s going on? You need to talk to me. Be honest.”
“I can’t,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”
“Whose fault is that?” I said.
“See—it’s always about fault and blame with you.”
He was right. But I didn’t understand his thought processes any better now than when he was fifteen or sixteen. Here’s something I learned long before my son was in diapers:
There is right and wrong. Always. I didn’t believe in black and white—extremes—but the truth was different. Something either happened or it didn’t. A conversation took place, certain things were said, or they weren’t.
In every argument, in every courtroom, and in every decision. Yes, there were always two sides to a story. And there were degrees of correctness. The challenge should be finding the right answer. Or the most correct. The most logical, or the better financial decision. But teens—and it seemed to me, Cole, still—landed on a square patch of ground and no matter what or who or how circumstances put them there, defended it to the death.
I, on the other hand, just wanted to know the facts. The truth. And the truth had long ago become vaporous between us when it mattered most. I told him the Golden Rule when he was younger. I said, “You can lie, and lie again, but the day you lose another person’s trust , it is over. Even if that person wants to believe you, they can’t. They’ll never know if the words coming out of your mouth are the real thing or another untruth, molded to your own designs. Once that happens, the choice is taken from the one who’s been lied to so much. They might even try, but it is then out of their control.”
It didn’t help that Cole was the best liar I’d ever known (and that was saying a truckload, me being a cop—all we did day in and out, it seemed, was deal with seasoned liars). Cole could look me in the eye, tell an elaborate story, and hook me like a big, fat trout skimming the surface of a placid lake, watching for bugs. I bit every time. For a while.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just want to know why the school you applied to is suddenly not right for you. I think it’s a fair question.”
Cole nodded. “It is a fair question. You’re right.”
Telling me what I wanted to hear. Like a fighter softening the other with body blows and hidden kidney shots.
“Talk to me, Cole. I swear, I’ll shut up and listen.”
“I want to go to Fordham. In New York.”
“Fordham Law?” I said, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Yes.”
“Pal, Fordham is top twenty or thirty in the country.”
“I know.”
“Colorado is ranked around fifty and they turned down your app. Your in state application.”
“I know .”
I stopped for a moment. I’d heard these short, non-informative answers before. There was most definitely something else happening; something was being withheld. Time to quit dancing.
“Fordham has a helluva Master’s program in Social Services, don’t they?” I said. I was a detective; did he really expect I would come into the conversation with no hole cards at all?
“I love her, dad. I really do. Like you and mom.”
“Her” was Brianne Finnegan. They’d been dating for three years; met at a class he took at the University of Denver, where Amber used to teach and where Brianne was finishing her undergrad degree in Social Science. Cole did look like I did when I first met Isabel.
Stunned, almost. Reverent. In love.
I remembered Isabel for the first time in a while— allowed myself the memories of my first honest love —and yes, the feelings I had for Isabel were far more than overwhelming. They were a living part of me. When she died it was as if they severed all my limbs.
“If you can get accepted,” I told Cole, taking a large bite of my hoagie, “we’ll figure out a way.”
Cole’s eyes
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