Page 73 of Then There Was You
A tsk snips at her tongue, and she feigns offense. “That’s quite the barrage of unsubstantiated accusations. And it’s alarming you feel this way.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be mean, but I am a Stansbury after all, and sometimes I take after my father. So you can act like this is news to you, but you know how he treated me, took away things I loved, and manipulated me into conceding to hisdemands. I was a good girl, but you both made me hate myself, and for what? Access to more wealth. You don’t even care about the Lafoons, just as I don’t love Gregory. So why would you force my hand in marriage to that man?”
She tries to lift her gobsmacked mouth off the floor and anchor it back in place. But her lips are still parted as if the shock hasn’t retreated yet.
The truth should come quickly, so her lack of response is an answer in and of itself. Whether I like it or not, I need to accept that. It was pointless to think I’d get actual answers anyway.
Just as I angle away from her, she says, “I never hated you. I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” An apology is the last thing I expected. An argument, a tit for tat, even a threat, but not an apology. I watch as she shifts in the chair as if this is a new situation for her. With me it is. There’s no stiff upper lip or taking it on the chin. She looks me straight in the eyes with sincerity encircling the pupil, and adds, “I hope one day you can forgive me, but I also hope that you’ll understand the circumstances I was under as well.”
I don’t owe her anything anymore, much less understanding, but she’s been honest with me and sounds genuine. Instead of holding on to the pain, I release it and give her the grace I think we both need. “I hope so as well.”
“Mrs. Stansbury?” A nurse approaches in lavender scrubs with an e-pad in her hand and wearing a smile that I take as a good sign. I have such a tangled mess of conflicted feelings regarding my father that I don’t know how to individually compartmentalize them. It’s not worth sorting through the past anymore for answers I’ll probably never get when I have a present that matters more to me and a future to look forward to now.
My mom stands, looking at me. “I’ll make sure you can see him as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.”
“And Sosie.” She waits for my eyes to meet hers to say, “I like your hair. It always looked so cute short.”
I automatically touch the back where I know it’s uneven, which I thought she’d hate. “Then why were you always making me grow it out?” Although I asked, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m past caring what they think of me. I’ll enjoy the highlights, like the story she shared, without needing anything from them. Because all I could want or need is waiting for me back at his apartment.
“I’ve made mistakes.” The nurse pulls her gaze when she calls her name again, and then she follows her away from me. Just when we were getting somewhere, but an inkling of hope remains that maybe we’re not so far gone that we can’t find our way to neutral ground one day.
With too much time on my hands, I open the suitcase, thinking I’ll be entertained by what Keats thought I would need for one night at the hospital. It’s an interesting assortment of items, but the collated book tucked inside one of my shirts is what I reach for next.
“Across the Bridgeby Keats Matthews.” The heaviness of my heart doesn’t sink but floats into my throat, where it’s determined to stay lodged. The corners of the printed cardstock cover are bent, and chaotic creases run vertically from repeated use. It’s thick and looks like it was printed at a printing center. How am I holding the original manuscript? Why would he give me something that means so much to him?
I glance up to make sure my mom or a nurse aren’t coming to retrieve me before opening the well-worn bound pages and start reading.
To the muse that danced in the snow at Greene and Grant, who inspired me to write this book.
A tear falls on the bottom of the page. I’m quick to wipe it, but not quick enough before it crinkles and leaves a wet spot. It landed beside what looks like a Cheetos dust fingerprint, so I don’t think Keats will be mad. But I retrieve a tissue from the nurses’ station before I continue reading, just in case it happens again.
I find myself entranced by his prose. Hearing Keats’s voice so vividly as the narrating main character has me turning the page for more. We never fully meet him from the outside although the other characters are so richly described that it’s like I can see them before me.
Scarlet still exists. She just doesn’t exist in my world anymore.
My breath ceases, and my heart aches. I’ve never been able to describe the pain of losing him after that night, but he did so eloquently.
I’m only halfway when I read lines that I want to read again. Tapping my nail under the words, I whisper, “I was captivated by her beauty erupting all at once. It wasn’t one thing in particular that drew me to her, but all of them that added up.”
When tears spill down my waterline, I tilt my head back and dab with a tissue. I close the book, needing time to process the complicated relationships of family, friends, and loss, and the love and heartache he’s written into every page. I don’t know if I feel broken or healed. Maybe both.
I smile because this book is incredible either way and has me seeing Keats in a whole new light. He’s not just talent.He’s had his own demons to fight. But he’s strong and steady, always supporting me the best he can be. I don’t blame him for getting upset earlier. I understand his fear of losing us. But I’m never going to let that happen. I’ve never felt so loved and so connected to another person. Hugging his book to my chest, I’ll always protect us.
“Ms. Stansbury?”
I look up to see the nurse in lavender coming to collect me. I quickly tuck the book back into the suitcase, making sure to wrap my shirt around it again to also protect this treasure he’s shared with me. When I stand, I take a breath and exhale, needing all the strength Keats gives to carry in with me to see my father.
Carefully touching my arm with her other hand on the knob, she whispers, “He isn’t awake, but your mother thought you should be in there.”
“Thank you.” I park my suitcase just inside the door of the darkened room. My eyes land on my father before I see my mother sitting at the far side of the room. “Hi,” I say as if I’m disturbing her peace in the corner.
“He’s going to be okay.”
I’m not sure whether she’s received official news or is manifesting good health, but it reminds me of Keats’s earlier promise. “I’m glad.” It’s weird to have emotions roll in with the tide when tragedy strikes. But then roll back out when I remember all the heartache that could have been avoided if he’d let me love who I chose instead of trying to make the decision for me.
Standing bedside, I don’t see my father. I see a man who wanted to control me. Does this man know how to love, or is that lack reserved for me alone? Maybe this was more of a business relationship, and I was just slow to realize it. Everything with him was transactional. I got a prize when I achieved his goalsand was punished when I failed. So looking at him now, it’s difficult to know what to feel. But I have a new perspective.
