Contents (85)
- Contents
- Part I
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Part II
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Part III
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- One
- Two
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
“No, thank you. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
She swishes out of the room, and I run my hand through Max’s hair. “What just happened was awful,” I say. “For both of us. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Now he speaks. “I’ve been through worse.”
That one hurts.
“I know you have.”
Then he turns to me, and there’s a bit of fresh life in his face. His eyes glisten enough to show me some emotion, which is a relief.
“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just us now. We can be whatever we want. But I don’t like how we are.”
“Me neither,” I say. “We just have to keep on being there for each other. Working with each other, not against.” I give him another squeeze, let go, then stand.
“I just want us to be okay,” Max says, his voice squeaking. He shouldn’t have to say such a thing, and it guts me that he does. I reply with a mantra I’ve used before during meditation, one that calms me, assures me, instills me with a confidence that doesn’t usually last long but comforts me in the moment. When I say this mantra to my son, I change it from the singular to plural, making it encompass us as a family.
“Our lives belong to us.”
He swallows, looks at me, so desperately wanting to believe those five words. Then he nods. “Okay.”
“If you want,” I say, “you can postpone your math homework. You still have to do those five problems, but not until tomorrow, okay?”
Max stands and walks over to the table where his homework binder rests closed. “I’ll do them now.” He then causally opens the binder, picks up his pencil, and starts doing exactly that.
This produces a mixture of emotions. Pride that we got through this horrible moment and he’s taking responsibility. Anger that we had to go through all that just for five stupid math problems. For the millionth time, I project my son into the future and wonder how he’ll cope as an adult with real responsibility and real problems.
I push the conflict away. He’s working through the present the best he can. The future can wait.
I leave the room and head into the kitchen, nerves still raw. I pour a glass of Chianti and do the one thing I’ve been needing to do all afternoon.
I text Cora.
We need to talk, I write.
Seconds later, a ding.
About what?
You know, I reply.
It takes a few minutes, long enough that I think she’s not going to respond at all. Then she does, encapsulating everything she needs to convey in a single word.
Woof.
Forty-Two
It’s just after 8:00 p.m. and I’m sitting in my car, ignition running, the only vehicle in the parking lot of the Chester Woodall trailhead. Oh, right, I think. Chester Woodall, that’s his last name. The guy Bury was originally named for. They took away the town name and gave him a hiking trail.