Chapter Thirty-Four

Finn

Now

The house stood exactly as he remembered it, quietly facing the ocean, the sun reflected in the white-framed windows. The gray-washed shingles seemed to have gotten a new coat of paint recently, and the boards on the sun deck facing west looked like they’d been replaced, too. His mom’s favorite weather-beaten rattan wicker chair stood exactly where it always did—in a corner against the glass sliding doors where she could catch the last evening sun without catching a chill, too, while reading her latest romance novel. A Christmas holly wreath adorned the white-painted front door, the sun-bleached Pride flag with the frayed edges still hanging next to the small brass plate with their family name. Kennedy.

However, one thing was different, and he’d noticed it as soon as he’d turned from Pelican Drive into his parents’ driveway. Cutting through the pebbled drive was a path made from smooth, grayish-white limestone that hadn’t been there before. And next to the stairs leading to the front door was a ramp for a wheelchair. All this time the awareness that Cara was paralyzed, that the rest of her life was going to be spent in a wheelchair, had lingered in the back of his mind. But it was something else actually seeing it with your own two eyes. To be confronted with the consequences of that one night, of that one second, when he’d looked away. It was like being punched in the stomach and spit in the face simultaneously, and the self-loathing returned with a vengeance. If it weren’t for the deep longing inside his chest that seemed to overpower everything else, he would’ve turned on his heel and gotten the hell out of there. Away from the evidence of that one night. Away from his father’s voice. ‘ Every time I look at him… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive…’ Nausea built, his father’s words still so clear in his mind, going on repeat, until they drowned in something else.

Soft music spilled from the slightly ajar kitchen window, the pale lavender curtains blowing in the breeze from the ocean. It wasn’t too cold today. Nothing like Nebraska, anyhow. Nebraska. Don’t go there, Finn. That’s what he’d continued to remind himself as the small FIAT 500 had courageously taken on the winter roads of first Nebraska, then later Wyoming and Idaho. Don’t go there, Finn. Just don’t. And yet, his mind had continued to go rogue on him, the same questions going on repeat in his head while Cuban rap music blasted from the car stereo and Lulu painted his toenails in the back, singing along with his teasing papis, chulos, and titis.

What was Hank doing right now? Was he in the shop making a mess of the shelves— his shelves—again putting things in the wrong places? Or was he in the kitchen, looking out over the pine trees while the coffee brewed, and Rod sang about the coldest winter in almost fourteen years ? And the letters. Had Hank read the letters? Just one or both?

Don’t fucking go there, Finn , he kept reminding himself as they drove through Wyoming. And yet, his traitorous mind kept circling around that one question that he knew would haunt him further into Idaho and linger around in Oregon for the longest time. Was Hank hurting, too? Did he, too, feel like a limb had been cut off or that a vital organ had been removed? Was Hank hurting just as badly as he was, the severed connection feeling like he was bleeding out slowly?

For the most part, Finn hoped he wasn’t, but in an occasional selfish moment when he would lose himself in the landscape they were passing, a small part of him had found comfort in the thought that Hank might be hurting too. Or if not exactly hurting, then missing Finn. Missing him as much as he missed Hank. Because he did miss him terribly. His body ached, every cell calling out for Hank’s touch. While the FIAT ate away at the long stretches of road, his mind had tried to replicate Hank’s deep voice when he’d spoken that pet name with so much fondness. Kid. Or when he, in the throes of passion, his climax closing in, had gritted that good boy against Finn’s neck. Or just that inconspicuous little now that would sneak its way into almost every sentence Hank had spoken.

A loud clang sounded from inside the house, tearing through his thoughts, then followed by his mom yelling— no screaming —his father’s name. “Ellis!” His father’s name washed over him as he took a deep breath and walked the few steps across the white pebbles in front of the house. His hands fisted the straps of his backpack as if he were a skydiver clinging on to that life-saving parachute before he leaped into the unknown.

“Ellis! Ellis!” his mom screamed again just before the front door blew open, and she stood there, frozen in the doorway, much smaller than he recalled her ever being.

With blue eyes blown wide, a mix of disbelief and relief painted across her familiar face, she stood there, only a few feet between them, her bottom lip quivering. Her dark hair was gathered in a low ponytail, the wild bangs held back by a blue scarf. She’d paired her usual mom jeans with a new homemade sweater, alternating stripes of greens and blues.

“Finnie?” she whispered, holding out her right hand cautiously toward him, a kitchen towel still clutched in the left. “Finn, is that you?” she asked, her voice trembling, her eyes blinking repeatedly as if she’d imagined this moment so many times over the years and was not sure if her mind was once again playing cruel tricks on her.

“Hi Mom,” he murmured, his eyes stinging, mouth impossibly dry. Then his dad appeared at his mother’s side, a wild expression in his eyes, his hair a lot grayer than Finn recalled but why was he surprised at that when he only just last week had discovered the first silver strands in between his own blond locks? It had been eight years, after all. Eight years.

“Finn?” his father’s familiar voice swept towards him, fat tears trailing down his bearded cheeks, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swept a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, son, it really is you!” Then his mom elicited something sounding like a sob and a cry, and everything happened in a blur from then on. The rapid crunch, crunch, crunch of his parents’ hurried steps across the pebbled drive. Their solid arms squeezing him impossibly tight at the same time as if they were afraid he would disappear again. His mom whispering, “You’re here,” and “My Finn,” and “Thank you, God,” over and over again against his neck, teary kisses pressed against his cheeks, chin, wherever she could reach. His father crying, too, howling actually, into Finn’s hair, just repeating those two syllables again and again. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Finn was crying, too, but not just tears of relief and joy. No, some of those tears he had to contribute to bitterness. A feeling that grew steadily inside with each muttered thank you from his father and each teary kiss from his mother. Eight years. For eight years he’d assumed—no, convinced himself—that they hated him. That they blamed him. That they would never be able to forgive him. But these weren’t the gestures or words of someone who blamed you or hated you. His mother’s teary smiles didn’t scream unforgiven , nor did his father’s humble thank yous carry an edge of resentment. His heart sank the moment he realized that his mind had betrayed him. All this time, his mind had led him to believe he was unwanted and that they hated him.

“Finn.” His mother eventually released herself from him, her eyes blinking away the tears. “Finn.” His name on her lips was like the sweetest music, and suddenly he was thrown back to that day in the social worker’s office when his mom had kneeled in front of him, her kind blue eyes taking in his face. At the age of three, it had been the first time that he’d seen unfiltered joy on the face of an adult. No trace of annoyance in her eyes or twist of anger around her mouth.

‘Hi there, sweetheart,’ she’d spoken softly, her right hand reaching for him tentatively. God knows what his parents had been told about where—or what —he came from, but she moved so cautiously that the three-year-old Finn had almost felt sorry for this nice lady in the pretty purple dress. ‘My name is Anna,’ she’d smiled, then nodding at the man squatting next to her, ‘and this is Ellis.’ Anna and Ellis. Their names had gone on repeat in his head. Anna and Ellis. Those were kind names. Safe names. Anna was the name of someone who baked apple pies and put a band-aid on your knee when you fell off your bike. Ellis was someone who would teach you to throw a ball and read you pirate stories at night. Good people.

‘We’ve been waiting for you for so long, Finn,’ his mom had sniffled, and his father had chastised her fondly, ‘Anna, darling, please. Don’t scare the boy.’ But he had fooled no one, not even a three-year-old, because his voice, too, had harbored a world of longing in it that matched his mother’s entirely.

‘You have?’ he’d asked, a frail feeling growing inside his chest that he’d almost thought he’d lost. Hope. And now that feeling was back.

“Ellis, go call Cara,” his mom spoke, her eyes not leaving Finn’s.

“Yes, of course!” his dad replied, turning on his heel and jogging back to the house. Reaching the door, he threw a glance over his shoulder, shaking himself as if he still couldn’t quite believe that Finn truly was back. That he really had come back home.

“Cara’s here?” he mumbled. Strange how he’d always imagined that she would be somewhere else, which was ridiculous really, since she couldn’t go to New York. Because of him. But he’d always just assumed that she’d moved away, left, just like he had.

“Yes.” His mother nodded, tears hanging from her dark lashes. “She’s down at the dance school. Teaches most afternoons.”

“She teaches?” he blurted. But how , he wanted to add. How could Cara teach when she couldn’t dance?

“She took over Madam Durand’s school two years ago.” His mother tilted her head, taking him in, a curious frown between her dark brows.

“She did?” he whispered. Funny how his life as he knew it had seemed to end that night in the car, Cara screaming for him, unable to reach her. And all this time, life had moved on, while he’d tried so damn hard to run away from it. Or at least run away from the version of Cara’s life that he’d concocted in his mind. A cripple. Futureless. Bitter. When, in fact, he was the one who’d been crippled that day, emotionally at least.

“Sweetheart,” his mother whispered, her eyes glistening a watery blue. “Where…? How…?” She licked her lips, tilting her head. “It doesn’t matter. Not right now. You’re home.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Finnie, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.” The unspoken now lingered between them, and he nodded. It felt like everything was okay now. Like a weight had been lifted. He knew they needed to talk, but he no longer dreaded the conversation because the odds had changed dramatically. Where he’d thought that he would be begging for forgiveness, he now saw only gratitude and relief in his mother’s eyes. And love. Endless amounts of love dwelling in pools of blue.

“They’ll be right over!” His dad reappeared at the front door. “She’s closing for the day. They’ll pick up Fenn on the way.” Turning around, he yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll put some coffee on.” Then he was gone again, his mother’s hands landing on his cheeks, cradling his face. Fenn? Fenn? He’d heard right, hadn’t he? His mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, was it? His mother’s thumbs swept across his scruff.

“You look so handsome, Finnie,” she laughed. “So… grown-up,” she added wistfully. “Eight years.” Her voice broke as she started crying in earnest, and Finn only just managed to catch her under her elbows as her legs gave way beneath her. “I thought…” she sobbed against his chest as he held her up. “I thought…”

“It’s okay, Mom,” he spoke against her hair. “It’s okay now.” She nodded frantically against his neck.

“It is, isn’t it?” she asked, her fists tugging at his parka. “Everything’s okay now.”