Chapter Sixty-Six

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

There's one other trip I need to make today. I stacked the two visits on purpose. They're the yin and yang of my life right now, like the counterbalancing symbols in the mediator's office.

Seeing the Barclays brought me hope.

Seeing Charles makes my insides feel pinched.

The bright afternoon sun has slid away, dissolving into pink and violet clouds on the horizon by the time I stand at his door. He lives here alone; I know that now. He told me his wife is moving in with her sister. Their marriage has been over for decades. They're finally formalizing it.

During my divorce, Charles was the one who held me up. He called every few days and took me to dinner on Sunday nights. He was a counselor, father, and best friend.

He buoyed me through the years in so many other ways. I've been remembering more of the moments I considered gifts from a guardian angel, which I guess, in a way, they were. The helpful, age-appropriate books on grieving and resilience that found their way into my hands throughout my childhood and teenage years. The twenty-dollar bills I came across—four separate times—while walking home from elementary school. The pretty little apartment with the unbelievably low rent that became available near Charles's office a few weeks after I started working for him.

All of this was by Charles's invisible design.

He opens the door, wearing a button-down cardigan and tan slacks, his silver hair combed and his face freshly shaven.

"Stella."

That's all he says, just my name, but he infuses it with hope and sorrow, too.

He has laid everything out in his living room: the tray of olives and nuts and cheeses on a platter, the matching iced teas. The glasses are close together on the coffee table, just as they were on the night he shared a drink with my mother before she overdosed.

"How are you?" he asks, taking his usual chair.

"It's been quite a month," I reply as I sit on the couch facing him.

It was Detective Garcia who told me everything, after I came to the precinct to answer a few lingering questions on the Barclay case. She laid out the information quickly and clearly, like a surgeon making a precise and vital cut; then she walked me to my Jeep and waited until she was certain I was able to safely drive myself home.

It's why I haven't seen Charles recently: I needed time to get myself in the right headspace.

"And Rose is doing well?" he asks.

"She likes her new school and her teacher. It's a small Montessori. They have a gerbil and a betta fish in the classroom, which makes her happy."

"That's wonderful. And she's talking normally?"

"Normally for her—which means she speaks with the vocabulary and poise of an adult."

Charles takes a sip of his iced tea, but I don't carry the conversation.

He clears his throat and sets down his glass. "Stella, when we last talked… there was more I wanted to say."

I feel like I'm strapped into a roller coaster soaring up to a distant, dizzying peak. It's too late now; I can't stop the gears from grinding into motion.

Whatever happens next could forever change our relationship. I see it in the halting cadence of Charles's words, and the pallor of his face.

He clasps his hands together, like he's praying. Maybe he is, because he's silent for a long moment. Then he just says it.

"I wasn't assigned randomly to be your mother's lawyer. I took the case because I knew her before she ever got arrested."

The same rush of light-headedness I experienced when Detective Garcia first told me this information hits me again, but it's not as intense. I'm thankful she prepared me.

I swallow hard and force myself to keep looking into Charles's eyes.

He reaches a trembling hand toward me across the table, then withdraws it.

It's hard to breathe. I hope he makes the next cut fast, even though speed won't make it hurt any less.

"I was there the night your father died, too."

I drop my face into my hands and let my tears fall. It's hard to know how to feel; I wasn't sure if Charles would be honest with me. I didn't know how we'd go forward if he wasn't.

And I'm not sure how we go forward now, either.

All along, I thought the biggest unopened question in my life was what happened to my mother.

But the real secret was what happened to my father.

There was a deer in the road on the night my father died; that part of the story my mother told me was true. But there was also another car involved, driven by Charles.

I didn't know that critical piece of the story until Detective Garcia told me she'd been digging through old information to help me learn more about my mother and noticed Charles's name on the police report of my father's death. She reminded me that I'd given Charles as a reference when I first called her about the Barclay case. His name had jumped out at her when she read the file on my mother—it was her pencil that drew a light line beneath it. And when she saw he was present at my father's accident, she immediately reached for the phone and called me.

I've reconstructed what happened from the old reports she let me read: It was dark out that night. The road held a sharp turn. My father was in a rush to get home from work. Charles was, too. Their cars headed into the turn from opposite directions, each very close to the middle yellow dividing line. They nearly collided, and my father overcorrected and almost lost control of his Chevy. He might have made it, but a dozen yards ahead of him, a deer was taking a tentative step into his lane. My dad jerked the wheel to avoid it, still wrestling for control of his old Chevy. He slammed into a tree and died instantly.

Two other drivers who witnessed the crash debated whether either—or both—cars were speeding, and whether either vehicle crossed the center line just before the drivers nearly collided.

I read the witness statements; no clear answers emerged. But one thing stood out: Charles had alcohol in his system. He was under the legal limit, but just barely.

In the end, no charges were filed. No one was found at fault.

A thousand elements played a part in the death of my father: the sharply curved road with its blind spots, the moonless dark of night, the deer's halting step onto the asphalt road. And even before that, countless micro-decisions led to the fatal moment: The three scotches Charles had enjoyed with another attorney to celebrate the conclusion of a big case. Charles and my father leaving work and getting into their cars at the precise moment they each did. The red and green traffic lights they hit or sailed through. The weight of their feet against their respective gas pedals. Their collision course was set by all of these variables.

"After I saw your dad's car crash, I jumped out of my car and ran to help him. But he was already gone, Stella. I am so, so sorry."

We sit in silence together until I raise my face to him. I see tears running down his cheeks, too.

He looks so scared. I know he's terrified I'll walk out his door and never talk to him again. That he'll lose the only family he has left.

"Did my mother know all this?"

"Yes," he says instantly. "I reached out to her shortly after your father's accident. We met at a coffee shop, and I answered all her questions truthfully. I told her that your father died instantly, that he didn't suffer. I also asked her to call me if she ever needed anything. We became—well, not exactly friends—but we were bonded somehow. We kept in touch. That's how I became her lawyer."

I nod. It was my mother's decision to tell me my father swerved to avoid a deer—to truncate the story into something more manageable for my young mind. Or perhaps that's the conclusion she herself reached, that no one was responsible, that it was nothing more than a horrible accident. The kind that tears apart more lives than the one it first claimed.

"After the night your father died—well, things went a little off course for me. I did my job, but not much else. I'd come home and walk straight to the liquor cabinet and pour myself something. I'd fill my glass all night long, even though that was the very thing I couldn't stop thinking about: Maybe if I hadn't had that third strong scotch, I would've done something differently, and your father would still be alive."

Charles's breathing takes on a strained quality.

"After a while I started to dabble in other drugs. It was easy to get them—half my clients were dealing. I tried whatever I could: Valium, coke, speed, heroin. Thankfully OxyContin wasn't around then or I would've been on it. That one might have done me in. And then, after your mom died… I stopped cold turkey—everything but the drinking, and I scaled that way back. My family had given up on me. I didn't have much to live for, Stella. But I thought if I could just save you…"

A thousand elements played a part in my mother's death, too: her decision to tape a bag of heroin to the back of the toilet, the kiss from Charles, and the fact that I stayed obediently in the closet instead of opening the door like Rose did when I was in trouble. And even before that, there was the choice she made to walk into a certain corner deli at the exact same moment as my father, and to start talking to him as they waited for their sandwiches. My parents' collision course was set by as many variables as there are points of light in the sky.

"I knew you would learn the truth when you were ready, and I vowed to be honest with you when you came to me with questions. I know I don't have the right to ask for your forgiveness, Stella. I've deceived you for so long."

"You did," I tell him.

He hangs his head, pain sweeping over his features.

I quickly say, "No, that's not what I meant."

I wait until he looks back up at me. I want him to know this; it may be the second most important thing I'll ever tell him.

"You did save me."

I stand up and reach out my arms, and in an instant, he's there, hugging me tightly. This time, I'm the one whispering into his ear. And I tell him the first, most important thing. "I could never hate you. I love you too much for that."