I can't.
She asked me, and I can't.
Usually, no matter what, I always help her out, but this time I just can't.
You can call me a coward. You can even call me chicken. But this time, what she is asking of me is too great.
I stare into those cerulean eyes glistening from her story and I wonder just how many shades blue she carries. My own start to fill by knowing that I am letting her down but she doesn't understand how hard this truly is for me. By opening that closed part of my heart…no, I can't talk about it.
I never would have guessed how horrible her time in foster care was. But staring into those eyes is like reading a thousand and one words of how much pain she holds. It was always there. Beneath the surface, but always there. And I think that right now I am seeing more than anyone ever will.
I know what she wants. She is asking me with those eyes to reveal myself of my past, but I can't. By doing this, the only thing it would do is have everyone look at me differently. Past is past. I want to leave it that way. I am not a victim. I do not operate as one. I will not operate as one. And by facing that, all I become is the victim.
I refuse to let my father own my future. If he owns my past, he can't own my future. I want to leave a better legacy. I want to be the man he never was. But in truth, he is my father. He is a part of my DNA. Wouldn't that mean, that no matter what I do he will always be branded to me as if he is a tattoo that will never resolve? NO! He might have been the extra part that helped make me, but he will NEVER own me.
Her eyes begin to shift as if they are studying me.
She sees it.
I am an open book to her without even trying to be.
She sees my pain, she feels it too.
I know she is trying to tell me that it is okay. That she understands.
And perhaps, she does.
Perhaps she does understand the hurt I harbor by knowing my own flesh and blood couldn't love me enough to give up the alcohol and once, JUST ONCE, look at me and say, "Son, I am so proud of you." She probably does understand that when I look at my son, the first thing I do is remind myself I am better, stronger, and more of a man than he ever will be. That I won't turn out like him. But I don't think she understands the depth that this pain goes.
I do not mean to sound insensitive, but it was her foster parents that abused her. Not her own. They may have left her, but they didn't come into your room in the middle of the night yelling at you and slap you for no reason except that you forgot to take the garbage out, or when you are older forgot to get more beer and chips. Yeah, I had to steal beer from alcohol stores for my father. Her own father never said that they couldn't stand the sight of you. That you are lazy and selfish and if you really loved him you would become a barber and not join the stupid ass military.
Mine did.
Her eyes are really watering now.
I know I have to say something.
With every breath the tears come closer. Those tears I have bottlenecked for close to twenty years. All I really want is to fall into her arms and us to cry together over our shared woes and disappointments.
But I can't.
I just can't.
"If it wasn't for my grandfather, I probably would have killed myself as a kid." I say trying to hide the emotion threatening to choke me. "But that is all I will share on the subject matter!" I defiantly add.
She nods her head and softly gives me back my handkerchief in my jacket, letting her hand rest in that place close to my heart as if to say "I am here Booth. I see you. I will listen, when you are ready." And maybe someday I will be. Maybe someday I will let the floodgates open once and for all and offer her my whole heart.
But as of today, right now, in this very instant…
I can't.
I just can't.
And I am really beginning to believe, that by saying I can't; I mean, I won't.