Chapter 111

Tears for sad consequences
Tears for mistakes

Robin stared at the kitchen door for several minutes, waiting and wishing for Patrick to walk back through. As five minutes gave way to ten and ten gave way to 20, she realized he wasn't going to come back until he had calmed down. Given the depth of his anger she was at a loss to even guess at how long that would be.

Her instinct was to go after to him; to wrap her arms around him and hold him so close that he would have no option but to be still and breathe. But he wasn't looking for comfort right now and she feared it would only make the situation worse. Not to mention there was a part of her wondering if he had been looking for a reason to explode, if he had been holding on to all his anger and frustration and at the first possible opportunity, chose to let it all out.

As she moved about the kitchen picking up the shards of glass and the papers scattered all over the floor, she heaved a heavy sigh. Any idea she had about sharing the news of her rising viral load with Patrick was now on indefinite hold. She was less worried about any anger he would have towards her and more worried about what the stress of that knowledge would do to his recovery.

Her curiosity got the better of her and she glanced at the papers in her hand. She immediately recognized the stilted scrawl of Noah's handwriting – it was yet another trait he and his son shared. Other papers showed a flowing loopy handwriting and there was little doubt in her mind that it was Mattie's. Reading the first page that was opened to her, she swallowed thickly. They were love letters. It was little wonder why he had sat staring at the bottle of bourbon. The heart can't forget even if the mind does and all those remembrances of a past golden age would shake anyone to their core.

Having carefully folded the letters, she picked up the box and gently placed the precious papers inside. There would be a time, she was sure, when Patrick would treasure those mementos and she wanted to ensure they were still around when he was ready for them. She pushed the box to the far end of the table and headed upstairs.

Standing outside the bedroom, she rapped lightly on the doorframe and gave Noah a sympathetic smile as he looked up.

"Your packing?" she asked him in surprise as he folded his shirts and placed them neatly inside his suitcase.

"I'm…I'm doing more harm than good. Patrick's recovery is paramount" He continued to move quickly between his closet and the bed where his bag laid open.

Robin stepped tentatively inside the room. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the corner of an inflatable mattress poking out from the other side of the bed. In an instant she grasped just how difficult this return had been for him.

"Is that where you sleep?" She jerked her head in the direction of the mattress.

Noah followed her gaze and looking back at her gave a small shrug. "Yes."

"Why?"

Sighing, he ran a hand over his face and prayed for grace he did not feel. "Because it's too hard to lie in the bed I used to share with my wife. Because if I slept in the bed I would reach for her and I have enough reminders that she's gone, I don't need more."

Robin grimaced. "Does Patrick know?"

He shook his head. "No. And I don't think there's any value in him knowing. Did he go back to bed?" Noah busied himself carefully making perfect corners with his sweater.

"He left" she replied simply.

Noah jerked his head up and looked at her in shock. "Left? Left where?"

"I don't know" she said quietly. "He stormed out of the kitchen and told me he was going out. I assume he's gone for a walk."

Sinking on to the bed Noah let out a long breath. "He's probably gone to the studio. His two favourite places here are the beach and the studio."

Crossing the floor, Robin sat down beside him. "I didn't realize he was still so angry towards you."

Noah scoffed lightly. "Let's not pretend it came out of nowhere. He found me sitting with a bottle in front of me. He has a right to that anger – he's earned that anger."

Robin's tongue darted from her mouth, swiping at her lips. "You said the bottle wasn't open."

"It wasn't."

"Were you….were you going to open it?"

Turning to look at her, he shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know" he admitted honestly. "In that minute no, I wasn't going to but who's to say what I would have done five minutes later or ten."

"I really don't think you should leave" she told him. "You and Patrick have to stop looking for the nearest exit when things get tough" Her tone was kind but firm. "You two need to work it out."

"Robin, this isn't about me not loaning him the car when he was 16. This is about me disappearing from his life when he needed me most. And it's worth pointing out that I wasn't off saving the world – I was being selfish."

"Realizing your parents are human is a difficult concept to grasp" she offered. "And it means that once and for all your childhood is really over."

"There are things that cannot be forgiven" he answered softly. "No matter how much both parties want to."

Robin was silent for a moment as she considered her own experiences. Both of her parents had been believed dead for a number of years and she had run the gamut of emotions when they reappeared in her life. But at the core of all of it she wanted them in her life. Being loved by her parents, however imperfect and problematic it could be at times was far better than not having them around.

"Not that you've asked me but if it were me, I wouldn't leave" she told him when she finally spoke. "Unless being here is harder for you than you are willing to admit. You had a moment of weakness Noah, we all do – some of us several times a day. Patrick can only punish you for as long as you punish yourself. Maybe it's time you both stop."

He smiled wryly as he thought back to the letter his son had written to him prior to his surgery. His words of forgiveness had been a balm on his wounds and had allowed him to face everything that followed with a certain strength. When Robin had been struggling with Patrick's memory loss he had reassured her that it didn't matter if Patrick remembered what he had written in his letter to him; it didn't make it any less true. He was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion that he might be wrong.

"I don't want to make things worse for him" he said quietly, staring down at his shoes.

"I know. You're a good father Noah and whether Patrick knows it or not, he is lucky to have you. But if you leave I think you're doing exactly what he expects you to do. If you stay, you'll show him that you mean what you say about being here for him."

Glancing up at her, he shook his head in amazement. "You're pretty smart you know."

"I do" she replied with a grin as she rose to her feet. "Besides, I'm just repaying the favour you did for me in the hospital. You've been a rock for him since you found out about his diagnosis. It's been a difficult and trying time and as a very wise friend said to me a while ago 'it's pace not a race and we have a long road ahead of us'."

xxxxx
Stumbling through the door of the studio, Patrick fumbled against the wall looking for the light switch. Finally feeling it against his fingers, he flipped it on and gasped for breath as the small studio was illuminated. He had sprinted the entire distance from the house to the small cottage, lurching and slipping along the snowy path. He would have run further if he could have but he was exhausted by the time the building had come into sight.

He flopped into the rocking chair and stared out at the moonlight skipping across the water. Taking one deep breath after another he tried to steady his hammering heart. The irony in all of this was that he had never been a strong communicator before Robin; he had never been one to talk about his feelings much. The only place he had ever really expressed himself had been at Al-Anon and even then it took him more than six months of meetings before he finally spoke up. Now, his head was a jumble of emotions and he needed to talk about it but he couldn't.

As his anger dissipated and he started to rock in the chair, comforted by the creak of the old floorboards underneath, he could finally hear some of things his father had said. The bottle had been unopened, he hadn't had a drink, he had found the bottle, not bought it.

If he hadn't heard those excuses and any variation on them multiple times he would have been more inclined to believe him. But the fact remained he and his father had had arguments like that one over and over again through the years. This wasn't something new for him and the idea of reliving it at all nearly turned his stomach.

Shoving his hands in the jacket pocket to warm them up, he scrunched up his face as his left hand encountered an envelope. Withdrawing the envelope from the pocket, he was surprised to see his handwriting on it and it addressed to his father. Looking at the sleeve of the coat, he realized in his haste to get out of the house he had grabbed his father's jacket.

He looked curiously at the white envelope with its frayed corners and reaching inside, pulled out folded paper. His mouth dropped open as he read.

Dear Dad -

If you're reading this then it means that I'm in surgery.

I have had a lot of time to reflect on my life in the last few weeks and as I've become progressively weaker I've been thinking a lot about Mom and you. Mom must have been very scared towards the end because I know I am. I would give almost anything to never have experienced this. As bad as the pain has been, it's the possibility of dying before I'm ready that really hurts. Though it probably sounds weird there is a small part of me that is grateful for this because it's allowed me to finally get some perspective on my life.

I love the pictures you brought - we really had some good times as a family, didn't we? I look at those pictures and I remember how happy we were. I was definitely a spoiled kid whose parents were indulgent and loving. And I understand now how devastating Mom's illness must have been on you. For so many years I've only been able to think about the impact of her illness and death on me. I was quite belligerent with you about your selfishness and your inability to see anyone else's pain, how little did I realize that I was doing the same thing. My grief was all consuming and I didn't think it was possible that anyone could feel as empty and sad as I did. You must have, especially towards the end when she was so sick, felt very alone. I was a self-centered teenager who couldn't see beyond himself and for that I am truly sorry. I wish I had been a better son to you then.

I've also done a lot of thinking about forgiveness and what it means and whether it makes a difference. For a long time I've withheld my forgiveness from you because I was trying to punish you. I wanted you to feel as badly as I did - what I didn't realize was that the pain you were in far exceeded anything I could inflict on you. The thing I've discovered is that by doing that I've only made the weight I'm carrying heavier and the person truly being punished here is me. So I've decided to put the weight down - I'm not going to carry it any longer.

I forgive you.

During the last couple of times you visited, you made a point of telling me how much I'm like Mom - how similar our personalities are and I can see that. But I'd like to think that I'm also a little like you because Dad, you are a good guy. A lot of who I am as a man is based on growing up with you and given that it has led me to Robin, I'm grateful.

I want to thank you for so many things - playing catch in the backyard, Saturdays at the racetrack, movie days, teaching me how to shoot the perfect wrist shot. But mostly I want to thank for not giving up on me even when I begged and yelled at you to do so. You'll never know how much your visits, your reassurances and the reminders that you love me, meant.

I'm not sure what's waiting for me on the other side of surgery and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little afraid. But I want you to know that I love you and I am glad that you are my Dad. No kid could have asked for better.

Love,

Patrick.

He swallowed down the acrid lump that had formed in his throat and blinked away the tears that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. His hands trembled as he held the letter and sucking in a breath he stared back out the window at the beach. A series of images flashed before him: him crumpled on the floor of a bathroom in a suit with his father cradling his head in his lap, a Christmas party and his father embracing him warmly, a collage of photos and his fist landing blow after blow on Noah's face.

He started to pant breathlessly as the moments started to pile one on top of the other and though he didn't understand their context, he was suddenly aware that things had been very complicated prior to his surgery. Robin's words about 'doing this again' seemed to make more sense than they had when she said them.

His hands frantically dove back into the jacket pockets rooting around for any other clues of the last six months that might be hiding in there. Disappointed that there were none, he picked up the letter again and read it for a second time. Tears trickled over his cheeks as he did so. His last thoughts of his father before surgery had been of love and forgiveness Had he meant it or was it the romantic last gasp of a dying man? What were his last thoughts of Robin? What else had happened?

His heart continued to pound inside his chest and he suddenly felt like he was drowning. He had never been more unsure of himself in his whole life than he was right now.