Baring My Soul - 1. Chapter 1

Jan 4

I’ve got a secret.

I realize now that those four words whispered so long ago started my downfall.

My therapist, Simon, suggested I start a journal. To bare my soul, as he succinctly put it. He seemed surprised when I said I had no idea what I would write. You see, I’m an author by trade. I make my living weaving words into stories that somehow turn into bestsellers. I feel like a fraud.

I started writing to escape into worlds I could control. Later, it helped me deal with the fallout of those four words spoken to me by someone I once loved unconditionally. Someone who shredded me so severely my mind splintered. I have no one to blame but myself, which seems fitting. Everyone else blamed me, too.

I constantly battle the incessant thoughts which bombard me with what-ifs and if-onlys. Simon tells me only time will quell the guilt I hold onto. I’m not so sure. Memories replay over and over, each a reminder of my role in the chaotic collapse of my family.

I don’t know if I can piece myself together. Most days, I’m not sure if I want to try. Today is a baby step toward figuring it out. I’ll try this journal thing and see what happens. That’s it for now. The med nurse will be making rounds, doling out pills and shots. My cocktail of ketamine and Zoloft awaits, maybe a little Ativan or Haldol if I’m lucky.

Tomorrow brings another string of therapy sessions, one with Simon, then a group thing in the afternoon. I used to enjoy sharing my life with others. Now, not so much.

***

(Twenty-one years earlier)

The phone rang.

Sloan’s eyes darted to me, and he stood. We’d been on edge for several days, anticipating the call. I swiped it off the coffee table, and my heart raced when I saw the caller ID. Immediately, I slid my finger across the screen and hit the speaker.

“It’s time.”

Those two words spurred us into action. An hour later, we were at the hospital. It would be another six hours before our lives were set on an irrevocable path.

My insides twisted as Shawna squeezed my hand so hard I thought the bones would break. I didn’t say a word. I held her leg back while Sloan mirrored my position on her other side. Neither of us dared to look at what was happening between her legs.

Her breathing was ragged. Groans translated the pain tearing through her body as it expelled another human being.

“You’re doing great, Shawna,” Dr. Goh praised. “A few more good pushes should do it.”

“You fucking said that a million times already!” Shawn gritted her teeth as she bore down with another contraction.

I dared to peek, then wished I hadn’t. Female anatomy never interested me, but to see it stretched out, slimy and bloody, and looking like an alien was trying to break through was terrifying. I was no expert, but it looked like a gooey cantaloupe covered in wet, dark hair was attempting to bust out of there.

I saw Sloan looking too. The color had departed his usually tanned skin, and he seemed on the verge of passing out. I caught his eye and silently willed, don’t you dare! His Adam’s apple bobbed several times, and I heard him take deep breaths.

“I think he’s right this time,” I said, riveted by seeing our child entering the world.

No sooner were the words out of my mouth that Shawna wailed as her entire body tensed, heaving with one final exertion. A wrinkled, wet, bloodied blob slipped out of her into the steady waiting hands of Dr. Goh.

“It’s a boy!” he announced.

A microsecond of disappointment flashed through me, instantly replaced by the elation that we had another son. Avery Edward Morris.

Dr. Goh placed Avery on Shawna’s chest, instructing her to rub his back while he clamped the cord. Once done, he handed me a pair of surgical scissors. Umbilical cords are tough. It’s not like cutting through paper or cloth. It felt like trying to saw through a rubber hose. The medical-grade instrument got the job done, and Avery was on his own, no longer dependent on someone else for life support.

Little Avery made a wet gurgling sound, which jump-started the staff into action. A nurse gently scooped him up and whisked him to a table on the other side of the room. Sloan shot me a worried look.

Dr. Goh looked up from between Shawna’s legs. “It sounds like the little guy took in some amniotic fluid. The pediatrician will suction it out. Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.”

“Go,” Shawna instructed. “The good part’s over. We nearly lost Sloan when he saw Avery slide out. I can only imagine what’ll happen if he sees the placenta shoot out of me.’

There were a few muted snorts from the staff. Smiling, I reached over and took my partner’s hand, leading him to the other side of the room where they were working on Avery, sucking gunk out with a rubber bulb thing. I didn’t know I was holding my breath until it departed my lungs in a whoosh at the sound of a hearty baby’s cry. Then, and only then, did I allow the tears to burst over the top of the dam.

Sloan held me as we watched the team do their tests. Avery was protesting as loud as his little lungs would allow. It turned out he was damn loud. I didn’t remember Sammy delivering the same volume four years ago when he entered the world.

Soon, Avery was cleaned up, then wrapped tightly in the ubiquitous white hospital baby blanket with blue and pink stripes. Baby burrito. Let’s hope they left out the beans.

The nurse brought him over to Shawna, but she shook her head. “He’s theirs.”

Smiling, Rita, as her name tag read, came over and asked, “Who wants this little cutie?”

Sloan nodded at me. Biologically, I was Avery’s father. Sammy’s too. When we first looked into surrogacy, we had undergone genetic testing to rule out potential issues. Sloan’s family tree revealed a few conditions that swayed our decision to use my sperm. It was why I took Sloan’s last name so we could share it with our children and not have to use a hyphenated form.

I tilted my head toward my partner, my heart doing a funny pitter-patter as Sloan cradled the tiny bundle in his big hands. I melted as he cooed sweet nothings to our son. My legs were shaky, so I settled into the glider rocker next to the window and listened as the man I loved promised the baby that he would always be there for him.

Sloan paced the room while Dr. Goh finished taking care of Shawna, and the rest of the team cleaned up the mess and departed one by one until it was just the four of us. I stood and went to the woman who selflessly offered her body as a human oven, baking our little hot-cross bun for nine months.

I kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

She gave me a tired smile. “Anything for you two. I love you guys.”

We met Shawna in college during our freshman year when we were assigned to the same dorm. Her room was directly below ours, one-floor door. It was when Sloan and I first met, too. We hit it off immediately, and we’ve been together ever since.

The three of us became a tight-knit unit. Shawna listened to us bitch about each other whenever we argued, never taking sides, always letting us work things out. We were her sounding board and shoulders to cry on when her infrequent relationships crashed and burned.

After graduation, I followed Sloan to northern California, where he was offered a paid internship at a Napa Valley winery. He knew nothing about wine but had a solid track record in marketing. My partner was intelligent and quickly learned the basics of grape growing, harvesting, and wine-making. Business increased by forty percent after he implemented a new marketing strategy, taking advantage of the up-and-coming opportunities across the world wide web. He convinced the owners that computer-based marketing would be worth the investment. They agreed and hired him full-time.

I found a job at a local bookstore, eventually becoming a manager before making a nerve-wracking leap from hobby writer to full-time author. The gamble paid off when a mid-sized publishing house picked up my first novel. It allowed us to finally stop dreaming about having kids and do something about it.

Shawna volunteered the moment we broached the subject. She was a physical therapist at the Shriner’s Children’s Hospital in Sacramento. However, she lived in the suburbs to the west and was less than an hour’s drive. It made navigating the complexities of surrogacy appointments easier.

Sloan’s brother Jim and his family lived north of Oakland, the only family we had in the area. Sammy loved his older cousins Jackie and Allen. We got together once a month or so. It was comforting having relatives close by.

“We love you too. You’ve come through for us again,” I told Shawna.

“Just don’t expect a dozen from me.” She laughed.

“Nah, I think we’re done.”

“What? You don’t want to try for a girl?”

Shawna knew my desire for a little girl. I was an only child, but growing up, the girls in my neighborhood outnumbered the boys by at least four to one. I was more comfortable around them, especially after discovering I was gay. The boys shunned me when they found out, not wanting to ‘catch’ it.

“I’d love to, but Sloan and I decided two would be enough. Kids aren’t cheap, especially when we can’t just pop a bun in the oven the old-fashioned way.”

Sloan walked over, giving us a half-hearted stink eye at the sound of our laughter. Avery squawked, but then settled. I held out my arms, ready for my turn.

Taking the bundle, I saw two big blue eyes blinking at me. I lowered my head and inhaled the soft baby scent. If I had ovaries, they’d be swooning. I hummed while I swayed him gently, breaking out into a silly little song my grandfather sang to me when I was young:

Avery is a friend of mine

I will love him all the time

For a nickel or a dime

Twenty cents for overtime

I heard Shawna sigh. I looked over to see her watching us with love and longing.

“Oh, Alfredo. You’re too good at this.”

I shook my head at the old nickname I’d never get rid of.

“You’d be good at this too, you know,” Sloan told her as he sat on the edge of the bed and kissed the top of her head. “You can’t let me and Alfredo have all the fun.”

I glared, but it held no heat. I earned the nickname at the end of our senior year. Until then, I’d painstakingly guarded my middle name like it was the secret recipe for Coke. My efforts unraveled when we planned a three-week celebratory trip to Europe before starting our new jobs. The jig was up when we filled out our passport applications. Even though I tried shielding the truth, Shawna spied the full moniker my parents bestowed on me at birth.

Maverick Alfred Salitta

She and Sloan pounced on the opportunity, dropped like manna from heaven. Alfred became Alfredo, spoken randomly, always accompanied by laughter.

“Fuck off,” I whispered, noticing that Avery had fallen asleep.

“Now, now, Alfredo, watch your language. We can’t have you corrupting our little angel,” Sloan teased.

Shawna yawned. I glanced at the wall clock, shocked to see it was three o’clock in the morning. Our little bundle of joy had arrived just before midnight after a planned induction resulting from concern he was getting too big. Gestational diabetes plagued Shawna starting in her fifth month. Dr. Goh had been concerned that Avery would be over nine pounds, increasing the chances of a C-section for our petite surrogate.

Rita, the nurse from earlier, stepped in to check on Avery and Shawna. Satisfied everything was under control, she left a couple of blankets for Sloan and me. There was a fold-out chair that converted to an uncomfortable single bed. We thanked her, then quietly got ourselves settled.

Sleep came in short doses. One of us handed Avery to Shawna when he woke up howling to be fed. Like with Sammy, she offered to breastfeed for the first few weeks until her supply was fully established enough to start pumping so Sloan and I could take over feedings.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing. Three days after bringing Avery home, to the delight of his big brother, the little guy turned Simpson-yellow with jaundice. Back at the hospital, Sloan and I took turns staying with him and Shawna as he soaked up the light therapy, bundled in a special bag that reminded me of a Glo-worm doll.

Sammy had been an easy baby. Avery, not so much. After a rough start with breastfeeding, we switched him to bottle feedings, supplemented with formula, when Shawna had difficulty producing the amount of milk he needed. After that, he grew like a weed.

Raising kids isn’t easy. Ask any parent. Sloan and I managed pretty well, or so I thought. I worked from home and could do most of the day-to-day tasks and chauffeuring. We employed a nanny part-time, enabling me to sequester myself in the study so I could write.

Sammy and Avery were happy kids. Sammy was smart, sweet, and shy. Avery was a little mischief maker, the type of toddler who would look you in the eye before whipping off his diaper and streaking through a house full of company, shrieking with laughter.

Somewhere between the ages of four and five, Avery became a little rebellious hellion. Temper tantrums erupted out of the blue. We took him to our pediatrician to rule out anything physical, then chalked it up to his starting preschool four half-days a week.

As he got a little older, it got better, reinforcing the belief that separation anxiety had led to his change in behavior. By the time he started kindergarten, he was back to being the sassy little boy we loved.

Extracurricular activities monopolized evenings and weekends during the boys’ elementary and middle school years. Homework, plays, band concerts, sports, Boy Scouts, and a myriad of fundraisers and volunteer hours marked the passage of time.

Our two boys couldn’t have been more different. Sammy was tall and thin. He was ahead of the curve for every milestone. Avery was a mini-linebacker with solid bulk and some extra junk in the trunk. He was on the back end of the curve, still considered normal, but he took longer to reach the same maturity as his peers. His social awkwardness didn’t win him many friends either. Because of his size, people thought he was older than he looked and weren’t as forgiving when his behavior didn’t reflect that. It didn’t matter that this was a boy who still sucked his thumb when he thought no one was looking.

By the time Avery reached middle school, he had become the target of bullies. We tried everything we could think of to address the issue; meetings with school officials, offering the opportunity to take martial arts lessons or anything else he was interested in. He was evaluated for ADHD and placed on an Individual Education Plan, IEP for short, to allow him more time for assignments and tests. After several attempts, we found an adolescent therapist he liked.

“Maybe we should look into changing schools,” I suggested as Sloan and I lay in bed, exhausted after another verbal sparring match with Avery. His behavior issues were taking their toll on our relationship.

“Do you really think it will help?” Sloan’s voice dripped with sarcasm. I held my tongue, not wanting to get entangled in another argument.

“At this point, how much worse can it be?” I didn’t realize then how much I would come to regret those words.

We decided to leave the choice to Avery. He immediately insisted on disenrolling from his private school and enrolling in the local public one. Peace lasted three months.

“It’s his own fault,” I lamented. “He’s loud and obnoxious, makes inappropriate comments, and has worse social skills than a toddler with a runny nose.”

I was at my wit's end after a call from the school requiring me to abandon my writing and pick up Avery after he kept disrupting his class with rude noises. He would serve out the rest of the week in in-school suspension.

Sloan sighed. “God, you sound like you don’t love our son.”

I growled with frustration. “I love our son. I just don’t like the things he does. He knows better. We know damn well that he can behave. How many times have other parents told us what a well-behaved boy we’ve raised? Why the fuck does he have to be this way?”

“He’s just a kid who doesn’t know how to handle his emotions,” Sloan reminded me. “We need to be patient.”

“You say that now, but what about when you’re the bad guy, and I’m the one he turns to? It’s a vicious cycle with him.”

I wasn’t off-base. For the past few years, Avery alternated between Sloan and me. He would favor one of us and shun the other. Whichever one of us was on the receiving end of his wrath got it in full force. He pitted us against each other, flip-flopping on a whim. It was annoying and frustrating.

Even Sammy wasn’t immune from Avery’s burst of rage. Most of the time, they got along okay. They argued like normal siblings, but when Avery got a bug up his ass, no one was safe. So far, it hadn’t escalated to physical violence or damage to anything, but the shouting was epic.

“I think it’s time for intervention,” Sloan said. “Would you be willing to go to family therapy?”

I nodded. Avery had stopped seeing his therapist, insisting we couldn’t force him to talk to her. “Yeah. I just hope he’ll participate.”

Sloan grasped my hand. The physical contact soothed me. There hadn’t been enough of it lately. “Even if he doesn’t, I think it will benefit us and Sammy.”

My heart swelled. “You’re right. How’d you get so smart?” I leaned over to kiss him, letting my lips linger longer than they had in months.

“Smart enough to entice you into bed?”

“Depends on what you plan on doing once we’re there.”

Sloan stood and pulled me up. The kids were at his brother’s for the weekend, giving us a much-needed break.

“Come with me and find out.”

An hour later, my orgasm slammed into me like a ten-car pile-up, leaving me just as wrecked. Sloan collapsed over me, breathing raggedly. The connection that had gotten battered and frayed was restored.

“I love you.”

Tracing his thumb along my bottom lip, Sloan whispered, “I love you, too.”

“Promise me we won’t let Avery drive a wedge between us.”

“I promise if you do.”

I nodded in agreement.

Too bad promises could be broken.

***

Jan 13

Turning points.

Today in the group therapy session, another inmate patient posed a question to everyone. He asked if anyone could pinpoint the exact turning point when their life went to shit. Instead of having us answer right away, Simon suggested we think about it and then jot it down in our journals. He tabled the discussion until tomorrow’s meeting.

Now that I’ve had a few hours to think, I can look back more objectively and see the moment the ball got put into motion. I need to write it all down before they come by with this evening’s medicinal cocktail, and I can’t think straight anymore. Whatever they give me for insomnia knocks me on my ass for the night. Here goes.

***

It’s funny how phones have become such an integral part of our lives. By the time our turning point arrived, the infernal gadgets were our primary source of communication. Most often, texting was the preferred method of delivery. Good or bad, we relied on the devices for relaying news. Actual phone calls usually meant either the car company was trying to reach you about your extended warranty or awful news.

My phone rang late one morning on a warm September day. It was Avery’s senior year of high school. Sammy was away at college, living life as only a college kid could. When I glanced at the caller ID, it surprised me to see Avery’s school.

“Hello?” I answered, not knowing what to expect.

“Hello, Mr. Morris. This is Mrs. Johnson, the school nurse. I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s been an incident with Avery, and I believe he needs to be evaluated at a psychiatric facility.”

“Huh? What happened?” I scrambled to shove my feet into a pair of sneakers while searching for my keys and wallet. Absently, I scooped them off the table where I’d left them.

“I’m not sure what triggered Avery, but he had a breakdown in class and threatened to harm himself.”

“Oh, shit. I’m on my way.” I ended the call and immediately tried Sloan’s number. After several rings, it went to voicemail. I tried the main number for the winery. When no one answered, and the call went to the general voice mailbox, I growled with frustration.

As soon as I got on the road, I kept calling, alternating between Sloan’s number and the main line, until finally, Lisa, one of the owners, answered.

“Lisa,” I said, cutting off her standard greeting. “I need Sloan. It’s an emergency.”

“Oh, Maverick. Okay, hang on a minute. He’s in a meeting with George and Nathan. I’ll have him call you right back.”

Thanking her, I hung up and concentrated on driving while waiting for him to call. After what seemed like an hour, but couldn’t have been more than three minutes, my phone rang, and I stabbed at the call answer button on the dash, grateful for the Bluetooth connection.

“Mav? What’s wrong? Lisa said there’s an emergency.” Sloan’s voice was tight with concern.

“I’m on my way to the school. Avery had some kind of mental breakdown and threatened to hurt himself. They want us to take him for a psych eval.”

“Oh fuck. I’m on my way.”

“Sloan, wait. Let me get to the school and find out where they recommend we take him. There’s no sense in you driving there when it’ll probably save you time to meet us at the hospital or wherever.”

Sloan’s work was at least forty-five minutes from Avery’s school. I didn’t think he should drive more than necessary when he was upset, and if he felt anything like I did at the moment, he would need to pay attention to the road.

“Okay. Call me as soon as you know. I’ll start heading into town. Tourist traffic has been bad this week.”

“I promise.”

I reached Avery’s school in less than ten minutes, parked in the closest visitor spot to the main entrance, and waited to be buzzed in. The secretary was expecting me and escorted me to the nurse’s office, where Avery was lying down with his eyes closed. He opened them when he heard me come in, and they were red and puffy.

“Hey baby,” I said, going over and wrapping my arms around him. Even though he was four or five inches taller and close to a hundred pounds heavier than me, I still needed to assure him I was there for him.

Fresh tears ran down his face, and he sobbed into my chest as I held him. My eyes sought out the nurse, and she silently nodded at the box of tissues on the table next to the infirmary bed.

When Avery calmed down, I handed him a few, and he blew his nose loudly.

“Daddy, I’m so scared.”

Those words broke my heart. “It’s going to be okay, Muffin. We’ll get you some help for whatever you’re trying to deal with. Me and Poppa will take care of you, okay?” I whispered words of reassurance to him before handing him a few more tissues and stepping out to speak to the nurse.

“Mr. Morris, Avery should have an immediate evaluation. I don’t think this can wait.” She handed me a piece of paper with a short list of facilities that handled adolescents. “Wellstone Center is closest. If you’d like, I can call them and let them know to expect you.”

I nodded, looking at the address and seeing that even though it was the nearest facility, it would still be at least an hour’s drive with traffic. On the plus side, it wouldn’t take Sloan long to get there. He would be able to start the process while waiting for us.

“Thank you. I’d appreciate it. I need to call my husband and tell him where to meet us.”

The nurse stepped back inside the clinic to check on Avery and give me some privacy. Sloan assured me he would take care of as much as he could as soon as he arrived. Our son was a shell of himself as he buckled into the passenger seat and stared out the window for the entirety of the drive.

The next several hours were the most excruciating ones I had experienced up to that point. Avery was taken away for an evaluation. Sloan and I met with a counselor who explained the process and gave us an idea of what we might be up against depending on the doctor’s recommendation.

It was early evening before we saw Avery again. He looked a little better, even offering us a small smile. The counselor sat us down in an open waiting area that was deserted at this hour. Much to our relief, the doctor didn’t think Avery needed in-house treatment, but he needed more in-depth counseling than he’d had in the past.

The reason shook us to our core and was the turning point where our lives started to fall apart.

Dr. Madison was in her mid-forties, close to my and Sloan’s age. She spoke directly to Avery, giving him a choice to tell us what happened or to allow her to deliver the news. To his credit, Avery spoke up for himself.

“I’ve got a secret.”

Yes, those were the words that turned our world upside-down.

Sloan and I looked at each other, then back at Avery, who was averting his gaze.

“Uncle Jim molested me when I was little.”

Just like that, time stood still. There was no taking back the words. No undoing what had been done. It was our undisputable turning point. Dr. Madison gauged our reactions. Shock was written all over Sloan’s face, draining it of color. Then it flushed beet red as anger took over.

“I’m going to fucking kill him!” Sloan stood, his hands clenched into fists by his side. I was paralyzed, a cold numbness creeping up from my toes, taking over every cell of my body.

“Poppa!” Avery pleaded with his eyes, not to make things worse. Sloan’s fists relaxed as he pulled it together for the sake of our son.

“W-what– I don’t understand. When did this happen?” I stammered.

“Mr. Morris,” Dr. Madison said, “Avery has had a tough day. I don’t think it’s in his best interest to discuss anything at the moment. Legally, I’m obligated to report this. There will be an investigation, and you should be aware that Child Protective Services will be contacting you and someone from the Department of Family Services as well.”

“They’re not going to take Avery away, are they?” I asked, my heart racing in a panic. No one was taking our son from us.

“No. I don’t believe they have any reason to, and I will include that in my report,” she assured us. “However, you need to be aware that you will be interviewed as part of the investigation. It’s standard procedure in cases involving child abuse, no matter the nature.”

Abuse. That one word hit me like a ton of bricks. Our son was abused.

The next several weeks were a whirlwind of appointments. We learned a whole new vocabulary, which included a bunch of acronyms and legal terms. Avery was matched with a therapist he liked. Maliyah saw him three times a week for an hour each time. After each session, he would retreat to his room, effectively shutting Sloan and me out.

Several interviews with us were conducted, and we had a few unannounced home inspections. Overall, it felt invasive and like we were the ones who had done something wrong. Sloan and I wracked our brains, searching for any memory that might have alerted us to what his brother did all those years ago. We second-guessed every decision we made then and now. We fought about the most inconsequential things, like how to face the coffee pot handle.

During a follow-up meeting with Maliyah, she suggested we attend a support group for parents of abused children. We figured, why not? It couldn’t hurt. It was an eye-opener, to say the least. Other parents and guardians had stories that were much worse than Avery’s. Some of the children had suffered unimaginable abuse at the hands of another parent or caregiver. I couldn’t understand how it could happen. Weren’t parents supposed to safeguard and nurture their children?

After one particularly grueling meeting, Sloan broke down in the car. “I don’t know if I can do this, Mav,” he whispered. “I couldn’t protect him from my fucking brother. My own fucking brother!” Sloan shook in the passenger seat as we sat in the darkened parking lot, now devoid of others.

I still had difficulty dealing with the revelation that someone we trusted with our kids had blindsided us with betrayal. Jim was the golden child of Sloan’s family. There was nearly a fifteen-year age gap between the two boys. Sloan’s two sisters were in the middle. Because of how spread out they were, only the girls were close.

Jim had moved out to go away for college when Sloan was four. Most of Sloan’s memories of his brother were from Christmases and other short visits. Jim met his wife in his junior year of undergrad. Alana was a freshman, and they’d met at a frat party. She’d been part of Sloan’s life for almost as long as he could remember.

For nearly forty years, Jim and Alana’s life together seemed like the perfect marriage. Until it wasn’t. Almost four years ago, after Allen graduated from college and their nest was truly empty, she left Jim. The divorce was messy and still hadn’t been finalized. I knew the ongoing investigation would affect her, and she needed to be told.

It was a phone call I dreaded making. Sloan felt too much guilt, even though none of this was his fault. Needless to say, it didn’t go very well. Alana was overwhelmed, and the horrified anguish in her cry when I told her Jim abused Avery when he was four, ripped another hole in my damaged heart.

What she revealed to me next damn near rocked me off my tenuous mental foundation.

“Oh. My. God. He is such a bastard! A manipulative, scheming, no-good bastard. I didn’t think I could hate him any more than I do now, but I do. He is the biggest liar who ever lived.”

“Why? What has he lied about?” I almost wished I hadn’t asked.

Alana and I were on the phone for over two hours. During that time, I found out Jim was leading a double life and had been for a long time. Five years ago, Alana accidentally discovered gay porn on his computer. She dug deeper and uncovered an alias he used to hook up with men. She admitted that she had suspected for a long time that he was gay. Thirty years ago, she had planned on leaving him when he suddenly decided to go to therapy with her as she’d requested.

She told me they had a non-existent sex life, and not for lack of trying on her part. He rebuffed her every attempt. During therapy, he seemed to make an effort. It turned out to be a manipulative ploy. He deliberately sabotaged her birth control, monitored her cycles, and only fucked her when he calculated she was fertile, resulting in her becoming pregnant with their daughter, effectively trapping her in a loveless marriage.

Alana regretted staying but felt she had no choice. It turns out Jim was verbally and emotionally abusive to her. It didn’t extend to physical abuse, but a few instances stood out in her memory. He once pulled a chair out from under her as she sat down, laughing as she hit the tile floor hard, insisting it was a joke. We never knew, and Alana vowed she had deliberately kept it a secret. She knew how high his esteem was with his peers, and especially with their family.

“Christ, he’s fucking sick,” I said, shaking my head at the image of my sweet sister-in-law landing on the floor. “Why the fuck wouldn’t he admit he was gay? Why put you through such torture?’

Alana sighed. “He’s narcissistic and had an image to uphold. Having a trophy wife is a pre-requisite for an up-and-coming attorney if they want to move up in the ranks. The kids were the icing on the cake. I think, though, that our father-in-law was the biggest reason. He was a mean, homophobic asshole, and I’m sure Jim was afraid of being disowned and losing his free ride to law school. Back then, the oldest kids in large families got all sorts of tuition breaks, especially if they were a legacy student.”

“I guess I should be happy I never knew the man. I remember Sloan telling me he didn’t come out until after his dad passed away. Now I know why,” I said. Sloan’s father died right after he graduated from high school. He had been a physician who did okay with a modest family practice after a rocky start early in his career. A fallout with a partner left him holding the bag on a large mortgage for an office building, which he defaulted on, causing him to declare bankruptcy. They had to sell their dream house and move to a more affordable one with a garage that he converted into a home office. Sloan’s mom ran the business side of things, and they managed to rebuild. His dad remained bitter about it for the rest of his life.

“You’re lucky. I can’t believe our mother-in-law put up with his bullshit,” said Alana.

“I guess back then, she felt the same way you did. She had kids to consider, and he provided a decent income and stability.”

“I get that. But I should have known better. I’m well-educated, for chrissake! I worked for the state’s attorney general and was building a stable career until he knocked me up and convinced me to stay home ‘just while the kids are young!’

While I could only try to put myself in Alana’s shoes to understand, I harbored a boatload of my own anger and resentment toward Sloan’s brother. Fuckface is how we started to refer to him. The sound of his name provoked nausea.

Alana thanked me for calling, assuring me this was all on Fuckface. She laughed dryly when I pointed out she now had more ammunition in the divorce battle. She told me she was sorry we had to deal with the fallout from the shit hitting the fan. I told her we’d be okay. I don’t think she believed me.

The next couple of months were hard. Sammy didn’t take the news well. His uncle had been an important part of his childhood. He’d learned to swim in their pool, and countless hours had been spent exploring the woods with his cousins. Cookouts and nights spent chasing fireflies and stargazing were burned into his memory, and nearly every holiday had been spent together. All those memories were now tainted, a permanent stain no amount of mind bleach could eradicate.

Sloan and I went through our days on autopilot, trying to hold it together for Avery’s sake. Out of the blue, anger would wash over me, often triggered by something random. The sight of any black BMW 7-series would cause me to shake uncontrollably. It was the car he drove, religiously trading in his vehicles every two years.

On the way to our group support meeting one week, Sloan abruptly pulled over to fling open his door and lean out to puke. Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’ was the cause. On one of his road trips with Fuckface, they’d sung the song at the top of their lungs driving down the highway. It was so random, the things that would send one of us into a tailspin.

Two months after Avery’s breakdown at school, the case against Jim had enough evidence to move forward. Child Protective Services warned us that he would be arrested the following day. Neither Sloan nor I could concentrate and had taken the day off. We tried to keep our minds off of the situation by going online looking for inspiration to redo our dated kitchen. I knew we had failed spectacularly when I saw purple and orange checkered gingham curtains in the Amazon shopping cart. Head shake. Sigh. Delete.

By two o’clock in the afternoon, our phones started to ring. Sloan’s sisters heard the news. Thankfully, they believed us when we explained the whole situation. Neither of them lived on the west coast. Annmarie lived in Wisconsin, and Suzanne was in Guam with her military husband. The only time we ever saw them was at family events such as weddings or funerals.

Fuckface didn’t spend much time locked up. He was a lawyer, after all. His firm posted bail and presumably started on his defense strategy immediately. It was gearing up to be a long, drawn-out battle. The biggest question was—were we ready for it?

No matter how prepared we think we are, there’s always a point of no return for every turning point.

***

Jan 18

I’ve had a few days to ruminate over our most significant turning point. I even spoke up during the group therapy meeting. Simon was impressed– I rarely contributed during these sessions, preferring to dump on him directly in our one-on-one visits.

I’ve been here almost three weeks. I have yet to tackle the real reason for my incarceration. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t refer to it that way, but it’s how I feel. I’m angry at Sloan for calling the police and mostly at myself for allowing things to escalate. It’s frustrating.

Progress has been slow. Most days, I feel like I’ve almost reached the top of the hill. Then a memory will creep in, and bam! It’s like someone came along and slathered my boots with Vaseline. Simon has done his best to get me to discuss what happened. I can’t. How do you explain what it feels like to have your heart shredded and thrown away? I won’t.

Because of my reluctance to face my fears head-on, I’ve been given homework. I have to create two lists—one of the positive memories involving our younger son; the other of negative ones. I’ve been staring at a piece of paper for two hours now. One side has ten items listed, all good memories. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize every single one is from before the turning point. I’m afraid once I start listing the negative recollections, I won’t be able to stop.

***

The trial was anticlimactic. Sloan and I were mentally prepared to be in the courtroom every day. The judge would allow Avery to testify via video, so he wouldn’t have to see Fuckface. Then Covid came along and changed how the world conducted business. Remote became the latest catchphrase. Remote learning, remote workplace, remote depositions, remote filing motions; nothing was immune.

It took the court system nearly a year to get its shit together. In the end, Fuckface pleaded no contest. During the plea bargain, all parties agreed to a reduced sentence of one year, then ten years’ probation, registering as a sex offender, and paying restitution in a six-figure sum placed into a trust for Avery. I would have liked to see him locked away for life, but knowing he served seven months because that’s how the system worked, would have to suffice.

It was little consolation that his law firm dropped him when the trial ended, recommending that he also be disbarred. Upon his early release due to time off for good behavior– now there’s a joke, he slunk off into retirement, downsizing into a condo after Alana wrung him dry in the divorce settlement. A part of me gloated at his fall from grace. The rest of me only wanted to move on.

Eventually, Sloan and I did. Avery, however, seemed to march in place. He was part of the Class of 2020 and cheated out of the typical senior year experiences. No prom, no senior skip day, and the class beach trip was canceled.

Graduation was on-again and off-again for the weeks leading up to the scheduled date. Ever since both boys were in kindergarten, I dreamed of watching them walk across a stage and receive their diplomas. After the original date came and went, the school decided to hold a drive-through ceremony.

Looking back, it was brilliant. A stage was set up at one end of the school’s parking lot. Each student was assigned a time slot when they and their families would line up in their cars. One by one, the cars drove to the front of the stage at a snail's pace. Dressed in cap, gown, and school mascot-emblazoned mask, the graduate would get out and walk to the center of the stage, keeping six feet apart from their fellow classmates. The principal awarded their diploma sans handshake, and they posed for the photographer, then the graduate exited the opposite side to meet their family’s car. Sammy hung out the window as we drove by, proudly snapping pictures of his brother. The best part was not having to sit through the tedious speeches.

“Congratulations, Av!” I exclaimed as we drove away from the school.

“Thanks.” His one-word reply was devoid of emotion.

“We ordered Chinese from your favorite place,” Sloan said, trying to elicit a response from him.

“Okay.”

I reached over and squeezed my husband’s hand. It seemed as though every approach we tried was rebuffed.

After picking up the food, we returned to the house. Shawna was there as she had been for all the milestones our kids reached. At least she got a hug and kiss on the cheek from our boy. The celebration was a subdued affair. There wasn’t much we could do with the limitations Covid restrictions placed on everything. Still, we tried.

Alana Facetimed us, offering her congratulations. She kept the call short, knowing anything related to the whole ordeal could trigger Avery without warning. He’d been diagnosed with PTSD relating to his abuse, but refused to take any medication. We didn’t force the issue. He would be eighteen in a couple of weeks, legally able to make his own decisions.

If there was any consolation to be had, it was the fact that Avery had discovered singing as a coping mechanism. Both our kids grew up learning an instrument. Sammy played the piano, and Avery was quite good on the guitar. During his remote therapy sessions with Maliyah, she encouraged him to explore vocals and songwriting.

It was good at first. Avery immersed himself in blues and indie music. As time passed and the lockdown eased, he ventured out more often. His tastes changed and became darker, invoking hip-hop and rap, especially anything related to death in the lyrics. He idolized rappers like Juice Wrld and Smoke Dawg, who died young.

Avery always had a revolving door of friends and acquaintances, constantly changing depending on his interests. During his younger years, they were easy to keep track of. Now that he was an ‘adult,’ we had no clue who he was hanging out with. The smell of marijuana often clung to him when he returned home from these so-called friends.

Once he turned eighteen, he no longer qualified for counseling through the state program for abuse victims. He assured us he was handling things. We stupidly believed him.

In addition to post-traumatic stress, Avery suffered from anxiety and depression. He insisted he didn’t need medication, instead opting to anesthetize himself with drugs and alcohol. He was smart, and there were plenty of things he was good at, but hiding the truth was one thing he excelled at. We found out much later the extent of his addiction.

Sloan and I had our ups and downs during this time. My husband tried several different approaches to cope with life. One of these nearly split us up. Growing up, my parents weren’t overly religious. We occasionally attended a nondenominational church when the whim struck my mom. At a young age, I decided organized religion wasn’t for me. I didn’t discount the existence of a god, but I didn’t believe in an almighty being giving us our marching orders. I found peace in believing in a higher power influencing right and wrong.

My husband’s family were devout Christians. From what Sloan told me, growing up, they attended church every week and were required to participate in youth activities. Once his father died, Sloan stopped going. He returned to the faith, looking for answers, when it was apparent Avery was slipping away from us. The only problem was—he took it to an extreme.

He started reading the bible, saying the rosary, and attending service several times weekly. He insisted I open myself up to his lord and savior.

“I don’t believe in any god,” I snapped, sick of hearing him push his agenda on me after coming home and finding him kneeling on the floor in prayer, beseeching me to join him.

Sloan gave me a look of pity.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten before saying, “Look, babe. I love you. I just don’t share your beliefs.”

“If you don’t love God, you can’t feel love for anything else.” His words struck me as crazy.

My jaw dropped. “Whaaa–? You don’t really think that?”

My heart sank when he nodded. I shook my head and went to our room, pulling a suitcase from the closet and packing some clothes and essentials.

Sloan looked puzzled when I returned, and he spied the luggage. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t be around you right now. I’m going to Shawna’s.” I knew our friend would let me crash at her place for a few days. I needed time to figure out what to do.

“I’ll pray for you.”

I couldn’t hold back the scoff and derisive snort. Nor could I stop myself from spitting out, “Yeah, how’s that been working for you, anyway?”

The door slammed behind me as I stormed out, seething at the religious wedge which had come between us.

Shawna had a blender full of margaritas waiting when I walked through the door carrying a bag filled with Mexican food take-out containers. It wasn’t long before I was three sheets to the wind, wallowing in self-pity.

I don’t remember much of the evening after the food was gone. Shawna was a trooper, listening to me bitch and gripe, never taking sides. She must have put me to bed because I woke up in her guest room, my jeans neatly draped over a chair and my shoes lying beneath it. There were three Tylenol and a bottle of water on the nightstand. Bless her.

She was in the kitchen with her laptop open. Shawna looked up and smiled at the sound of my feet shuffling along the hallway.

“You made it through the night, I see.”

“No, thanks to you. Why did you let me drink so much?”

“Always happy to do my part enabling a drunken emotional dump session, Alfredo,” she laughed.

Just then, her phone rang, making me cringe. It was a recent development, dreading the sound of any phone ringing. Part of me expected it to be a call to let us know Avery was in a hospital somewhere, or worse, a morgue.

Shawna looked at the caller ID and ignored it. “Wanna tell me why you damn near jumped out of your skin when the phone rang? Did you think it was Sloan?”

“No.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, expecting more than that.

I grabbed the toast when it popped up and slathered some butter on it. Stalling for time, I poured hot water from the electric kettle into a cup holding my favorite teabag, vanilla cinnamon.

Knowing I couldn’t put it off any longer, I said, “Avery is involved with the wrong crowd and using drugs and alcohol. Sloan has decided religion will solve all our problems, and Sammy isn’t coming home for the summer. I think every phone call is bad news. I keep waiting for someone on the other end to say Avery is hurt or dead. My life has become a major clusterfuck, and I have no damn clue what to do.”

Uncrossing her arms, Shawna came over and engulfed me in a hug, which was no small feat for her. Her five-foot-two, hundred-pound body pressed against me reassuringly. The faint trace of her sandalwood-scented shampoo soothed me better than any aromatherapy out there.

“Oh, darlin’, your family is slipping away, and you don’t like it one bit.’

A single sob tore itself from my throat. In one sentence, she summed up exactly what I felt. “What do I do, Shaw?”

Shawna gave me another squeeze and let go, pushing me toward the table to sit. She dumped the cold toast in the trash and brought my mug of tea over. Sitting across from me, she pulled no punches.

“You have two choices—walking away or staying and fighting. You’re the only one who can decide.”

I wrapped my hands around the cup's warmth, knowing there was only one choice. “I guess it’s time to put the gloves on.”

A grin broke out across Shawna’s face, accompanied by an I knew it look. She allowed herself a moment to gloat before turning serious. “Mav, choose your battles wisely. I’m not sure you want to go toe-to-toe with Avery in the state he’s in. Don’t forget, he’s young and has always been on the backside of the curve. Sloan, however, you need to take that man and show him you mean business.”

“How do I do that?”

Her next words surprised me. “Threaten to divorce him, and if he calls your bluff… go through with it. If he doesn’t, fuck his brains out.’

It was hard to admit she was right. Deep down, I knew Sloan would only respond to an ultimatum. He was the sort of person to view things in black and white, whereas I saw shades of gray. Throughout our years together, it tended to give us balance. There were very few instances when it had been an issue. This was the most significant opposition of opinions we’d ever had. I would have preferred a cheating scenario. How the hell am I supposed to compete with a god?

“Put your frowny face away and go take a shower so I can take you out for a proper breakfast. Spend a few days here to wrap your mind around shit, then go take back what’s yours.”

I did as I was told, and when I returned home, I found Sloan sitting on the back deck in front of the fire pit, a bottle of vodka and a plastic jug of cranberry juice beside him. His eyes were unfocused, and it took a moment before he registered I was there. He began to weep.

Crossing the deck, I knelt in front of him, took the nearly empty red Solo cup from his hands, and set it aside. He leaned forward, sliding off the Adirondack chair, and slumped into my embrace. I held him as his tears soaked my shirt, making soft, comforting shushing noises.

When he stopped crying, he pulled his head back, wiped the snot from under his nose, and looked at me. His face reddened, either from shame or embarrassment, maybe both.

“I’m so sorry, Maverick. I should have never pushed you away like that. I know you love me. At least, I hope you still do.”

“Of course, I still love you. Although, I’ll have to reconsider if you make me stay on my knees another second. I’m not twenty anymore. I need a cushion if you want me in this position.”

Sloan barked out a half-sob, half-snort of laughter. A booger bubble flared from his left nostril, getting sucked back in, then bulging out again before popping. We laughed uncontrollably until our sides hurt. I stood, pulling him up with me, and led the way into the kitchen, where I shoved a box of tissues at him. This caused another round of giggles.

The crying spree seemed to have sobered him up. We sat at the table and talked for over two hours. Sloan confessed how lost he felt because we couldn’t connect with Avery anymore. I admitted how scared I was to think I was losing my family.

“Mav, thank you for leaving.”

“Say what? Why the hell would you thank me for leaving?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.

“I was using religion as a tool. I thought it would give me the answers I was looking for. Instead, I realized you’re the only answer I need. We have to be in this together if our family is going to survive.”

Stepping into his embrace, I whispered, “We’ll survive.”

Those words haunt me now.

Moving forward, Sloan and I did the best we could. We focused on work and tried not to worry about our younger son. It was impossible, especially when Avery did things that made it difficult not to tear our hair out. It was bad enough that mine now held more gray than brown, and Sloan had developed a thin patch on his crown in addition to his copious amount of salt thrown in with rapidly diminishing pepper.

Avery, for his part, had good and bad moments. He got a job working at a deli which lasted four months. Then it was the local ice cream shop for three months. For the next year, he went through at least seven or eight jobs, always finding an excuse to hate each one. It wasn’t until he landed an opportunity at a local theater running their soundboard that he was finally interested in keeping a job.

The theater was part of an interconnected program with a nearby college’s art and drama departments. Being around kids his own age was good for Avery. He came out of his shell, and for the next year and a half, we got frequent glimpses of the happy-go-lucky boy he used to be.

He kept up with his singing and songwriting. The connections he made at the theater allowed him to record a few professional tracks, which he posted to various online outlets, garnering a small but loyal following.

The only problem with it was it went to his head. Avery began drifting away from the theater community shortly before his twentieth birthday. Telltale signs of drug use crept into our lives again. It seemed we were caught in a vicious cycle.

“It’s happening again,” Sloan said one evening as we watched Avery head out without telling us where he was going.

“I know. How do you think we should handle it?”

Approaching Avery was akin to walking a tightrope over the Grand Canyon with no safety net. One wrong move, and we’d be screwed.

“He’s legally an adult, and we can’t control what he does or who he spends time with. The way I see it, the only thing we can do is try to set parameters. As it is, he doesn’t help out around here. He contributes nothing to the household, and he’s not accountable to anyone but himself. I think laying down a few reasonable rules while living here isn’t unreasonable.”

Sloan wasn’t wrong. Avery didn’t have any obligations regarding being a member of this household. But there was a catch-22. More often than not, asking our son to do anything around the house resulted in a significant attitude, and he would begrudgingly do a half-assed job. Occasionally, he would cooperate, but Sloan and I dreaded his adverse reactions so much that we stopped asking.

“I think you’re right. Maybe we should devise a short list of stipulations he must abide by if he wants to live here.”

Sloan took a pad of paper and pen from the drawer and worked together to develop a list we hoped Avery would agree to. The trick was to catch him in a good mood. The list was short and completely sensible and fair.

*Pick up after yourself. (Put dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Leave bathroom neat after using.) *Contribute $100.00 toward monthly car insurance.

*Keep the music volume down after nine o’clock.

*Text us if you won’t be home at night.

I read the list and nodded. “I don’t think we’re asking too much.”

Sloan agreed.

Luckily, Avery did too. We asked him to sit down one evening before he headed out the door again. He wasn’t under the influence of anything. We knew that would come later. He’d lost two friends to an impaired driver and had enough common sense not to get behind the wheel when under the influence. It was probably one of the reasons he spent so many nights away from home.

The next few months were relatively calm in our world. It wasn’t until after the holidays that things went entirely downhill. It’s amazing how quickly life can turn on you.

***

January 27

It’s been over a week since I’ve been able to write any thoughts in my journal. I don’t ever want to go through what I just experienced again. I feel drained. The day after my last entry, Simon finally broke through the wall I’d erected, and once it cracked, the rest didn’t stand a chance.

The thing about mental barriers is that your mind builds them up in an attempt to protect you. In reality, that shield can do more harm than good if it’s not done correctly. According to Simon, he recommends it to certain patients when necessary, and he helps guide them through a healthy way of creating them.

What I did to myself was a train wreck.

It started with Simon asking me to reflect on what troubled me the most. I looked at him like he’d asked me to climb Mt. Everest in a Speedo. There were so many things that had me in turmoil. It felt impossible to choose only one, and I told him so.

Simon listened, then poked and prodded until the entire ugly truth came out.

I hated my son.

***

In February, Sloan and I took a much-needed long weekend trip to a small coastal town in Washington, just over the Oregon border. Ironically, we discovered Cape Disappointment State Park.

We bundled up, walked on the beaches and trails, and ate at small cafes and off-the-beaten-path restaurants frequented by locals rather than tourists. Best of all, we spent the nights making love and reassuring each other.

Counting our blessings was something else we did. There had been some changes in our family dynamics. In the fall, Sammy and his longtime girlfriend eloped during a trip to Las Vegas for a friend’s birthday celebration. Rhea was a petite, strawberry-blond sweetheart. She was the perfect compliment to our Sammy. I was thrilled to have a girl in the family.

Avery seemed pleased when his brother broke the news. He and Rhea got along quite well. She seemed to be one of the few people who didn’t trigger his PTSD in any way.

Bad news struck at the end of the month when Shawna’s mom passed away. Clara had been her daughter’s biggest champion and best friend. She was a grandmother to our boys and treated Sloan and me like one of her kids. We were heartbroken.

Clara’s service was scheduled for the first week of March. Sammy and Rhea flew in from Arizona, where they were now living after Sammy accepted a job at a veterinarian clinic near Tuscon. At the same time, he attended the University of Arizona’s College of Veterinary Medicine. Rhea landed an Assistant Human Resource Manager position at a local hospital in Tuscon. We were incredibly proud of them.

Of course, Avery had to go and get a bug up his ass and refused to attend Clara’s service. He even ignored his brother, which was unusual. Then again, it was Avery, and we never knew what we would get from him on any given day. He was the Laffy Taffy mystery flavor.

In the weeks following Clara’s service, Sloan and I had a lot on our plates. The vineyard was heading into the busy growing season and needed its annual sprucing up for the tourist season. Over the winter, the owners had installed fire suppression systems in all the buildings, cleared acres of brush from the property’s perimeter, and done whatever they could think of to aid in preventing the devastation other wineries suffered during the wildfires of the past few years.

I had an important deadline looming for my latest novel. My publisher wanted me to do a full-scale book tour, and I was on the fence. The exposure would be beneficial, but I hated the thought of being on the road for three months. I felt guilty at the thought of leaving Sloan to deal with Avery, even though he assured me everything would be okay.

March had gone out with a whimper, and April decided to live up to its reputation and bestow a week of showers and rain upon us. It was ironic that the first sunny day turned out to be one of the darkest days we ever encountered.

I was in San Francisco at my agent’s office when my phone rang. The sound still evoked momentary panic until I saw the caller ID. Despite working full-time and having minimal financial obligations, Avery seemed to always be broke. We suspected his money was spent on his drug and junk food habits, evidenced by his glazed eyes and nearly three-hundred-pound bulk.

Excusing myself, I stepped into the hall to answer. “Hey, Av.”

“Um, can you Venmo me thirty dollars for gas? I have a therapy appointment, and my tank is nearly empty.”

I sighed. “Didn’t you just get paid on Friday?” Today was Tuesday. How the hell did he run out of money in four days when he was home all weekend except for going to and from work?

“You know what? Nevermind. I’ll figure something out.” The call went dead as he hung up on me.

I threw my head back in frustration. There was no way I could sort it out right now. I’d have to text Sloan when my meeting was over.

My agent understood when I turned down his invitation to join him and his wife for dinner. I already planned to meet Sloan and was anxious to jump on rush-hour traffic. My husband was waiting at our favorite local dive, Junipers. It was a diner-slash-sports bar that wasn’t much to look at from the outside but had the best burgers ever.

A few minutes after I sat, Janelle, our favorite waitress, brought over a beer and slid it in front of me. “The usual?” she asked with a wink.

“Yeah, thanks, Jan.”

She left, and I reached across the table to take Sloan’s hands in mine. “I think I fucked up. Avery called me this afternoon asking for gas money. He hung up when I mentioned that he just got paid. Has he texted you?”

“No.” Sloan shook his head. “I haven’t heard from him.”

“I guess he figured something out.”

“Probably.’

We didn’t think about it again until we were waiting for Janelle to run Sloan’s credit card. His phone beeped with a text notification. Glancing across the table, I saw concern draw deep grooves on his forehead. He paled as he read the message.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “What’s wrong?”

He handed me his phone, and I felt the blood drain from my face as I read the words Avery sent; I’ve been 5150’d.

Being 5150’d referred to the state’s seventy-two-hour involuntary hold that police, members of a mobile crisis team, physicians, or mental health providers could invoke if they feel someone is a danger to themselves or others.

Alarmed, I looked at Sloan. “What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know. Let me have my phone back, and I’ll try to find out where he’s at.”

My hand shook as I handed it over. After a few terse minutes of rapid-fire texting, Sloan nodded as if silently agreeing with something.

“Let’s go. He’s at Napa Glens.”

A measure of relief flooded me. Surely, this was a mistake? We could go there, sit down with someone and get it straightened out. Right?

Wrong.

Legally, Avery was an adult. Even though he was covered under our family insurance plan, and we were the guarantors, the staff wouldn’t give us any information, citing HIPPA laws. We were in the dark.

They did allow us to bring him clean clothes and toiletries, with restrictions, of course. No drawstrings allowed, only slide-on shoes or slippers, and items like deodorant and toothpaste had to be travel size. Inexorably, I thought of elementary-aged kids eating glue sticks, and had to stifle the urge to laugh hysterically.

It was frustrating not to be able to get any information. We researched everything we could, searching for a loophole. Avery’s 5150 turned into a 5250 when it was extended to fourteen days. Visitation was allowed for an hour each day between four and five. Avery refused to see us.

Sammy and Rhea offered to fly up to support us, but we turned them down. I knew Sammy had final exams coming up, and I explicitly told him to focus on passing them if he wanted to do something to help. Having one less thing for us to worry about would ease our minds.

Waiting is the penultimate bitch. Time moves differently when you’re suspended in limbo, in the indeterminate area between knowledge and ignorance. If hindsight is twenty-twenty, then I wish we’d remained ignorant.

Near the end of two weeks, I received a phone call from Avery informing me he was scheduled to be released the following day and asking me if I could pick him up. He would text me the time when he found out.

Nervously, I pulled into the parking lot and got out. I hadn’t made it halfway across the macadam when I noticed a familiar form walking toward me. I stopped, allowing a shadow of confusion to darken my countenance before schooling my expression as Avery neared. I let him make the first move.

“Hey,” he said, pulling me into a hug. It was more than I expected, and little did I know it would be the last hug I enjoyed receiving from him.

I squeezed him back. “Hey, yourself. Are you ready to go home?”

Nodding, he followed me to the car. The first few minutes of the drive were awkward, neither of us knowing how to approach a conversation. Then, something changed. From the corner of my eye, I saw Avery shift. What happened next was a horror of hatred I never thought could exist, let alone be thrown directly at me with the accuracy of a professional sharpshooter.

“You know,” he started. “You and Pop are just as sick as Uncle Jim. How could you let that monster destroy my life? It’s all your fault! You left me with him. You FUCKING LEFT ME! WHY? WHY DIDN’T YOU PROTECT ME?!”

“Avery, we didn–”

“Shut the fuck up.” Avery’s voice was ice cold, and he wouldn’t let me get a word in edge-wise. “You don’t get to defend yourself. You don’t know how to defend anyone. You didn’t defend me. You let him do things to me! I was four fucking years old, and you did absolutely nothing!”

Avery continued to spew vitriol at me. No one was safe from his wrath, especially not me or Sloan. He even attacked Sammy.

“My so-called brother tortured me. You can’t imagine what I had to go through every goddamn day with him. He beat me up, slapped me around, and tried to kill me. He almost threw me through the front window. I was twelve goddamn years old and couldn’t defend myself. Where were you? Off at a goddamn book signing or some shit, and Pop was too wrapped up stomping fucking grapes to care about me.”

I felt trapped. All I could do was focus on the road in front of us and try not to crash. My son may as well have reached into my chest and torn my heart out. The venom in his voice was inhuman. He continued to attack me viciously with words. Until this moment, words were my solace. Now, with nowhere to go, they became a weapon against me. Every syllable was a sharp dagger or a piercing bullet ripping me to shreds.

Gradually, my senses returned, and I became angry. Avery had no right to talk to me this way. I took matters back into my own hands and granted; it wasn’t my proudest parenting moment, but I felt as though I had no choice.

“You shut the fuck up right now,” I interrupted as he started on a new path of carnage. “You know Pop and I tried to help you. You didn’t want our help. You’re a spoiled ingrate. No matter what we did or tried, it was never good enough. You not only pushed every button we have, but you ripped them out so it would stay that way, a constant thorn in our side. You are a fucking thorn in our side.”

I banged my hand on the steering wheel to emphasize my point, then continued. “Everything we tried to do with you, you ruined. How many vacations did we cut short because you weren’t having a good time? You’re the only kid I know who can be miserable at Disney-fucking-land! How is that possible? Baseball games? You hated going. Every activity you asked to try, we signed you up for. Swimming, Boy Scouts, wrestling, archery, drama lessons—every single one, you hated the whole time you were involved, or you were such a shit about it, you’d harp on us until we caved and let you quit.”

I was breathing heavily, and my anxiety level was through the roof. My heart raced, and I knew I needed to calm down, but I couldn’t. “You know what? If you hate us so much, leave. Get the hell out of my house, and don’t let the door hit you on the ass as you go through. I’ll even let you have the car. I’ll sign the title over, and you can get your own fucking insurance. I’ll even go one step further. I’ll give you ten-thousand dollars to get out of our lives for good. Ten grand, and you don’t ever darken our doorstep again.”

“Make it twenty.”

Oh my god. The fucking audacity.

“Fine. It’s a small price to pay for finally getting some peace in our lives.”

The remainder of the trip was spent in tense silence. I screeched to a halt in our driveway and slammed the door, not bothering to wait to see if Avery was coming or not. My footsteps were heavy as I climbed the stairs leading to the door. It took three tries to slide the key into the lock.

Sloan called out from the kitchen, “Babe, is that you? Is Avery with you?”

I stormed down the hall, seeing red now that I wasn’t driving.

“What’s wrong?” Sloan asked as soon as he saw my face.

“I want him out. He needs to get out of our house.”

I saw Sloan looking over my shoulder and correctly surmised Avery had followed me.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be gone as soon as I pack,” he spat, pushing past me with a brutal shove of his shoulder against mine. Sloan caught me before I crashed into the wall.

“Hey!” he yelled. “What the hell, Avery? You don’t treat your dad like that.”

I cringed, knowing those were the wrong words for Sloan to say.

Avery circled back, stopping in front of his other father, and poked a finger into his chest. “I can treat him, however, the hell I want. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about how he treated me my whole life, and I’m not about to start showing him respect now. Or you, for that matter.”

In the next second, Avery shoved Sloan so hard he fell, smacking his head into a cabinet. I didn’t think. I reacted.

I swept my leg behind Avery’s, causing him to fall heavily on his knees. He was on his feet in a flash, and my head reeled to the side when he landed a solid punch. Instinctively, my knee came up, catching him squarely in the nuts. When he dropped to the floor this time, I added a kick to his ass.

He screamed at me, clutching his balls, wailing. Sloan was standing up and had his phone to his ear. The only word I understood was hurry.

After that, things became a blur. I have vague recollections of screaming, “I hate him! I hate him!” repeatedly. I remember slumping to the floor, rocking back and forth with my arms wrapped around my knees, blood dripping into an expanding puddle on the tile. A high-pitched sound that could have been me keening or the wail of sirens, as they invaded our neighborhood invaded my brain. I’ll never forget the sight of Avery being handcuffed and watching Sloan’s tears as we were taken away, our son in a police cruiser, and me in an ambulance.

***

Aug 28

It’s been six months since my stay in the looney bin. Sloan rolls his eyes whenever I refer to it that way. He’s used to my odd sense of humor. I told Simon it was a coping mechanism, and he agreed.

Things were tough immediately after my breakthrough. I spent another month in the private psychiatric facility. The therapy sessions were unquestionably brutal. It’s not easy taking a good long look at yourself. It’s not like looking into a mirror where you can see emotions and thoughts reflected back at you. No, looking inside your mind and heart leads to a path where your soul is finally laid bare for merciless scrutiny.

Acceptance is a concept that is confusing at best. It’s nearly impossible when conflicting feelings are at war within you.

How is a person supposed to reconcile hatred and love at the same time? Even now, I question the validity of my choices. Journaling has helped. Writing down the things I don’t dare put a voice to helps me process those dark thoughts that constantly try to intrude on the fragile peace I’ve found.

Guilt still chips away at my mind. Simon assures me it’s natural. He also says having doubts and opprobrious retrospective ideas is healthy. I’m not sure about that. Is it really okay to wish someone had never been born? Is it healthy to sometimes think life would be easier if they weren’t in it any longer?

What do I know?

****

“Happy birthday, Rhea!” Sloan and I sang when our daughter-in-law answered her phone.

“Aw, thanks, dads!”

“Did you get your packages?” I asked. “The app said they were left on your doorstep.” I didn’t trust delivery methods most of the time. There had been too many wayward items lost in the void of the unknown.

“Yes! Thank you. I love them!”

Rhea had a thing for sunflowers. I found a gorgeous set of matching dishes, cutlery, and glassware in a beautiful sunflower pattern. It gave me joy knowing that she would appreciate the gift.

“We can’t wait to see you guys next month!” Sloan added. Sammy and Rhea were meeting us in Vancouver. We had three weeks planned, driving through the Canadian Rockies. Sloan and I planned on surprising them with a five-day trip on the Rocky Mountaineer train. September in the mountains would be fantastic.

We spoke to Rhea for another half hour before she had to go as Sammy was taking her out to dinner when he got home from work.

“Take care sweetie,” I implored. “Say ‘hi’ to Sammy for us. Love you!”

“Love you, too!”

My mind strayed to Avery, as it often did when our plans no longer included him. He was currently serving time in prison. Sloan told me everything went FUBAR simultaneously the night we got hauled away. As I was having my meltdown, Avery somehow got it into his head it was a good idea to try to relieve one of the responding officers of his gun.

It could have been much worse. Our son was lucky the sheriff he tried to assault recognized that he was mentally ill. Instead of shooting Avery, the guy easily subdued him. Given the kid's size, that itself surprised me until Sloan said the officer was a towering hunk of a brick shithouse.

At over six-and-a-half feet, he dwarfed everyone else. My husband described him as hot as fuck, too. I merely wondered how the hell he fit in a cruiser. No matter, for the most part, I was relieved it hadn’t ended tragically. As much as I wasn’t sure if Avery’s quality of life was worth the heartache he brought upon us, I would never want the death of anyone forced upon someone in the line of duty.

I worked hard at rediscovering the small joys in life. Sloan and I made it a habit to start our day with a simple breakfast together. Waking up next to him centered me and helped to set the tone for the entire day. I relished the goofy smile he bestowed on me each morning. He always woke up first, as had been the case since the beginning. In return, I never missed the chance to brush away the errant strand of hair that seemed to fall across his forehead as he lay watching me.

In the evenings, we slow danced in the kitchen while waiting for a pot of water to boil or for the oven timer to go off. Sloan had cut back his hours to ensure he was home for dinner most nights. Slowly, we established a routine that worked for us.

Now that we knew Avery could not wreak havoc upon us, we could breathe easier. We knew the reprieve was temporary, but we took heart in the knowledge that if he didn’t meet specific criteria upon his release, he would have a state-appointed guardian assigned to him to help keep him accountable for his actions. But for now, we enjoyed the mundane stress of everyday life rather than the turbulent apprehension which had plagued us for so long.

I still have moments of self-loathing that creep up on me unexpectedly. Sloan always texts me as I can’t seem to shake the fear and anxiety that hits me whenever I hear a phone ring. I think some part of me will always expect that dreaded call to deliver the worst news a parent can receive. At the same time, another part of me hoped for a call from Avery saying he was ready to be someone we could love again.

Alana moved to the east coast after Avery’s trial. I think the weight of her guilt was too much for her to bear. The area held too many reminders of what she’d lost. Sloan and I tried to reassure her she wasn’t to blame, but we knew better than anyone that shouldering blame was unavoidable. She’s doing well. Two months after moving, she started dating, lamenting how much had changed during the past forty years since the last time she participated in the rituals of social preening.

During everything, our Shawna was a steadfast rock. She was the Uluru of our lives, larger than life, steady, and not going anywhere. She stayed with us during the trial, taking care of everything we couldn’t bring ourselves to do. Not a dirty dish nor towel escaped her wrath. Our house had never been so clean.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Sloan said, kissing the back of my neck.

I chuckled. “Nah, they’re worth at least a dime.” I turned and wrapped my arms around his waist, laying my head on his shoulder. “I was just thinking how lucky we are.”

“Hmm, how so?”

“In spite of everything, we came out stronger than ever. We have family and friends who love us. Even though Avery is who he is, I’ve learned to step back and not take everything personally. He hurts us because he knows it’s safe to. In his own warped way, it’s a sign he accepts us, even though his actions say otherwise. Our other son has turned out to be an incredible human being, giving us a beautiful daughter-in-law, and unless I’m way off the mark, a grandbaby in the near future.”

“What?! Did Rhea say something that I missed? Did Sammy text you? Where the hell did you get that idea? I didn’t know they were even trying!”

I laughed. Sloan’s shock was amusing. “No. No one said or did anything. Well, other than Rhea not even mentioning the half case of her favorite pinot I sent her along with the sunflower stuff.”

“In what world does forgetting to say thanks for booze equal being pregnant?”

“Oh, Sloanie. You are so naive. Shall we place a bet? If Sammy and Rhea don’t say something while we’re on vacation, I’ll blow you every morning for the rest of the year.”

“If they do make an announcement, what’s your price?”

“I get to choose what the kid calls you.”

Sloan paled. ‘Goddamn it!”

“I know! How ‘bout Granddude? Or maybe G-dog or PawPaw? I got it– Gumpa!” I threw my head back and laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks.

Sloan took advantage and threw me in a headlock, which only made me laugh harder. Finally, he gave in and laughed with me. We ended up in a tangled heap on the floor. One thing led to another, and we moved things to our bedroom. We weren’t in our twenties anymore. Spontaneous kitchen sex wasn’t as alluring as it once was. A comfy bed was much more appreciated, not to mention easier on the knees.

Later, Sloan looked at me and smiled softly. “Granddads, huh?”

I nodded.

“I love you, Maverick. There’s no one I’d rather be on this journey with.”

“Me too, Sloan. Me, too.”

Were things always easy and stress-free? Of course not. But there were more and more good moments as time slipped past. I was right about Rhea and the anticipated bundle of joy. I don’t think she and Sammy were expecting my fit of giggles when they broke the news at dinner during our first night in Vancouver.

Sloan begrudgingly confessed our bet when he couldn’t shut me up. I, of course, jumped on the opportunity to regale our kids of my choices for Sloan’s honorary title. Despite a copious amount of protesting, Pawpaw was the forerunner. I even bought a pair of bear paw mittens for Sloan for Christmas. He was not amused.

As February drew to a close, Rhea gifted us with a perfect seven-pound, twelve-ounce, twenty-inch granddaughter. Naomie Lynne Morris entered this world at seven-thirteen in the morning on February twenty-eighth. She was gorgeous.

Sloan and I flew down to see the baby in May. There is nothing like falling in love with an infant. The first time I held her, I couldn’t help gluing my nose to the top of her head and inhaling that sweet baby scent. It took me back in time.

Going back in time also meant thinking about Avery. He had been released in January to a halfway house, when his sentence was drastically reduced due to overcrowding. The court appointed a guardian when neither Sloan nor I agreed to take on the responsibility. So far, he seemed to be doing well.

He asked to meet with us, and I agreed as long as his guardian consented to being present. We met them for lunch a few weeks after his release. He looked good. Prison life gave him a new, older appearance. He had also dropped nearly a hundred pounds and replaced some of it with muscle. A small part of me was intimidated. He could still snap me in half if he chose.

With his permission, Avery’s guardian shared how he had been sticking with all the conditions of his release, including taking his medications and continuing therapy. His new therapist evaluated him for Asperger Syndrome, and the diagnosis seemed to fit. Later, when Sloan and I researched it further, we wondered how it had been overlooked. While it didn’t excuse what he had done, it explained how his brain wiring was messed up.

Since his release, he seemed to be managing his life much better. He landed a job at a local kennel taking care of the stray animals they took in. His trust fund was set up so that it would last a very long time. It gave him the financial buffer he needed to be independent, yet didn’t give him access to an amount of money that would make him reckless. I was happy for him.

However, I wasn’t ready to try to redevelop a relationship, and his face fell when I said as much. Even though he admitted that he regretted so many of the things he said and did to us, he never apologized. That didn’t sit well with me, especially since Sloan and I had expressed how sorry we were for how we handled everything. The meeting left me sad and depressed.

“Are you okay?” Sloan asked as we drove home.

“Not really, but I guess it’s to be expected. He’s changed, yet he hasn’t. I’m not sure he ever will.”

“No. I’m not sure his mental illness will ever allow him to change. The best we can do is keep doing what we’re doing. We take care of ourselves and each other. We can’t live his life for him. Either he’ll figure it out, or he won’t.”

So that’s exactly what we did. We lived our lives the best we could. Eventually, Naomie got a little sister. Katherine Tara arrived three years later, and I was secretly thrilled to have two granddaughters. I had faith they would turn out just fine.

Avery continued to do well, as far as we were aware. While we never reestablished a true parent-child relationship, we reached a point where we no longer needed his guardian to supervise our occasional lunches. He flitted in and out of our lives, sometimes going months without contact. We learned through a support group for family members of those with mental illness that relationships are maintained on their terms, not ours.

It was getting late as I nestled my head in the crook of Sloan’s arm as we wound down after a busy week. Sammy and his girls were due in a few days, and we spent most of the day baby-proofing the house. It had been exhausting.

“Damn, I’m glad we don’t have to deal with all that stuff on a regular basis,” I said with a yawn.

“Could you imagine having young kids at our age?”

I shuddered. “Hell, no!”

“Still, it will be fun having them visit. Although, from the sound of it, Shawna may have gone a bit overboard with toys this time. I told her Sammy would need to charter a separate flight to get them all home.”

I snickered, then yawned again. I snuggled into my husband, basking in his warmth. Sloan held me, peppering my head with soft kisses while rubbing slow circles along my back. I traced a pattern across the freckles on his forearm. Our movements gradually slowed as we drifted into that semi-stupor that falls right before sleep claims you. Life was really good.

The phone rang.