Broken (29 page)

He thinks of a distant memory that he hasn’t thought of in years. It was at a camp James and Connor went to when they were
young—he was maybe in fifth grade and Connor was in second. Something like that. James remembers riding a horse with Connor
bareback, Connor sitting in front of him. James held on to his brother and whispered in his ear that things were going to
be okay. And they were okay. They didn’t fall off and break their legs or their necks. They made it just fine. And James remembers
that’s how things were with Connor. That’s how they always were.

He spent so much time looking out for Connor that he never looked out for himself.

James curses and knows that’s a lie because his whole life has been about looking out for himself and dealing with Connor’s
messes.

That doesn’t make him a better person.

It doesn’t make him worthy of anything.

The problem in life is that you can’t lie to yourself.

He touches his side and sees the blood covering everything.

Then he finishes up his cigarette and slides to the ground and watches the sun smother the entire sky. He watches the clouds
move past. And as he does, he thinks back to that horse ride, and he wishes that he could be ten again with life ahead of
him and hope still on his side.

Somebody once told me that writing is cathartic, that it can be therapeutic, that it can free your soul. But I glance at this
worn journal I’ve carried with me so long and wonder. Is that really true? Words contain power, I believe that, but simply
putting them down for no one else to read–what good is that? Or can the dead read these words? Have I been writing for myself
or for someone else?

All I know is that I need to let go.

And part of that is saying good-bye.

Being reminded of my pain and my failures day after day–I don’t need a journal to do that.

So this is the last entry in this notebook.

And after so many words, I still haven’t come to any conclusion.

I do know this, however.

I’m watched over.

I don’t understand that. I can’t begin to explain that.

But it’s true.

And I think I’m realizing that perhaps I don’t need to hide any longer.

L
aila hears the knocking but ignores it.

The ghosts can wait.

She is dreaming of being by a pool and watching him come to her side. Lex smiles and sits next to her. For a long time they
talk and laugh and watch the reflection of the sun on the surface of the water. It’s relaxing. Laila thinks this is heaven.
Or perhaps her pitiful version of it. Maybe she’s being allowed a slight glance of it.

The knocking sounds again.

She stirs and gets closer to emerging from sleep.

Her mind wades through the last two days.

The endless questions about the deaths.

She sees the brown hair and the innocent smile and remembers Kyle.

She pictures the explosion of Connor’s blood and matter in the hotel room.

She remembers the big man who they found shot in the street outside the hotel.

And then she thinks of Lex.

The knocking is louder, and she hears a voice.

Laila opens her eyes. She feels heavy, drowsy. It’s probably from the sleeping pills she took last night. They were given
to her by one of the doctors. Or was it a cop?

This hotel is still in the French Quarter, but different from the one she was staying at. The one that got broken into by
the armed man. The one where he took Kyle and her.

“Laila.”

She stands up and goes to the door.

She opens it and sees Lex.

She realizes she must still be dreaming.

“Are you okay?”

“Lex?”

He studies her for a moment. “You okay?”

Reality comes back to her, and she knows this isn’t a dream.

“You’re out of the hospital.”

“Obviously,” he says, giving her a hug.

Laila also knows it’s going to be some time before dreams and reality don’t intersect anymore.

The first step will be leaving this all behind.

A little while later, while sitting in the middle of the hotel restaurant, Laila coughs and feels her eyes water. She takes
a sip of water.

“You sound sick,” Lex says.

“I think I have a cold,” she says. “Beats getting shot though.”

“I don’t know. They patched me up pretty good.”

It is Sunday. The past two days have gone by in a blur. And yet, of all the things that have transpired, there is one thing
she still dreads. One thing she still fears. And she’s just waiting for Lex to bring it up.

“Are you not hungry?” Lex asks her.

“No.”

“You should eat something.”

“Somehow it feels wrong to just be sitting here, in this beautiful restaurant, having a nice relaxing meal.”

“Why?” he asks. “Are you not allowed to live your life?”

“I just—I don’t know. It feels strange. I feel like there’s more I need to do.”

“You spoke to Kyle’s family?”

“His sister. Several times.” She shakes her head, feeling numb. “I felt—I didn’t have anything to say. She wanted me to explain
why he came down here, and I couldn’t. All I could say—all I could tell her was that Kyle was a remarkable man who was looking
out for me when he didn’t have to. When he shouldn’t have. He wanted to save me. And he did.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Laila laughs. “I could live to be a hundred years old and will doubt that I’ll ever think otherwise.”

“You can’t think that.”

“There’re a lot of things I shouldn’t do, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m me.”

Lex nods and pushes his plate of eggs away. “What did the police say to you?”

“I told them everything I know,” she says.

“And what’s that?”

Laila looks at the coffee cup and marvels how white it looks. How clean and shiny and new.

“Everything. From how they followed me from Chicago to Greenville. How they tried to blackmail me. Everything.”

“Did you tell them about shooting Connor?”

She glances at Lex and shakes her head. During the past couple days as he’s been at Tulane Medical Center recovering from
his bullet wound, Laila’s told her brother almost everything.

There are some things she hasn’t told him but suspects he already knows.

Including why she was with Connor in the first place.

“Connor and James are both dead. I doubt it matters anymore.”

Lex nods.

“They’ve told me to let them know when I plan on leaving.”

“So what is your plan?”

This is what she dreads. This conversation. The decision she has to make.

“I don’t know,” she says.

But it’s not a decision she’s waiting for.

It’s an invitation.

Lex looks at her. She’s so glad to see those eyes again. She’s missed them so much. It just seems like yesterday, even though
half a life seems to have been torn apart, between childhood and now.

“I want you to come home,” he says.

The wave hits, and she feels loosened. She feels like she’s tumbling underneath the current, and all she can do is let go.

“What have they said?”

“Who?”

“Papa. Ava.”

“What do you think? Ava was going to come down here, and I told her not to. Dad would if his health allowed it. Lai—what do
you think they said?”

“Do they blame me?”

“They love you. They want to see you. That’s the truth. That’s all there is.”

She brushes back her hair. “After all this time.”

“I came to find you to bring you back home.”

“Did I have an option?”

Lex nods and smiles and then chuckles. “You’re strong-willed as always.”

“I know.”

“Of course you have an option. I wasn’t going to bind and gag you and force you to come home. But where else will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You need to come home.”

She nods. She wants to tell him that she’s afraid. That she’s terrified, in fact, of going back home. The memories there surely
blow like the Texan winds. It’s been so long that she won’t know what to say or do.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, as if reading her mind.

“What? What could possibly be fine after all this mess? Tell me? What?”

“You.” Lex just stares at her with a sad, strong gaze. “You’re going to be fine, Laila. I promise.”

The red glow paints the sky in delicate swirls. The fading sun dips behind the endless, soft waves of Lake Pontchartrain as
Laila stands
along its shore next to a large moss-covered tree. She remembers coming to the town of Mandeville and looking out toward
the simmering sun and feeling hope. But that hope came along with her hand being held by him. By the love who took her here.
By the love she gave so much to. The love who gave nothing back.

Nothing except one thing.

One precious, miraculous thing.

She breathes in and marvels at the beauty in front of her.

Tomorrow they will leave to go back to Texas. To go back home.

But she knows she needs to say good-bye. That she needs to let things go.

In her hand is the leather journal full of thoughts and feelings from the past few years. A diary of doubt and despair.

She looks at it and feels its weight. Then she glances out toward the brilliant sunset.

“Please let me let go,” she says. “God, please help me let go.”

She wasn’t alone the first time she saw this portrait of the heavens, and she’s not alone now.

Laila knows this.

She believes it.

And she knows it’s time to let go.

“It’s okay,” she says. Repeating the line he told her.

Repeating the line that maybe she imagined in the alleyway but that felt and sounded real.

“It’s okay.”

Laila takes the journal full of questions and longings and fears and hurls it as far out into the lake as possible.

It opens and lands with its pages on the surface of the water. Then it floats for several moments.

Laila watches, and again something unfamiliar delicately massages her eyes. Tears fall as she stares at the floating journal.

She finds herself on this shore again after so much, and yet she’s
the same. She’s the same, and she’s ready to move on. She’s ready to grow up instead of running away.

Laila is ready to go back home and try and restore the life she once had.

She believes that just like this sunset, hope is magnificent and glorious and not too far away. She can see it now. It’s within
reach.

And maybe, just maybe, the heavens will wait for her to reach them.

When she arrives back in her hotel room, Laila turns on the lights and calls Lex. She asked for the keys to his car and didn’t
tell him where she was going. She knew in his voice and his expression that he was worried. Worried that she was going to
run away. And part of her even considered it. She plans on asking how he is and if he needs anything, just to reassure him
that she’s not halfway to Mexico.

When she reaches for the phone, she sees something on her bed.

For a moment Laila stops.

She closes her eyes as if she’s hallucinating. But when she opens them, it’s still there.

She picks it up.

It’s another journal.

She touches it, but it doesn’t disappear. It’s a spiral-bound notebook that has a plastic cover colored red and orange. Almost
like the sunset she just watched.

It’s a small journal that a kid might have.

Inside the pages are lined and blank.

Laila holds it for a moment and looks around the room, wondering if there’s something else waiting for her.

Something—or someone.

But she finds nothing.

Laila puts the notebook on the small desk in the room and calls Lex.

“Hi.” He sounds relieved.

“Are you okay?”

He says yes, and they talk for a few moments. They agree to meet in the lobby around eight to grab some breakfast and then
depart.

“Lex. Did you—did you put this journal in my room?”

“Did I put what in your room?”

“A journal? A small spiral-bound notebook?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Did you?”

He laughs. “No. Why? Did you find one?”

“Yeah. Somebody must’ve left it behind.”

She doesn’t believe that, but she doesn’t know what else to say.

She wishes him a good night and finds herself restless in the room. She’s spent a whole life feeling this way.

A pen on the desk catches her attention.

She picks it up and then grabs the notebook.

She stretches out on the bed and opens up the first page. She puts the date and then thinks for a moment.

Then she begins to write.

What would it be like to be a white page, starting from the beginning with stories untold and memories unmade? To start with
a blank slate and go from there?

I wonder.

I wonder if God sees us like that.

I hope He does.

I know the stories, and I know the faith. My father taught us well. But it was simply a story I heard and one I read but one
I never fully believed.

I’ve always felt like belief was so close. So close.

Can I believe that a father allowed his son to die? Yes. But the reason is the part I have a hard time with.

This father–this God–allowed His son to die out of love. Not fear, but love.

Love for me.

That is where I always stumble.

That is where my faith flounders.

I have so far to go. Yet I have life, and today is the first day where I start anew.

I want to change. I just–I’m not sure how.

But I believe that God led me to a dark place and a narrow alleyway not to know fear. But rather to know forgiveness.

And to allow me to see.

Some ghosts don’t haunt you.

Some set you free.

C
an you feel that?”

She glances over at him from behind the wheel. “What?”