Past Imperfect (33 page)

“You were fantastic out on that soccer field today.”

“Mabry, I’m sorry. It’s just been so hard. I’ll try to do better. I promise.”

Sobs burst out of me as I desperately gasp for air. I haven’t had contact with my father in such a long time, but it doesn’t stop the empty ache from growing in the pit of my stomach. I’m all alone now. The phone falls from my hand. Raising my knees to my chest, I curl into myself, as I ease onto my side and allow the loneliness to swallow me up.

My car has become an early morning fixture in the parking lot across from her office over the past five days. During the day, I attempt to break away at the times I’m most likely to catch a glimpse of her. Already one of Charleston’s finest has paid me a visit this morning, asking if everything is okay. Either Mabry’s going to have to give in and see me or I’ll have to find another vantage point.

Since walking out of her place I’ve been like a zombie. I haven’t slept, eaten, or felt anything. I started trying to get her to talk to me about an hour after I had left that day, alternating between calls and texts. She never responded. I even went by her place the next day, but she wouldn’t come to the door. That was no big surprise. Finally, I was able to get in touch with Sylvie and sent her over to check on Mabry. She wasn’t exactly met with open arms.

I glance down at my watch. I’ve been sitting out here for an hour, hoping to see her, before heading upstairs for the meeting with Becca’s parents. So far she’s been quite elusive. I want and need to see her all the time, but this morning especially. I’ve had the strangest feeling all morning and I haven’t been able to shake it. It’s not nerves, just something feels off to me.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Father: Pulling into the parking garage. Meet me in lobby.

Me: K.

I check my watch one last time before looking around, hoping to spot Mabry, with no luck. I let out a deep sigh of disappointment as the strange feeling intensifies. Maybe she got here super early and is already up in her office. I haven’t seen her car, but I could have just missed it in the parking lot. I take my keys out of the ignition, grab my suit jacket, and head inside to the Law Offices of Clarkson and Ross.

As I enter the lobby, I’m met with the intense disdain of my father.

“What took you so long? I’ve been standing here waiting for…”

“About five seconds,” I shoot back at him.

“When we get up there, I’ll do all the talking.”

“Well, good fucking morning to you too,
Dad
,” I say as sarcastically as possible.

Leaning in, he glowers at me, and mumbles, “Don’t start shit with me, Bradley, not today.” I simply return his look. “Now, that little prick McGuire never did send us a copy of the suicide note. He kept giving lame excuses. No matter what that note contains, you are to keep your mouth shut. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

You motherfucking asshole.

The ride up in the elevator is silent except for the thrashing sound of my heartbeat in my ears. My body tenses up, starting with my jaw, then my shoulders, quickly moving downward until it reaches the muscles in my legs. I want to see Mabry, I’m excited at the possibility, but I’m also anxious. Plus, the unidentified feeling keeps gnawing at me. Tilting my head from side to side, I try to loosen up a little. The elevator doors open, revealing a classic-looking waiting room with dark woods, large bulky leather furniture, and dim lighting. It’s the polar opposite of our firm, which is modern and sleek. As my father steps out of the elevator and approaches the smiling receptionist, my eyes dart around, looking for Mabry’s name on an office door.

“Good morning,” the receptionist drawls.

“Good morning,” my father returns. “William Johnson here for a meeting with Tennyson McGuire.”

“Please have a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here. Can I get you anything, coffee or tea?” she offers.

“No, thank you,” my father answers.

She picks up the phone to alert Sir Douche as my father heads toward one of the huge leather chairs. I stay back at the receptionist’s desk, waiting to ask her which office is Mabry’s.

Putting the phone down, she announces immediately, “Mr. Johnson, Mr. McGuire is waiting for you in the conference room.”

I open my mouth to get information on Mabry when I hear the low controlled rumble of my father summoning me. The receptionist and I exchange weak smiles, before I follow
dear Dad
into the other room. We are met at the door of the conference room by Sir Douche himself. I glance at him briefly before my eyes are drawn to the older couple sitting quietly at the long table. Becca’s memorial service was only a few years ago, but her parents look as if they’ve aged fifteen years since then. Mrs. Hyams looks directly at me. Slight recognition flashes across her face. The sorrow that fills her eyes is as intense, if not more so, than two years ago. Mr. Hyams keeps his gaze focused straight ahead, not giving the slightest bit of acknowledgment that we’ve even entered the room.

McGuire reaches his hand out to my father and they shake. “Mr. Johnson, welcome.”

“Mr. McGuire,” my father returns.

“It’s nice to see you again, Sir. I only wish it were under better circumstances.”

Kiss ass, motherfucking douche bag.

Tilting his chin up, my father nods his head marginally in reply. McGuire extends his hand in my direction. I lower my eyes down to it, but quickly glance back up to him. I know I should shake his hand. It’s the professional mature thing to do. I don’t feel like being either one of those things at the moment, so I end up engaging in a staring contest with him instead. His face gets increasingly more self-righteous the longer I look. Keeping my hands down, I shift them slightly behind me, attempting to hide the fists that are forming. He takes a step back and gestures for us to move farther into the room.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hyams, this is William Johnson, and his client Brad Johnson,” McGuire introduces. We all simply nod in recognition as McGuire, my father, and I take our seats. Looking at us, he asks, “Would you gentlemen like anything, coffee perhaps?”

“No. We’d like to get down to business.” My father’s answer is precise and stern.

McGuire’s posture adjusts from hospitable southern lawyer to match my father’s. “My client is asking for damages for your client’s part in the death of their one and only daughter, Rebecca Hyams.”

“With all due respect to the family, this claim is absurd. It’s well documented that the young woman had a history of mental problems. To even imply that my client is responsible in some way is ludicrous.”

“Maybe you should take a minute to read the note Rebecca left just before she took her own life.”

As the note slides across the shiny dark wood, I can feel my pulse pick up. It’s more than the final thoughts of a troubled young woman. It represents my regrets, my shame, and my guilt. I take in a deep breath before allowing my eyes to fall on it.

“You didn’t have to tell me you loved me, but why did you have to be so mean about it.”

“When you walked out of my door everything went with you—my breath, my heart, and my strength.”

I finish reading the note, but my gaze remains fixated on the paper. Reliving the events of that night is like looking at a stranger. I’m so far away from the person I was back then. I keep my head down and avoid making eye contact with Mr. and Mrs. Hyams, pretending to scan Becca’s words one more time. But it’s not her words or even what took place that night in her room that causes me to freeze in this position. What happened after the door closed two years ago is why I can’t bring myself to look across the table at them.

My father’s voice sounds distant as he tries to discredit the note. “You can’t be serious, McGuire, using the words of a mentally unstable girl, right before she kills herself, with a known history of attempting suicide.” I sense movement next to me as he shifts, aiming his attention toward the Hyamses. “Look folks, I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. I don’t know what your ambitious and arrogant lawyer has told you…”

“Excuse me,” McGuire says abruptly.

“The fact is, my client and I could walk out that door right now, no discussion, no settlement, and be completely done with this. There is no judge in this country who will allow this case to go to court. You’ll just be wasting your time and money pursuing this any further. I realize you’ve had a loss, but it’s been two years now. You need to get over it and move on with your life.”

The audacity of my father’s words has all eyes in the room turning in his direction, dumbfounded. The rough clearing of a throat breaks through the silence in the room. Mr. Hyams’s voice is low and despondent. “He’s your son, right?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Hyams nod his head indicating me.

“Yes.” My father’s voice strains as if he’s having a hard time admitting the fact.

“How would you feel if one day you got a phone call telling you that the son you dreamed about having, the one you taught how to catch a baseball, or took on camping trips, was dead? That death was more appealing to him than living because he was so broken inside.” He pauses, trying to swallow a sob before continuing. “How would you feel knowing that because of your choices your child suffered his entire life? When Becca was about twelve her doctors recommended we place her in a treatment facility where she would live. We didn’t even consider it. It felt as if we’d be abandoning her. She was our little girl to raise and protect. If we hadn’t been so selfish, maybe she’d still be here today. I don’t know how to get over the guilt and heartache of losing my little girl.”

Little does Mr. Hyams know that my father never dreamed about having me and would probably get over that phone call in record time. The tension and silence in the room is suffocating. I force my gaze up toward Becca’s parents. Her dad is desperately trying to hold on to his composure while her mom has a steady stream of tears running down her face.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but then my voice gets stronger and louder. “I’m so sorry.”

My father leans into me and mumbles, “Shut up, Brad.”

Ignoring him, I direct my attention solely to Mr. and Mrs. Hyams. “The night Becca died, there was something in her eyes that told me leaving was going to devastate her. The last time I looked at her she was crying. She wasn’t making any noise, tears just ran down her face. When I walked out and closed the door, I waited to hear her scream or yell. They all screamed or yelled at me.” My chest heaves up and down heavily as I try to contain my emotions. “I never heard Becca. All I heard was silence. I should have been a friend and gone back in.” A few tears manage to escape my eyes. “Instead, I left her to go be with someone who never even wanted me to exist.” I inadvertently glance at my father, who’s staring straight ahead, expressionless, and having no intention of making any eye contact with me. “Your daughter impacted my life more in one month than those who’d been around me since day one. She made me want to be a better person. I
am
a better person because of Becca. I’m sorry I wasn’t better for her. I’m not to blame for Becca’s death, but I’m not blameless, either. It’s something I have to live with for the rest of my life.”

Warm and compassionate eyes meet mine as Mrs. Hyams raises her gaze to me. “We don’t blame you, Son.”

“Susan,” Mr. Hyams mutters. There’s a warning tone to his voice.

“Mrs. Hyams, please,” McGuire interrupts.

“Susan, we need this,” Mr. Hyams says in a low voice.

Becca’s mom places her hand on top of her husband’s and turns to him. In a soft soothing voice, she says, “She’s not coming back, John, and no amount of money is going to change that.”

She squeezes his hand once before shifting an apologetic gaze in my direction. “When someone you love dies, especially your child, you want answers. You convince yourself that once you know the reason, peace will come, and fill that empty space in your heart. You need it so badly, that you will latch on to anything that comes close to an explanation. But an explanation doesn’t bring peace. The only thing that does is realizing she’s happier now than when she was with us. The more you love a person, the more you miss them, and the longer it takes to accept that they’re gone.” She looks back at her husband. “Let’s go home, John.”