Chapter Fourteen
Jude
I stare down at the headstone. It’s weathered by time and the elements, but just like the man we buried there, the gray stone is still solid, the lettering bold and strong.Patrick Gordon. Beloved husband and father.And under that, the numbers detailing the too-short years of his life.
Sighing, I glance around at the well-tended grounds and the flowers languishing on the graves. I’d considered stopping by the florist and buying a bouquet, but honestly, that would’ve been laughable. Dad was not a flowers guy; he would’ve appreciated a beer way more than roses. Preferably, Budweiser.
Huh.
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes, easily seeing him laid up in his favorite recliner, feet crossed at the ankles, one hand wrapped around the remote, the other around a red-and-white can. Maybe, it wasn’t being bougie that made Mom insist Dan keep his beer out of sight. Maybe it was the brand and the memories it evoked. It would be damn hard telling your current husband he couldn’t drink a Bud because they reminded her of her dead husband.
How could I have missed that?
“I think if you were here, you’d give me a hard kick in the ass for misjudging her,” I murmur to Dad’s grave. “Come to think of it, there would probably be a lot of head-knocking for all of us.”
“Jude?”
I turn at the sound of Mom’s voice, shoving my hands into the pockets of my coat. She frowns as she steps off the paved path winding through the cemetery and picks her way over to me. And Dad. For several long moments, she stares at the headstone, and I keep quiet, letting her have her time with the man she loved beyond reason.
After a while, she inhales a shaky breath and squares her shoulders. Turning toward me, she smiles, but concern darkens her blue eyes.
“Hey, honey. I was surprised to get your call asking me to meet you here.” She strokes a palm down my arm, patting my hand over my coat. “Is everything okay?”
Yes, hovers on my tongue, the answer automatic, even rote by now. But that’s the peacekeeper wanting to speak, the family secret keeper. When I called my mom over an hour ago and walked out of the tattoo shop, I left resolving to be someone different. Someone free and unburdened.
Even if that meant causing the woman I love most pain.
“I’m tired, Mom,” I admit softly.
A vee creases her brow. “I knew it, Jude.” She shakes her head, cupping my jaw. “You work too hard at that shop. I wish—”
“Mom,” I interrupt, gently but firmly circling her wrist and pulling it away from my face. “Stop. This isn’t about the shop or my career. I’ve been tired a long time.” I drag a hand down my face, whispering, “A long time.”
“Honey.” She twists her wrist in my hold and enfolds my fingers in hers. Clutching them. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
This is the mother I remember. Not the one who is emotionally frail or shockingly accusatory. No, this is the mother who would give us our space when we were upset, but then, later, come into our rooms, sit on the bed, and wait quietly. Her relentless patience would eventually haul whatever was bothering us out, and she never failed to offer comfort and the right words.
It’s the glimpse of her that grants me the courage to go on. “I never told you, but I suffer from panic attacks.”
She gasps, her grip squeezing my hand. “Why—? How could you keep that from me? I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me. Why, Jude? How long?”
“Since I was thirteen,” I answer, voice hoarse, meeting her gaze. Seeing the instant understanding dawn in her eyes. “Not too long after Dad died,” I add, making sure she really gets what triggered them.
She jerks her hand from me, and agony spasms across her face.
“Jude, I can’t—” Almost without her permission, she strokes the inside of her wrist. Where the scars are faint, just about invisible.
“We have to,” I insist. Thrusting a hand over my hair, I turn and stare at Dad’s headstone.Give me the words, Dad, the strength. There’s no breeze, no clearing of the clouds and the sun breaking through. None of those signs that people mention receiving when they talk to their loved ones in the cemetery. But a calm settles deep inside my chest, and that’s confirmation enough. Resolute, I return my attention to her. “I’ve kept our secret for fifteen years, Mom. We’ve never even spoken about it to each other. But I can’t anymore.”
Inhaling a deep breath, I study her face, see the shadows in her eyes. Old hurts. Shame. I shake my head.
“I don’t plan on announcing the past to everyone,” I assure her. What would be the point? Knox has known all along, and telling Simon and Dan wouldn’t do anything but inflict more pain. “But I’ve been so angry, Mom. Confused and angry about why Knox, Simon, Connor, and I weren’t enough to make you want to live. How could you want to leave us? But then you made me keep the secret, bear that burden. I was thirteen, Mom. It was too heavy.”
“I know, Jude,” she breathes, tears glistening in her eyes. Her face crumbles for a moment, but in the next, she straightens it. But the tears… One spills over, rolling down her cheek. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’ve wanted to tell you that for years. I should’ve never done that to you. None of it. As soon as I…” She trails off, again rubbing her wrist. “I regretted it. I wanted to live, to be here for you boys. I was so ashamed you found me, saw me like that. And you already knew about what I’d tried to do. I feared anyone else finding out, knowing the sin I’d tried to commit. God,” she whispers. “You should’ve never had to shoulder that burden. And I-I’m sorry.”
Emotion swells in in my throat, choking me. Squeezing my eyes closed against the stinging in them, I pull her close, wrapping my arms around her. The first sob tears free of her, soon followed by another, and I hold her through them all.
“We still need you, Mom,” I murmur when the worst of the storm eases. Cupping her shoulders, I step back, staring down into her grief-ravaged face. “You are so strong. We couldn’t have asked for a more loving, nurturing mother. After the suicide attempt, you eventually came back to us and gave us the parent we almost lost. But after Connor— No, Mom, you need to hear this,” I say, pouring steel into my voice and tightening my hold on her when she tries to step away from my words.
