The Best of Me
He bent over and vomited off the edge of the porch. He wiped his mouth before shoving his gun in his pocket. Gripping the railing, he carefully descended the steps. The truck was blurry now, but he made his way toward its outline.
Dawson wasn't going to get away. Not this time.
Abee was standing at the window of his house while Ted staggered toward the truck. He knew exactly where Ted was going, even if he was taking the long way to reach the truck. Veering left and right, Ted seemed unable to walk a straight line.
As miserable as he'd felt last night, Abee had woken up feeling better than he had in days. The veterinary drugs must have worked, because his fever was gone, and though the gash in his gut was still tender to the touch, it wasn't quite as red as it had been yesterday.
Not that he was feeling a hundred percent. Far from it. But he was doing a whole lot better than Ted, that's for sure, and the last thing he wanted was for the rest of the family to see the shape Ted was in. He'd already heard some talk around the property about how Dawson had gotten the better of Ted again, and that wasn't good. Because it might mean they were wondering whether they could get the better of him, too, and that was the last thing he needed right now.
Someone needed to nip that problem in the bud. Opening the door, Abee started toward his brother.
17
After rinsing the rain-washed grime from the Stingray, Dawson set down the hose and walked to the creek behind Tuck's house. The afternoon had grown warm, too warm for the mullets to jump, and the creek had taken on the lifeless quality of glass. There was no movement at all, and Dawson found himself remembering those final moments with Amanda.
As she'd pulled away, it had been all he could do not to chase after her and try one more time to convince her to change her mind. He wanted to tell her again how much he loved her. Instead, he'd watched her go, knowing in his heart that this was the last time he'd see her, and wondering how on earth he'd let her slip away again.
He shouldn't have come back home. He didn't belong here, he'd never belonged here. There was nothing here for him, and it was time to leave. As it was, he knew he'd been pressing his luck with his cousins by staying as long as he had. Turning around, he walked along the side of the house, toward his car. He had one last stop to make in town, but after that, he'd leave Oriental behind forever.
Amanda wasn't sure how long she stayed in the room upstairs. An hour or two, maybe more. Whenever she peered out the window, she could see her mother sitting on the porch below, a book open in her lap. Her mother had placed covers over the food to keep the flies away. Never once had her mother risen to check on Amanda since she'd gotten back home, nor had Amanda expected her to. They knew each other well enough to know that Amanda would come down when she was ready.
Frank had called earlier from the golf course. He kept the conversation short, but she could already hear the booze in his voice. Ten years had taught her to recognize the signs instantly. Although she hadn't been inclined to talk, he hadn't noticed. Not because he was drunk, which he obviously was, but because despite a horrible start to his game, he'd finished with four straight pars. Perhaps for the first time ever, she was actually glad he was drinking. She knew he'd be so tired by the time she got home that he'd probably fall asleep long before she went to bed. The last thing she wanted was for him to be thinking about sex. She just couldn't handle something like that tonight.
Still, she wasn't ready to go downstairs. Rising from the bed, she went instead to the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet, finding a bottle of Visine. She blinked a few drops into her red, swollen eyes, then ran a brush through her hair. It didn't help much and she didn't really care, and she knew Frank wouldn't notice.
But Dawson would have noticed. And with Dawson, she would have cared how she looked.
She thought of him again, as she'd been doing since she'd returned to the house, trying to keep her emotions in check. Glancing toward the bags she'd packed earlier, she spotted the corner of an envelope sticking out from her purse. She pulled it out, catching sight of her name scrawled in Tuck's shaky script. Taking a seat on the bed again, she broke the seal and lifted the letter out thinking, strangely, that Tuck had the answers she needed.
Dear Amanda,
By the time you read this, you'll probably be facing some of the hardest choices of your life, and no doubt it will feel like your world is falling apart.
If you're wondering how I know, let's just say that I've come to know you pretty well over the last few years. I've always worried about you, Amanda. But that's not what this letter is about. I can't tell you what to do, and I doubt if there's anything I can say that'll make you feel any better. Instead, I want to tell you a story. It's about me and Clara, and it's one that you don't know, because I could never find the right way to tell you. I was ashamed, and I think I was afraid that you'd stop coming back to see me, because you might think I'd been lying to you all along.
Clara wasn't a ghost. Oh, I saw her all right, and I heard her, too. I'm not saying those things didn't happen, because they did. Everything in the letter I wrote to you and Dawson was true. I saw her that day when I came back from the cottage, and the more I tended the flowers, the more plainly I could see her. Love can conjure up many things, but deep down, I knew that she wasn't really there. I saw her because I wanted to, I heard her because I missed her. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that she was my creation, nothing more, even if I wanted to fool myself into thinking otherwise.
You might wonder why I'm telling you this now, so I might as well get to it. I married Clara at seventeen, and we spent forty-two years together, fusing our lives, ourselves, into what I thought was a whole that couldn't ever be broken. When she died, the next twenty-eight years pained me so much that most folks--including me--thought I'd plumb lost my mind.
Amanda, you're still young. You may not feel it, but to me, you're just a child with a long life yet to come. Listen to me when I say this: I lived with the real Clara, and I lived with Clara's ghost, and of the two, one filled me with joy while the other was only a dim reflection. If you turn away from Dawson now, you'll live forever with the ghost of what might have been yours. I know that in this life, innocent people inevitably get hurt by the decisions we make. Call me a selfish old man, but I never wanted you to be one of them.
Tuck
Amanda put the letter back into her purse, knowing Tuck was right. She could feel the truth as deeply as she'd ever felt anything, and she could barely breathe.
With a feeling of desperate urgency she didn't quite comprehend, she gathered her bags and carried them down the stairs. Normally, she would have placed them near the door until she was ready to leave. Instead, she found herself reaching for the knob and making her way directly to her car.
She tossed her bags into the trunk before moving around the car. Only then did she notice her mother standing on the front porch, watching her.
Amanda said nothing, nor did her mother. They simply stared at each other. Amanda had the uncanny feeling that her mother knew exactly where she was going, but with Tuck's words still ringing in her ears, Amanda was beyond caring. All she knew was that she needed to find Dawson.
Dawson might still be at Tuck's, but she doubted it. It wouldn't have taken him long to wash the car, and with his cousins on the loose she knew that he wouldn't stay in town.
But there was someplace else he said he might go...
The words came into her mind suddenly, without conscious thought, and she slipped behind the wheel, knowing exactly where he might be.
At the cemetery, Dawson stepped out of the car and made the short walk toward David Bonner's headstone.
In the past, whenever he visited the cemetery, he came at odd hours and did his best to remain unnoticed and anonymous.
Today, that wouldn't be possible. Weekends tended to be busy, and there were clusters of people walking among the headstones. No one appeared to pay any attention to him as he walked, but he kept his
head bowed nonetheless.
Finally reaching the site, he noticed that the flowers he'd left on Friday morning were still there, but they'd been moved to the side. Probably by the caretaker when he'd mowed. Squatting, Dawson plucked at a few of the longer blades of grass near the headstone that had been missed.
His thoughts drifted back to Amanda, and he was gripped by a sense of intense loneliness. His life, he knew, had been cursed from the beginning, and closing his eyes, he said a final prayer for David Bonner, unaware that his shadow had just been joined by another. Unaware that someone was standing right behind him.
Reaching the main street that ran through Oriental, Amanda stopped at the intersection. A left turn would bring her past the marina and eventually to Tuck's. A right turn would lead her out of town, eventually becoming the rural highway she'd follow on her way back home. Straight ahead, beyond a wrought-iron fence, was the cemetery. It was the largest in Oriental, the place where Dr. David Bonner had been laid to rest. Dawson, she remembered, had said he might drop by on his way out of town.
The gates to the cemetery were open. She scanned the half-dozen cars and trucks in the parking lot, searching for his rental car, and her breath caught when she spotted it. Three days ago, he'd parked it beside hers when he'd arrived at Tuck's. Earlier that morning, she'd stood beside it as he'd kissed her one last time.
Dawson was here.
We're still young, he'd told her. We still have time to make this right.
Her foot was on the brake. On the main road, a minivan rumbled past, momentarily obscuring her view, heading toward downtown. The road was otherwise deserted.
If she crossed the road and parked, she knew she'd be able to find him. She thought of Tuck's letter, the years of grief he had endured without Clara, and Amanda knew she'd made the wrong decision. She couldn't imagine a life without Dawson.
In her mind's eye, she could see the scene unfold. She would surprise Dawson at Dr. Bonner's grave and could hear herself saying that she'd been wrong to leave. She could feel her happiness as he took her in his arms once more, knowing they were meant to be together.
If she went to him again, she knew she'd follow him anywhere. Or he'd follow her. But even then, her responsibilities continued to press down on her, and ever so slowly, she removed her foot from the brake. Instead of going straight, she found herself suddenly turning the wheel, a sob catching in her chest as she headed onto the main road, the car pointing toward home.
She began to speed up, trying again to convince herself that her decision was the correct one, the only one she could realistically make. Behind her, the cemetery receded into the distance.
"Dawson, forgive me," she whispered, wishing he could somehow hear her, wishing she'd never had to say those words at all.
A rustling behind him interrupted Dawson's reverie, and he scrambled to his feet. Startled, he recognized her instantly but found himself speechless.
"You're here," Marilyn Bonner stated. "At my husband's grave."
"I'm sorry," he said, dropping his gaze. "I shouldn't have come."
"But you did," Marilyn said. "And you came here recently, too." When Dawson didn't respond, she nodded at the flowers. "I make it a point to come by after church. They weren't here last weekend, and they're too fresh to have been placed here earlier in the week. I'm guessing... Friday?"
Dawson swallowed before answering. "In the morning."
Her gaze was unflinching. "You used to do that a long time ago, too. After you got out of prison? That was you, right?"
Dawson said nothing.
"I thought so," she said. She sighed as she took a step closer to the marker. Dawson moved aside, making room as Marilyn focused on the inscription. "A lot of people put flowers out for David after he died. And that went on for a year or two, but after that, people stopped coming by, I guess. Except for me. For a while, I was the only one bringing them, and then, about four years after he died, I started seeing other flowers again. Not all the time, but enough to make me curious. I had no idea who was responsible. I asked my parents, I asked my friends, but none of them would admit to it. For a short time, I even wondered if David had been seeing someone else. Can you believe that?" She shook her head and drew a long breath. "It wasn't until the flowers stopped arriving that I realized it was you. I knew you'd gotten out of jail and that you were on probation here. I also learned that you left town about a year later. It made me so... angry to think you'd been doing that all along." She crossed her arms, as if trying to close herself off from the memory. "And then, this morning, I saw the flowers again. I knew it meant that you'd come back. I wasn't sure you'd come here today... but sure enough, you did."
Dawson shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. "I won't visit or bring flowers again," he muttered. "You have my word."
She looked at him. "And you think that makes it okay that you've come here at all? Considering what you did in the first place? Considering that my husband is here, instead of with me? That he missed the chance to watch his children grow up?"
"No," he said.
"Of course you don't," she said. "Because you still feel guilty about what you did. That's why you've been sending us money all these years, am I right?"
He wanted to lie to her but couldn't.
"How long have you known?" he asked.
"Since the first check," she said. "You'd stopped by my house just a couple of weeks earlier, remember? It wasn't too hard to put two and two together." She hesitated. "You wanted to apologize, didn't you? In person. When you came to the porch that day?"
"Yes."
"I didn't let you. I said... a lot of things that day. Things that maybe I shouldn't have said."
"You had every right to say what you did."
A flicker of a smile formed on her lips. "You were twenty-two years old. I saw a grown man on the porch, but the older I've gotten, the more I've come to believe that people don't really grow up until they're at least thirty. My son is older than you were then, and I still think of him as a child."
"You did what anyone would do."
"Maybe," she said, offering the slightest of shrugs. She stepped closer to him. "The money you sent helped," she said. "It helped a lot over the years, but I don't need your money anymore. So please stop sending it."
"I just wanted--"
"I know what you wanted," she interrupted. "But all the money in the world can't bring David back, or undo the loss I felt after he died. And it can't give my children the father they never knew."
"I know."
"And money can't buy forgiveness."
Dawson felt his shoulders sag. "I should go," he said, turning to leave.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, you probably should. But before you leave, there's something else you should know."
When he turned, she willed him to meet her eyes. "I know that what happened was an accident. I've always known that. And I know you'd do anything to change the past. Everything you've done since then makes that clear. And yes, I'll admit that I was angry and frightened and lonely when you came to my house, but I never, ever believed there was anything malicious about your actions that night. It was just one of those awful, terrible things that happen sometimes, and when you came by, I took it out on you." She let the words sink in, and when she went on, her voice was almost kind. "I'm fine now, and my kids are fine, too. We've survived. We're okay."
When Dawson turned away, she waited until he finally faced her again.
"I came here to tell you that you don't need my forgiveness anymore," she said, drawing out the words. "But I also know that's not what any of this has ever been about. It's never been about me, or my family. It's about you. It's always been about you. You've been clinging to a terrible mistake for too long, and if you were my son, I'd tell you that it was time you finally let this go. So let it go, Dawson," she said. "Do that for me."
She stared at him, making sure he understood her, then turned and walked away. Dawson remained frozen as
her figure receded, winding through the sentinel gravestones until she eventually vanished from sight.
18
Amanda drove on autopilot, oblivious to the crawling weekend traffic. Families in minivans and SUVs, some towing boats, thronged the highway after spending the weekend at the beach.
As she drove, she couldn't imagine going home and having to pretend that the past few days hadn't happened. She understood that she could tell no one about them, yet, strangely, she felt no guilt about the weekend, either. If anything, she felt regret, and she found herself wishing that she had done things differently. Had she known from the beginning how their weekend would end, she would have stayed longer with Dawson on their first night together, and she wouldn't have turned away when she'd suspected that he was going to kiss her. She would have seen him Friday night as well, no matter how many lies she had to tell her mother, and she would give anything to have spent all of Saturday wrapped in his arms. After all, had she given in to her feelings sooner, Saturday night might have had a different ending. Perhaps the barriers, the ones that came with her marriage vows, would have been overridden. And they almost were. As they'd danced in the living room, letting him make love to her was all she could think about; as they'd kissed, she'd known exactly what would happen. She wanted him, in the way they'd once been together.
She'd believed she could go through with it; she'd believed that once they reached the bedroom, she would be able to pretend that her life in Durham no longer existed, if only for a night. Even as he undressed her and carried her to the bed, she thought she could set aside the reality of her marriage. But as much as she wanted to be someone else that night, someone free of responsibilities and untenable promises, as much as she wanted Dawson, she knew she was about to cross a line from which there would be no return. Despite the urgency of his touch and the feel of his body against hers, she couldn't give herself over to her feelings.