Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,122
the first four or five, but as he’d sat here and watched person after person bare their soul, he realized that this very process of truth and sharing was the thing that made their stories not so horribly unique. Their courage bound them and allowed them to shuffle together into the light of whatever tomorrow might hold.
The flies beat themselves against the high windows, an oddly pleasing hum.
“I been under a lot of pressure,” Andre said. “And I caved. Because, hey, what’s better when you already got a ton of problems than adding a buncha self-inflicted ones, too?”
A lot of nods. Evan saw the wreckage in the faces around him. And some deep-seated wisdom as well.
“My first meeting, my sponsor told me, ‘If God seems far away, who moved?’” Andre laughed. “I been crawlin’ away for a long time. From my God, from my—” His voice caught. He pressed together his lips until they stopped trembling. “From my daughter.”
He looked down at the podium as if there were notes he could refer to. “I remember two years back around this time. Sofia was … she was nine. I was strugglin’ real bad. Paycheck going to the liquor store. Head in the bottle. All the other families around had their Christmas lights and decorations and all that shit that takes time and … I don’t know, care, I guess. And there’s this awful feeling at the back of your head that you’re no longer just fuckin’ up your own life but someone else’s, someone too young to even make the choice or know what they’re missing out on, but they are, and you know it, and that’s a whole other kind of loneliness, and you can’t help but have the sense that someone’s watching you, not God really, but some other something, and that thing is never gonna forgive you even if she does. You’re breakin’ apart, but you try’na hold it together for the gifts, two Barbie dolls and a sweater three sizes too big, and my girl grateful for it, loving the toys that I stopped by Goodwill for the night before, that I wrapped with too much tape in leftover wrapping paper with cake and candles, and the kid is so grateful for the badly wrapped fucking Barbies you could just hate her for not knowin’ she deserves better. But you don’t. You hate you. And you see it in her eyes, how much you … you know, you’re just failing. At being a adult.”
Andre breathed wetly for a time.
“And instead of fighting that failure, insteada making it better, you give in to it.” He caught himself. “I did. I gave in to it. I wallowed. I told myself all my pain entitled me to something. A break, right? Just a fucking break. And I haven’t seen my baby in one year, five months, and sixteen days. And I don’t know if I’m gonna have the chance to again.”
He sobbed into the L of his thumb and forefinger for a time, and everyone let him.
They just let him.
Evan looked around in disbelief. All that patience and acceptance and quiet support on display, and Evan squirming in the face of it.
He forced himself to sit still in what he was feeling. To mirror the people around him with their prematurely lined faces, their breath heavy with coffee, clothes reeking of old cigarette smoke. He tried to see what they knew, what they’d learned.
The First Commandment: Assume nothing.
Including that Evan knew a damn thing about anything.
Andre saw in Evan all kinds of bravery. But sitting here in his folding chair, Evan saw only his deficits. To talk about his deepest shame and failings here in this arena was unthinkable. He’d imagined himself as a guiding light to Andre, drawing him toward some kind of wholeness. But he realized now that Andre had just as much to teach him, if he were only willing to pay attention.
And then Andre picked up his head. “But I’m gonna try ’n’ do better. For myself and for her. I’m gonna try ’n’ find grace again. Thank you.”
Everyone clapped for him, and he nodded a few times and then caught Evan’s eye, his playful smile suddenly, alarmingly familiar. “I want to invite my friend Evan up to share.”
Dozens of sets of eyes lasered to Evan.
He felt all his goodwill toward Andre dissipate. In the windows the flies buzzed and buzzed. The scent of scorched coffee wafted from the rear table.