A Brand New Ending (Page 72)

“Yes, that’d be great. Thanks for calling. I’ll see you next week.”

He clicked off and jumped in front of his laptop. He brought up the website for LWW Enterprises, focusing on Presley Cabot. Head of the publishing division, and one of the main owners of LWW Enterprises. She had an impressive client list—all popular bestsellers and a nice assortment of various genres. Many had gone on to be adapted into successful films with well-known directors. She looked young to head a multimillion-dollar empire, which made her even more impressive.

“Kyle! Babe, are you ready? We’re late!”

“Coming!” He pulled his shirt on, grabbed a casual jacket, and headed down the stairs. “Are we picking him up?”

Ophelia grabbed his arm, and they raced out the door. “No, he had to go early, so we’ll meet him there. Are you nervous?”

“A little. I’ve never gone to one of these before.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “It’ll be fine. Who were you talking to?”

He ignited the engine and turned to face his wife with a big grin. “You’re not going to believe this, baby. I think I’m going to sell my book.”

Her eyes widened. “Tell me everything.”

And he did.

The small room was crowded. Folding chairs were neatly lined up, and the scent of coffee and doughnuts drifted in the air. The walls were dull yellow. Water stains spotted the ceiling. The linoleum floor was slanted and cracked, but there was an energy that burned in the room that made the surroundings fade away.

Patrick stood on the small podium and stared at the large group. Kyle noticed his hands trembling slightly. For a brief moment, Kyle wondered if he’d be able to go through with it, but Tony flanked his left side and gave him an encouraging nod.

“My name is Patrick Kimpton, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hello, Patrick,” a chorus of voices responded.

He began to speak. Kyle sat motionless, holding his wife’s hand, and heard the truth about his father—raw and unfiltered. How he’d started drinking at twelve years old to avoid his parents’ abusive fighting. How he felt funnier, and braver, and bigger when he drank. How he’d met Kyle’s mother in a bar, and they’d fallen in love during endless weekend parties and over constant cocktails. At one point, his father stopped, wiped his sweating brow, and dragged in a breath. Kyle swallowed past the lump in his throat and wondered if he would quit.

But he didn’t. He pushed through.

Kyle learned how much his father loved his mother, and he realized for the first time how much he’d been wanted. But alcohol had become just as important.

“My wife got pregnant. We were so happy, because we’d been trying for so long. She begged me to cut down on my drinking. Finally, I agreed. I figured it would be easy. A little detox, like a juice diet to take off some weight.

“I got the shakes within hours. But even worse were my thoughts. I needed that drink more than my next breath. I knew I could do anything, be anything my wife wanted, if only I had a few drinks. The cycle began again. And again.”

Grief ravaged Patrick’s face. His hands shook harder, but he seemed to hear the low murmurs of approval from the group, the whispered encouragements surrounding him, and he continued.

“When my wife went into premature labor, I was at the bar getting drunk. When she started bleeding out on the floor, calling out my name, I told my friends she was only tracking me down to nag me. When she finally crawled to the phone half-conscious and called 911, I was playing darts and belting back shots of whiskey. And when I got to the hospital where my son was being born, I was smashed out of my mind.

“I held her hand, smelling of liquor. When she began to crash, the doctor said they’d have to take the baby by C-section. She turned to me, gripped my hand, and told me if there was a choice to be made, to save the baby at all costs. Then she smiled at me with such peace and happiness. I didn’t understand what was going on. It was like she knew. She said she loved me. She told me to take care of our son. And then they got her into the operating room, and she died on the table.”

Tears stung Kyle’s eyes. He shook his head hard, trying to clear his thoughts. The retelling of his father’s life and his mother’s death was tearing Patrick apart. Yet he pushed on.

“I raised my son as a drunk. Somehow, in my twisted-up head, I blamed him for Catherine’s death. A baby. My baby. The son we had tried so hard for and prayed for—my precious baby boy. I treated him like a piece of garbage, secondary to the bottle. I had people help me raise him, and I kept him at a distance. I told him regularly that he’d caused his mother’s death. One time, I found him looking through old photo albums. He asked me so many questions about his mother, I went nuts. The guilt was too much for me, so I punished him by taking them away and lying, saying that I burned all the pictures. I watched my son cry, and I betrayed him every day. I watched him grow up without a father and was haunted by my wife’s sad pleas in the dark of the night.

“My son learned to hate me. At eighteen, he left to make his own life, and I was alone with my memories. I became the town drunk. I lost the farm. I lost my friends. I lost everything worth having, but I had my precious bottle.

“And then one night, I had a dream. Catherine came to me and said it wasn’t too late. I remember the words clearly: ‘Our son may never forgive you, but you owe it to yourself to try and get your life back. Be worthy of your family. Of yourself. It’s never too late.’

“I woke up and looked at my nightstand. There was a bottle waiting for me. Then I got out of bed, got dressed, and drove down to the church. I sat in the pew and prayed for strength. I prayed for my son. I prayed for the dead wife I’d betrayed. I sat for hours on that hard bench, not moving. When I finally got up, I went to my first AA meeting.

“The next day, I went to another. Sometimes I went two or three times per day. And I haven’t stopped. That was a year ago.”

Men and women nodded. Some cried. Two walked out, raw pain carved into their features as they faced their own demons. In that small room, people shared their pain and vulnerability and ghosts of the past and present. In that small room, there were not only acceptance and understanding. There was forgiveness.

There was the power of second chances.

His father cleared his throat and looked straight at Kyle. Those familiar green eyes were clear. Full of regret. And full of love that emanated across the room in waves.

“My son, Kyle, is here tonight with his wife, Ophelia. Somehow, their hearts were big enough to come hear my story. To hear my apology. I submit to a higher power and believe I am worthy of forgiveness. Every day, I choose not to drink. Every day, I choose life. I love you, son. Thank you.”

He stepped off the podium. Tony whispered to him, clapping him on the shoulder, then made the announcement that everyone should help themselves to doughnuts and coffee. The buzz of conversation rose in the air. Hugs were exchanged. Support given.

Kyle sat with Ophelia, feeling as if his world had spun on its axis, then finally righted itself.

His father made his way through the crowd and stopped in front of him. Vulnerability and exhaustion carved out the features of his face. “Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice a bit choked.

Kyle stared at his father for a long while. The memories of the past rose up, full of bitterness and pain; they mixed with fleeting images of love and joy with Ophelia, and at the inn.