“No,” I lie.
Her teeth grind together as she nods.
She’s the strong one. She’s the one who doesn’t cry.
If things were different, if I had the power to forgive her, I probably would, but I don’t have that power.
And what I did to her is just as unforgivable.
I let go of her hand and stand up, wading into the water until the waves crash against my feet.
Liesel was raped, had a baby, and let him go. And all I did was watch from the sidelines, thinking I was doing the right thing.
No, I did do the right thing, even though it killed me.
Liesel did one decent thing—give up her baby for adoption. Still, it doesn’t forgive her for what she did after.
“I hate you, Liesel, but not because of this. You saving that baby, getting him away from Enzo’s father, that was the bravest thing you’ve ever done. I hate myself for not being there for you.”
“I hate you for not being there that night. But I hate you more for trapping me here and threatening to kill me. What did I do to make you hate me like this?”
I ignore her question. “Thank you for the truth. You gained back the week you lost yesterday.”
Then I walk back into the house—a broken, weak man. I’m afraid of what I’m going to do next. Weak men only make mistakes.
23
Liesel
Langston thinks I told the truth, maybe because he wants it to be the truth.
I hate children.
I wanted to be childless.
I was forced to have the baby.
I wanted to give my baby up.
I’m not sure which parts of the story are truths and which are lies. That’s not true. I know, I just can’t admit the truth. It’s too painful.
But there is one big part that I lied about.
Giving my child up was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was torment. That was the last time I remember crying. The last time I remember feeling anything. After that, I became numb. I became a bitch a hundred percent of the time instead of most of the time.
It doesn’t shock me to think that Langston thinks everything I said was the truth. He wants to believe what I said was as awful as it gets. That I have a child out there somewhere, and I gave him up rather than have his rapist father hunt and search for him.
After my child was adopted, I was shocked that Enzo’s father never came to claim him. I thought he was just biding his time.
Thank God, he’s dead now. I’d do it myself if he wasn’t.
My heart bleeds on the inside. For once, I wish I could cry, could show real emotion. But if I ever started, I would never stop.
Langston cried, though.
He can still feel pain.
And I can still tell when he’s lying.