Blue
Keegan rushes into my arms as soon as I step into the main house at the ranch, and I forget for a moment that I’m mad at her.
It is so good to see her, feel her skin against mine, smell on her this delicious mix of woodsmoke and cold air and girly scent from the lotion she always puts on.
It’s so good to hear her voice, to let her tearful words tickle my throat. Keegan. My Keegan.
I could stand there forever. I want to let the world shrink down to just the two of us. But then I open my eyes and see Mama’s face.
When you’re a kid and you cause your mother pain, you don’t feel the full measure of it. That’s because you’re still shielded by her; you’re still allowed to be selfish and thoughtless. That’s one of things mothers do, I guess.
But when you’re an adult, guilt claims you as its own and your mother can no longer absorb it on your behalf, no matter how much she wants to.
My arms fall away from Keegan, and I step toward Mama. I’ve never seen her looking so old and anguished, not even when Bill died.
We stare at each other for a few seconds, and then she reaches up and puts her hands on my face. “Why didn’t you tell me, Blue?” she whispers, her voice hurt and bewildered. “Why didn’t you come to me? Why?”
“Mama…” I swallow, barely capable of getting the words out, “I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t.”
She presses my cheeks with her cold hands, and I stare down at her, unable to explain. Then Holmlund is tugging on my arm, urging me further into the living room, and Keegan is sliding my jacket off my shoulders.
“Stand over by the fire, Blue,” Keegan says softly. “You’re shivering.”
I’m not shaking because I’m cold. I am ashamed and confused. I’m also fucking pissed, even though I know I’m being unreasonable.
But I go over to the huge stone fireplace like a good little boy, and I let Virginia Cooke put a Scotch glass in my hand.
“Hello again, Blue,” she says, looking me over the way a pest inspector would regard a wall crawling with cockroaches.
She tips a bottle of Macallan 18—the same expensive stuff my dad liked—over my glass. “You look like you could use a drink,” she adds with a cold smile.
A drop of the amber-colored liquid splashes on my unsteady hand, and I keep my eyes on it, not wanting to look up at Keegan’s grandmother.
I feel like a fly caught in a web as the spider creeps closer.
When Virginia moves away, I sip the Scotch and let my eyes wander over the lavishly decorated Christmas tree on the opposite side of the room.
Keegan and Mama are hovering nearby, obviously waiting for me to say something. But I stay silent, watching Holmlund and Virginia as they confer.
Occasionally, they look over at me, two pairs of eyes scrutinizing me like I’m a prize pig at the state fair.
Then Holmlund summons Mama and Keegan, and the four of them put their heads together.
Holmlund is doing most of the talking. I hear “PTSD” and “act of mercy.” Then, “No way he could have foreseen…” And then, “I’m going to turn Blue’s case into a cause célèbre.”
Holmlund turns partway toward me, his arm stretched out; with each word, his voice gets a little louder, more demanding, like a barker in a circus trying to entice a crowd into a sideshow tent.
And I’m the fucking sideshow.
“I’m going to start a national conversation with this trial,” Holmlund boasts. “I’m going to get the whole damn country talking about what our veterans have suffered, about what a terrible—”
I lose it. I just lose it.
Suddenly, I’m smashing my glass into the fireplace and screaming. Screaming at Fancy Pants and the Spider. Screaming at Keegan and my mother. Hell, screaming at God. Or Fate. Or my own screwed-up soul.
I scream that I don’t want to be a cause. I scream that there is no way in hell I’m going to become a ‘national conversation.’ I scream stuff that doesn’t even make any sense.
That’s because I am no longer seeing the shocked faces in front of me. Instead, I’m seeing once again the faces that I miss so much, the faces I’d give anything, do anything, to restore to life.
What the fuck do I think I’m doing here, toasting my lying backside by the fire and sipping Scotch like some lord of the manor who doesn’t have a care in the world? Like some self-centered, clueless college student who doesn’t have three deaths on his conscience.
I can’t stay in this room for one more second.
So I stomp out of the house, my combat boots pounding the polished wood floor.
~~~
Thanks for reading Tangled Up in Blue! More coming soon. What do you think so far?
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