More Than We Can Tell

By the time they release me from the police station, night has fallen, and the pain in my wrist has gone from fire to inferno. The skin is swollen and purple under my sleeve. I’ve been gritting my teeth for the last hour, but I’ve been terrified they would charge me with assault, so I’ve kept my mouth shut and tried to be invisible.

I wonder if I’m going to have to call Mom and Dad, but an officer leads me out to the front lobby, and they’re both there, waiting. Matthew isn’t with them.

Dad doesn’t even wait for me to clear the desk. He grabs me in a hug.

Mom piles on, too.

“I told you to wait,” she says. Her voice is full of emotion. “Rev, I told you to wait.”

I want to hug them back, but all this motion is jostling my arm, and the pain is so intense that I’m worried I’m going to throw up on them instead.

“I love you, too.” My voice is strained. “But Mom? I really think I need an X-ray.”

My wrist is broken. Again.

I don’t know why, but it seems fitting. A symbol of breaking away from my father.

This time, for good.

I’m sitting in the orthopedic waiting room with Mom and Dad. I’ve told them everything he said. They aren’t mad that I went to see him.

They’re mad that I didn’t tell them where I was going.

I’ve heard a litany of what-ifs that could fill a book.

But I listen to all of them. I listen and let their love and concern fill me up.

They take me home.

I sleep like the dead.