Seeking Absolution

“You going to meetings? Following the steps?”

My parole officer glares at me over the top of his black-rimmed reading glasses. Jack Conrod sits behind a messy wooden desk that takes up most of the space in the small office. He’s aged since the first time I met him, the first time I got out. Now I’m back, and let’s just say he’s not happy to see me.

“Yeah, man, I’m going to the meetings. Fifth Street Church.”

“And the steps?” Jack insists; he lets nothing slide.

I shift in my chair, wipe sweating palms down the legs of my worn jeans. “I’m kinda stuck on number nine.”

“Ah yes, making amends.” Jack leans to his left to see past me and reads from the aging poster pinned to the bulletin board there. “Starts with Number 8: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all. You make your list?” His eyes swing back to me.

“Yeah, I made the list.”

He nods, reads again from the poster. “Which leads to Number 9: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”

Jack tosses his glasses on the desk and leans back in his squeaking chair. “So, what seems to be the problem, Gordo?”

“It’s a long damn list, Jacko, that’s the problem. I don’t know where to start.”

Jack takes his time to respond, leaning back over his desk, resting on crossed forearms as he studies me. “Gordon,” he finally says, “I’m not your sponsor so I don’t know what advice he’d give you, but here’s mine. In the words of the talented and lovely Ms. Meryl Streep: start by starting. Just pick one, man, go from there. Maybe start with the one who needs it the most.”

As the bus belches its way back across town to the halfway house, I mentally review the list I’ve worked up. Try to prioritize it, although it’s pretty obvious who I’ve hurt the worst. But there’s no bringing him back. There can be no amends to Scottie for ripping his life away at five years old. It’s hard to get forgiveness from a corpse.

It’s doubtful that Scottie’s mother Gracie will be too keen on forgiveness either. But she’d be next on the list. I keep mulling over how best to approach her, know my words won’t come out right when I’m standing in front of her.

Once back in my kitchen, I pull a dusty spiral notebook from on top of the refrigerator and start to write, first listing what I want to say to her, then formulating it into a letter. There’s a pile of crumpled discards on the floor by my feet before I’m satisfied, but eventually I push away from the table and go to bed.

In the morning, I review the letter over my oatmeal, then rip the page from the notebook and fold it into thirds. I place the emptied bowl in the sink, use the bathroom one more time and slip into my jacket. I tuck the letter into the inside pocket.

The cross-town bus drops me a few blocks from Gracie’s house. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that it is now her house, even though it used to be our house, our home. I’m not worthy. Never was. I probably should have warned her that I was coming, but I couldn’t give her the chance to turn me down.

Gracie’s eyes widen at the sight of me. She moves quickly to slam the door. I put out a hand to stop it, speak through the cracked opening.

“Please, Gracie. Can we just talk for a minute? It’s important. Please.”

She sighs, opens the door, slips through onto the porch as I step back.  We settle into a set of weathered wicker chairs.

I pull the letter from my pocket. “I wrote you a letter, but I wanted to say this in person. So I’m just going to read it to you. Will you let me do that?”

Gracie gives a grudging nod.

“Dear Gracie,” I begin. “First, I need you to know that I have never stopped loving you. You were always my bright star, my peace, my rock. I know how badly I hurt you, hurt us. I need you to know that I’d do anything to change what happened, but I can’t do that. I can’t change the past. I can only take responsibility for my actions, and I’m doing that. I have done that.”

I steal a look at Gracie. Her jaw is clenched, and she glares across the street to where old Mrs. Benimin sits watching. I continue. “I’m in recovery, Gracie. Six years sober. I go to meetings every day; I’m working the steps. Every day I pray for the strength to stay sober and live an honest, responsible life. I’ve got a steady job, and I’m trying. Trying really hard.”

My voice cracks a bit, but the hardest part is next. I take a breath, let it out, go on. “Gracie, I’m hoping you can somehow find it within yourself to forgive me. But I understand if you can’t.”

Gracie is staring at me now, her face has reddened, her mouth slightly agape. She starts to speak but I stop her with a lift of my palm.

“Please, just let me finish.” I slip the bronze six-year AA chip from my pocket and hold it out to her. “I want you to have this. As a symbol of my commitment to trying to make things right, to doing better. Being better.”

Gracie erupts from her chair and slaps the chip from my hand in one smooth motion.

“I don’t want your damn coin, Gordon. Your damn coin won’t bring him back. You murdered our son. Do you know what that did to me? I think about him all the time. Every. Single. Day.” Her voice rises with each word and her spittle speckles my face as she points a shaking finger back the way I’d come. “Go, and don’t you ever come back!”

Under the watchful eye of Mrs. Benimin, I retrieve the chip from where it landed on the peeling floor. My fingers close around it as I walk away.

I can’t say that Gracie’s reaction surprises me, it went about like I expected it to. But I think about Scottie all the time too. Every minute of every day. I loved him just as much as she did, although I suppose a mother’s love is different. And Scottie loved me back, adored me with his big, bright eyes, followed me around, reached for me with his little hands. God only knows why, but he did. Right up until the day I smashed our car into a tree in my drunken state. I should have been the one to die, but it was him.

The cemetery Gracie chose is just a few blocks from her house and I make my way there. She handled all the arrangements - chose the cemetery, the headstone, all of it. I had forfeited my rights, she said. I accepted that. And she chose well, it’s a beautiful place. I refer to the onsite directory, wander the tree-shaded rows until I find his spot.

I lower myself to the ground before the stone, trace the engraved letters with a shaking forefinger:

Scott Anthony Perkeen

06/25/2012 – 12/24/2017

Beloved son, taken from us too soon

“I’m so, so sorry, little man,” I choke as tears drip into the grass. “Just know that I will love you forever.”

Once home, I stand before the mirror in my tiny bathroom, studying the scars that are a daily, glaring reminder of the event I cannot escape. I know I have to do this, but I struggle to get the words out. They finally come in a croaked whisper.

“I forgive you.”

My fist reacts to the lie, seemingly of its own accord, as it smashes into the mirror. That particular absolution is never going to happen. Ever.