Forgiveness

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The next evening, I found Leo had slipped his room key under my door with a note.

I forgot to give you this earlier. Thank you for the room. - L

He hadn't even knocked or wanted to talk with me.

The blocky, black handwriting was stark against the paper. I sank onto the sofa, defeated.

Earlier in the day, I'd made Leo a gift, hoping to give it to him that evening. I'd had an old photo of the two of us professionally printed and placed in an elegant silver frame. It had been taken by our parents early in that vacation five years ago. I flashed back to that moment as I sat on the sofa and held the photo in my hands.

"You two, stand over there." Leo's dad had pointed and waved at Leo and me, indicating we should stand next to each other on the hotel terrace. "Closer. Closer. Leo, she's not going to bite you."

Leo's shoulder pressed against mine, and I giggled. I didn't know how else to respond to his nearness.

"This is called the golden hour," my mom chimed in. "Do you see the light? It's golden. Beautiful. You two will look back on this photo and thank us for taking it, because you both look young and perfect right now."

Things were now as far from perfect as they could possibly be.

I had to win him back. Had to get us back to that beautiful, perfect place where we were tangled up in each other. I choked back a sob. God, I was doing a lot of crying lately.

What we'd had as teens was special, but what we could have as adults was sublime. More than ever, I knew the connection I felt for Leo was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and I wasn't going to give up on that easily. But what could I do?

Maybe the best thing was to let him cool down for another night, and then I'd try apologizing again in the morning. I didn't want to chase him or put more pressure on him. He'd looked devastated. Maybe he just needed a bit of space.

Frustrated, I opened Mom's journal and continued to read.

JUNE 12: Jessica continues to be pissed at me over Leo. I didn't think it was possible for a teenage girl to hold a grudge this long. I thought prom and graduation would make her forget about Leo, but she didn't go to prom and spent all of graduation day moping. It's been months. I keep telling her all I want is for her to be her own woman before falling in love. To be self-sufficient and independent. I don't want her to rely on a man at such a young age. I don't want her to be like I was. Young and stupid.

Tears stung my eyes again. Why hadn't Mom trusted me enough to share her past experiences, to share how Adam had broken her heart? Maybe if she had, I would have understood the whole situation more. Maybe we could have made a smart decision together.

I kept reading. Mom's journal continued for several more years, but after that one entry, her words and thoughts about Leo and me disappeared. And as the years went on, Mom wrote less and less. The journal became something of a quick log of mundane events, then tapered off and left out entire seasons. I skimmed the remaining words, looking for something, anything that felt relevant.

The last entry was from a couple months before Mom died.

JAN. 23: Sometimes when I look at Jessica and Jacob, I feel some regret. I don't like him much, but I'm not going to interfere. She's a woman now, a college graduate, and I'm proud of her. She has to make her own decisions. Her own mistakes. I do wonder if I made a mistake with Leo, and I hope she someday forgives me for my decision about that. What if I kept her from her one true love? I worry about that. I wonder what happened to Leo, if he was sent to the Middle East with the Marines. I pray not.

But the past is behind us, and we all have regrets to set aside. Regrets of the past are a waste of the spirit. We have to trust the ones we love will succeed, and we have to forgive them when they fail. It's the only way to go forward.

I folded over, crumpling into a little ball. The tears came, hard and fast. Sadness poured out of me, and for the first time, I understood grief wasn't a linear process. After nearly a year, I finally grasped I'd never be able to ask Mom for advice on anything again. It hit me hard—how I missed her, and how I regretted not making the most of the time we'd had together.

I shuffled into my bedroom, feeling lower and more depressed than ever. Life was too short, I thought as I drifted off. And everything was so damn complicated.

That night, I dreamed of Mom. We were walking on the beach, and I was asking her all the questions I'd amassed in my brain. In the dream, Mom refused to answer. She smiled and walked next to me, looking on the ground and pointing at shells near the ocean's waves. In the dream, I felt myself getting frustrated by Mom's silence, and my questions soon turned to pleas, then desperate anger. Why wouldn't Mom answer?

Mom stopped, her back to the surf, her blue eyes identical to mine.

"Forgive and trust," she said. "It's the only way to go forward."

I woke up with a start, my cheeks wet. I checked the time. It was one in the morning, but I knew what needed to be done.

* * *

"Leo?"

This was odd. The bakery door was open. I came here out of desperation, just in case he decided to sleep here despite the asbestos.

I called his name again, and the sound bounced off the big, industrial appliances. All the lights were on, so when I stepped into the bright bakery kitchen, I expected him to be inside, baking or cleaning. But he was gone.

Hesitantly, I opened two doors—a bathroom, a storage closet—and then a third. There was a staircase, which must have led up to his apartment. Surely he was up there and had just forgotten to turn out the lights. But I really didn't want him sleeping here with all that toxic dust in the air.

The hall light was on, and I walked carefully up the wooden steps, as if they would give out under my weight. At the top of the stairs, I knocked softly on the door. Then I knocked again harder. Nothing.

I tried the doorknob, and it turned easily.

"Leo?"

Opening the door, I took in the sparse apartment beyond. One entire wall was ripped out from construction and sealed off with large, heavy sheets of plastic. I tried not to breathe deeply, because of the weird, dusty smell in the air, and felt a wave of annoyance at him and anger at myself. This was crazy. Leo was so damn stubborn, staying in a place with asbestos that might kill him. I'd do anything to convince him to return to the hotel once I found him.

If only I hadn't been so harsh, he'd still be at the hotel.

I tiptoed around, calling his name. When he wasn't in the living room, kitchen, or bathroom, that's when I began to move faster through the apartment. The knot in my stomach became tighter. Where was he?

I paused in what I guessed was his bedroom. There was a futon on a frame with tangled white sheets atop the mattress, but no Leo. Heart pounding, I walked to a desk where a laptop was open. My hand shook as I tapped the mouse, making the screen flicker to life.

The words on the screen made me scowl. It was a news article about an arson at a Marine recruiting center in New Orleans. An awful event I'd seen on CNN. That must have made him feel terrible, after having served his country, but where the hell was he?

I walked quickly out of the bedroom, went straight outside, and looked for his truck and his Harley. He'd told me he parked both in the alley. There was the Harley, gleaming and still under the streetlight, but his silver F-150 was gone from its usual space. And Leo had left all the lights on and the door open, and it was close to two in the morning? My stomach felt like it was trying to digest shattered glass.

Running to my VW and firing it up, I drove around the island. There weren't many places he could have logically gone, and I could easily hit all the possibilities because Palmira was so small. No bars were open at this time of night on the island. Had he gone over the bridge to Fort Myers? It wouldn't make sense if he did. Not such a long drive. Leo was too meticulous and careful to leave the bakery and his apartment open like that, wasn't he? What if something had happened to him?

I swallowed back tears, gripping the steering wheel to stop the trembling in my hands, and turned down the street near the beach where the sand sculptures were. I slowed my car, and there, in a parking space, was his truck.

I pulled in beside it, peering to see if he was in the cab. Nope. So there was only one place it seemed he could be.

Practically sprinting to the sculpture, I saw him on the sand, kneeling. As if whispering to the beautiful, ethereal mermaid he'd carved.

"Leo? Leo!" I rushed to him, then stopped. His eyes were shining in the moonlight, but looked vacant. Distant. Spooky. And he didn't acknowledge my presence.

"Oh my God, I think you're sleepwalking," I whispered mostly to myself.

What could I do? I'd read somewhere you weren't supposed to wake a sleepwalker. Was that a myth? I wasn't sure and didn't want to test it.

Leo muttered a few words, and I watched in horror and confusion. Most of what he said was unintelligible, but some made it clear he was talking about Afghanistan. He muttered something about the desert and dry heat. Then he repeated one phrase.

"I'm sorry."

Kneeling before him, I uttered his name in a soft whisper. Repeated it several times, then touched his thigh. He stopped talking and moved forward, resting his forehead on my shoulder. I embraced his broad body as if he were fragile, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, he was waking up from his dream.

I caressed his back and found his T-shirt soaked through with sweat. Blinking away tears, I wondered if this was what he'd wanted to keep from me. Was he embarrassed? He seemed so damaged. All of this had to be from his PTSD. From serving his country. From trying to be a man and then being yelled at by me for abandoning me when we were teens.

I fought back a sob. "Leo, baby, we need to get you some help."

He wrenched himself from my arms. His eyes were wild and feral, and he reared back, panting. "What? Who—? Jessica! Where—?"

"It's okay." I gently put my hands on his arms and repeated myself several times, almost as if I were the one who needed convincing. "Just breathe. Slow."

"Jess." His voice broke. "It's not okay."

He scrambled to his feet and walked toward the ocean, and I followed.

"It will. It'll be okay. It's okay now." I realized I was barraging him with words, but I didn't care. All I wanted was my Leo back.

He turned to me, and I saw a single tear slide down his face.

"It's not," he said. "I haven't told you everything."

____

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