DEKKER

 

WHEN HE’S FINISHED WITH HIS story, with the guilt that owns him and has owned him for sixteen years, tears are on my cheeks and so much sadness is in my heart.

There’s also a healthy dose of anger too, but not at him. No way. His decision that day was of a young kid lashing out at a harsh father’s favoritism. It was his way of rebelling for being made to miss a teenager’s rite of passage. While consequences are consequences, the ones his father put on him that day, and Hunter’s decision to refuse to collect his mom, are in no way worthy of a lifetime of devastating guilt and a life sentence of penance.

And he’s borne the burden daily. Bullied to believe he must attain the things his brother may have achieved, because who knows? Jonah may have had an injury. He may have gotten into a different car at another time with alcohol in his blood. Who knows? But to be made to feel less than when he, Hunter Maddox, has achieved nearly every accolade possible, is the captain of an NHL team, is one of the highest paid hockey players in the US. It’s . . . it’s criminal.

The hardest thing to process though, is how to make Hunter see and comprehend the reprehensible injustice. It was Jonah’s choice to get behind the wheel and drive drunk. No one knows what the future held for Jonah, so how could he be responsible for robbing him of something that hadn’t happened yet?

But his words were so powerful. A life led with guilt and regret. Wanting to take back something that happened so long ago, when there’s no way he can know what would have happened if he were the one in the car that day either.

“Hunter.” I shake my head. “There is so much to say, so many comments I want to make; I don’t know where to start.” I reach out and lace my fingers with his, the tears on his cheeks dried long ago, but the pain they leave behind so very visible.

“Don’t say anything. Please. I don’t deserve any sympathy. I don’t deserve to feel better or to rationalize it all away. I’ve spent years doing that. I’ve spent nights slamming the puck into the net as hard as I can to help and it doesn’t, because when it all comes down to it, look at me and the life I have, and then look at Jonah and the life he’s been left with.” He goes to pull his hand away, but I hold on tight to it. “I definitely don’t fucking deserve it.”

“Survivor’s guilt is real.” My voice is a whisper, a small offer in the giant chasm that one incident left.

His chuckle is hollow. “It’s so much more than that.” He shoves up off the couch and moves to the windows to look at the morning outside. The city as it comes to life. His hands are shoved in his pockets and his shoulders are squared, as if he’s about to go on the defensive after everything he’s confided in me.

“You didn’t make Jonah drive drunk that day, regardless of what happened before he grabbed the keys. You didn’t steal his career, because who knows what could have happened—I mean, professional athletes are injured all the time. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to live a life paying for things you had no control over.”

My words hang in the air. My only hope is that they somehow cling to his soul and add some balance to the harrowing grief and guilt and gravity that have domineered it for so long.

“Maybe I hated him because he was better than me at everything.”

“Siblings hate each other as much as they love each other. That doesn’t mean you wanted or willed this to happen. That rivalry is a normal thing. There’s jealousy one minute and horsing around the next. There’s tattling to your parents one second and then sneaking into her bed the next to giggle and tell ghost stories when you’re supposed to be asleep. It’s a yin and yang that no one else understands unless they have a sibling.”

“I was jealous of him. Plain and simple. Of the girls who fell at his feet. Of the constant praise he got on the ice. Of the grades that came easily, while I studied all the time . . . of fucking everything.”

“Of the things your father pitted you against each other over.” I’m quiet when I speak, afraid I’ve overstepped, but I heard the animosity when he shared his story. “That doesn’t mean you’re at fault. That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to have a life. That doesn’t mean you don’t get to love and be loved. To laugh and have someone to laugh with.”

“It’s the fact that he was better than me,” he says with a shrug, as if he didn’t hear me. I don’t take offense, because maybe he didn’t want to hear it yet. It may be background noise to his thoughts right now but when the emotions settle, he’ll remember what I said, and I hope he’ll know it’s true. “Maybe that’s why I resented him. He was always perfect, and I was always the one who needed more work. Hell, maybe I secretly wanted the spotlight and was sick of being in his shadow.” He chuckles, but there’s so much sadness in the words. “Christ, that sounds stupid. We were the same in every way, but that he had more talent in his little pinkie than I did in total played a part.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I murmur.

“Go dig up our high school records. He still holds a couple that were made through our junior year. Could you imagine what he would have done if he had one more year?” He turns to look at me now, the city and morning sunshine at his back.

“I hear what you’re saying, Hunter, but these are all normal things kids go through. I can tell you athletes peak at different times. Some people have natural talent while others have more heart and have to work harder to get it. But none of this”—I point to the space between us where the reasons I’ve pointed out are hovering like neon signs—“is why Jonah is paralyzed.”

“How can you say that?” He raises his voice, but it loses its gusto on the last word.

“Because you didn’t make Jonah get behind the wheel,” I say so he might hear me again. “Sure, you were pissed at him and didn’t get your mom like you were supposed to. Yes, you were duped by his girlfriend, who apparently wanted to brag she’d slept with both twins, but you, Hunter Maddox, didn’t cause this. You didn’t make him slide behind the wheel. He was already drinking, knowing he was picking up Terry Fischer and taking her to the dance. He had your mom’s car, yet he was drinking.” I pause, watching him contemplate something it seems he never considered—or rather, let himself consider. “And,” I continue quietly, “you sure as hell aren’t the reason your parents can’t seem to step away from being Jonah’s caregiver and be supportive parents to you.”

Because that’s the other crucial part of this he’s not addressing. He not only lost his brother that day in the everyday sense he was used to, but he also lost his parents. They became so busy taking care of and cruelly coronating Jonah, that they forgot they had another son living and dying for the affection and approval any kid craves from their parents.

And the look on his face says I just hit the nail on the head with the other part of this whole tragedy—the little kid in him deserves love and affection instead of expectations and blame.

“But—”

“You didn’t give your dad the heart attack, and you sure as hell don’t deserve to live your life trying to make up for something you had no control over.”

“Stop. Please, just stop,” he says to me, covering his ears to prevent my words from hitting them.

“No, Hunter. No.” I step toward him, toward his disbelieving eyes and shaking head. “I’m not going to stop, because you need to hear this.” I reach out and grab his hands from his ears so he can hear me and whisper, “You need to hear you’re not at fault. You need to stop drowning in guilt and burning in anger that’s not yours to bear.”

His eyes well and his chin trembles, and every part of me wishes I could convince him of the truth in my words. “You don’t understand. No one does.” He jerks his hands out of mine as his anger takes hold as his moment of vulnerability and need give way to self-loathing and fury. “It’s like every time I see him there in that goddamn prison of a chair or bed, I hate myself even more. Do you know what it’s like to sit there and know what he could have been? The incredible things he could have done? I do. I know a fraction of what he feels because it was like that when I was a kid. Sitting by while your brother did everything you were dying inside to do, but couldn’t. No one was ever as good as Jonah. In our house, at our school, at our church. Not a single fucking person was.”

“Is that why you’re always angry?” I ask, trying to connect dots on a chart I can’t see.

“You’re goddamn right, I’m angry.” His voice thunders around the small space, his hands fisting and his shoulders tensing. “Don’t you get it? I’ve been running so damn long trying to chase the ghost of who he could have been, that it’s the reason I’m burned out. That’s why I hate the game I used to love but can’t say a damn word, because who the fuck am I to complain? I make millions a year. I have records I’m chasing. I’m living the damn dream. All that’s left is the Stanley Cup, and I’m going to win it if it kills me, because it’s the least I can fucking do for him.”

“But what about you? When do you get to have a life? When do you get to have someone to go home to at night? To wrap your arms around her and then lose yourself in when shit gets too tough? To laugh with, to fight with, to live with. When do you get to live, Hunter?”