Pieces of Camden (Hole-Hearted #1) (19 page)

The waves keep time on their own terms, the ebbing tide rising with the sun. Speckles of gold reflect in the distance. A gull breaks from a tree, its cry echoing over the rumbling waves, neither realizing nor caring about the war I’m set to wage on myself. I shiver.

The sea foams, slapping the cool sand with surging waves. Swell after swell, it heaves, taking what it wants. Never giving in return. Plunging, pummeling, expunging.

In a muted plea, the wind stills, the electricity resonating in the air passing through me.

“Yeah,” I mutter, the extended perfection of the beach stretching before me with towering dunes.

Another wave swells, a solitary mercenary whose soul stirs with each crash, frothing before it retreats back to sea.

“I’m ready,” I whisper into the cool air.

I turn around, my footprints in the sand following me home.

The mirrored wall can’t hide the devil pulling my strings, clawing at my skin. With my fingers gripping the bathroom sink, I look away from the image, a wordless message of all my many flaws and disappointments.

On lead feet, I shuffle to the bed where I sit and hide my face behind my hands. I hurt. Everywhere. Like a thousand needles pricking my flesh. Already, I know I can’t do this, and it hasn’t even been twelve hours since I had my last pill.

The day slowly ticked by, each second weighing on my resolve, on my spirit. Santiago spoke about fishing, about collecting shells for Olivia, about sunsets and the surf. I listened with a haphazard ear, the only sound resonating being the clamoring pulse of my heart. The tide rose and fell. Lunch and dinner came and went. Too nauseous to eat, all that my stomach claimed was the cup of coffee I’d drunk earlier this morning.

Shame rises, and my spirit lingers…barely, wanting to retreat from the radiating aches of withdrawal.

I ease my body onto the mattress and press a pillow to my stomach, hoping to ease the nausea.

The back of my head throbs. My stinging eyes sear into the ceiling. Anxiety creeps up my spine, so I roll over and stand up. Rough hands rub my face, and I take a step away from the bed. My feet continue to move, each step falling unheard on the bright walls.

Emotions, raw and tender, flood me, my past and future mixing together so that all I see is the horrifying idea of living my life without relief. The boy who felt too much and the man who can’t stop running from the agonizing misery, clash and mold into one trembling figure.

My shoulders drop, bitterness moving over me, as my back hunches over, and I lean my hands onto my knees. Hatred silences me, pours freely from me, as I gasp for air I can’t find. My disease taunts me from the inside, demanding a way out, to expose me as the fucking disaster that I am.

The walls quiver and begin to close in on me, so I rush to the door and turn the knob with an unsteady hand. Lost in my aching body, I hang my head, my heart pounding with every painful thought, as I leave my room and walk to the living room.

Santiago stands when he sees me, his eyes wide with worry. I look back at him in a blank stare, silently pleading with him to help me. The sharp blade of his disappointment cuts into me, making me bleed.

Quitting without weaning myself from the pills I’ve habitually taken for years was a bad idea. He warned me against it, but when I refused to take another pill, wanting them all out of my system as soon as possible so that I could go back to Yanelys and Olivia, he flushed them down the toilet.

My eyes shift to the sofa, and after he nods his head once in my direction, he sits back down. I sit on the spot next to him, on the other side of the small couch, and wrap my arms around my chest as we turn our attention to the blinking television in front of us.

This life…this life I’ve been living with a broken heart, a broken mind, a broken soul tugs at me so that I can’t see beyond the despair. Or the damn loneliness.

And I remember a time I was so alone that even the sky cried. Stormy clouds hung over me as I wandered the streets, trying to escape Yanelys, Pastor Floyd, and Haiti. My tattered, wasted existence with no hope for an easy escape. I screamed, my lungs burning from the exertion. The clouds opened and shed the tears I’d struggled to hold on to.

Steely brown eyes watch me, and I squirm on the sofa with my knees shaking. On a soft grunt, Santiago leans forward and grabs something from the coffee table, which he hands to me without uttering a word. My fingers run over the glossy finish before I open my hand to find a picture of Yanelys and Olivia smiling back at me, the vibrant color of their souls gripping me.

For a long time, I sit there, taking in my girls, with a smile painted on my face. Even though I hurt, even though I’m being torn apart by grief and uncertainty, I smile. And I feel them, their love, their light, their trust.

I reach deep inside myself to where a tiny flicker of hope remains, and I know I’ll survive. My life will not come from the years of my existence but through the damage that kept me alive.

TWENTY-FIVE

YANELYS

A white double-wide trailer stands in front of an open field with a volleyball court on its side. Children run, their laughter chasing after them, while adults talk among themselves. An older man, about my dad’s age but with a head full of gray hairs, walks to me with a knowing smile.

“You’re Yanelys,” he says, putting his hands in his jeans pockets.

I nod. “You must be Pastor Floyd.”

With the necessary introductions out of the way, the awkwardness of the situation claims the confidence I mustered up on the drive over.

“Camden carried your picture with him everywhere he went,” he explains.

I dig the toe of my shoe into the ground.

“Do you want to talk in my office?” His blue eyes shift toward another double-wide that sits behind his church.

I bite my bottom lip but nod again.

His steps are small and cautious as we make our way over the well-manicured lawn. Although old, the trailer homes are tidy, the sidings still white with a light yellowish tint running along the edges.

“Once a week, Camden cleans both homes and goes over the sidings to keep them looking clean,” Pastor Floyd tells me when he sees my appreciative inspection of both homes.

My eyes dart and roam the grass when he says Camden’s name. “They’re very nice.”

“He’s painted them once already, but they’re old, and up until Camden came, no one really took care of them. He also mows the lawn and cleans up after services.”

“That’s great,” I say, easing myself onto the two steps to the trailer home that houses Pastor Floyd’s office. I take in both homes and the open field surrounding it.

And it is. Camden maintaining a place he must love is great. And completely Camden. I don’t know why I’m surprised.

When I walk through the door, a somber teenager greets me from a couch in the reception area. His eyes barely meet mine, and I see the same insecurity that looked back at me when Camden and I were kids. I give him a hopeful smile that he turns away from, and I follow Pastor Floyd to his office.

Taking an offered seat, I put my hands on my lap and fidget.

Pastor Floyd coughs. “What can I do for you, Yanelys?”

I fold my hands and take a deep breath. “You know my dad and Cam went to my parents’ beach house?” I ask.

He nods, his eyes watching me with caution.

“Do you know why?”

Pastor Floyd leans forward, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. “Yanelys—”

“So, you do know,” I interrupt. “You know he’s an addict.”

He lets out a grunt and leans back on the chair. “Camden is Camden. A good man with strong morals. He’s loyal and kind, and when he lets his guard down, he can be funny. He loves deeply.” He pins me with his eyes. “You know how much Camden loves.”

A blush creeps up my neck, and I look away. Camden loves without reserve, as if he’s never been hurt.

“He has an addiction, but that doesn’t define who he is as a person. Calling him an addict takes away from everything else that he is, from all the good he’s done, and everything he still has to offer.”

My heart pounds, wild but without escape, and I press a hand to my chest, trying to keep myself from bleeding. A soft sigh brushes over my lips.

Camden is Camden.

“I was only trying to help him. He was in so much pain after Haiti,” he rushes on, not seeing the shock on my face. “And when we couldn’t find Jocelyn Marie and Yvon, it was like the world had crushed him.”

“Wait.” Blood drains from my face. “How did you try to help him?”

Pastor Floyd’s mouth hangs open, and when I stand, his eyes dart across the room to the closed door.

“Yanelys,” he says my name, pain and anxiety rolling off each syllable.

Resigned, he hangs his head, and I sit back down.

“Camden…he’s been through too much. When the doctors stopped prescribing him pain medication”—his voice quakes—“his pain…I couldn’t watch that boy suffer like that.”

“So, you fed him pills?” My words splinter the air.

His face pales. “It wasn’t like that. I just wanted to help.”

“Are you helping that boy sitting on your couch the same way?” Angry, my hand slices in front of me as I point at the door.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, Yanelys, no. Please try to understand. If I didn’t give it to him, he’d have found pills or other drugs from somewhere else. He was so lost, so sad. At least I knew what he was taking. I’m not saying I was right—I know I wasn’t—but I didn’t know what else to do. And then it got out of hand.” He shrugs, his shoulders reaching the sides of his face, as he exhales a long breath. “I begged him to get help, but he wasn’t ready until you came back into his life. You and Olivia—you’ve brought him back, and he’s willing to feel the bad, so he can feel the good you bring him.”

A tear falls down my cheek, and I brush it away. “That doesn’t excuse what you’ve done to Cam.”

“Camden did this to himself. Yes, I made it easier, but I’d like to think I also made it safer.”

I scoff, looking at the man I thought had taken care of Camden when he left me, when he left his family.

“My dad would never have let him do this to himself. He would’ve made Cam see past the hurt.”

“But he wasn’t here. Neither were you. I was what Camden had, and I did my best for him.”

The planes on my face soften, and I take Pastor Floyd in. A man who took a lost boy in and tried to give him a life where suffering didn’t exist. I want to hate him, but I can’t any more than I can blame him.

“When Cam came to you, how bad was he?”

Grief washes over every part of his face, and I suck in a breath, the tremor in his hand crushing my heart further. He leans forward, and after opening a drawer, he shuffles through it and gives me a plain envelope.

“What is this?” I ask.

“You only know bits and pieces of Camden’s story, of why he left you and your family. You know he ran into his dad at the mall, and a few days later, he left. You know his dad left him money and asked him to take care of his mom, but that’s only a part of the story. Before he walked away from his dad, his dad slipped this letter into his jacket pocket. It took Camden three days of sleeping on that couch”—he points at the closed door, toward the couch I saw the boy sitting on when I first came in—“to read it. That was the first and only time I’ve ever seen him cry. He shut down after that.”

Toying with the sides of the envelope, I roll it over in my hand.

“Read it, Yanelys,” he urges. “Afterward, I’ll tell you about Haiti.”

I open the envelope and swallow the lump in my throat. My hands shake as I unfold the paper, and through wet lashes, I read the words that have haunted Camden for so long.

Camden,

I don’t know where to begin with you. I never have, and that falls on me and your mom. It’s our shortcoming, not yours. It’s our insecurities that we blamed you for.

This isn’t some sort of near-death revelation. I’ve known this for a long time, maybe since before you were born, and there have been many times in my life that I wanted to love you, but I couldn’t. Even now, as I near my death, I can’t love you.

But it’s not because of anything you did or didn’t do. Again, this is on me and your mom, our problems that you were born into.

You see, before your mom got pregnant with you, she cheated on me with my brother. It was a betrayal that went beyond what your mom had promised me when we got married because it involved my brother, my best friend, my fucking hero.

My brother wanted to take a paternity test and take care of you and your mom as his family, if you were really his. So, we did. Camden, you’re his son. Not mine. Never mine. But I took you anyway. I made your mom lie to him and live out the nightmare that was our home with a boy I couldn’t stand the sight of.

He would’ve been a better dad to you than I was. I’ve known that since the moment he laid his eyes on you at the hospital. He loved you even though I told him he wasn’t your father. I hated him for it. I hated you for tying the woman I loved with the man I hated.

I banned him from our lives, and every day, I punished you for sins you hadn’t committed. I lashed out at your mom for things she couldn’t take back. I should’ve let you both go, but sometimes, you fight your monsters for such a long time that you become a monster.