All of the Lights Page 17

  Some shuffling behind me pulls my attention away from an emaciated, scowling Jesus, and I turn my head just in time to see Jack settle into the pew behind me. He takes a moment to make a cross motion from the top of his head, both shoulders, and finally to his chest before he stretches both tattooed forearms out into the empty space beside me.

  Quiet still permeates the vast hall with its aged, stained glass windows and creaky floor boards and Jack's presence in it doesn't dissipate that. It's a strange feeling, being so close to him and not wanting to leap up from the pew to put as much distance between us as possible.

  "Hey," he murmurs to me, leaning forward just enough to make sure I can hear him.

  "Hey."

  Jack pushes off the back of my pew, satisfied with my answer, and gives me a little more space. His hands clasp together, though, and hang stagnant a foot away from my shoulders.

  "You want to hear something funny?" I ask him, tilting my head back just enough to glance at him over my shoulder. His grey eyes squint at me, like he's mentally preparing himself for whatever I'm about to say.

  "What's that?"

  "I haven't thought about my ex-boyfriend or losing my job one time since all this started a few weeks ago."

  Jack's dark eyebrows knit together and then, a moment later, a relieved smile spreads across his face. That warm sensation settling in the pit of my stomach is something I can't really focus on right now.

  "There's always a silver lining in everything, I guess," he shrugs easily.

  "It really just shows how much I cared about any of it to begin with," my eyes slide back to Jesus on his cross, literally hanging on to our every word. "Some things are just more important than others."

  All it takes, I suppose, is finding out your dad isn't really your dad and your actual one would rather pretend you never happened. At least Valentino Moretti had the decency to acknowledge my existence in public, which is more than I can say for Roark Callahan. But I don't say that out loud and I can't think about it for too long. If I do, I'll just start crying and then I won't be able to stop. Crying in front of Jack is not an option.

  A few more silent moments pass between us in peace before I turn my head again to ask, "Where's Benn?"

  "Ah, him and Father Lindsay are still in his office hashing some things out. I figured I'd come out here and...I don't know, see if yah were okay and say a prayer or somethin'."

  Like I'd ever be okay again. Like my life would ever be the same again after today. But because I just can't dwell on the bomb Father Lindsay dropped on my life or the fact that he actually came out here to check on me, I shift my focus elsewhere for the time being.

  "A prayer?"

  "Yeah," he nods and then unclasps his hands to run one over his mouth.

  It just tumbles out from my lips before I can stop them. "For my mom or your dad? Or both?"

  His mouth pulls apart in a wince. My word choice clearly wasn't lost on him. "I, uh..."

  "That's okay," I just wave it off. "You don't have to tell me. Your prayers are your business."

  Jack blows out a heavy breath and the clenched hands clasped together next to me tighten. At this point, I'm not quite sure what he's even doing here, let alone the fact that he's still sitting here, talking to me. Is he here to comfort me out of some noble sense of civility? That doesn't exactly seem like something he would do, especially since the bulk of our interactions have seemed more like a game of chess than a normal conversation.

  He's an impassive mystery and in any other circumstance, if he was any other person, I might be tempted to untangle the threads tying him together.

  "So what does this make us then?" I throw out lightly. "Brother and sister?"

  It's more for my benefit than his, to try to find some humor in this twisted development, but that doesn't mean he's unaffected. Almost immediately, he slams back against the pew and his Adam's apple bobs up and down a few times before he finds his bearings again. Knowing he's just as disturbed by that thought as I am is comforting and I don't like the way that feels.

  "I think real family is the one you make. Blood doesn't necessarily have anything to do with it."

  My eyes lift to the cross in front of us and finally settle on the stained glass windows instead. "Lord knows blood isn't by choice."

  "No," he allows carefully and now he's leaning into the back of my pew again, close enough that I can feel his breath at my ear. "It's not. But Sean and Brennan are my family because I was raised with them. I love them as my brothers regardless of who our parents are. The same with you and your sister. I'm pretty sure that doesn't apply to..."

  He trails off and a wry smile twists my lips.

  "Us?" I finish for him.

  He nods tightly, but that's all I'm probably going to get from him on that particular subject. I almost want to thank him for including my sister in that sentiment. He's right about that at least. She's still my sister, whether we're bound by blood or not, because I've always loved her like one. Blood doesn't change anything.

  If he and I had been raised in the same household, raised to be brother and sister...no, I don't think I want to go there. This is already confusing enough.

  I don't want to talk about this anymore and since it looks like he has no intention of leaving his post, my eyes drift down to the ink etched into his skin.

  "What's this one mean?" I point down to a script, O neart go neart, on the top of his right forearm.

  Jack's gaze falls to the tattoo and answers quickly, "It's Irish for from strength to strength."

  "Hm," I muse softly, my eyes unable to stop their trail up and down both his inked arms. I nod to another script that reads, Eire go Brach. "And this one?"

  His lips curl up into a proud smile. "Live Ireland."

  Now I point to the wide Celtic cross on the inside of his left forearm. "I'm pretty sure I know what this one means. How long have you had that?"

  He turns his wrist to glance at the tattoo. "About ten years. This was the first one I ever got." Then he gestures to the large intricate knot right at the tip of the cross. "That's called a triquetra knot."

  "Like a trinity knot?" I squint a little to get a better look at it.

  "Yeah," he nods with a soft smile. "But for me, the trinity means me and my brothers."

  Given everything I know about him, I guess that makes sense. My focus shifts to a thin rope wrapped all the way around his right wrist. "What about this one?"

  He doesn't even have to look at it to know which one I'm talking about. "That's a caim symbol. It means sanctuary in Irish. Traditionally, it's supposed to be a prayer, you know? You draw an invisible circle around someone you love while you say this prayer and it'll protect them. Keep them safe." Jack's eyes drop to the floor. "It's supposed to remind you that you're safe and you're loved. I guess it doesn't always work out that way, does it?"

  In light of the story we'd just heard, the questions I have number in the millions. But just this one manages to bubble up to the surface: "What happened to your parents? Your real ones?"

  Jack blows out a sharp breath and his hands clasp together in front of him again. "My dad died in the ring."

  From the little Father Lindsay had mentioned Jack's real dad, I'd gotten the impression that Roark Callahan harbored some serious guilt about how his best friend died. I just don't know how to breach that subject without tip-toeing knee-deep into another family drama I don't want any part of.

  "He took a bad hit to the side of the head," he pushes on quietly. "Fell back, landed wrong on his neck, and that was it, I guess. And my mom..." he sighs heavily and pushes himself back against his pew a little more. "My mom took off about a year after I was born. My dad always said she just didn't seem all that connected to her life here and then one day she was just gone. I guess that's for the best if she didn't really want to be here. If she doesn't want to be part of my life then I'd rather have her out of it altogether."

  His eyes dart over to me too quickly, like he just realized what
he said and how I might take it, but I keep my focus ahead. I don't look back.

  "Anyway," Jack continues. "I know they tried to find her after...everything. I guess my dad—my real one—had gotten full custody of me after they split, so when they did find her, she told my dad to leave her alone."

  The longer he talked, the harder it was to tell which father he was talking about.

  "So they adopted me. A judge made them my guardians first and then they did all the legal paperwork so my mom couldn't show up and try to take me away."

  He didn't need to elaborate to let me know she'd never shown.

  "How generous of them."

  To his credit, he doesn't acknowledge the bitterness laced in my voice. Instead, he chooses to say nothing and just allows the silence between us to do the talking for him. I wonder if he's thinking about all the improbable similarities between us—one dead parent and the other wanted nothing to do with us, each of us raised by people who weren't our biological parents. We never really stood a chance of having a normal childhood, but I think Jack fared better than I did. At least he had people who genuinely cared about his well-being.

  "Do you ever want to look for her?"

  I shouldn't butt into his business anymore than I already have, but I'm asking for more than just him.

  Ice clouds his eyes, turning them into a stormy, fierce steel grey and he shakes his head tightly. "No. I don't. And I never will."

  When he glances my way again, something like recognition flickers across his face and he nods. He won't ask the question because I just don't think either of us really want to talk about it, but my answer would be the same. I have no interest in tracking Roark Callahan down, getting in his face, and demanding to know why he refused my existence. I don't need to know because I don't need anything from him. He's gone the last 27 years without so much as a glance my way, so why would I bother reaching out to him now? Why would I invite yet another father into my life who's done nothing but ignore me?

  Something splinters inside me and a hard laugh vibrates in my throat. Jack's head snaps in my direction, startled by the abrupt burst of emotion. I am, too. But now that it's started, I don't think I can stop.

  I shake my head, but I still can't stop laughing.

  It's over. He doesn't have a hold over me anymore. I don't have to allow the guilt trips and the tears and the loneliness and the confusion and the bitterness to overtake my life anymore.

  I'm free of him. Both of them. I don't have to have either of them in my life because they haven't earned it.

  "Rae?" Jack's voice is hesitant and I can see it on his face before I even look at him. Oh God, she's finally snapped.

  My head turns and I smile. "You know, all I ever wanted was for him to love me. I thought if I did my best in school, if I got As, if I took first place in a track meet, if I did everything he asked without question, if I was just a good person, he would see that and he would love me for it." Another hard laugh bursts from my throat and I shake my head. "None of that mattered though, did it? There was nothing I could've ever done that would've made a difference to him. And then I just wanted his attention, you know? After a certain point, I just wanted him to see me. So I went to my first party and just got completely plastered and then when we were all hauled to the precinct, I was jealous of all the other kids there because their parents actually showed up to get them. The mayor sent his driver."

  Jack shifts in the pew and his head dips down toward his clenched hands.

  "I don't think I even really knew why I was doing it until it was already too late. And then it just sort of all spiralled out of control from that first party. At first it was fun and I knew I was doing something he wouldn't like, something that would piss him off. It didn't matter how he punished me or what he threatened me with; I guess it was better than him not speaking to me at all. Then after awhile, it was the only thing that made me feel better. It made me numb for awhile and that was all that mattered," I shoot him a quick glance over my shoulder; I don't know why I need to clarify this, but I just know I have to do it anyway. "I only went to rehab twice, by the way. I lost track of how many times the press reported it though. Six times? Seven?"

  He lifts a shoulder and runs a hand over his mouth, still unable to meet my eyes. "I think it was more like four or five."

  I huff out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, that sounds about right. It sure made for a good story. Like mother, like daughter, right? The only one that really pissed me off was when they said I was a heroin addict. He even fought that one, mainly because it just made him look even worse, but still. I never touched drugs. It was only ever alcohol...not like that's really any better. The first time I fought him every step of the way and the second I was out, I just went back to old habits. The second time...that time I knew I needed to do something so I didn't end up like her."

  It feels strange talking so openly about this, so openly about her, especially given my audience. Jesus and Jack don't seem to judge as easily as I thought they would though. In fact, it seems like they might even understand.

  "He had to have known, right?" I ask and now, I don't know which one of them I'm talking to. "He had to have known I wasn't really his daughter...or at the very least, had a pretty good idea. It just all makes so much more sense now. It was just easier to pass me off as his kid—it's not like he actually raised me himself. All he had to do was hire a nanny and avoid the scandal. I guess it was already bad enough that my mom killed herself because he couldn't hide that."

  And if Roark Callahan wasn't going to come anywhere near me, it wasn't like the mayor could exactly pass me off to an adoption agency without anyone finding out what happened to me. The more I think about it, about the two of them together, lying and cheating, about him abandoning her and then her abandoning me, the more I come undone.

  "You know what pisses me off the most?"

  His hoarse voice feels like it's right in my ear. "What?"

  "She threw her life away over a guy. A selfish, completely unavailable guy who changed his mind about her. How wasteful is that? How stupid is that? Who cares about the newborn you have at home, right? Who cares that you have someone depending on you? Nope—just kill yourself over some guy. Great choice, Mom."

  Jack doesn't reply, but that isn't the point.

  "I always thought it had something to do with postpartum. I was only a month old when she did it, so that just made the most sense. Maybe something with addiction, too. Or both. Maybe it was a little bit of everything."

  Now that I've actually said it out loud, the logic seeps underneath everything I'd ever been told about my mom's death. If all those things were true—the postpartum and the addiction issues—then Roark's rejection would be the thing to push her over the edge.

  "Do you think he ever got that last letter?"

  Jack sighs heavily and for the first time since I'd started talking, his grey eyes find mine. None of the things I'm used to seeing are there. Instead, there's sympathy. A little bit of compassion. Some understanding, too. What I don't like seeing there is pity. I don't need him feeling sorry for me anymore than I need him sitting here right now.

  "No," he murmurs finally. "I don't think so. If he did, I think he would've at least met with her one last time if he wasn't going to..."

  He trails off, casting a quick apologetic glance to me before settling his gaze back on his hands.

  "You want to know what I think happened?" Bitterness is wafting from me in waves, but I can't stop it. My resentment is all I have right now and no one can take that away from me. "I think she did send the letter and someone read it. Doesn't mean that person was your dad though."

  The words, your dad, spit out as sour as they taste. Jack narrows his eyes at me.

  "Yeah," he shakes his head. "You would think that."

  I just lift a shoulder. "It makes sense, though, doesn't it? Your mom goes out to get the mail one day, completely oblivious, and bam! There's this letter from his mistress about his dirty little secret. I bet
she tore it up and burned the pieces."

  And if I were her, I'd leave his ass in the dust, too. But I don't know this woman anymore than I know her spineless coward of a husband.

  His entire body stiffens next to me and a tight line ticks down his jawline. Bad-mouthing his mom was clearly a risky move, but right about now, I don't feel so bad. Right about now, I feel like they all deserve worse.

  "If she did find that letter, if your mom even sent it," Jack practically growls through clenched teeth. "There's no way she'd do that. She'd show it to my dad and make him tell her the truth. She'd never sweep it under the rug like that and pretend it never happened."

  "You sure?" I lift my eyebrows at him. "Seems like your family is pretty good at that."

  He doesn't disappoint and his eyes immediately slant darkly. "Look, I get why you feel this way. I really do. But you don't know who you're talking about. We have no idea what really happened and unless you decide you wanna talk to my dad about it, we may never know. But until we know, you need to be careful what you say about people yah know nothing about. And, I don't know, maybe think before you speak. You were wrong about Father Lindsay and your mom and you're wrong about this too."

  My mouth drops open and heat flushes to my cheeks. His little rant was way calmer than I'd ever given him credit for. A little too calm. Deadly calm. And at the end of the day, he's also dead-on. I have no business running my mouth about things I don't know about. But I'm bitter. I'm hurt. I'm confused. And so, so broken. I don't know any other way to react than to lash out and since the two people I really want to smack aren't here, I'll just have to take what I can get.

  And on some level, I understand this knee-jerk reaction to defend them. After all, these are also the same people who took him in and raised him when there was no one else. Who knows where he would be if not for them? If I were him, I'd want to believe they were good people, too. I'd want to see the best in them, not the worst, because I loved them. Just like all children, he's grown up believing they'd always tell him the truth, that they'd always have his best interest in mind, not their own. And just like the story he told me about his biological dad's death, he believes exactly what they've told him to believe. I really can't fault him for that.