Never Again Good-Bye by Terri Blackstock

ago when Patrice had died. He had been beside himself with his own grief, and yet his worry for Amy had forced him to keep it all in check. Why couldn’t he keep her from hurting? Why couldn’t he shelter her from more pain? What kind of father was he?
    And what kind of woman was Laney? Couldn’t she see what this was doing to Amy? How could she honestly suggest that they try again the next day?
    He had promised to call. But what in the world would he say? Tomorrow was too soon. Next year was too soon. Never was too soon.
    He sat on the couch and leaned his throbbing head back. The moment his eyes closed he was haunted with the image of a beautiful young woman with hair the color of raven’s wings and hurting black eyes that begged for a chance. Life had been rough on her. But it had been rough on him too.
    There were two kinds of people in this world, he had decided when Patrice first learned about her cancer. The ones who pranced through with hangnails and shallow dreams and the ones, like him, who dragged themselves through—praying for endurance, while sometimes wishing that they weren’t strong enough to endure. Maybe then God would stop testing his faith.
    What could he do? Run away? That in itself was a form of survival. But if he did that, uprooted Amy from the only home she’d ever known, wasn’t he, in effect, doing the same thing that he had cursed Laney for? Wouldn’t he be acting selfishly, cruelly? Wouldn’t it instill a further sense of insecurity in his daughter?
    And what would it do to Laney?
    “I don’t care what it does to her,” he mumbled aloud. She was his last consideration. And yet …
    The doorbell rang, and Wes looked at the front door grudgingly. So she couldn’t wait for the phone call, he thought. She had to badger him some more in person.
    His temper rose like mercury in a thermometer. Maybe it was time he spelled it out to her once and for all, he thought. Maybe he should explain exactly how she was destroying his and his daughter’s lives. Maybe he could convince her that forcing Amy to acknowledge her could be psychologically devastating.
    He opened the door, leaned against it, and stared down coldly at the woman who was ruining his life. But the fear shimmering in her eyes was the last offensive he expected, and the sad way she slumped against the casing pulled at every instinct to comfort that he possessed. That instinct made him angry, more at himself than at her. Silently, he stepped back from the door and let her in.

    L aney had cried for hours after they left, realizing the hopelessness of what she was trying to do. When she had finally wept to the point of being physically ill, she had taken a shower and tried to calm herself down. She was not going to give up her daughter again. Maybe the plan they had worked out wasn’t the best way. But there had to be other ways. And she was going to figure them out.
    It had finally come to her, miraculously renewing that fragile bubble of hope that should have deflated long ago. She had dressed carefully, set ice cubes on her eyes to make the swelling go down, and applied her makeup. And then she had gone to see Wes.
    He stood staring at her in the tiny foyer, his tired, angry eyes boring into her, telling her without words that she was the last person who was welcome in this house.
    “I told you I’d call you,” he said, abandoning the door and heading for the kitchen.
    “I wanted to talk to you in person,” she replied, following behind him. “Where’s Amy?”
    “In bed,” he said. “She cried herself to sleep.” He got a sponge and wiped the counters that were sticky from the dinner that had gone uneaten, then stared down at it with the slumped disillusionment of a man whose world teetered on the edge of a cliff.
    “I’m not surprised,” Laney said. “She was miserable.”
    He gave a mirthless laugh at her admission.
    “What did you expect?” he asked, propping a shoulder against the wall as he watched her.