Forgiving Yourself Can Be the Hardest Part

“How long has this been eating away at you?” Sister Mary Bonaventure asked. She sat across the table from me, a thickly loaded corned beef on rye grasped delicately among her fingers. Mary has such beautiful fingers – she works as a freelance hand model. She’s worn Cartier rings for full-page ads in posh magazines for the super-rich. She’s sported glitzy Swiss watches on her wrist, shown off any number of new nail polishes, skin exfoliating cleansers, and hand moisturizing creams. All the jewelry she’s worn was worth at least fifty times the average person’s budget. And the extra money has been a godsend to the Sisters of Sacred Prayer Orphanage and Convent on Lemont Street.

“Eight years, seven months,” I answered, a pit in my stomach. Just below my beard, atop the pale green Formica, a large bowl of matzo ball soup steamed in invitation. Three large well-seasoned dumplings floated in the parsley-flecked chicken broth – broth that made Eisenberg’s deli famous for over than a century. Amazing to think that something as simple as chicken broth could bring such fortune. Just then, a man sitting with his back to Mary cleared his throat. He looked familiar – tall, with silver hair and still wearing his fedora.

“So think about both sides of the argument. If you tell her, you might hurt her terribly. Maybe do permanent damage to your marriage. How would you react if you were her?”

“But it’s been eating away at me the whole time. Doctor Lazur says that my own guilt makes me distance myself emotionally from her. That I make myself less available to her, about what’s really going on between us, because I feel unworthy of her. So, if I come clean, could I leave all this self-hate and self-recrimination behind?”

“I think you just have to shoulder this, within yourself, George. Then work with Doctor Lazur to be more emotionally present for her.”

What she said made sense. I was just sick and tired of this guilt. I was drinking a lot back then, and it was affecting my sleep, so I’d slept late that morning. By the time I got out of bed, it was just me and my father-in-law at the house. Claire was out shopping. Why did she have to go shopping that day? Leave me staring at that full bottle of Wild Turkey that a work buddy had given me for Christmas?

Just then, the guy sitting across the table from the silver-haired man stood, dropped some bills on the table, grabbed his coat, and left, all without a word of farewell to his lunch companion. The older man, his back still to me, continued to sit without moving a muscle. Where had I seen that guy before? I could smell a hint of cigar smoke – he’d never removed his coat, though it was plenty warm in here.

We moved on to other topics, and Mary told me more about her brother Henry. I knew he was going through a painful, nasty divorce, but I hadn’t known any of the details until now.

“He’s been floating from job to job, getting fired or laid off from every one of them. They’re up to their ears in debt, including two months behind on the mortgage. She’s fed up with his attitude, just staying home and always assuring her that he’s out looking for --”

It was pouring rain when I got out of bed. Worried about our frequent flooding problems, I ran downstairs and found several inches of water in the basement. A half hour later, the big Shop Vac was pumping water out through the basement laundry room window. It didn’t take long to clear it out, and thankfully nothing important had gotten wet on the unfinished cement floor. When I got upstairs, Dad was on the living room sofa watching golf, and he pointed to the bottle of Old Turkey standing at one end of the coffee table.

“Got some good stuff there,” he said.

“Yeah, someone at work gave it to me. You wanna sip on some?”

I knew Dad enjoyed having a beer or sipping a drink while he watched any kind of sports. When he took me up on the offer, I filled one of the old-fashioned glasses with ice and poured him out a couple shots. With his heart condition, he wasn’t supposed to drink much, but I hadn’t served him anything in a couple weeks, and I knew he’d enjoy it. Claire policed my drinking with dad since he’d moved in with us last year, so it was kind of an unspoken custom that the two of us would enjoy a little of the good stuff together when Claire was out.

Right after I gave him his drink, I smacked myself on the forehead – I’d promised Claire I’d get Dad’s angina pills refilled yesterday, but I’d been so busy I’d forgotten. I had two things left on today’s honey-do list, so I’d get it refilled immediately after. While I got busy on tightening the loose kitchen faucet handle, I occasionally heard applause from the golf game on TV.

I finished the faucet, and got on to the last thing – refastening a shelf that had come loose in the hallway linen closet, just outside the upstairs master bath. A few minutes into that, I heard, or rather felt a thud from downstairs, along with a burst of shattering glass.

“Dad? You okay?” I called out. When I got no reply, I hurried down the steps, and there was Dad, his face pinched in pain, his right hand clutched to his chest. He’d fallen off the sofa and was wedged between it and the coffee table.

“My pills,” he wheezed.

I knew he had a couple left, and goddamnit why didn’t I get that refill yesterday? I ran to the bathroom, pulled out the brown plastic bottle and felt my heart sink. I opened it and poured the last remaining tiny tablet. I ran it to him, along with a glass of water. After I raised him into a sitting position with his back against the front of the sofa, I gave him the pill and made sure he took it.

“Need more,” he gasped, and then his face turned deep red as he struggled in pain. That’s when I dialed 9-1-1...

“-- and, meanwhile, he’s fighting tooth and nail to keep the kids, but at this point it’s pretty obvious she’ll get full custody. The most he’ll get is weekend visitation.”

Gosh, these matzo balls were good! So creamy, tender, and just the perfect amount of dill. I excavated a big chunk with my soup spoon – I love those big round soup spoons – and let it melt in my mouth. Then more broth slurping. I hope I wasn’t embarrassing myself.

“George? You listening to me? Helloooooooo, Geoooooooorge…”

I snapped back to our conversation as Mary waved one open-palmed hand at me. Just then, the maitre de hurried toward the table behind Mary, a well-dressed businessman in tow. The hefty Eisenberg’s menu dropped to the table with a smack, and the new arrival sat down opposite the tall, silver-haired man. I froze in place, my spoon dripping broth onto my pants. Neither of the two men said a word to each other. I glanced about the deli – at least half the booths and tables were empty.

“I’m sorry, Mare. I’m a fucking mess. I know it. My thoughts keep drifting off.”

She reached over and briefly placed her warm hand over mine. Mary’s perfect, beautiful hand. The embossed silver of her wedding band grazed against my skin. She was Sister Mary, after all – married to Christ, married to God, to the Church, to serving the poor, the downcast, the orphan. I still remember us at ten years old, just after fifth grade, when we ran around all summer with our sunburns and skinned knees. Back when I’d first dreamed she’d wear my ring.

“George, you don’t look so good. You aren’t drinking again, are you?” Her hazel eyes were full of concern, full of love.

I knew I couldn’t lie to her. She knew me too well.

“Been sipping on some whiskey late at night. Down in my study, after Claire goes to bed. But really, it calms me down while I read, and I never wake up with a hangover. I’m fine at work the next day.”

“Does Doctor Lazur know?”

I winced and looked down at the table, and that was enough. I heard her frustrated sigh above the clank of plates and silverware, the collective grumble of the conversations around us.

We talked for a while longer, about therapy and coming clean about my recent drinking, and I swore to her that I would. And that meant I would. Then I checked my watch and knew Mary had to get back to work, and so did I. But I had something else to say first.

“Mare, how could I have been so stupid? So neglectful?”

Her face melted into one of pure pained compassion. The man at the next booth, the guy sitting across from the silver-haired man, looked up from his menu. When our gazes locked, his eyes shot back down to the daily specials list.

“I wish Dad, Claire’s dad, were here right now,” I said. “So I could tell him…”

“I know you do. And I wish you could, too. But be strong, George. I’m praying for you.”

We stood and shared a long, warm hug. She turned away at last and walked toward the exit door as I sat back down. Just then, my waiter walked past and dropped the bill onto the table. As I fished money from my wallet, a tall figure strode slowly past my table.

“See me out back,” a deep male voice said, and for the briefest moment, a large, heavy hand rested on my shoulder. Then – a brief electric shock where he’d touched me – it froze my body in place, though my mind kept racing – for how long, I wasn’t sure. There was something familiar in that touch, that voice. And I knew immediately I had to follow him outside.

When I could move again, I spun to watch the rear exit door swing shut. When I turned back around and dropped my tab onto the Formica, I saw that the silver-haired man was gone. I hurried out the rear exit door, and there stood the silver haired man, in his long coat and hat, his back to me. That’s when it hit me, hard, right between the eyes.

“Dad?” I couldn’t believe I’d actually said it. But he turned around, and there was Dad, appearing just as he did over eight years ago. How could this be? My mind was reeling, my heart racing as I walked up to him, until we were only a foot apart.

His face took on a kind, almost pitying expression.

“I’m sorry, Dad. God almighty, I’m so, so sorry!” I began to cry, tears welling up and down my cheeks – after I’d played that day through my head, over and over, for the past eight years. “I should’ve refilled your pills earlier, before your heart attack. And then… then the whiskey, on top of it!”

Then Dad reached out and took me into his long, strong arms. He hugged me tight. Over the traffic noise on the road behind the deli, I heard him say “Son, it’s okay. I forgive you. Things just happen. But you need to forgive yourself. For your own sake. For Claire’s sake.”

“Dad, I miss you so much! Everyone does...”

We stood there for I don’t know how long, as I cried and cried, emptying so much poisonous guilt and self-loathing in his arms. At last we separated, but he kept his hands on my shoulders.

“Tell Claire. You have to tell her, George.”

“But she thought I got your pills the day before. I never told her about the whiskey, either.”

“I know. But tell her. She’ll be a lot more understanding than you think. And George, take good care of her, okay? Take good care of each other?”

He left go of my shoulders, and I closed my eyes, my heaving sobs going on and on. When at last I opened them again, Dad was gone. Above, gray clouds streamed through a windy sky, and the first snowflakes drifted past...