Chapter 15 - The Second Crutch
Two years after the basement stairs, I spent New Year’s morning at the lake house.
Alone by choice.
The property looked almost exactly as it had before everything happened.
Gray winter water.
Bare trees.
Snow pushed against the edges of the stone terrace.
Inside, the kitchen Julian renovated still worked beautifully.
I used to hate that.
Then one day it became simply a kitchen.
The trust had recovered part of the money through insurance, settlements, repayments, and asset liquidation. The remaining restitution would take years.
Vance Residential survived under new management.
Julian no longer controlled company finances alone.
He attended therapy.
I knew because the occasional required status documents passed through counsel.
Victoria completed the legal consequences of her case and moved into a smaller condominium outside Evanston after selling her house.
She never contacted me directly.
I preferred it that way.
Evelyn Harris retired from full-time work but still visited every other Thursday because, according to her, retirement did not mean allowing me to ruin soup unsupervised.
Detective Ramirez returned the final evidence copy eighteen months after the hospital.
The basement camera system stayed.
I did not remove it.
I also did not turn my home into a fortress.
The most important change was simpler.
Nobody had automatic access anymore.
Not because I distrusted everybody.
Because access and love had finally become separate concepts in my mind.
I kept one object from the hospital.
The crutch Julian kicked away.
The rubber tip was scratched.
A dent ran along the aluminum shaft where it struck the floor.
For months it sat in my garage because throwing it away felt too symbolic and keeping it inside felt worse.
Eventually I took it to the lake house.
Not as a reminder of violence.
As a practical object.
The pier gets slippery in winter.
That morning I used it walking down toward the frozen shoreline.
Halfway there, my phone vibrated.
Julian.
We had not spoken directly in seven months.
The message was short.
I made the final payment scheduled for this year.
I know repayment is not repair.
My therapist keeps asking why I want to apologize in person.
I think the answer used to be because I wanted you to tell me I’m not the man I became.
I don’t think that’s your job anymore.
If you ever want coffee, I’ll come when invited.
No request for the house.
No mention of Victoria.
No argument about what I owed him as an ex-wife.
I stood beside the frozen edge of Geneva Lake and read it again.
Then I put the phone in my coat pocket.
I did not answer.
Not that morning.
I walked back toward the house, leaning lightly on the old crutch where the path iced over.
At the mudroom door were two hooks.
One held my winter coat.
The other was empty.
Years earlier, Julian’s jacket would have hung there automatically.
I used to think the empty hook represented what had been taken from me.
Now it looked different.
Available space.
I set the crutch against the wall and put water on for coffee.
One cup.
For now.
May you like
Whether there would ever be a second cup across from mine was the only question I had not resolved.
This time, nobody else would answer it for me.
