Chapter 17 - The House With Cinnamon Candles
Ruby was nine when she first returned to my parents’ house.
Three years after assault.
Not overnight.
One hour.
Therapist approved.
I drove.
The porch looked same.
My body did not.
Mom opened door.
She stopped herself from rushing hug.
“Hi.”
Ruby:
“Hi.”
Then:
“Can I hug?”
Ruby considered.
“Yes.”
Mom crouched.
Careful.
Dad waited.
Ruby hugged him too.
Then walked in.
She inhaled.
“Cinnamon.”
Mom laughed through tears.
“I bought the same.”
Then Ruby went kitchen.
I nearly stopped her.
No need.
The old table was gone.
Dad had replaced.
Not to erase? He said:
“I couldn’t look.”
Ruby touched new wood.
“Where old?”
“Disposed after police released evidence.”
“Good.”
Then she opened refrigerator.
Everyone froze.
Ruby noticed.
“What?”
Mom:
“Nothing.”
Ruby grinned mischievously.
“Any cake?”
Mom cried.
Then laughed.
“Yes.”
She pulled container.
Three slices.
Ruby:
“Can I?”
Mom:
“Yes.”
Then:
“Anything in refrigerator except labeled medicine or adult stuff, ask. But food isn't worth yelling.”
Ruby took.
Dad sat opposite.
He did not speak.
Then Ruby:
“Grandpa.”
“Yes?”
“Did you delete videos before?”
“Yes.”
“Why tell now?”
“Because you asked.”
Then:
“Did you think camera gone meant it didn't happen?”
Dad thought.
“I thought if Megan didn't know, we could keep family.”
Ruby:
“Wasn't family already?”
He cried.
“Yes.”
Then:
“You broke it.”
“I did.”
That was hard, but he accepted from child.
Then Mom:
“We broke trust.”
Ruby ate.
Then:
“Do you still talk Aunt Vanessa?”
Their daughter incarcerated.
“Yes, letters and calls.”
Ruby stiffened.
“Do you tell her about me?”
“Only general if you permit. We don't send photos.”
Good.
Then:
“Does she ask?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“If you’re okay.”
Ruby looked at cake.
“Tell her I’m okay.”
Mom started crying.
Ruby:
“Not that I forgive.”
“I won’t.”
Then after one hour, we left.
No promise next.
In car:
“Was it bad?”
“No.”
“Good?”
“Kind of.”
“Want go again?”
“Maybe Christmas.”
Choice.
Then my relationship with parents.
Much slower.
They apologized to me repeatedly.
I eventually said:
“Stop.”
Mom froze.
“I know what you did.”
“I need say.”
“I don’t need you re-apologizing every visit so I have to comfort you.”
She nodded.
That changed.
No guilt dumping.
Dad stopped asking if forgiven.
He focused behavior.
Then one day Mom said:
“I joined support group for families of violent adults.”
I almost laughed bitterly.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
She accepted sarcasm.
Then:
“I learned helping Vanessa avoid consequences was not help.”
Yes.
Then:
“Would things be different if we let her face consequences at sixteen?”
No alternate certainty.
“Maybe.”
She nodded.
No self torture.
Then Vanessa’s prison letters.
I declined five years.
Ruby asked at eleven:
“Does she write me?”
“She’s not allowed directly. She sends through lawyers sometimes.”
“Can I read?”
I consulted therapist.
One.
Vanessa wrote:
Ruby,
I am sorry I hurt you.
Then:
You did nothing wrong by eating cake.
Then:
I told myself you were spoiled because that made my anger feel justified.
Then:
Your grandparents should not have had to manage me because I should have managed myself.
Good.
Then:
I will not ask you to forgive or write.
Ruby read.
Then:
“Can I respond one sentence?”
Her choice.
She wrote:
I can see colors in my left eye but not faces.
I swallowed.
Then:
That is what you did.
And:
Do not write me again until I ask.
The letter sent through approved process.
May you like
Vanessa obeyed.
No more.
