Forgive Us Our Trespasses

by M. L. Steinbrunn

  “Thank you for letting me make this right, Red. I’ll never disappoint you again,” he murmurs before crashing down onto my eager lips.

  His embrace and his kiss are firm, almost desperate. I match his enthusiasm as my own desires reach a fever pitch. We are clawing at each other’s clothing, leaving a trail of garments as Brooks walks our tangled bodies from the door towards his massive bed. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, he leans into me, causing me to lie flat on the bed. He quickly covers me with his own perfectly-sculpted body.

  His kiss becomes more delicate as he hovers above me. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, and I feel his excitement against me. Feeling empowered by him, I take control by deepening the kiss once more. I cannot get close enough to this man; with my body, I beg him to own me in every possible way.

  As I edge closer to losing control, my heart begins to race, and the gravity of the situation slaps me in the face. We are both naked in his bed with our children just a few rooms away and I’m letting myself get too carried away too soon. My guilt takes hold as Will invades my thoughts, and I push Brooks away, tears beginning to swim in my eyes.

  “What? Did I do something wrong?” Brooks asks; his look of confusion and hurt squeezes my already-bruised heart.

  Unable to look at his wounded expression, I maintain a lowered gaze at his chest. I take notice of every inch, the firm defined muscles, the small patch of hair nestled between his pecs. “I’m so sorry, Brooks. We are just moving too fast. I’m not ready to move things forward yet.” The fear of confessing my guilt is evident in the broken whisper of my voice.

  He rolls off me, throwing his arms up to cover his face and I’m unsure of whether he’s angry or hurt. I just lie still, struggling to steady my breathing and hold back the tears that threaten to spill over my lids. I wait for enough clues to understand his emotions, and enough time to control my own.

  “Do you not want me because you don’t trust me?” Brooks finally asks, not looking at me.

  My confliction plays out across my face, and the dam holding back my tears crumbles. I hastily wipe away the drops of my pain, attempting to mask my emotions from Brooks. “I’m sorry, Brooks; it’s not about that. I do trust you; I’m just not ready.” My voice strains through the words.

  Taking notice, Brooks lowers his arms and turns to face me. Slowly, he brings his thumb to my cheek to brush away my remaining tears. “Hey now,” he whispers, his thumb sliding down to trace the lines of my lower lip. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m not angry with you, Viv; I’m mad at myself for putting you in the position to question my sincerity. If that isn’t the issue, please talk to me.” He moves his hand to the back of my neck and rests his head on mine, closing his eyes. “Let me fix this,” he exhales.

  “I don’t know if you can,” I admit. “I want you; I want us. I just feel so guilty that I’m betraying Will by being with you. I want more than anything for that guilt to fade, and I’m so afraid that it never will.”

  His eyes slowly open as my confession sinks in and surrounds us. “Oh, babe, you aren’t betraying him. I know that he hated me because of how I treated you, and I can never undo that. But at the time, I needed you to not want me; I needed you to fall in love with someone safe. Will was safe, and as much as it killed me that it wasn’t me with you, I was so thankful that it was him in my place.”

  My breath trembles, and I feel my body quake as I listen to his explanation. “Why does that make it all right for us to be together now?” I ask as I lightly run my fingernails down the length of his back.

  “Because, Clover, it’s my turn to be the safe choice, and I will do anything and everything to prove that he would be thankful it’s me in his place.”

  Relief washes over me, and I smile through my remaining tears. I lean forward and faintly caress his lips with mine, showing my appreciation for his words. “Thank you for that. Can we just hold each other tonight? I want to feel your arms around me.”

  “Of course, Viv, I wouldn’t want you to be any other place. I’m not going anywhere; we can go as slow as you need.”

  I settle into his side and lay my head on his chest, listening to his easy breathing. The even rhythm calms me, and with his arms around me, peace shrouds me. Any bit of the guilt that had been crushing me is lifted.

  We lay in a comfortable silence. Brooks occasionally places a tender kiss on my head, and I use my fingertips to trace the outline of the tattoo that covers his ribs. I hadn’t really noticed it in our earlier frenzy, but now I pause to explore every colorful curve and solid line.

  The script, ‘Forgive Us Our Trespasses’ is written in a beautifully intricate scroll. The words themselves are simple but familiar. I have never been religious, but the words are ones that have been imprinted in my mind since the death of my father. They carry a weight that I have struggled to live up to, break free from.

  Each word flows freely down the length of his side in one long black line. The only color comes from the thorn-covered vines that weave through the lettering and the vibrant green clovers that pin down each side of the phrase.

  I suspend my movement when I get to the clovers, but I disregard the possible meaning of their presence.

  “What is it?” Brooks asks, feeling my hesitation.

  “Nothing, it’s just your tattoo. The quote you have is from the Lord’s Prayer; I didn’t know that you were religious,” I say and then continue my skin perusal.

  Brooks latches onto my hand, halting my inspection. “I’m not religious,” he says, bringing my wrist to his lips and kissing my pulse line.

  I stretch my neck to meet his gaze, and he smiles down at me. As quickly as his smile appears, it is replaced with a seriousness that heightens my anxiety level. “My tattoo represents many things, things that I don’t want to ever forget. It’s my reminder of the mistakes I’ve made, and my weaknesses that caused those mistakes, but it’s not all bad. My dreams are there too, and my hopes for what I always wanted in my life.”

  I search his eyes for more understanding. He’s telling me about his tattoo without really telling me, and the cryptic answers are doing nothing for my comprehension. He smiles, realizing my need for further clarification.

  “You asked if my ink is religious, and the answer is no,” he says before pausing to cup my cheek in his palm, capturing my full attention. “Vivian, this tattoo has nothing to do with wanting God’s forgiveness; it’s about seeking yours.”

  The symbolism of the art clicks into place, and I gasp at my realization. Placing my hand on the tattoo, I lean close to his ear. “You have it, Brooks; you’ve always had it,” I sigh.

  I’m swiftly pinned to the bed and Brooks hovers over me, his eyes shimmering with emotion, and the corners of his lips are arched in joy. “I have waited so long to hear that, thank you,” he says before his lips collide with mine.

  This time, I don’t fight his advances. Instead, I encourage and invite every movement, every morsel of passion that develops between us. We match each other’s fervor, both of us racing to our release. Our bodies and souls are entwined as tension builds until we finally reach a blissful explosion of pleasure.

  As Brooks collapses, I stroke his back and let my tired legs fall around him. Together we stable our breathing, until Brooks rolls us so that my back is tucked into his front. Wrapping his arms around me, I feel his moist breath against my neck.

  “I love you, Clover,” Brooks sighs just as his body relaxes and gives itself over to sleep.

  I kiss the forearm that he has coiled around me, and when I’m certain that he’s asleep, I relax into him. “I love you too,” I murmur before I allow myself to drift off as well.

  Vivian

  Since the weekend with Brooks and Grace, things, life, and our family have slowly found a routine. A routine with healed hearts and optimism for what our futures hold. School has started for the kids, and it really has felt odd not being a part of the preparation festivities this year. Usually I would have teac
her in-services, spend countless hours decorating my classroom, planning lessons, matching standards with activities. But this year, I was able to stand back and just enjoy my kids’ excitement for the new school year instead.

  Brooks and Grace have found themselves woven into every fiber of our new lives. Although we said we would move gradually with our relationship, things have been anything but slow. Since I’m working from home now, I pick up all of the children after school each day, and Brooks then meets us at my house for dinner each night. During the week, Brooks and Grace go home after dinner, but over the weekends, we take turns hosting family sleepovers. Amanda has been out of town a great deal, so we try to work around her schedule, but there are plenty of evenings that she is a part of our crew. Life has become comfortable. Our life is content again.

  Everyone is adjusting well. Our blended group actually doesn’t feel blended at all; it feels natural, normal, like it always should have been. Even through the hard moments, Brooks stands by me, keeping his promise to stay put. The anniversary of Will’s death is difficult, but we manage together without a meltdown. I still had Will’s ashes from the funeral; I just could never decide what to do with them, or if by releasing them it would mean that I didn’t love him anymore, so for the last year, I had held onto them.

  After extinguishing my apprehension, Brooks comes up with the idea to have a memorial with just us and the kids to finally scatter his ashes. Blake and Emma are comfortable with the idea, and I finally feel at ease with the symbolic act of letting him go. I choose Bear Lake in Estes Park, one of Will’s favorite spots. It is a special spot for many reasons: it was where we first took the kids to learn how to fish; in college, we camped there together several times each year; and it’s where he proposed after we found out we were pregnant with Blake. The lake is beautiful and perfect, and will be a safe place to free my safe knight.

  There are tears, there is laughter, and there is eventually liberation. I free myself of the guilt that was eating a hole through what remained of my heart. Blake and Emma find peace with saying goodbye in their own way. It is a moment that I never got as a child, and I’m so thankful that I’m able to give it to my children. I’m proud of them, of myself, and of Brooks for living up to his promise. So when Emma asks Brooks on the way home from the lake if he will call her Cricket, like her dad used to, I can’t help but smile through the tears. In that moment, I know my family will be okay; we were going to be happy again.

  Occasionally I still think about Bear Lake and Will. How they are such important pieces of my life, pieces that I will never forget, pieces that helped to make me who I am. I have moved past my worry about betraying Will. I feel as though I have honored him, his memory, and our previous life. Even though it’s been a road filled with obstacles, I’m finally content with where I am and how I got there.

  I gaze out the car window, these thoughts overpowering my mind, when I feel Brooks squeeze my hand, bringing me back to the present. I turn to face his concerned look, and I smile to ease his discomfort. We hold a silent conversation, speaking only with our eyes, and he knows where my thoughts have been. He gently nods, and he brings my wrist to his mouth, letting his lips trace along the delicate skin.

  “I’m here, Viv,” he says before taking a glance in the rearview mirror at our pint-sized passengers. This time it’s my turn to nod.

  We’ve been out to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, Cheery Cricket. Set in the heart of upscale Cherry Creek, the diner sticks out in the posh neighborhood with its off-color menu and comfortable atmosphere. Brooks thinks that they have the best hamburger masterpieces in Denver, at least that’s what Brooks calls them; and besides, Emma thinks that the place was named after her. Needless to say, we frequent the establishment often.

  I peer into the backseat as well to see two children awake and looking stuffed to the brim from their burgers and fries, and Emma soundly sleeping. I’m a little surprised to see that any of them are awake, considering the amount of fun they had throwing darts at the burger toppings board, instead of ordering a pre-designed burger off the menu.

  We always have a good time with the darts, and I find it hilarious watching Brooks hold each kid up in the air so that they can aim for the additions that they want for their order, hoping it doesn’t land on something they will have to pick off later.

  “Look, Mom, Aunt Charlotte’s here!” Blake exclaims as we pull into the driveway of my house.

  I turn back around in my seat to see the grey mini-van of my sister’s parked in front of the house. Brooks looks to me, and I shrug in response. I have spoken only sporadically to my sister or mother since moving to Denver. They understood, but didn’t necessarily agree with me uprooting the kids and moving away. They have let it be known, they thought it was doing more damage than good. Neither have been to the new house, so to see my sister here raises some red flags.

  My mind immediately plays out all of the various horrible situations that could have brought her to my doorstep. Brooks sees my worry, and when he puts the SUV into park, he urges me out of the car.

  “Go, Red, I’ll get the kids in and settled,” he says softly as I unbuckle and gather my purse. I mouth him a thank you, hastily open my door, and speed walk up the front steps. Unsure of what news I’ll find on the other side of the door, I feel an overwhelming sense of dé-já-vu, and I find myself repeatedly muttering, “Please not again…please not again.”

  Stumbling through the door, I yell out for Charlotte and Amanda, the anxiety obvious in my voice. I hear them both in the kitchen, and I rush through the house towards their muffled conversation. As I approach, bits and pieces of the discussion are clearer, and I can feel the emotion radiating from the room.

  “What happened? Is Mom okay?” I shout as I burst through the doorway. I’m met with grim expressions; Amanda’s reddened cheeks are smeared with black mascara, and Charlotte’s cool demeanor is one usually reserved for when she’s angry.

  Amanda wipes away her tears and dabs her nose with a tissue, but even surrounded by the sniffles next to her, Charlotte’s strength doesn’t falter as she pats the chair next to her. “Mom is fine, but something has happened; please sit so I can explain.”

  My stomach twists into knots, and I feel the dread of the atmosphere absorb into my pores. I slowly pull out the chair and sit down, my body rigid, preparing for the blow that is sure to come. I square my shoulders and face Charlotte, signaling my readiness for the impending bomb.

  “Yesterday, Mom got a letter from the state parole board. It was notifying her that Raymond Michaels was being released,” she states calmly, as the finality of the situation is out of her control. Amanda sobs, unable to bear hearing the words again.

  “What do you mean released?” I demand. “When was the review; why wasn’t I told? We have written letters to the board in the past; they can’t just let him go without letting us speak to the parole board.” My voice raises an octave with each word of my rant. I had a million possibilities of why Charlotte was here, but never did I think that Raymond Michaels’ release would have been the reason.

  “There was a review and we were notified, and both Mom and I wrote letters,” she responds.

  “What?” I say incredulously. “Why wouldn’t Mom include us? Dad’s death impacted all of us; it is not okay that you kept this from us.”

  Charlotte exhales loudly, and Amanda swiftly dries her remaining tears; she is also insulted by our sister and mother’s secret.

  “Guys, Mom thought that both of you had enough on your plate without worrying about this. Amanda, your job has you travelling all over the country and spread so thin. And Vivian, with you still healing from Will’s accident, you know that this was an added stress that you didn’t need.”

  “I appreciate the concern, but our involvement was something that we should have been able to decide for ourselves,” Amanda snaps, the sarcasm dripping from each word.

  “Look, I’m sorry that Mom didn’t want to tell you, but we tho
ught it was for the best. It was very likely that he was going to be released and we didn’t want to worry you both until it was done.”

  My mind quickly computes the math, and when I realize that he hasn’t even served the minimum of his 25 to life sentence, my blood rises and my face warms in rage. “What do you mean? It’s only been 23 years; how could he even be up for parole if he hadn’t served the minimum sentence? That doesn’t make sense.”

  I begin taking out my aggression on the placemat in front of me, wringing the cloth between my white-knuckled grip. Amanda takes it from my hands and straightens the now-wrinkled placemat. “Easy there, tiger, these are my special harvest mats and Pottery Barn has discontinued them.”

  I smile and exhale the breath I had been holding, thankful for her slightest comic relief from our tense situation. “I’m sorry; it’s all just a little overwhelming.” My eyes slide to Charlotte, who has cast her glance down. “So tell us the rest; we won’t interrupt, just explain. We want the whole story, everything, Char.”

  “Okay,” she resigns. “When he was up for parole the last time, we knew that he had been making progress in prison. He hadn’t had any behavior issues, and he was about to finish his Bachelor’s degree. When he was transferred to a minimum security facility, and soon after became a leader in a mentor program for younger inmates, we both knew that his parole probably wouldn’t be denied again.” She looks back and forth between us, and we gesture her to continue.

  “So when the state sent notification of the hearing, we sent the letters like we always did. But we knew that with the combination of his good behavior and the current overcrowding of the system, our efforts would prove futile, and he would be released early.”

  Footsteps interrupt her explanation, and all three of us look to the entryway to see Brooks standing there, his arms folded across his chest, emphasizing a threatening and daunting stance. He has been upstairs long enough to know that he has more than likely gotten all of the kids to sleep. I wish he had stayed up there as well, though; I don’t want to scare him away with this conversation. The idea of my father’s killer back on the streets scared him away once before, I can’t risk that happening again.