for·give·ness

noun

the action or process of forgiving or being forgiven.

Lying on her back, head resting on Jonathan's chest, she felt numb. She had hidden secrets from Jonathan, particularly about El, she had broken her father's heart -even though he deserved it, it still hurt. She did not feel like herself, and yet she did not feel tethered to anything. Being free never felt so constricting. And so she had decided to do something rash, something that might help her feel whole again.

"You don't want me to come?" Jonathan asked her quietly.

"This is something I have to do," she rolled onto her side and looked at Jonathan.

"Hopper set it up?"

She nodded. She'd gone home after the incident with her father, and promptly burst into tears. Jonathan didn't get to see those tears, those raw emotions that day, although he had seen his fair share in their time together. Hopper had quickly rushed over and attempted to console her, but was unsure how to do so. When it came down to it, simply his presence was enough for her. The comfort of a father figure.

She'd deeply apologized for her outburst.

And that's when he told her, "I've set up visitation for you, and Lindsey O'Brien."

Somehow, the thought of meeting the man who had killed her mother soothed her.

Hopper pulled into the parking lot of the prison. It was a gravel lot, with a small fence that lined a well trimmed grassy knoll. Beyond that relatively nice scene, was the ten foot tall chain-link fence with barbed wire coiled around the tops. Emilia clutched her wallet, the only thing that she was allowed to bring in because she needed identification. A moment of silence passed in the car and she looked at Hopper nervously.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded, "I am."

They walked down the gravel path to the main entrance, which was small and dingy. On the left was a door for a washroom, and on the right there was a few poorly maintained chairs and a small row of lockers. Directly in front of them was a window, where a larger woman sat, her security guard outfit tight on her frame. She looked unpleasantly at them, and beckoned for them to come forward.

"ID please."

Emilia fumbled with her wallet, then handed out her driver's license. The woman studied it, and then looked at Hopper. "You too."

"I'm not going in, just the chauffer," Hopper said. "And I'm the police chief, Debra..."

She rolled her eyes, "I know, Jim. It's protocol. You can wait out here. Miss Roth, you may go through the door to your right. You'll be patted down, and given instructions from there."

Emilia nodded, handed her wallet to Hopper, and then went through the door. A young guard patted her down, and then said, "Turn out your pockets, please."

Emilia pulled out the picture she had in her back pocket. The guard studied it, and then she handed it back. "You are allowed one hug, no more than three seconds long. If you need to leave for any reason, you are not permitted to go back in. Do not have any physical contact with anyone in that room."

"I understand," she said, and was guided through.

She took a seat closest to the door, in case she panicked. Twiddling her thumbs, she waited as the buzzer sounded and a cluster of inmates were brought into the large room. Men hugged their wives, brothers hugged their mothers, their fathers, their siblings. And then Lindsey O'Brien walked in, looking nervous and unsure. Something made Emilia rise to her feet, and she stared at him. The man, his hair long and scraggly, cheekbones sunken in, but with bright eyes that shone through his glasses, walked over to her. He went to shake her hand, but withdrew quickly as though she were a vicious dog that snapped.

They sat down across from one another, and she felt tears in her eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked.

"Emilia Roth," he said. "Not a day goes by when I don't think about what I did to you."

Emilia was taken aback by this, her eyes darting around to find something other than him to look at. She stared down at her clasped hands, and began to shake slightly. Then, she looked up into his green eyes and saw a gentle man. She saw a man who was paying for his crime, but it did not make her feel any better. It made her feel worse, that he was in this place, that he looked so different from what she remembered from the pictures.

"You look so much like my own daughter," he said to break the silence.

"You have a daughter?" she asked, she knew nothing about this man. Only that he had been a drunk who should never have gotten behind a wheel. And yet here they were, him in prison and her without a mother.

"I do. Or, I did. She doesn't visit anymore. I'd guess she is about ten years older than you..." He pondered the age of his daughter.

Emilia wondered when he last saw his daughter.

"May I ask why you have come here today? After all these years, what made you show up today?" He inquired.

She pulled out the picture of her mother, and slid it over to him. "I wanted to forgive you."

"There is no need for that, I haven't earned it."

"It isn't about earning it," she spoke quietly. "I was mad, for so long. But not just at you, at everything. I felt the world was out to get me, and then that became my reality. Before the accident... I was nobody special. I would have continued down the same path I did after the accident. The girl who had no friends, the girl who had parents who hated each other. I think... because of the accident, I grew into someone better than that. I'm not saying I wouldn't change it, that I wouldn't bring my mum back if I had the chance, what I'm saying is that I'm not just living with it anymore, I'm living... because of it."

He smiled thoughtfully at her, "You seem like a strong woman, Emilia. But don't ever think that what I did to you was okay-"

"I don't."

He pursed his lips together.

"I just don't want anyone to feel like I did. To feel like nothing. To feel worthless," Emilia told him, looking into his soft, old eyes.

"Don't worry about me, I've earned the right to feel worthless," his expression was unreadable.

"You said you had a daughter, doesn't she make you feel worth?"

"I failed my daughter when I failed you."

"If she knew I forgave you, would she do the same?"

His blank expression broke, his eyes dropped, his cheeks sagged and his shoulders sunk down. Everything about him seemed to turn to damp paper, that he might dissolve if she would press too hard down on him. The words she spoke opened something up inside of him, something he didn't know possible. She could see that, because Jonathan had once spoken words to her that made her realize there was more to everything she thought she knew.

"I cannot ask that of you," he said at last.

"What's her name?"

"Grace. Grace Malarky, she goes by her mother's name now."

"I'm sorry your family was torn apart."

"That, I deserved," he said, and then their time was up.

If Wednesday's post is late it's because I'm falling behind again with the writing and I work all day boxing day and the two days after. Then I work overnight at work the 30th-1st, but it's then that I'll get a lot done. 

Question of the Day: Would you be able to forgive someone if you were in a similar situation?