Page 112 of Free to Live

Phil shifts and reaches for my camera. “I think I do. Let’s bring you back to where you belong, Hols.” Looping the strap over his neck and loosening it, he slips it over mine as well. “You’re not to hold the camera,” he orders.

My heart skips a beat just before another sob wrenches from me.

God, I love my brother.

“We’ve got all day, baby girl. Find your focus. Hold on to me and tell me what buttons to push.” Phil scoots closer and braces his elbows on his partially raised legs so the camera sits perfectly in front of my face.

Swiping at my tears, I lean forward. Through the viewfinder, I can see the remains of my home in the distance. If you’d have asked me an hour ago before I’d had this heart-to-heart with the man who gave up his whole life to raise five women who weren’t related to him, I’d have said that resembled my heart. Instead, I catch a glimpse of Phil’s flowers at the bottom of the frame. “Zoom out,” I whisper.

My brother complies.

There at the water’s edge are branches of Phil’s dogwood tree dipping in, obscuring the charred ruins. Beauty and strength overpowering the pain. “Take the picture,” I urge him.

He presses the shutter.

I watch the shutter blink through the viewfinder. Suddenly a bird lands on the branch. Hope. “Again,” I whisper.

He presses it again.

The bird sits on the branch for a moment. Suddenly she takes off. “Again, please.”

It flashes just as little heads pop up. “Beautiful,” I murmur.

“I wasn’t looking at that,” Phil says casually. I turn my body to the side so I can see his face. “I was too busy watching my sister come back to me.”

“Phil,” I whisper brokenly, before throwing my arms around him and letting loose a torrent of sobs.

“You will never understand how grateful I am to sit here all day doing this.” He brushes his lips against my forehead before they curve in a smile that I’ve been fortunate enough to get on film—when he’s had all of us in his arms. “This is your chance to order me around, Hols. Use it wisely.”

Turning around and settling back into his arms, I pull his wrists toward me so I can see. And for hours without complaint, my brother gave me back not only another piece of my life, but he also gave me back my perception.

Not just about what happened to me, but about so much more.

He gave me the ability to view myself with a little more pride. And he helped me understand that love is more than I’ll ever comprehend. It isn’t there just to cause your heart to flutter and dance. It’s also there to accept and forgive.

I just hope forgiveness is something I’m worthy of once I’ve healed. I need Joe to forgive my leaving instead of staying to talk things out; my overthinking what was likely a mistake that could have ended in a tragedy for all of us. I need him to understand it wasn’t a rejection of him or Grace; it was my fear of being worthless to a man like him.

I just have to figure out how.

62

Joseph

Holly’s been out of the hospital for a few weeks. During that time, I’ve been in regular therapy sessions with a psychologist named Alice Cleary. Dad, not having a clue what to do, got a recommendation from Jason. Jason explained Alice was a bit unorthodox but had helped Corinna during a traumatic event in her life.

After our first session, I told Dad that if I wasn’t in love with Holly, I might hit on the shrink, who must be in her late fifties.

He exploded with laughter.

Alice is a damn hoot. Whether you’re one of her private patients or you see her through her association with Greenwich Hospital, she keeps a stash of chocolate so huge that I’ve had to run nightly to keep the pounds off. Especially since she’s in cohorts with Corinna Freeman. I walked into our first session, saw there were orange-frosted cupcakes on the table, and muttered, “Fuck,” loudly enough for Alice to scream with laughter.

Her response: “Obviously you’ve had baked goods from the Amaryllis Bakery before.”

I cut my eyes to the side and said, “I’m in love with Holly Freeman. That’s part of the reason I’m here.”

“Well, it will be fun to catch up about my friends, then, Joseph. Have a favorite kind of music?”

“It’s Joe,” I corrected her. “Normally I just listen to my Spotify playlist.”