Free The Ninth Step by Grant Jerkins

She would not look at Martha.
    “You left something out, didn’t you? When you unburdened yourself to me. The fifth step.”
    Helen nodded her head.
    “It doesn’t have to be me, you know. You could tell it to a priest. Or a shrink. Or a complete stranger. But you have to admit to another human being the exact nature of your wrongs. You can’t cheat the steps.”
    Helen said, by rote, “You gotta work it if you want it to work.”
    “I’ve taught you well, Grasshopper.”
    They drove in silence for a while longer, each of them thinking.
    “Maybe, dear, it’s better if I’m not the one you tell. Maybe… Well, the point is, you have to do it. You have to admit to another human being the exact nature of your wrongs. I’m not trying to be cruel. The point is that this thing, whatever it is, will prey on your mind.”
    “‘You’re only as sick as your secrets.’ I know.”
    “You’re putting your sobriety at risk. You have—”
    “I did, Martha.”
    “You did what?”
    “I did kill someone.”
    Martha turned her head and stared at Helen, her mouth hanging open. She slammed on the brakes when she almost rear-ended the car she had been following.
    “Jesus.”

27
THE DIRTY LITTLE THINGS
WE DO TO ONE ANOTHER
    Martha’s car was in the parking lot of the liquor store where Helen had bought her last bottle of vodka—the radiation-free kind.
    The two women leaned against the Malibu with its blistered paint and rust-flecked body. Helen told Martha everything. The whole story. The crime, the cover-up, and how the guilt was blooming inside her like toxic black mold. Helen smoked a cigarette and waited for Martha to respond, but Martha only peered through her binoculars, watching the man from the restaurant walk into the front office of a hotel, a three-level motor court directly across the four-lane.
    Martha put the binoculars on the hood of the car and took hold of Helen’s hand.
    “I had to tell my brother that I knew, had known all my life, that our father had been molesting him. And I did nothing to stop it. That was my ninth step. I knew about it and kept quiet. Because I was afraid.
    “I was afraid that our father would come after me. That he would come to my bed. Or worse, that my father would hate me for telling on him. I loved him. I was his princess. So I had to tell my brother that I could have stopped years of his abuse, but didn’t.
    “Derek’s been treated for mental illness most of his adult life. Spent time in jail. And his problems almost certainly stemmed from that abuse. So yes, that was my ninth step. Owning that. How do you make amends for something like that? You can’t. There was nothing that I could actually do to repair the damage I caused. And I had to ask myself if confessing to him would only cause him more pain. We must never unburden ourselves if sharing that knowledge only hurts the other person. If we are only transferring that burden from ourselves to them. In the end, I decided that my admission would give him some kind of validation. Our father never admitted the abuse. So I told him. And it almost killed me. But I did it. And he forgave me. He forgave me, dear. He said that he had felt guilty all of those years. That he thought that I thought the abuse was his fault. That I blamed him for destroying our family.”
    Martha retrieved the binoculars and watched the man get back in his car and drive deeper into the motor court parking lot.
    “I did it. I made amends. And it worked. If you want it to work, you gotta work the steps. I haven’t had a drink in fourteen years. I’ve done a lot of shitty, despicable things in my life. But my conscience is clear. I’m a good person.”
    It was such a painful story that Helen had to look away from Martha. She said, “I had an uncle. He was supposed to be teaching me to swim. But he… he, uh, he would hold me in the water. And he would…”
    “I think I get the picture.”
    “He would hold my head under the water if I didn’t