Free Stepping Into Sunlight by Sharon Hinck Page A

leak after leak before the dike came crashing in to drown my sanity?
    Outside, the school bus stopped and then roared away. I forced myself to my feet, and when Bryan tapped on the door, I quickly pulled him inside.
    “What’s wrong now?” His scowl held more irritation than worry as he stared at me. My face always turned blotchy when I cried.
    “I’m not feeling good again. I think I need to lie down. Do you want to watch a movie?”
    “We don’t have any good ones.”
    “Bryan, please! Just watch something, okay? Stay out of trouble.”
    His wounded look reproached me, but I fled the guilt and shut myself in the bathroom. I’d never understood alcoholics and addicts and why they would let a momentary pleasure destroy their lives, but today, if I could have swallowed something or shot something into my veins to stop the shaking and the irrational fear—and my shame for not being able to control it—I would have done it in an instant. Was this how my brother, Alex, felt all those years ago? Did I inherit the same gene? Had irrationality been lying in wait for a trigger like the crime? I splashed cold water in my face.
    Don’t go there. Hold it together. Just a few hours. Then you can put Bryan to bed.
    While Bryan indulged in afternoon cartoons, I made him a sandwich for supper. My hand shook as I spread the peanut butter, and milk splashed on my hand as I tried to pour it into his favorite cup. At least I had a few homemade cookies to add to the plate. I managed to hold the tray steady as I set it on the coffee table for him.
    By bedtime, I was able to slip fully back into the role of a normal mom. I cooed over Bryan, but he held himself stiff in my arms as I read to him.
    “Honey, I know this isn’t fair to you. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have been crabby to you.” I stroked his thick bangs over to one side. “Will you forgive me?”
    His eyes were flat as he stared at me. “When is Dad getting home?”
    “Soon, sweetie.” I hugged him, and my throat tightened. “I’m really sorry.”
    “Mrs. Pimple sent you another note. It’s in my jeans.”
    “Okay. I’ll find it. Let’s say our prayers, all right?”
    With my help, he dutifully recited an evening prayer that Tom had taught him last summer. I had teased Tom that the prayer was too archaic for a seven-year-old, but Tom insisted that his father had taught him that prayer when he was still in kindergarten.
    “I thank Thee, my heavenly Father, through Jesus Christ, Thy dear Son, that Thou hast graciously kept me this day; and I pray Thee that Thou wouldst forgive me all my sins where I have done wrong, and graciously keep me this night. For into Thy hands I commend myself, my body and soul, and all things. Let Thy holy angel be with me, that the wicked Foe may have no power over me. Amen.”
    Tonight the words battered me. The “wicked Foe” seemed to have a lot of power over me these days, and fear continued to twist my stomach. From one perspective, God had kept me safe in the store that day. I was alive. And today, when I’d had another spell, He’d sent Lydia to guide me home. But in spite of that, I found it difficult to commend myself into His hands anymore.
    I pulled the quilt up to Bryan’s chin and kissed him one more time. Gathering up scattered clothes, I tiptoed from his room, leaving the door open a perfect six inches. He liked to see the spill of hallway light as he fell asleep.
    Our washing machine lurked in an oversized closet off the kitchen. I tossed the clothes into the basket and carefully checked the pockets. Bryan had a habit of forgetting dead beetles or chewed wads of bubble gum for me to discover in the washing machine filter. Today all I found was the note from Mrs. Pimblott.
    Dear Mrs. Sullivan,
    I had hoped to talk with you about the Thanksgiving play but haven’t been able to reach you. If you aren’t able to participate, please let me know soon, so I can recruit another parent.
    I’d also like to