He continued reading.
Then the entry after the surgery.
They cut too much and not enough. The boy nearly died. Surgeon wants another attempt later. I told him never to return. The showman came before sunset. That means the physician betrayed us. We leave as soon as Caleb can sit a wagon.
Caleb swallowed.
More pages.
Travel west.
Hardships.
Fear.
Then an entry written in Colorado years later.
Caleb asked today whether he may attend the winter dance. I told him no woman would want to discover what lives beneath his scar. The words left my mouth before I understood their cruelty. He did not speak the rest of the evening.
Caleb stopped reading.
Eleanor closed her eyes.
He whispered:
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“He knew what he said.”
“Yes.”
“He never apologized.”
“No.”
Caleb's hand shook.
Then he read the next line.
I should apologize. I will tomorrow.
The next day's entry discussed weather.
No apology mentioned.
Caleb laughed once.
A terrible sound.
“Tomorrow.”
Eleanor said nothing.
He continued.
Years passed across the pages.
Caleb grew stronger.
Father weaker.
Then something changed in the handwriting during the final year.
I have been wrong about hiding him.
Caleb’s breathing stopped.
Eleanor leaned closer.
I thought safety meant distance. Perhaps distance only taught him the world deserved fear. He is thirty-one. Stronger than any man I know. Kinder too. He watches travelers from the ridge and thinks I do not see.
Caleb's eyes filled.
The next entry:
I wrote to a doctor in Denver described by Reverend Mason as discreet and decent. Asked whether Caleb might be examined without his condition becoming spectacle. Awaiting reply.
Caleb flipped the page.
A letter fell from the journal.
Still sealed.
His name on the front.
For Caleb.
His hands froze.
Eleanor whispered:
“Open it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“What if—”
“Caleb.”
He looked toward her.
“It has waited long enough.”
He broke the seal.
Inside was a letter from his father.
The handwriting trembled.
Son,
If you are reading this, I likely failed to say these things while alive. That would be consistent with most of my mistakes.
Caleb laughed through tears.
He continued.
I took you into the mountains because men frightened me. I told myself I was protecting you. For years I believed that. Then I began to see that protection which removes every choice becomes another kind of harm.
Caleb stopped.
Eleanor squeezed his hand.
He read on.
There was never anything evil in you. I knew that. I should have said it every day. Instead I spoke as though the world’s ignorance belonged to your body rather than theirs. Forgive me if you can.