Chapter 10
“I told myself it could wait. I told myself you were probably calling to ask about some paperwork, or to tell me you were being released. I told myself you’d have called Julian if it were really bad, because you always take care of things yourself.” His voice thinned. “Do you understand what I’m saying? I saw your name, and I decided, without even realizing I was deciding, that your problem wasn’t as important as a lamp.”
“Dad…”
“Let me finish.” He opened his eyes, and they were red and wet. “For thirty years, I’ve been telling myself a story. Lauren was the sensitive one and you were the strong one. Lauren needed us, and you didn’t. It was so easy to believe. It let me off the hook. Every time you did something impressive without our help, I thought, see, she’s fine. I thought that was a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know that now.” A tear slid down the side of his nose and into the gray stubble of his jaw. “I sat in that lounge yesterday and I tried to remember the last time I asked you how you were feeling. Really asked. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember. That’s when I understood that you weren’t the strong one. You were just the one who’d stopped asking.”
Sunlight filtered through the leaves. Somewhere nearby, a bird sang with absurd cheerfulness.
“Strong people bleed too, Dad,” I said quietly.
“Yes.” He bowed his head. “Yes, they do.”
For two days I’d imagined dozens of cold, clever, painful speeches.
None came.
“Thank you for telling me,” I said. “That took something.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive us.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his worn wallet. “I’m not asking for anything. I only wanted you to know that I know.”
From behind his driver’s license, he removed a faded, creased photograph.
A skinny eight year old with gap teeth and a crooked ponytail grinned behind a tri fold poster, clutching a blue ribbon like treasure.
My third grade science fair.
“I’ve kept it there for twenty six years,” my father said. “Every time I opened my wallet, I saw you. And I still didn’t do any of the things a man does when he loves someone. I kept the picture. I skipped the rest.”
I held the photo in my lap, speechless.
“That’s all,” he said, and pushed himself painfully to his feet. “I’ll go now. I’ll wait, if you’ll let me. However long it takes.”
“Don’t wait, Dad,” I said softly.
He froze.
“Don’t wait,” I repeated. “Waiting doesn’t change anything. If you want something different, you have to do it. That’s the only kind of proof that counts.”
