Monday, Cass calls to check on me and I assure her that I’m fine, which we both know is a big, fat lie. After all, I was a wreck yesterday when I called and told her the whole story, from Ronnie’s nightmare to losing her at the grocery store to me walking out. No way have I gone from complete mess to fine in less than a day.
“I’m coming over after work,” she says. “We’ll talk.”
“No. Please. I just want to be alone. I want—I guess I want to work through it myself.”
I can hear her hesitation over the phone line, and I understand it. Because Cass has been there for almost all the crises of my life. And if she wasn’t there, then Jackson was.
And that, frankly, is why I want to be alone. I need to prove to myself that I can handle this—this intertwining of fear and anger and confusion that is the big ball of emotion that fills my gut shining bright with labels like father and Jackson and Ronnie and parents and choices.
“You know I’ve got your back.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Are you going to need ink?”
I understand that question, too. She’s asking me if I’m going to need her to give me a tattoo—a reminder to give me strength. To help me hold on and get through. “I don’t know,” I say honestly.
“Okay.” I hear her sigh. “Whatever you need.”
“I know. I do. Seriously, I’ll be fine.” But then, before she hangs up, I blurt, “Cass!”
“Yeah?”
I start to ask if Jackson has called her, but I bite back the question. I don’t want this reality where I’m not with him, even if I’m still certain that I made the right choice. And hearing that he is worried about me or that he misses me or even that he is pissed as hell at me would be too damn painful. “Never mind.”
There is a long pause, and then, as if she is deliberately honoring my earlier request, she says, “Okay, then. I’ll talk to you later.”
I am not going in to work today. Not only am I not ready to see Jackson in the office, but my dad’s attorney has arranged a visitation. That, however, isn’t until four, which leaves me with a day to fill. And since I don’t want to fill it with my thoughts, I turn again to television solace. Only, reruns of Friends don’t make me laugh, either.
The phone rings and I start to snatch it up, then slow my hand when I realize the single word that is in my head—Jackson.
But it’s not him who is calling. It’s Ethan.
“Hey,” he says. “Have you seen Dad yet?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I’m going in about an hour. You’re coming up tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to see him at noon. Let him know, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Listen, has Mom called you?”
I frown. “No.” To say that my mother and I have a strained relationship is like saying that black is a dark color. It’s just a flat-out given. I’ve been a non-entity to her for years, and I don’t even know if she’s aware of what happened to me—of what her husband did to her daughter. She pretty much wrote me off, all of her attention going toward my brother, leaving me to basically fend for myself. But considering what I know of my parents, maybe that was best.
“Dammit, I told her she should. I mean, our dad’s in jail. Isn’t that what moms do?”
Not our mom, I think. But all I say is, “So what did she say?”
“She asked me why she should.”
I sigh. I’m not entirely sure why he’s telling me this. God knows nothing has changed.
“I just—she screwed up, Syl. They both have. But that doesn’t mean you will.”
I lick my lips, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want to talk about this, and I’m regretting even telling him in my message that I’d left Jackson and Ronnie.
“I know we’ve grown up saying that we’re not going to have kids because it’s just a goddamn vicious cycle, but it doesn’t have to be. You can stop it.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” I say.
“You know what I mean.”
I do, but I don’t want to talk about it. “Listen, I need to get dressed.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly.
“No,” he says firmly, “it’s not. Listen, I’ve been thinking. And the thing is that you love him.”
“Ethan, please.” My voice is cracking with my words.
“Dammit, Syl, hear me out. You think you can’t be a mom. You think you don’t have a role model. But you do. Don’t you get it? You’re your role model.”
I run my fingers through my hair, feeling too ripped up inside to try and figure out what he’s talking about. “Ethan—”
“You are. I mean, if parenting is about taking care of someone—about being willing to sacrifice for them and make really hard choices—well, then you already know how to do that. Don’t you get it, Syl? You did that for me already.”
I suck in a breath, his words surprising me and making tears spring to my eyes.
“You were as much a parent to me growing up as they ever were. Maybe more. I’m sorry if I’ve made it harder for you. Made you doubt. I shouldn’t have. Because you can do it, Syl. I promise you—you already know how.”
“I—” I can’t talk through the tears. I sniff and try to breathe, and then manage to tell him that I have to go. Because I can’t handle what he’s saying right now. I can’t process if it’s true or not, because it’s just too much. Too big. “I’m sorry,” I add. “But I have a scheduled time to meet with him.”
I hang up without waiting for him to say goodbye.
Could he be right? I want to believe it, but I’m still scared. And with a little girl’s life at the heart of it, I can’t run the risk of being wrong.
Two hours later, I’m sitting in the private visitors’ room at the county jail where my dad is being held. It’s stark and cold and as much as I hate my dad for what he did to me, I can’t stand the thought of him living in a room like this for the rest of his life.
The door opens and my father is brought in, his hands in cuffs, his body dressed in an orange jumpsuit.
I rise and start to go to him.
“No touching,” the uniformed guard says, and I realize that I’d been about to hug my father, something I haven’t done since I was thirteen years old.
“Oh,” I say. “Right.”
“I’ll be outside,” he says. “I can’t hear you, but if you need anything you signal me.”
I nod, and then I take a seat at the table as my father sits opposite. The officer unfastens one handcuff, then refastens it to a bolt on the table. Then he turns, leaves the room, and shuts it with a final-sounding click behind him.
“You killed Reed,” I say without preamble, and I realize as I say the words that it is the first time since I was a child that I’ve felt the protection of this man. “You really did it.”
He looks straight at me, and I see genuine warmth. “I should have done it a long time ago.”
I look down at the tabletop, not wanting him to see how much I agree. When I’ve gathered myself, I lift my head, and I know my eyes are accusatory. “You let Jackson just twist in the wind. All that time. He was almost arrested. Hell, he was almost convicted.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I thought—oh, hell. I was scared. I thought it would blow over. I thought they’d quit looking at him because, hell, he didn’t kill the man. And when it got bad, I was afraid of what would happen to me, and I just kept hoping it would go away.”
I cringe a bit. I don’t like what he did, but I understand it.
“Did you go there planning to kill him?”
“No. I went there to ask him about those blackmail photos. The ones of you that Jackson told me about. Bastard sneered at me. He even pulled one out to show me.” He lifts a shoulder. “That’s when I lost it. I picked up that damn statue, and I went after him.”