glow of the candlelight her face pales.
"I know. It was stupid. These college kids stole it from me, but I'm gonna get it back."
Her eyes glisten.
"I know. I know. You never should have given it to me."
"Jack?"
"What?"
"That jacket has been gone for years."
I clench my teeth. Sudden nausea rises in my stomach. Like I need a trashcan to puke in. "What's happened to Dad?"
"Nothing." She stands up and rubs my shoulders. "I think you need more sleep. No more midnight meetings with your friends."
I jerk to my feet and face her. The truth is hidden in the pools of sadness in her eyes since we started talking about Dad. "Tell me. Why don't I go near the Gardner anymore?"
"Honey." Her voice softens. "Your dad's been in jail for years."
I stumble back. "You mean more than just the past four years?"
Mom nods.
The puzzle pieces click. The tables are different because Dad wasn't around to find them. The paintings are gone because Dad never bought them at a yard sale. And the picture of us at the ocean is gone because we never went. Those memories are now a figment of an alternate reality.
"How long?" I ask.
"Maybe you should stay home and rest tomorrow." She tilts her head.
"Tell me," I demand through my teeth. "How long has Dad been in jail?"
"About eleven years. You were only five."
My knees wobble. "What did he do?" My voice is strangled.
"Have you really been denying it for this long?" A tear slips down her cheek.
"What for?" I yell, the storm raging and rushing through me, the wind stirring up my guilt.
"The college kids came forward years ago. They told everything to the art detective. And?" She stops.
My hands tremble and my throat is sandpaper. I know. Deep in my gut, I know what happened. "Go on."
"He handed over your dad's leather jacket. Somehow, he found it outside the Gardner, the night of the crime. Your dad's name was written on the inside. It was enough proof for an investigation, and he was arrested a week later."
I want to puke. I'm the one who sent my dad to jail.
11:30 p.m.
Later that night, the devil visits. The heat and the chills of being in hell descend and invade my nightmares. Jetta is there, her lips moving but her pleas and silent screams go unheard. I reach out my arms and stretch my fingers but I can't touch her. The darkness swirls and she's sucked away in a vortex of black and gray, leaving me behind.
I wake tormented. My hair is drenched and my cheeks are wet. A sadness hovers over me and all I can do is curl up and wait for it to pass. It always does, but tonight, it seems worse.
Finally, I unwrap my legs from the tangled sheets and sit up in bed. I breathe deep, struggling to control the anxiety and the darkness.
I slip out of bed. Mom's light is off and she's asleep. And happy. It's a bit harder to sneak down the stairs because the TV isn't blaring. I place more of my weight on the banisters so my feet make less noise on the stairs.
Downstairs, sitting in the dark, I stare at the new painting. I'm relieved to know why my life and my friends' lives have changed so drastically. If Dad wasn't around for eleven years, then he never had his talks with Stick.
It's time to man up for Dad and my friends. I have to go back and find the coat. When I return, I'll have another chance to save Jetta.
I flick on my flashlight and shine it on the painting of the ocean scene. I welcome the dizziness and the smell of the ocean that filters through. I concentrate on the swirl of the waves and the crashing foam. I imagine the spray of the water and the cry of the seagull.
Finally, I let the wind and the waves suck me in.
MARCH 18, 1990
12:15 a.m.
I'm in the same spot, huddled against the Gardner Museum. The air is damp on my skin from a recent rain. The moisture drifts by on a slight breeze. Music blares from the college party down the street and I go to clutch Dad's leather to me but it isn't there.
Not this time.
I hoped to find the jacket still on the street, caught in the time warp, but one glance tells me it's long gone. In another dimension. Or maybe, someone stole it.
I stand on wobbly legs, fighting the churning in my stomach, which is all too familiar. The small hatchback car is parked down the street, but I try not to look at it. I have no answers for cops and would probably get thrown into the local asylum if I told the truth.
The college kids will soon be coming out from the party, so I stroll across the street, trying to act as if I'm out for a midnight walk. And not a troublemaker. After about a block, I duck behind the row of cars and creep back toward the Gardner. If the leather jacket is missing, then my job's done, my dad protected.
The drunken kids leave the house right on time. They laugh. The girl's cold. They talk about where to go next and the girl jumps on the boy's back for an extremely wobbly piggyback ride. As predicted, the girl notices the cops, and they jump in their car and speed off.
No leather coat anywhere.
I wait for the dizzy feeling to come, welcoming it, so I can return to the coffee shop and back to my normal life. My heart twinges at giving up the mom I haven't seen in years but I can't leave my dad in jail either.
My legs cramp and my stomach rumbles, and the fear grows that I'm stuck here. The cops open their doors with a clicking noise as if they've been in a couple car chases that didn't end well.
Their dark knee-length coats and pointy hats make my heart beat faster. I know cops protect people, but I always feel like they're after me. That a memo went around after Dad's arrest to watch out for his kid because he's bad too.
Maybe I'm scared because sometimes I'm guilty.
The taller cop from the driver's side turns and scans the street. Moonlight lands on familiar steely eyes. He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and swaggers away from the car, but underneath all that his eyes pierce the night, noticing everything.
I shrink down, my breaths coming hard and heavy, overwhelming me to the point that I need to gasp in air. My head spins and I press my cheek to the cool door of the Chevy next to me. After I calm down, I look again. Just to make sure.
It's him. It has to be.
I stumble back from the cars and swipe the hair from my eyes over and over again. Hedges prick my back but I push into them, trying to hide. The driver's a much younger version of my dad. My reasoning power kicks in. Dad admitted to working as a detective, so it makes sense that a cop would eventually work undercover.
The cops approach the side door to the museum and press the white buzzer.
The intercom static squeaks and then a voice answers.
Dad says, "Police. We heard about some trouble in the courtyard."
The heavy door swings wide open, welcoming the presence of the cops. A moment passes where the door remains open, small talk passing back and forth between the security guards and the police. The door closes, leaving a sliver of opportunity to find out more about Dad, to see him in action. I sprint across the street and stick my foot in the side door before it closes all the way.
I listen, hiding, shivering in the damp air.
"Are there any other guards in the building?" Dad commands attention with his magical voice. Even I'm drawn to it.
The guard answers, but his voice cracks, showing his nerves. "Yeah, just one."
"Get him down here," Dad orders, and I picture him flashing his badge again and strolling across the room as if he owns the place.
The walkie-talkie buzzes with static as the guard calls his coworker to the desk. I dare to poke my head a tiny bit through the doorway. A young man with shaggy hair stands behind the desk. He must be a security guard, but he doesn't seem to take his job very seriously. Security guards should have that stern, dried-up look to scare away the bad guys. This guys looks like a young rocker who should be strumming his guitar in a nightclub.
; Dad leans closer to the guard. "There's something familiar about you." The guard visibly shakes. "Step out and show us some identification."
I feel bad for the guy but proud of Dad. Maybe he really is an undercover detective. The guard pales and stumbles out from behind his desk while pulling his wallet from his pocket.
At the same time, a tall, thin man with a pale, haunting face enters the lobby. His feet shuffle across the tiled floor as if he's already asleep on the job. The police man working with Dad strides over and slaps handcuffs on the guy.
This wakes him up. He jerks back and fights against the metal clamped on his wrists. "What's going on? Why are you arresting me?"
Dad pushes the other security guard with the shaggy hair against the wall and forces his arms behind his back. I barely breathe. Sweat forms on the back of my neck and a lone drop trickles down between my shoulder blades.
I involuntarily shiver. Police don't arrest people without reading them their rights. I've watched too many reruns of Law and Order with Mom.
"Play it cool and you won't be harmed." Dad acts rough and mean, any of the compassion I know of him disappears. Sure, he can be gruff at times but he's never cruel, his words are never laced with venom like they are now.
I cringe and watch in horror and fascination as Dad rips strips of duct tape. Working with the other cop, they wrap duct tape around the mouths, eyes, and face of the security guards. They fight but all it takes is a knock to the head and they're subdued. Minutes later, they look like something from a duct tape horror movie.
The cops lead the bound security guards to a set of stairs and disappear.
I step into the