“Do you need me to do anything while I’m here?” I said. “I could help with the laundry.”
“Thanks, sweetie, but your father took care of it last night before I even got a chance. You two are so much alike.” She blew steam off her tea.
I thought of my father, coming home after a long day’s work and taking care of my mother. I wished life was easier for them.
“Your windows need to be washed. I’ll come on the weekend.”
“Stop,” she said. “They’re fine.”
“I like cleaning.”
“That’s true. When you were a little girl you’d pretend to be Cinderella and go around the house dusting and wiping everything.” She laughed.
“I wish I could say the same for Sophie.”
“How’s our little princess? Does she like her new room?”
“She loves it. We picked out some owl stencils, and she insisted on putting them up all by herself. Most of them are crooked but she says they’re just flying upside down.”
She reached over and brushed my bangs off my forehead like she did when I was a child. “I can’t get over this new hairstyle of yours. You look so grown up.”
Andrew had kept at me about my hair—I looked like a high school girl, or long hair was too sexy, it gave men the wrong idea. When I came home with a pixie cut, he said, “What did you do that for?”
“I’m not sure if Andrew likes it.”
“You could shave it all off and he’d still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. He adores you.”
“It hasn’t felt like it lately. He’s been so busy.” I opened the door a crack, hoping she would ask me to explain more, hoping she’d seen that something was wrong between us.
“He’s just focused. He dropped your father off yesterday, then went straight back to the job site.” She shook her head. “He’s a hard worker, that husband of yours.”
I heard the respect in her voice, felt it sinking through my body. She hadn’t noticed anything. The truth was pushing at my tongue. I couldn’t keep this all inside anymore, couldn’t bear the weight of all this worry and fear, but I felt a wild panic at the idea of telling my mom. I imagined the look on Andrew’s face if he found out I had talked about him. I thought about the hunting rifle he kept in the gun safe—even though he rarely hunted. I thought about how he kept Sophie’s passport in his bank security deposit box and was the only one who had a key.
Mom slid a plate of cookies toward me.
“I’m not hungry, thanks.”
“You okay?”
His drinking is out of control, Mom. He gets so angry when he’s drunk. I think he might really hurt me. You don’t know what he’s like. I can’t breathe. He’s so jealous. He spies on me and goes through my things. He wants another child but I’m taking birth control. I keep it hidden in my tampon box. I want to leave him but I’m terrified he’ll take Sophie away from me somehow. I don’t have anything of my own. What should I do? How can I get out of this? I don’t have a credit card or bank account. Everything is in his name. I’m trapped.
I imagined how shocked and confused and upset my mom would be. How much my having hidden the truth for so long would hurt her. How worried she’d be about Sophie and me.
“I ate before I came over.” I took another sip of my tea. I wanted to stay in this moment a little longer. “Is Dad’s shoulder getting any better?”
She shook her head. “He tried the exercises the doctor prescribed, but they haven’t helped. Surgery would be the next step, but it’s risky. Thank God Andrew gave him that job.”
“Does he still like working for him?”
She tilted her head. “Of course. Why?”
I swallowed a couple of times, trying to dislodge the tight, desperate feeling in my throat that was always there lately. “I just wonder sometimes if it might be strange for him, working for his son-in-law. If he wanted to do something else, it would be okay with me.”
“Your dad knows that.” She rested her hand on mine. She was looking straight into my eyes with a concerned expression. This was my chance.
“You and Dad are so important to me, and—”
My mom’s eyes widened. “Oh! I want to show you the catalogue Andrew dropped off.”
“Catalogue?”
“He’s sending your father and me on a cruise—for an anniversary present, but he’s calling it a bonus, you know, for tax reasons. He hasn’t told you? I hope it wasn’t a surprise. Maybe he’s taking you too!” She got up, talking excitedly about where they would go. “You’ll have to help me pick out some cruise wear. You know, we’ve never been on a real holiday before.”
She sat back down with the catalogue, pushed it toward me, but I couldn’t make my arms move, could only stare at the shiny cover with the smiling couple.
“Lindsey?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about something.” I straightened my chair, pulled it closer.
She was still looking at me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, just a little tired. I probably need a vitamin B shot.”
“That’s a good idea. Having a toddler is exhausting.” She flipped the catalogue opened to a marked page. “What do you think about this one?”
* * *
I sat in the car and stared back at my parents’ house, the flower boxes, the wooden swing where my dad and mom would sit in the evenings while my brother and I ran around in the front yard, where my mom would snuggle with me while she pushed gently against the porch railing with her foot until I fell asleep against her warm body. My mom was going to wonder why I hadn’t driven away, but I needed a moment to think, to brace myself before I went home. The seat belt was too tight around my waist. I tried to tug it looser, but the locking mechanism wouldn’t let me. I pulled and yanked while tears rolled down my face. Finally I gave up and slapped my hands down hard on my steering wheel. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”
There was noise beside me, a bird chirping in one of the apple trees. I rolled down my window, inhaled the crisp fall air. The days would get colder soon, Andrew would come home earlier, and maybe his work would slow down. Maybe he wouldn’t need to drink so much and things would get better. He loved Christmas. I clung to that thought, remembered how he always got up at the crack of dawn like a little kid and made waffles for us, how he couldn’t wait for Sophie to open her presents. Last year he’d built her a dollhouse, even all the little furniture inside, and given me a maple jewelry box he made in my dad’s workshop. He told me that those hours spent with my dad were some of the best times he’d had in his life.
I looked back up at the house, thought about my parents relaxing on a cruise, everything taken care of, and how much fun they’d have. They needed this. They’d done everything for me, sacrificed so much. I had to stay with Andrew. Leaving wasn’t an option. Not right now.
I put the car in gear and drove home. I’d make soup and roast beef sandwiches. He liked those.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SOPHIE
DECEMBER 2016
May 19, 2016
To Andrew Nash,
C/O Rockland Prison
Hi, my name is Sophie and you’re my father, but you probably already figured that out. Right now you’re probably wondering why I’m writing you, so I’ll get to the point. My English teacher gave us an assignment and we’re supposed to contact someone who had the biggest impact on our lives and tell them what they meant to us, or how they changed us. I think it’s supposed to be someone we admire, or like our hero, and I guess you used to be that for me when I was kid, but I chose you for this project because you changed a lot of people’s lives. Not just mine. And hey, maybe I can get an “A” for having a dad in prison. Okay, stupid joke.
So, for this part I’m supposed to tell you how I feel when I think about you. Sometimes I feel sad, but I’m mostly still really angry at you for drinking and driving that night. I think about that woman all the time. She was trying to get home to her family and now she’s dead. Afte
r you were arrested, we had to move all over the place and Mom worked two jobs. I hardly ever saw her and I didn’t have a dad anymore. Now it’s been so long. Eleven years. That’s more than half my life. You’ve missed everything. I don’t even know who you are now.
I don’t know what else to say.
Sophie
That’s how it started. I got that assignment and I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to tell my dad how he ruined our lives. I talked it over with Delaney, the only one who knows about my dad. It’s bad enough that everyone knows my mom has a cleaning business. She cleans for some of their parents. I mean, how weird is that? My mom makes their beds and scrubs their toilets. I helped her clean in the summer and it was disgusting. I hated how some owners stuck around while we worked and went about their lives, giving us apologetic smiles, like they’re just too busy or too important to clean up their own messes. I want her to get a different job, like in an office or something, but she says she prefers working for herself.
Delaney thought it was a cool idea to write my dad and agreed that she’d be my drop-off point. She mailed the letter for me, and I used her address in case he wanted to write back.
Two weeks later I got a letter.
May 29, 2016
Dear Sophie,
The best day of my life since I’ve been in prison is when I got your letter. I must have read it six times already. You have every reason to hate me, but I hope you can find it in your heart to give me another chance. I’m not the same person. You’re right, I have missed everything. I can’t believe you’re almost eighteen.
Your mom didn’t want you to visit me until I got myself together, and she was right, but I want you to know that I never stopped thinking about you. It’s taken me a long time to accept responsibility for my actions and I’m sorry I haven’t been a good father to you. I was just so full of anger for so long, I couldn’t see my way clear of it all. But then something happened in here and I hurt someone again. He jumped me and I was defending myself, but it didn’t matter. I realized if I didn’t straighten up, I might never get to see you again.
I go to AA meetings and I’ve been working the twelve steps and trying to make amends to all the people I hurt. I’m truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused everybody, and I know I let you down. I wish a million times over that I’d never driven drunk that night. I can’t go back in time, but I’m trying really hard to make a positive difference with the rest of my life.
I go to a support group in here. They teach us anger management and how to talk about our emotions so they don’t build up inside. For years I couldn’t handle all my bad feelings because of what happened to me when I was a kid. I guess I never really got over my dad leaving and my mom dying. So then I was always scared your mom would leave me too. But I screwed up and lost you both. I’m not making excuses. I’m just hoping you can maybe understand a little.
Do you remember the boat we built together? I know I messed that up too and I’m really sorry. I remember every single time I screwed up and I know it would take me a lifetime to make it all up to you, but I’m willing to give it a try. Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night because it’s so noisy in here, I work out plans for a new boat and think about how we could build it together and take it out on the lake when I get released. I never got to teach you how to fish.
Maybe that doesn’t seem like much, but when you were born, it was one of the things I really wanted to do with you, but then I was drinking too much for all those years and it just never happened. I forgot about a lot of things, but I never stopped loving you.
I’ve got to get to work now. I have a job in here, managing the tool room. It passes the time and some of the men are okay. I also read a lot and I’ve taken some classes, but I’m looking forward to getting out soon. I know you might not want to write me back, but it would mean a lot to me if you did. I want to hear about you. Do you still like to draw?
Your dad
By the time I was done reading the letter, my throat was tight and my face hot. I felt empty and headachy. It was too much. I hadn’t thought about that boat in years. We’d sanded and painted for days, but then it sat with a tarp over it for months. Now I remembered how it felt standing beside him while we worked, learning how to use the different grains of sanding paper, our hands grimy and rough, the oily smell of the paint. I tucked the letter under my dresser.
That night after Mom was in bed, I went to my room and started sketching. I began with an enchanted forest, trees with leaves and flowers twining around, but then in the middle I drew a pond with our boat and there was a little girl and her father sitting together with fishing poles and frogs jumping all around them. I folded it up and stuffed it in an envelope and gave it to Delaney the next morning so she could mail it to him. After that, we started writing weekly.
Today he’s flying over to Dogwood Bay from the island to see me. Our first visit in eleven years. I’m going to see my father. Which is so crazy I barely slept last night and I have big dark shadows under my eyes that I had to layer makeup over and then use more eyeliner than normal, so I can pretend I’m going for the smoky look. Maybe Mom will be so distracted by my new style she won’t notice that I’m way too excited for school.
I shove the bundle of letters into my backpack—I’ve been taking them with me every day. Mom would never search my room and she always asks before she vacuums or cleans anything, but I’m not taking any chances. I tiptoe out to the kitchen, hoping that she’s still sleeping. Crap. She’s already sitting at the table and eating toast. I smell peanut butter.
She glances at me. “You’re up early. Want something to eat?”
“I’ll eat at school, thanks.” For a wild moment I imagine what it might be like to tell her that I’ve talked to my dad on the phone a few times. It was strange at first. I didn’t know what to say, but his voice was so familiar and then I started having all these memories of sitting in his work truck, listening to him on the phone, feeling proud of how smart he sounded, how his workers always checked with him about everything. I could even smell the coconut air freshener he used. Then I remembered his metal lunch kit and how he brought little packages of Oreos for me and kept crayons in his glove box. I want to ask Mom if she remembers that too. How come we never talk about those things? How come we only talk about the bad stuff?
Well, darling daughter, because he threatened to kill me, remember that?
I do remember. I remember perfectly. That’s why I asked him about it during our second phone call. And if you think writing my dad in prison took a lot of guts, asking him about the time he threatened to kill my mother just about ripped them out. What if he had shot my mom that night? When I think about it everything gets all shaky, and I feel like I have to sit down.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” I said. “It’s important.”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Were you really going to kill Mom the night of the accident? You had a gun.”
He was quiet for a long moment—long enough for me to think that he might have hung up, but then he said, “She tell you about the gun?”
“It was in the newspapers.” Mom told me when I got older, but I already knew pretty much everything from the papers. I’d read them all online, everything I could find, any mention of his name. It had felt like reading about someone else’s life, someone else’s father.
“It’s a fair question. But I feel like a real asshole that you even have to ask. You know? You were just a kid. You shouldn’t have had to read that. I’d never have really hurt her. I was drunk and upset and not thinking straight. The gun wasn’t even loaded.”
I wanted to ask Mom if that was true, but there was no way I could bring it up casually. It would be suicidal. Even if I told her how he asks about my school and grades and what classes I want to take at university, and how we talk about job statistics and whether I should try to intern at a graphic art studio—they’re going all digital these days. And how it’s like how I im
agine it is for my friends when they talk to their fathers. She would still completely flip out and ground me for the rest of my life. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know how he’s changed.
I get my lunch out of the fridge and open my backpack, but I’m moving too fast, fumbling with all my art supplies, and the bundle of letters falls out—right near my mom’s feet.
“What are those?” she says, her body shifting as though she’s going to lean down. I quickly pick them up and press them against my stomach so she can’t see the return address.
“Just a project.”
She looks confused. “With letters?”
“It’s hard to explain.” God. I’m such an idiot. My face is burning now. “I have to go. I’m meeting Delaney.”
“Okay, tell her to drive safe.” She always says this and I guess most moms probably do, but it’s different for her. It’s more like her superstition, sort of a verbal knocking on wood, like if she forgets just one time something terrible will happen. It’s because of my dad’s accident.
I don’t remember much about his drinking. I’ve tried to think back, but I was only six. Sometimes I think I can remember the smell of beer on his breath, or how Mom would be nervous when he came home, how he would sleep on the couch, but I’m not sure if those are my memories or pieces of things Mom told me. She tried to keep most of it away from me when I was little—she says she made sure I was asleep or watching TV if Dad was really drunk. She still flinches when she talks about him. I don’t know if she even realizes. Once I get to know him again and make sure he’s changed, I’ll tell her so she doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.
She looks back down at her cell phone, checking her Facebook page.
“See you.” I bolt out the door.
* * *
The day passes so slowly that I feel like I’m going to explode by the time the bell rings. For the last hour I’ve been glancing up at the clock every few minutes, wondering if his float plane has landed on time, if he’s driving to the coffee shop. Delaney meets me by my locker, wishes me good luck. “Tell me everything!” she says. “I wish I could come with you.”