in a kind way, but I wish that he would go away, that everyone would go away and leave me alone. “Your father was a good man.”
“Is,” I correct him. “He is a good man, he’s still alive.”
For a moment he looks startled and then the expression passes and he smiles.
“Yes, of course he is. I’m so sorry.”
He gets up and leaves me. I’m relieved. That relief passes when I’m told that I have to go to the committal, which is another word for burial. I figure that I’ve already said goodbye to my mother and don’t want to have to do it all over again. Gran has other ideas so I end up at the graveside while my mother’s coffin is lowered into the ground as the rain pours down. In spite of my resolve not to cry, I lean against my aunt under the shelter of her umbrella and let the tears flow. I decide that I hate funerals.
As it’s late afternoon by the time we leave the cemetery, we all go out for dinner. Although it’s much more relaxed than the funeral, and I’m surrounded by my close family, it’s still a relief when my aunt drops me off at Ben’s place afterward. I just want to get back to the sanctuary that is Ben’s room. I’m struggling to deal with all of it; in Ben’s room, I’m not expected to do anything but be myself.
Ben is at the computer as usual and glances up at me as I come in, but says nothing, for which I am grateful. He knows I don’t want to talk. I lie down on the bed, pick up my book, turn the page and gasp. There, stuck onto the page, is a Post-it note in my father’s handwriting. It’s not the fact that there is a note, but that it’s a reminder of my father. For the past few days, I’ve tried to push him out of my mind and in spite of Gran urging me to visit him in the hospital, I have stayed away because the man lying in that bed is not my father, just someone who looks like him. It’s like my father is somewhere else, where no one can contact him. Gran tells me every day how he is and, while he remains unconscious, I can see no point in being there. I’ve enough grieving for my mother, never mind grieving for my father, but the Post-it note is a sharp reminder that he is still a part of my life.
“What’s up?” Ben asks as he looks over at me.
“There’s a note in my book.” I hold it up so that Ben can see. “My dad wrote it.”
“What’s it say?”
“Main lobby Sheraton – Sunday 26 January @ 11am”
“Could it have been what those guys were looking for?”
“It’s just a Post-it note. Not as if it’s hidden or anything. I mean, I found it.”
“Sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”
I look over at the calendar. “This Sunday is the twenty-sixth of January.”
“So it is. Are you going to give it to Mike?”
I shrug and say, “It’s just a note, in plain sight. It could mean anything – or nothing.”
I look again at the note. Maybe I’ll say something to Mike tomorrow.
Drug Bust
It’s the weekend at last, but instead of taking part in a track meet I end up back at my place with Ben and a date with a very large dumpster that sits on the driveway. Mike meets us there with a team of guys, all of whom are happy to give up their Saturday morning to help us clean up my place. I know I should feel grateful but I’d rather be running, especially as it’s not raining for once and we could run on the track instead of in the gym.
“Where shall we start?” I ask Mike.
“You could start with your room – you’d know what’s important to you. Just grab a plastic bag to put the rubbish in and we’ll put it in the dumpster.”
I grab a bag from the pile just outside the front door and go inside while Ben follows me up the stairs.
“It’s a mess,” Ben says when he gets to the top and sees the shambles in the bedrooms. “What were they looking for?”
I shrug and make a start on my room. As I sort through things I find that not much has been broken and it’s just a matter of putting things back where they belong. I hate cleaning my room, and I’m even more annoyed that it’s not me who’s messed it up. Gradually I begin to see the carpet and the bag begins to bulge. Ben and I are so involved in the work that we don’t hear Mike come up the stairs and walk into my room.
“Jason,” he says quietly.
I look up and he seems sad. I stand up and walk toward him, fearing the worst. Has he heard from the hospital? He raises a gloved hand and holds up a small plastic evidence bag inside which is another smaller bag with small white crystals inside it.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks.
“No.” I frown.
“It’s crystal meth. I found it downstairs in your father’s study. Do you know how it got there?”
“Dad doesn’t do drugs.” It’s the first thing that I can think of.
“But do you?”
I’m so astonished at the question that I can’t speak for a few seconds. “No, I don’t.”
Mike sighs. “We’ll have to shut this down and get a search warrant. Both of you stop what you’re doing and leave everything as it is. Go downstairs and I’ll meet you outside.”
I glance at Ben, who drops the book he’s holding and follows me out of the room. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say as I go down the stairs. I find most of the men outside on the driveway and they look away as we come out. I sit on the edge of the sidewalk with Ben beside just as a car pulls up and Captain Gaffney gets out. He goes inside the house and comes out a few minutes later with the packet that Mike had shown me.
“Can you tell me what this was doing inside your house?”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” I say.
“It was found in your father’s study, taped to the back of the drawer.”
“It must have been planted.”
“By whom?”
“The intruder who was in the house the other day perhaps, or maybe the guys who trashed the house. I’ve never seen it before.”
“We also found this.” He holds up another evidence bag in which is a bundle of money held together with a rubber band, and he points to the top note through the plastic. “You see this serial number? Well, that number was noted before being dropped into circulation by a special law enforcement task force that is investigating a drug ring. Somehow these notes have ended up in your house.”
“What are you talking about?
“This is a trail – a drug trail. We use decoys to buy drugs and give them these marked notes to pay for them. We then wait to see where they next turn up. Knowing where they end up can lead us back to who is supplying the drugs. So, do you know how your father came to have them?”
I stare at him, unable to believe what he is suggesting and I explode. “Don’t you accuse my father of something when he’s not here to defend himself. He’s not into drugs! This is bullshit!” I say jumping to my feet. “Come on, Ben, we’re going home.”
“I haven’t said you can go,” the captain says.
“So, arrest me!” I spit at him and walk off with Ben behind me.
I stomp through Ben’s house, into his bedroom and slam the door. I throw myself onto the bed, fuming.
I’m still finding it hard to believe what has just happened. My dad’s the most straight up person I know, he wouldn’t take drugs, wouldn’t steal drugs, wouldn’t have anything to do with drugs. Then I remember the bottle of bourbon in his study. Are there other things about Dad that I don’t know? I shake my head, no, I can’t think like that. Dad’s lying in the hospital and I still don’t know if he’s going to make it. I have a sudden desire to see him. I’ve avoided him all week and now the urge is so strong that I have to act straight away. I look up as the door opens and Ben peers in cautiously.
“Hey, Ben, will your mum take me to Harborview? I want to see my dad.”
“I’ll ask her,” he says and goes off to find his mum.
In no time he’s back and his mother is close behind.
“Do you want to come?” I ask him.
“Nah, I’ll stay
here.” I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t want to go with me either, not in the mood I’m in.
Mrs Rosenberg drops me off at the front entrance to the hospital while she goes to park the car and I make my way up to the ICU. My aunt and Gran are at my father’s bedside and they smile at me as I come in. Gran looks tired and I know she has been at the hospital every day this week, and I feel guilty for not having come to support her.
“I thought you were helping Mike to clean the house?” she asks.
“Something happened – it’s been postponed.” It’s a half-truth. “I had to come and see Dad.”
She smiles. “I’m glad you have, he’s getting better slowly. They’ve taken him off the respirator.”
I look over at the machine and I see that he’s no longer connected to it.
“When will he wake up?” I ask.
“The doctors don’t know; it’s just going to take some time.”
Time. I don’t have time. I want to know everything now.
“Come on, Mum,” my aunt says. “Let’s wait outside.”
My aunt seems to understand that I want time alone with my father and I smile at her as she leads Gran out the door.
“Hi, Dad,” I say but he doesn’t respond. I don’t know what made me think that he would. His eyes are closed, his body still, apart from the rise and fall of his chest, his arms alongside his body with plastic tubing leading into the veins, the backs of his hands against the cover, the palms facing up with fingers curved. I touch the palm inside the nest of his fingers but the skin is cold and the hand doesn’t move to hold mine.
I am gripped with sudden emotion and my