She was somewhere in the bedroom. He was passed out in the den.
Our normal conditions for Staying Quiet.
Is it wrong for me to say that although I hated it as a home, there are still parts of our house that I loved? Like, it was never my room’s fault that I was miserable. It never did anything wrong to me. If anything, it was the only space that allowed me to make it mine.
I took some clothes, but I couldn’t take all of my clothes. I took three books, but I couldn’t take the rest of them. I found some photos of us, and some photos of me and Terrence. That photo of you and me and Meemaw. Some shorts, because it’s going to be summer soon.
I also unearthed my other big hiding place. There, in the pocket of one of my sweatshirts, this small plastic piggy bank. The kind you can open and close without breaking it.
I’d always meant to give it to you.
Subject: Confession
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Wed 17 Apr 02:04 EST
No. I can’t just leave it at that.
I think you understand. But that’s a cop-out. I need to own it.
I need to say I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for never giving you that piggy bank.
I’m sorry for why I needed to get it for you in the first place.
I know I was only nine. But that’s no excuse. I was so scared of him, but that’s not an excuse either. When he asked who broke the lamp, I should have confessed and told the truth. But instead I pointed at you. I saw my way out and I took it. When you protested, I insisted even more. Because now there was the risk of being caught breaking the lamp and lying about it.
I didn’t know what was going to happen when he marched us up to your room. I only knew it was going to be something bad. And what did he say—“You break things, you get things broken”—was that it? He knew exactly what to go for. You’d had that piggy bank, that ceramic piggy bank, since you were a little kid. And you’d never put a single penny in it, because there was no way to get the penny back out unless you broke it.
Which he did. Then he stepped on the shards for good measure, and told you that if you didn’t pick up every single piece of both the bank and the lamp, he was going to smash another thing in your room, and he would keep on smashing things until all the pieces had been picked up. Who thinks of that, Bea? I’m not making this up in my head, am I? There are times I wonder if I have to be. And I also wonder if there are things I’ve blocked out.
The stupid thing is that it wasn’t until tonight that I realized he was punishing us both. I thought it was just you. But he made me watch and didn’t allow me to help. He had to know what that would do to me.
I felt so bad. I stole nickels and quarters from him and Mom for months, then bought the replacement piggy bank for you. Then I worried he’d see it and you’d get into more trouble for replacing what he’d broken. So I kept it hidden. And kept stealing when I could. From them.
I know it’s stupid to apologize for this, six or seven years later. But that’s what I’m doing now.
I guess that’s the risk of going home—you find all this pain, with all this guilt mixed in.
But at least I have clothes now.
Okay, it’s time for me to sneak back into Joe’s house.
More tomorrow.
And I still owe you a piggy bank.
Love,
Ezra
Subject: A complication
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Wed 17 Apr 02:09 EST
I think Joe’s locked me out.
And I’m almost out of battery.
Shit.
Subject: Joe is a CHILD
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Wed 17 Apr 01:16 CST
I hope he steals your phone and sees this email.
JOE, IF YOU’RE READING THIS, STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE!
I want you to bang on the door till his parents let you in. Joe may look like a nearly grown man, but inside he’s four, and you cannot let him play these idiot baby games.
(Sorry if that sounds harsh, but I’m just So. Sick. Of. His. Nonsense. ARE YOU READING THIS, JOE? I HOPE TO GOD SO! We have real problems, Ez, you and me, which is something he’s never understood. I get that everyone has their own amount of shit they carry around with them, and who am I to say ours is worse than his, but the truth is, it is worse than his. Plenty worse. So as far as I’m concerned, he can man the fuck up and open the door for you.)
DO YOU HEAR ME, JOE? MAN THE FUCK UP AND OPEN THE DOOR!!
Subject: A confession
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Wed 17 Apr 01:23 CST
I’m going to sit here till I know you’re inside.
Did I tell you Franco and Irene are letting me stay here? They said I can use the daybed and the adjoining bathroom (with shower!) and pay them $50 a month, which is only $20 more than the hostel costs per night. When I said, “I don’t have any money yet,” Franco said, “You’re already working for it.” And that was that. Franco and I both know he could charge more for this room, but he won’t. Deep down, he’s a big softie.
I made sure not to cry because he would have come undone and maybe even taken back their offer, so I just nodded like okay, thanks, and didn’t make a big deal out of it. But it is a big deal, Ez. A really big deal.
Franco showed me the new boxes of olive oil and tapenade and crackers and olives that had come in and needed to be sorted. He showed me how to price them, where to shelve them, and how to work the old-fashioned cash register, which means we’re at a whole new level of trust here.
And then he repeated his dinner invitation, but I said I was tired, and told him my little brother was in trouble and I had to make sure he was okay. I didn’t mention that you were breaking into our house and drawing penises on things.
(It’s nice, right? That he trusts me enough to give me the keys? We’ve come so far, Franco and I.)
I’m glad you got in and out without incident. Part of me wishes you hadn’t been so much of a gentleman, and had actually done a little tampering, but I’m just grateful you’re out of there safely.
Yes, I remember the piggy bank.
Like it was yesterday.
You don’t need to apologize.
You were nine, Ez. Nine.
What were you supposed to do?
This is one of the things Mom and Darren have always excelled at—putting us in impossible situations. Situations that no one should ever have to be in, especially children.
So again, you don’t need to apologize.
Besides, I have a confession too.
I should have told you before, and I’m sorry I didn’t.
I want you to understand why I didn’t.
This will sound stupid, but I was afraid if I told you—if I even said this out loud—it would go away.
I’m still a little afraid of that happening.
It’s just that nothing good stays around for long, am I right? I had to make sure.
Technically, I still have to, but I figure I’ve come this far, and besides, I feel like I owe it to you.
The Mystery Guy is Dad, Ez.
It’s Dad.
But wait, there’s more.
He says Mom took us away from him. Not as in some custody battle that she won and he lost.
As in now you see us, now you don’t.
As in we were stolen.
Which means this shitty life we’ve been living? It was never supposed to be ours. We were supposed to have a good life with a dad who loves us, here in St. Louis, Missouri. We were s
upposed to be nice kids in a nice family. We were supposed to be loved.
It’s funny, right? In a really fucked-up kind of way. Everyone thinks I ran away from home when I’m actually running toward it. No wonder they aren’t going on the news, begging me to come back. They’re kidnappers, or at least Mom is.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I had to see him for myself first. To make sure. To see that he’s not a Darren. That he’s not Mom. I need to know he’s a safe place.
I guess we’ll put that physics theory to the test—the one about events in the future changing the past.
I’m meeting him Thursday—technically tomorrow. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t bring you with me. But if he’s really who he seems to be—if this isn’t some diabolical prank Mom and Darren have cooked up—then it might not be too late for us after all.
Subject: On the bright side
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Wed 17 Apr 01:27 CST
At some point in our lives, Mom actually wanted us.
Subject: I don’t know where to start
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Wed 17 Apr 07:40 EST
There was a window open. I climbed through, slept on the couch, charged my phone, left before Joe woke up.
Then I started walking to school. Checked my email.
And this. Now, this.
* * *
—
I don’t know where to start, Bea.
I’m just going to write.
Of all the secrets to keep from me THAT’S QUITE A SECRET TO KEEP. And also…WHAT?!? I know I wasn’t even born when he left. I know you were only three years old. So our memories aren’t the most reliable. But still—you’re saying Mom kidnapped us? For no reason? So she could struggle alone for that many years? Out of SPITE? I’m sorry. No. That doesn’t add up. Do you really think, all these years, we’ve been that hard to find? And then he direct-messages you on TWITTER?!? And bails on you the first time you’re supposed to meet?
Remember that advice I gave before about the knight in shining armor?
IT APPLIES QUADRUPLE HERE.
I know you, Bea. I know you want me to be thrilled by this turn of events. I know you want this fantasy of yours to be true. I get it. Really. This is what you’ve always wanted—all those times the shit was really going down, you’d tell me he was out there somewhere, this better parent just out of reach. I liked that story…but it always felt like a story to me. Maybe it’s because you were actually around when he was there—he held you, saw you, in a way he never held me or saw me—but I’ve never believed in him the same way you’ve believed in him. That might still be the case now.
I know you want to hear his side of the story. But please keep in mind: It’s still a story.
I’m so sorry. Why can’t I be happy for you? For us? Why can’t I be thrilled by this news?
My mind is working overtime here. I won’t lie. Because if what he says is true—if it wasn’t his fault, if he’s been out there all this time—I’m not sure it makes anything better. It might even make it worse. For me, at least. We got through what we got through because there wasn’t any other option, Bea. To say that there was this other option the whole time—that kills me. And it makes me want to kill him too. Because I don’t believe—I will NEVER be able to believe—that we couldn’t be found.
I should put down this phone. I should let you do what you’re going to do. I am so mad at you for not telling me, and for doing this without me. I have as much right to be there as you do, Bea. I know you didn’t cut me out in order to be mean or cruel. I know you love me more than that, and that you’re making it up as you go along as much as I am right now. But still. I remember what you said about him—about how encouraging he is, about the freedom he’s offered. About running toward instead of running away. If he’s what it took for you to realize all that, sure. But don’t leave one trap just to fall into another.
Why is it easier for me to think of you on your own instead of you out there with him helping you? I don’t know.
I guess what I’m saying is this: Don’t let him get away with anything just because you want him so badly to be what you’ve always imagined him to be. He does not get an automatic right to call himself our father just because we’re carrying around some of his genetic material. Being our father is not an automatic position—it has to be earned. So make him earn it, Bea. If he deserves it at all.
And if he doesn’t deserve it, find something else to run toward. Please.
* * *
—
Now, speaking of deserving—I need to go give Joe some hell.
Subject: ?
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Wed 17 Apr 08:35 EST
Emailing you in class. Just to say I really can’t believe any of this.
Subject: ???
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Wed 17 Apr 08:37 EST
I also want to run screaming to Mom to ask her the truth.
Subject: Not exactly high noon
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Wed 17 Apr 12:10 EST
So my big confrontation with Joe went like this.
Me: Dude, why did you lock me out last night?
Joe: Bro, I didn’t lock you out.
Me: Well, when I got back from Terrence’s, the door was locked.
Joe: Must’ve been my mom. Habit. She always locks the door at night, and had no idea you were still out.
Me:
In this pause, I’m deciding whether it’s worth calling him on it. But that would mean moving to Terrence’s house. And if I mess up there, then I’m out of options. Plus, after last night, I’m not sure how Terrence would feel about me moving in. I mean, he’d go along with it, and his parents would probably go along with it—but only for a day or two. So I make my calculations, and I say—
Me: No worries. My phone died so I couldn’t text you. Next time I’ll be sure to take a key.
Joe: Yeah, good idea.
So I guess I still have a place to sleep.
Subject: Just in case you think I’m thinking about anything else
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Wed 17 Apr 12:35 EST
What time are you meeting him?
I’m dying here.
Subject: I am meeting him at
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Wed 17 Apr 13:03 CST
4 pm tomorrow.
Subject: Okay
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Wed 17 Apr 13:11 CST
I’m starting to freak out a little.
I know you’re pissed, but I wish you were here, Ez. I don’t have any nails left because I’ve chewed them all off.
I’m sure you’re right that this is just some fantasy I’ve concocted in my stupid brain. Whoever I’ve been talking to could turn out to be some diabolically creepy old man or a bored housewife. But what if it isn’t?
What if he’s real?
Subject: Questions
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Wed 17 Apr 13:19 CST
I used to think of all the things I wanted to know about him and from him, like:
Why did you leave us?
Was Mom always so shitty?
Are you
as shitty as she says you are?
Do you know about Darren? Like, do you know how he treats your kids?
Would you treat us like that, if you were here?
What were you like when you were our age?
Did you even want children?
What are you most afraid of?
What’s the one thing you’ve always wished you could do?
Which Avenger do you relate to most?
Don’t laugh, that last one was really important when I was ten. I tried to imagine what his answers might be, and, more than anything, I wanted a dad who said, “I relate most to Bruce Banner, not the Hulk version but the very humane, sweet scientist Mark Ruffalo version.” Or maybe Steve Rogers or, of course, Black Panther, but that seemed too much to hope for.
I would tell myself, Don’t hold your breath. Don’t aim too high, Bea. Just like Mom and Darren taught us. Be grateful for what you have.
So then as I got older, I thought, okay, what if I had the chance to see him again and could only ask him one question? What would that question be?
It would be:
Why don’t you want to be our dad?
Subject: My vow to you
From: Bea
Take Me With You When You Go Page 9
