I felt my eyes grow big. “And you’re afraid some of us inherited it from you.”
He nodded. “More than likely, if it were inherited, my father’s abuse toward me would have set it off in my childhood. My therapists now think that my mind equated safety with your mother. And that once your mom was gone, my mind sort of panicked, scared that without her, the abuse would somehow start up again. That’s when I went into a defense sort of mode, where it wanted to hurt others before they could hurt me. And then, all of that fear and worry focused itself on one particular person.”
“Who?”
“The man who hit your mom’s car.”
“Wow. So now what?”
“Now, I’m dealing with it. That man is being punished by the judicial system. And I have a lot of help in sorting through my feelings, so that I can understand them and react to them properly.”
“So, we won’t inherit it?”
“We’re thinking, not. But that doesn’t mean that it’s not a secret fear, in the back of my mind.”
“How will we know for sure?”
He shrugged, “We won’t know until one of you has a shift in thinking.”
“So, you might just worry forever?”
He gave me a squeeze. “I want to worry forever. Because, if I do, that’ll mean all five of you are fine. Now, I’ve got a meaty spaghetti sauce cooking in the kitchen. Why don’t you go pick out what shape of noodle you want with it?”
I let out a little sigh, knowing that was all the information I’d be getting out of him this week. I nodded and pulled away. The social worker gave me a smile when I looked at him on my way by.
“You did well with that,” I heard the social worker tell Daddy, once they thought I was out of earshot.
“What’re you doing in here, sweetie?” Daddy asked me, when he found me in his room, Saturday evening.
“I just,” I looked at him and saw him staring at the blanket in my hands. “I just wanted to look at the photo albums Mom had in her closet. Of when you two were little. I found the blanket when I came in.” I turned towards him, “Did Mommy make this?”
He smiled and stepped into the room. “It’s called an afghan. Yes, she started it, but never finished it. And I digitized all the photos, so all five of you can have your own copies. I have them all on flash drives and put away for Christmas, but I can give you yours, now.”
“You threw away the books?”
Daddy sighed. “They were only here because your mom valued them. And while your mom’s albums didn’t bother me, the ones from my family did. They hurt me to have them.”
“But why?”
“I don’t like to think about my father’s side of my family.”
“Why not?”
“Because maybe my father became an alcoholic because of the way he was raised. Or maybe it was because of something one of the family members did to him.”
“What about your mother’s album?”
“I never knew her. And none of the other people in those photos ever did anything to save me. Family is supposed to be there for you. And not a single one, on either side, ever did a thing to help me. So, I feel no remorse, or loss of connection with any of them. Before your mom’s death, they didn’t bother me so much. But now, after everything I’ve lost, I’m bitter that no one spared me the childhood that I had. I don’t understand how they could do that. I mean, they all knew my father was a drinker, that’s why they never came around. And not one has come around since his death.”
“And so, you wanted to erase them?”
“From my own life, yes. And you don’t have to look so worried. I talked it over with my therapist. She said each person has to deal with their pasts, in their own way. As long as I made copies for all of you, so you could make your own decisions about them, then I could do with the albums as I wanted.”
“But Mom’s albums never did anything to you.”
“I was told to start letting go of her things, that it might help me let go of her. I packed your mom’s albums up and sent them to your aunt Allison. She’s been missing both your mom and your grandmother. She sent me a thank you card, if you want it. They each had different pictures from growing up. Now she can have both sets. And when I told her that I had digitized them for all of you, she said she’d work on digitizing hers and sending them to me, so I can add them to the five drives for all of you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want yours now?”
I shook my head. “I’ll wait until aunt Allison sends the other pictures… Why didn’t aunt Allison come help us when everything happened?”
Dad sighed. “She offered to help out, but she lives in France. Her job isn’t going to allow her to leave and work from the States, nor would her husband’s. And I couldn’t deal with the idea of any of you going so far away, so don’t ever blame her. Things just didn’t work out with that.”
“What about the afghan? Why do you have it out?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“What?”
“You just want to know all my secrets this weekend, don’t you?”
“I just want to know what you’ve been up to, while you’ve been here all by yourself.”
He let out a chuckle. “I’m not as alone as you might think. Max is here by eight, four days a week. And he stays until seven, because he prefers to work four longer days, rather than five. Helen is here from ten ‘til two, four days a week and does my grocery shopping and runs some errands for me on Fridays. And the construction workers have been here, a lot, converting the basement. Plus, I’m at either a therapy session in the afternoon or a group session in the evening, five days a week. And I visit all of you at the visitation center. So, you see, I’m hardly lonely.”
“Daddy, what are you doing with the afghan?”
He let out a long sigh. “You are your mother’s daughter.” He took the afghan from my hands. “I was told to pick up a hobby to help me relax. So, I went into your mom’s craft closet and looked around. She always said the rhythm of crochet was her therapy.”
“Mom needed therapy?”
“Not like me, but life is hard, sweetie. We all need something from time to time. For her, she would crochet. So, I picked up one of her hooks and some yarn, and found some YouTube videos, and learned how to crochet. And I now understand what your mom was saying. Once you have the pattern of stitches down, it is relaxing. And as your fingers are kept busy, your mind is free to wander. I get to think all sorts of things and it helps me get things into perspective. Sometimes, if I’m on an important call, and Max isn’t in the room with me, I’ll crochet while I focus on what the other person is saying.”
“But what’s that got to do with Mom’s afghan and how is it embarrassing?”
“It’s embarrassing because I’m a guy. And not many other guys would understand. And your mom’s project, well, she had started one for each of you. She liked to have a number of projects started. She said she crocheted according to her mood, and each mood liked a different stitch. She never finished any of them.”
“And you want to finish them?”
He nodded. “Your mom’s patterns were on her computer and I don’t know which one went with which afghan. So, I joined a Facebook crochet group. I put a picture of the afghan on it and asked what stitches were used to make it. I took their answers and compared them to the patterns your mom had. I finally found a folder marked ‘My-5’. Once I learned to look past the change in colors, I realized the five patterns in there matched the five afghans. So, I’m learning the stitches I need for each one.”
“More Christmas presents?”
Daddy shook his head. “My plan was that they’d each be a welcome home present, when each of you come home to stay. A gift from both your mother and I.”
My hand lifted to wipe the tears from my eyes. “You’re just full of surprises.”
Daddy gave a half-smile. “Baby, you have no idea.”
Chapter Eleven
Just One Chang
e Makes All the Difference
Roger took aim and waited for the asshole to emerge from his car.
Hell, if Roger hadn’t had such a conscience on him, he’d have shot the bastard two red lights ago, right there, in the middle of the street. But that would have created more chaos on the roads, and he was trying to take the chaos off them.
This guy he’d followed was a real winner. He got into some sort of altercation in the store, given the way he came tearing out and others followed in his wake. He’d only paused long enough to swipe two bottles on his way out. That’d really gotten the men behind him in an uproar. Yelling at him as he stumbled toward his car, banging his head as he got in, and squealed tires leaving the parking lot.
Roger’s guess? He might have gotten into a fight with another customer over the last bottle of something, or the cashier knew he was already drunk and refused him service, or the idiot forgot his wallet and made a big stink. Who knows, who cares? And then, to add insult to injury, he stole two liquor bottles and ran.
Then, throughout the route the guy used to get home, he’d crossed lanes three times and ran through two stop signs.
Now how was he supposed to feel guilty about offing a guy like that?
“Ugh, come on,” Roger muttered. The mark had gotten out of the car and then bent to reach back in for the bottles, causing Roger to not get an immediate clear shot. This guy lived in an apartment building and Roger liked to get out as quick as he could, because there were more possibilities of being seen.
On the upside, this new hobby was teaching him both patience and to look forward to delayed gratification.
Finally, the guy stepped away from the car and Roger adjusted his aim, pulled the trigger, and… nothing happened. He quickly checked to make sure it was loaded, and just as he knew it would be, he found it fully loaded. He lifted the gun once more and squeezed the trigger, but again, nothing happened.
A sound of disgust passed through Roger’s lips as he tossed the gun back under his seat, watching his mark disappear inside the apartment building. “Son of a bitch.”
He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. As it was, there was a chance that someone at the liquor store had called the police and they viewed some sort of surveillance footage with the guys license plate, and were on their way here now.
Two and a half hours later, Roger walked back into his home, nonfunctioning gun in hand, and headed straight for the stairs. It was late, he was tired, and his online meeting with his marketer was scheduled for too early in the morning to be messing with the gun anymore tonight.
Into his bedroom, around the bed, and into the master bathroom he went. Using his shoe to gently press in on the toe kick beneath the sink, he pulled back to release the secret drawer. He laid the hand gun in amongst the others in his father’s collection, and closed the drawer.
Straightening, he picked up his toothbrush and proceeded to get ready to bring his day to an end. The whole time, he was pressing in and analyzing his feelings over the disappointment of not making a kill that night, just like he’d been taught to do in therapy.
Frustration, was one emotion, but it wasn’t overwhelming. He’d made the effort to help the balance of justice. He’d done his part. The gun malfunction was something he couldn’t have anticipated. At least, not with the level of gun knowledge he currently had.
Now came the part that eased the frustration. What could he do to prevent another occurrence? Increase his knowledge. The first thing on a to-do list for that was to fix his gun, and learn from the experience.
His conscience cleared of guilt from letting that guy get away, and frustration minimized, he got into bed and turned out the lights. The idea that he could always go back to the apartment complex and hold his own little stakeout for the guy, and take him out then, offered a small amount of comfort. Though, the thought of the guy being sober when he saw him again made Roger wonder if he’d still want to follow through with the hit.
Hit… he liked that thought. Yeah. He was like a hitman. But not for money, because that would cheapen it. No, he was more like a hitman for justice.
“Mr. Hayes, welcome back,” the judge said, a more relaxed look on his face than Roger had ever seen on him.
“Thank you, your Honor.”
“I’ve reviewed all the reports regarding your case, since the last time we met, and I must say, I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, your Honor.”
“Your finances are growing more stable, even with taking on an employee. All your therapists sing your praises, and your social worker has nothing but good things to say. I’m very pleased with the progress you’ve made. And in looking back, I can see how you were the one to seek out therapy for yourself, and you’ve jumped through every hoop we’ve put before you.”
Roger nodded.
“Do you feel you’re strong enough, at this point, to move forward in the transition of getting your children back into your custody?”
Roger hesitated for a second, as if to give the idea serious thought. “Yes, your Honor, I do.”
The judge gave a single nod. “Alright. The next oldest children are Charlotte and Sophia, correct?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“And I see that they are being kept together in their group foster home. My thought is to allow them to work the steps of reintegration, together, as well. Do you feel you can handle having Penelope, Charlotte, and Sophia on the weekends?”
“Your Honor, I would welcome it.”
“Very well. Let it be so ordered that the minor children, Penelope Rebecca Hayes, Charlotte May Hayes, and Sophia Maria Hayes are to be placed in their father’s care from Friday afternoons at four, until Sunday evenings at six.”
The judge waited for the transcriptionist’s fingers to finish, before he proceeded. “Are you also agreeable to having Penelope return into your custody, full-time?”
Roger’s entire face brightened. “Yes, your Honor, I am.”
The judge nodded. “Penelope has four weeks of school left in the year. I do not want to add any stress onto her by transferring schools so late in the semester. So, let it hereby be ordered that custody of the minor child, Penelope Rebecca Hayes, is to revert to her father on the fifteenth day of June, of this year.”
The judge paused once again, as was his habit, wanting to give the transcriptionist every chance to get the order perfect. He looked back to Roger. “Her last day is the twelfth. I want to give her time to finish her year, pack, and properly say goodbye. She has enjoyed an excellent placement, and they already have an end-of-school-year family celebration planned.”
Nodding, “I wouldn’t want her to miss out on it.”
“Excellent. Once again, if you find any part of the order too overwhelming, at this stage, please do not hesitate to speak to someone about it. It doesn’t matter if it’s to one of the therapists, your social worker, or even to me directly. We can scale back any piece of it that we need to. The children’s safety comes first, but your continued mental health is also paramount. Please do not believe that needing either to just talk an issue out in your sessions, or needing to dial something back will hurt your case. Trust me, I will respect it far more that you realize.”
“Yes, your Honor.”
It was Tuesday evening, and Roger had just gotten an e-mail that the therapist who ran his Thursday night group session was at the hospital with her daughter, who was having emergency surgery, and that she would not be having the session this week, due to needing to oversee her daughter’s recovery.
In response, Roger had determined that he would go fishing after tonight’s session. That little change would free up his entire Thursday, to devote to coding in a massive update to his main game app, which he’d been putting off because of the sheer size of it. He felt like a long, concentrated amount of focused time was just what he needed to sink his teeth into getting it done.
He pushed on the toe kick in the bathroom and the drawer opened. He pulled out his usual
gun and pulled it apart, to clean and oil it, hoping that if the issue were something other than dirt, he’d notice it.
Going through the motions and inspecting the pieces didn’t yield any new information. He put the gun back together, added the silencer, and loaded it with blanks.
He took aim, pulled the trigger, and nothing. He sighed, looking at the time, put the safety on and laid the gun back in the drawer. He looked over the other four guns stored inside and picked up the slightly larger option, checked it out, loaded it, attached the silencer onto it, and slid it into his waistband.
It wasn’t lost on him that he had heavily favored the one gun over the others. He could only hope that his accuracy with this one would remain just as true.
Putting on his shoes, and pocketing his wallet, he grabbed his car keys and headed down to grab two bottles of water before leaving for his session.
“What the hell is that guy doing?” officer Vick asked.
Officer Frye looked in the direction his partner was pointing and trained his binoculars on the windows of the car. “Some dude, just sitting there.”
“He’s been sitting there for, like, fifteen minutes.”
“He seems to be minding his own business.”
“Yeah, well, he’s blocking part of my shot. I thought maybe he was waiting for someone and would leave, but he hasn’t moved.”
Frye surveyed the area a little more closely. “He’s parked legally. He can pretty much sit there all night, if he wants to.”
“For what reason? Why isn’t he getting out? You think maybe he lives in that car?”
Frye sighed and sat a chair on top of the table they’d pushed in front of the hotel room’s window. “There’s not enough stuff in that car for him to live out of it. But does it even matter? He’s there, and minding his own business.” Frye picked up the surveillance camera and put it on the chair, consulting the monitor, adjusting the aim.
“It matters if he has anything to do with Hennesy. You think one of his guys knows we’re watching the warehouse and sent someone to keep an eye on us?”
We're All Broken Page 8
