by Lindy Zart
The years I spent here, the days of anxiety, every second wondering what I would do or not do to anger him. Hating myself. Yearning to give up. Wanting to die. He told me I was weak; he told me I was worthless. A mistake. I heard those words every day, and I eventually believed them. My shoulders stiffen and a muscle jumps in my jaw. I turn in a slow loop, not trusting that he isn’t here, that he won’t show up and slam me down with his words, or worse, his hands.
To him, fear is respect.
My mom rubs a circle into her elbow, her eyebrows pinched together as she watches me. “Would you like me to make some coffee?”
I palm the back of my neck and shrug. “Sure. If you’re having some, I’ll take a cup.”
She gestures for me to follow her into the kitchen. I oblige, blinking against the light as it streams through the room from the overhead canning lights. The stainless steel appliances and cupboards made out of dark hickory gleam with dollar signs. Only the best for my dad. I stay near the doorway, the patter of her bare feet on the tiles the only sound in the room. We’ve never been close, but it feels like there are miles between us.
I wait until my mom has the coffee brewing to talk. “Why isn’t Dad here? What happened?”
“Please, sit.” My mom pulls out a chair from the long table. “I’ll get the coffee and explain.”
I ate cereal at this table. I didn’t do my homework right when I was thirteen, and with a cruel hand on the back of my neck had my face shoved against this table. I place my palms down on the smooth surface and study my fingers. Everyone has the power to hurt. These hands are as capable as anyone’s. The thought of harming a child causes sweat to break out on my forehead, and I wonder, for the billionth time, how my dad could do it.
My mom sets two steaming mugs of coffee on the table and sits beside me. She smells the same as she always did—like coffee and chamomile. I used to long for that scent when my dad locked me in my bedroom. I’d fantasize about her rescuing me and whisking us away to a new home, a new life. The hope died as I got older, until it was like I never thought it. She never saved me. She couldn’t even save herself.
It wasn’t only about the depression and other mental instabilities. It wasn’t only about the prescription medications. She lost her mom at a young age. She lost three babies before they were born—two before me and one after. She had a husband who never treated her right and slept around on her. I get that my mom needed help. I get that she’s had a lot to deal with. I even get why she chose to numb it all. Didn’t I do the same?
“How have you been? I haven’t seen you in months,” she says quietly, pushing hair from my brow. “This house is too big for only me. It makes me miss the time you were here. I should sell it, but it’s been my home for over twenty years. It’s not that easy to let go of something you’ve come to rely on.”
Sliding one of the cups in front of me, I study the heated air as it wafts from the coffee. “I’m okay. What’s going on, Mom?”
“When the doctors said the cancer was gone, I told him to go.” She shrugs, her gray eyes downcast.
I go still, even as my heart rate picks up. “You told Dad to go?”
Her gaze flutters to me and away. My mom’s jaw goes taut. “Yes. I’m trying to better myself, Blake, and I couldn’t do that while continuing to live with him.”
I take a slow breath, pride for my mom sweeping up my spine. “And how long ago was that?”
“I don’t recall, specifically, but it was close to six months ago. You remember when I was sick, don’t you?”
My head jerks in a semblance of a nod. How could I forget that? When my dad came to Wisconsin with his story of my mom being sick and needing me, he wasn’t even with her. I’m not surprised, but I am disgusted. He made up an elaborate story, all to control me. I remind myself that he didn’t win.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
Gray eyes pulsing with sudden life lock on me. “I wanted to be in a good place first. I’m…getting there, but it takes time.”
I swallow. Blindsided as I am by it, this is a step in the right direction. “Is he in Bismarck?”
“Yes, but…why would you want to talk with your father, Blake? You’ve never gotten along.” She says it like it was a choice I had, like I decided to be difficult and not make more of an effort.
Shoving the chair backward, I stand and look at my mom. I carefully right the chair as it teeters, trying to leash my volatile emotions. There’s no point in being upset with her—she can’t change the past. She can’t fix what my dad’s destroyed. All my mom can do is move forward, and finally, thank God, it looks like she is.
“Will you give me the address?”
“Yes. Of course. It’s not that far from here.” She gets to her feet and takes a pen and piece of paper from a drawer. With quick strokes of the pen, she produces an address.
“Thanks.” I push the piece of paper in my back pocket.
“Are you going so soon? You didn’t touch your coffee.”
I encase my mom in a tight hug and press a kiss to her brow. She feels like loose skin and bones in my arms, undiscovered hopes and dreams. It isn’t too late, Mom. I hug her harder before releasing her. “I have to talk to Dad, while I have the courage.”
She nods with understanding, even as disappointment floods her expression.
My legs carry me to the exit, and the blood in my veins pumps with dread for where I’m going.
“Blake?”
I pause near the door, turning to face her.
“Will you…” She stops, smoothing a lock of brown hair on the crown of her head. “Be happy,” she says, changing the direction of her words.
I incline my head, my hand heavy and unmoving on the doorknob. “Take care of yourself, Mom.” It isn’t enough—a lackluster request. She’s making an effort; I have to do the same. I lift my gaze and look into her wide gray eyes. “Maybe…maybe we can hang out once in a while. After I get some things straightened out.”
Joy spreads across her features, and I blink at the transformation. “I’d like that. I’ll be here.”
I nod, some of the tightness that lives inside my chest unraveling.
The sky is changing colors as I leave the house. Pinks and peaches adding life to the gray. For whatever reason, it makes me think of Opal. She’s like that—a ray of color on a colorless day. I wonder where she is, if she’s okay. I drive through the mostly empty streets, pulling the truck up to the address written on the paper. Two-storied and simple in appearance, the blue house is more modest than I would have pictured for my dad. I step down from the truck, going still as a light inside comes on. Being here is asking for trouble. My hands shake and the craving for a cigarette violently hits me.
There is no hello when he sees me on his doorstep. The same green eyes my brother has look back at me, but Benson Malone’s are cruel whereas Graham’s are kind. I have his dark hair, his jawline. Sometimes I think I have his darkness. I worry about that—that I would be cruel to my kids if I ever had any. My fingers curl in denial even as the possibility pumps through my veins with his blood.
“What do you want?” His voice is deep and cold. It brings back anger, and fear. Years of trying to understand a man I never could.
“I came here to tell you something.” The muscles in my neck are tight, and my body is posed to react to whatever may come.
He crosses his burly arms. “I don’t want to hear it.”
I push past him and step into a living room that has his scent imbedded in the air. It makes my stomach clench. Other than dark furniture and a few decorative pieces, the room is mostly empty, like him. I face my dad. “It doesn’t matter if you want to hear it or not. I have to say it, and then I’ll go.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you here for money? Because you’ll get nothing from me, Blake.”
“I don’t want anything from you,�
�� I tell him in a clipped tone.
“You must. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” He opens his arms. “How may I be of service?”
“I forgive you.”
His eyes darken and he drops his arms. “I never asked you to.”
“I know that, and you most likely never will. But I’m forgiving you anyway—for my peace of mind.”
“You forgive me?” He laughs. “For what? For trying to make you strong? For trying to show you how a real man acts? You’re pathetic. Get the hell out of here, and don’t come back.” The look he gives me is dismissive, and he turns away.
“I won’t come back,” I promise, no longer angry. No longer blameful. I’m calm, and I’m okay. I head for the door.
“Murderer,” he hisses from behind.
The muscles in my back jump and I flinch, coming to a stop.
“Drug addict.”
I swallow, but there is a hard rock in my throat, making it impossible.
“Weak.”
He’s called me all of this before, enough times that I should be immune.
“Worthless.”
“And what are you, Dad?” I ask, my eyes trained on the door. The rhythm of my heart is quick enough that there doesn’t seem to be a pause. It’s a single line of unending motion. “You’re a man who has to control those around him because he really knows nothing is in his control.”
Fingers dig into my bicep, hard with fury, and I’m jerked around. My dad’s eyes shine with danger. “All those years of trying to make you into something with potential, and all you did was show me you’re a mistake.”
“I am not a mistake,” I say slowly, thickly.
“Prove it. Be a man. Hit me.” He thrusts his jaw forward and taps the cleft in his chin. “Come on, Blake, show me what those fists can do.”
“I’m not hitting you.” Sweat covers my body. I’m that kid again, that boy who could never do anything right.
He shoves me and I stumble back. “Because you’re a wimp. You always were. You couldn’t even stand up to me in Wisconsin. Had to have your big brother fight your battle for you. At least one of my sons has a backbone.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, my eyes burning.
“Don’t like hearing that, do you? Graham’s strong, and you’re weak. Now why don’t you get out of here and go find your drugs like you know you want to. Go cry about how unfair your life is.”
I’m better than the drugs, better than the weak part of me that wants them, even now. He’s right about me. I was all of those things, but I’m not anymore. I made bad decisions, but where was he? He was watching me fall, smug and righteous. He wanted me to fail, and I did.
I became exactly what he told me I was.
Not anymore.
My jaw tightens and I lock eyes with him. A smile of victory lines his face. He thinks he’s won. But I’m done playing his games. My nostrils flare and I feel my face twist. Something snaps inside me, and with an animalistic roar, I push him back against the wall and slam my fist into the plaster beside his head. The wall crunches, and pain erupts in my knuckles.
Chest heaving, blood boiling with vehemence, I see the fear in his eyes. I see us in reverse. I see me looking at him, a scared boy facing the unpredictable beast. He is me, and I am him. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought.
“I…am not…you,” I grind out, our faces close enough that my nose touches his. I close my eyes, and thump my forehead to his, pressing hard against his head like I can destroy him, and love him. Forehead painfully smashed to forehead. It’s the only hug he’s ever allowed, and it’s the last I’ll give him. He never gave me anything, and I gave him too much.
“You don’t have power over me anymore,” I tell my dad. “I’m taking it back.”
Straightening, I move away and stare at the blank wall. I can be that. Blank. Unwritten. Clear. I can start over. I feel freer, better. I take a deep breath. I turn and look at my dad where he remains near the wall. He looks small, defeated.
“Cowards hit kids, not men, I say.”
There is no triumph in this, only relief. It isn’t about breaking someone like he thinks. It isn’t about control. I see my worth, finally, as I look at my sham of a father and decide I’ll never be like him.
We decide how we’re going to be, right? My father decided the kind of man he wanted to be. I have the power to decide how I want to be. I can’t let fear and regret dictate how I live my life. My head drops forward. I’ve been letting myself down, not to mention everyone around me. I told myself I was worthless, just like my dad, and just like my dad, I believed it. I’m not worthless. People around me can see it, why can’t I? Opal saw it.
Opal.
I shouldn’t have let her walk away, but I also know she is not the kind to chase. That would only make her run farther. She’ll deny needing me or anyone else until she can no longer produce the words, but everyone needs someone. Even if it’s just a friend. I want to be her friend, and if she’ll let me, I want to be her hero. First, though, I have to be my own. Right here, this moment, this is me facing the past, and beating it. This is me finally being the hero I’ve always needed.
“I forgive myself, and I forgive you,” I tell him for the final time, and I leave.
14
Opal
Due to the bus breaking down, I make it to Montana a day and a half past when I thought I would. It’s been three days since my last Blake-fessional, and it feels like three thousand. I arrive in Missoula, Montana tired, dirty, and with an extra hundred dollars Blake snuck into my bag at some point. The cad—that I miss like I can’t believe. Shrugging off the ache that won’t leave, I look around the busy streets lined with factories and businesses. I have the address written down on a crumpled piece of paper, but in keeping with Tammy’s request, I need to find a phone to call ahead before showing up at their house.
As if fate is seriously on my side lately, a kid with long blond hair skateboards toward me, his eyes down on the cell phone in his hands.
“Hello,” I call out as I step in his path, wincing when he jerks in surprise and falls forward. I maybe should have thought that out more. His skateboard rolls past me, minus its conductor. I fetch his stickered board, offering it to his sprawled form. I keep my tone airy and pleasant when I say, “Sorry about that.”
He carefully reaches out for his skateboard with one hand, his eyes never leaving mine. “What do you want?”
I nod toward the cell phone clutched in his other hand. “Can I borrow your phone?”
Hopping to his feet, the boy swipes bangs from his eyes and drops the board to the pavement. He jumps on it, one supersized tennis shoe on the ground posed to send him on his way, and he pushes off. “No.”
“I’ll give you twenty bucks!”
It’s amazing how fast he gets off his skateboard and hands me his phone—after I procure a twenty-dollar bill.
“Thanks,” I mutter, chewing my fingernail as I wait for someone to pick up. Goose bumps form mazes on my skin as the temperature further drops. Tammy answers, and her reply to my greeting is less than warm. “I’m in Missoula,” I add after a prolonged silence in which I envision her glaring at the phone.
“And?”
I sigh, rubbing my chin on my shoulder. “And I’d like to see Paisley, if that’s okay.”
“Paisley overheard us talking. She got excited, thinking you would be here by now, and when that didn’t happen, she got upset. Really upset. This will not turn into a routine,” she states. “You can’t just call whenever you like and expect to be able to see her—and not show up when you’re expected. There have to rules, schedules—”
“I would have been here sooner, but the bus I rode over on broke down,” I interrupt. “I just want to see her this once, all right? I’m not staying in the area.”
Pain follows the knowledge that this will be th
e final time I see Paisley Jordan for a long while. I knew her all of one year—not even a year, in actuality—but it felt like she was a part of my heart for much longer. And I know that, for as long as it beats, she will stay in it.
“Well.” She sighs, her voice softer when she speaks again. “Okay. We’re having homemade pizza for supper. You can join us if you like. It will be ready within the hour.”
“I’ll be there,” I vow, ending the call. I hand the cell phone back to the teenager. “Thanks again.”
He gives me a single nod before rolling down the hill, his hair fluttering in the wind.
Instead of finding a taxi, I take the city bus to the Royce residence, ending up in one of the newer subdivisions of the city. I look around, finding the house number on the nearest house. I start walking, searching for the home that is now Paisley’s.
The lots are spacious and tree-ridden, flowers and bushes lining fences and houses. Everything has a new, crisp, expensive feel to it. I bypass laughing, playing children. The sound of a lawnmower hits the air, sharp and powerful. I search my brain for what Tammy’s husband does for a job, and I come up blank. I know Tammy doesn’t work outside of the home. Whatever it is, her husband either makes a lot of money, or they have a lot of debt.
I look at the white house with black trim and a burgundy door. The lawn, as if recently maintained, is clear of leaves and sticks. A wrought iron bench rests in the yard beneath a flourishing tree with yellow and orange flowers surrounding it. Along one half of the house, there are rocks engraved with four names: Tammy, Donald, Eileen, and Paisley. I tilt my head as I take it all in. Sometimes you just get a feeling about a place—or, I do, at any rate. I have a good feeling about this one.
Before I can take a step toward the paved path that leads to the house, the front door swings open and out bursts Paisley, who is a flash of gangly limbs, a blue dress, and strawberry blond hair, and then I’m tackled by a seven-year-old who smells like apples and every good thing in the world. We land on the ground, her arms so tight around my neck I can’t breathe, her face pressed hard to my chest. My backpack digs into my spine, but I don’t move.
