Never Let You Go(20)

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 * 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 imagine 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.”

“It would be too weird.”

“I know. Just text me later.”

My stomach is churning as I ride fast away from the school and head downtown, where we agreed to meet at the Muddy Bean. My hood is pulled over my head and I’m wearing a wool scarf wrapped around my neck. Mom doesn’t usually go downtown, but I’m worried she will finish cleaning her last house early and decide to go Christmas shopping.