Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(115)
From what Hank learned of her parents—who I apparently met, though I don’t remember—Annabelle was raised in a middle-income household where hugs were meaningless and image was everything. That she fell in love with my dad—a blue-collar, guitar-playing, Harley-riding, tattooed guy—was against everything she’d learned growing up. But it also proves that Annabelle once knew how to love. How to let her heart win.
My dad began bringing me to the garage. He knew it wasn’t an ideal place for a little girl but he could see a change in me right away: how much more I laughed and smiled and talked around him.
“Things didn’t get better. You were still so miserable, stuck in that small town with a little kid in your early twenties. You started resenting him for all of it. He figured he was going to come home one day and find you gone.” And he started wishing for it, he had admitted in his letter.
“You two drifted apart. And then my dad ran into MaryAnn—his ex-girlfriend before you, who had broken up with him when she went away to college. Things just kind of picked up where they left off.” I turn to take in Annabelle’s face. “He cheated on you.” I’m surprised she never told me. I would have thought that being able to blame Hank MacKay would have given her satisfaction. I also would have thought that she might reveal the truth, knowing how much pain I felt in a very similar situation with Jared. An eerily similar situation. Sure, it was a much shorter relationship and we hadn’t created another human, but still, that kind of heartache could have found us some common ground, something we finally shared.
But instead, her pride kept her silent for sixteen years.
You would think that with that much time passed and three husbands later, Annabelle would be indifferent at the very least. But when I see her eyes brim with tears and her jaw visibly tighten, I know that she is far from indifferent.
I see firsthand how badly my father hurt her.
When I read through the candid account of what led to my parent’s breakup, something happened that I’ve never experienced with Annabelle: I felt for her.
“They were together for six months before you found a receipt for a necklace he had bought her. You confronted him. He admitted it and asked for a divorce.”
It feels weird, running through the events of my parents’ history with the woman who lived it. But she’s spent so much time running from it, and dragging me down with her. It’s time we both faced the past—the thing that’s gotten us here.
“He told you he was moving to Tallahassee. MaryAnn had inherited her grandparents’ ranch. He wanted to take me with him.” That my dad had refused to move, to give up the garage for Annabelle—the mother of his child—but was more than willing to walk away from it all for another woman, must have been devastating for Annabelle.
It would certainly crush me.
“You stormed out of the apartment in a rage. He packed me up in the truck and drove to her ranch. He wanted to see how I’d like it there.” I feel the sad smile touch my lips, thinking back to the fleeting memory of chasing a chicken. One of my few memories of that weekend. “Apparently I loved it there. I got along well with MaryAnn.” The smile drops off. “After a few days, when he hoped you had calmed down, he packed me up and we started heading back. We stopped at a truck stop just outside of Gainesville to have dinner. That’s when my dad called you and you told him that you had reported me kidnapped. That you were going to make him regret the affair.”
A single tear slides down Annabelle’s flawless cheek.
“He didn’t know much about kidnapping except that, with his record, there was a good chance that he’d do time if he was convicted. So, he panicked and did the only thing he could think of—he left me in the diner.”
I must have read that part of the letter fifty times, seeing the night not through the eyes of a confused five-year-old girl left alone but through the eyes of a heartbroken, frightened twenty-eight-year-old father, terrified of spending years behind bars. When I saw his truck pull away, I thought he had left. But he hadn’t. He had parked in a dark corner at the far end of the lot, shutting off his lights. And he had waited. For two hours, he sat and watched—gripping the steering wheel tightly, feeling like someone had reached in and torn his insides out—to make sure no one tried to take me. When the police car finally pulled in and the officer sat down with me, he left.
And he regretted it every day after.
When my grandparents came by to visit me a week after the incident, as requested by their son, we were gone, with no forwarding address.
“Why?” It’s ironic: for sixteen years, that same question sat on my tongue, only it was intended for Hank MacKay. Now, the real answer belongs to my mother. “Why would you use me to hurt him like that? Why would you not let me have a father who loved me in my life?”
Annabelle’s silky blond hair sways as she shakes her head, her voice hoarse and barely audible. “Because he wanted to take you—something we created together—to her. I knew you’d like her more.”
“But you’ve never even wanted to be a mother, Annabelle!” I’m struggling to control my voice now.
“That’s not true. I just . . . I didn’t know how to be your mother. You are so much like him, Reese.” Her voice wavers as she squeezes her eyes shut. “You’re all Hank. You’re obsessed with rock music and motorcycles. I could never keep you in a dress for more than five minutes. Everything about you is your father and every time I looked at you growing up, it reminded me of him. And it killed me.” She hugs her chest as if suddenly cold. “I thought you’d be too young to remember, that you’d forget about him. Or maybe you’d begin to resent him too.” She brushes another stray tear away. “But you didn’t. You just seemed to resent me more.”