So Much More(42)

She’s sucking the life out of my kids.

I keep the conversations positive, encourage them with every word whether they acknowledge my comment or not. Talking to them this way was second nature all their lives, even if I felt like shit or my mind was muddled in the chaos of adulting in Miranda’s world, talking to them was always easy. They were my light, my fire that I never wanted to dwindle. I wanted it to grow stronger, brighter, bolder, so I fed it by the day…by the hour…by the minute. Because that’s what parents do, without even thinking about it, that’s what parents do. They fill their children with love and understanding and compassion and knowledge so that when they’re adults no one can extinguish them. They’ll burn so bright they can’t be brought down.

Feeding now takes effort because their fire has been reduced to a small flicker leaving only an ember that I feel like I’m trying to ignite with water-sodden branches and soggy newspaper.

And it’s generating only thick smoke.

That I’m choking on.

So are they.

I used to write them a letter every day and mail it. They never saw them. I know because I asked. I’m sure Miranda’s housekeeper intercepted the mail and gave the letters to her. I even sent a few certified. A signature was refused, and the letters were returned to me. I still write the letters I just don’t mail them anymore. Instead, I keep them in a shoebox that I’ll give to my kids when I see them next. She can delay communication, but she can’t shut it down entirely.





Sulking in the cesspool of villainy





present





Thanksgiving.

It’s finally Thanksgiving.

My first visitation since Miranda stole custody.

School’s out the entire week, so I pack up the car on Tuesday morning with a suitcase of clothes, a cooler of food and water, the shoebox of letters to my kids, and a heart full of hope I’ve missed for so long, and I drive north.

I drive eleven hours before I give up and stop at a rest area and let sleep consume me for several hours making the final few hours of driving possible.

My legs ache when I pull up to the gate in front of Miranda’s address, and eyestrain has launched the indignant insurgency taking place inside my skull, a violent thumping.

The pain is easily pushed aside by excitement, though. My kids, my kids, are on the other side of that fence, inside that house, waiting for me.

I call Miranda’s cell. No answer.

I call her house phone and the housekeeper answers, “Buckingham residence.” Her accent is thick.

“May I speak to Kai, please?”

She knows it’s me on the line, but she keeps up the air of formality, even through her broken English and heavy accent. “Kai not here.”

Something feels off, even with the formality. “What? This is his father. I’m here to pick up my kids.”

She clears her throat and delivers the death punch with an assertiveness I’m sure even Miranda would admire. “Mrs. Buckingham and kids on vacation. They be back Monday.”

My anger is delayed by disbelief. Disbelief is short-lived. Anger implodes, gutting me before it explodes on her. “Where in the hell are my kids?” The words come from the bowels of that deep, dark place where hate is born.

The line goes dead on my rage.

I throw my phone on the seat next to me and climb out of my car. Before I know it I’m beating on the iron gate with my cane, hurling obscenities at the oversized, pretentious structure that is supposed to house my children.

A stout, steely looking woman emerges from the front door and stomps toward me. The look on her face is a mixture of annoyance and fear. She’s waving her arms in front of her urging me to be quiet.

To hell with quiet.

“Where are my kids?” I yell again. Projecting my voice isn’t necessary, she’s standing six feet from me, but my rage won’t allow civil volume. “So help me God, if you don’t tell me where my kids are—”

She cuts me off, “Quiet,” she hisses. “They not here. I told you.” Her eyes are darting back and forth, never falling on me; she’s assessing the street to see if my commotion is drawing any attention. She looks nervous now, the vibrato she exuded over the phone is gone.

I take in a deep breath through my nose. It’s a nostril-flaring intake meant to quell anger. It doesn’t. I take another. Still nothing. So, I dive back in speaking through clenched teeth to moderate the volume. “Where did they go?”

She shakes her head emphatically, her words hurried like she’s trying to speed up my departure, “I not know. They no tell me.”

I’m staring into her eyes, trying to read her. I see nothing but fear now. She’s scanning the street again. I turn my back on her and slam my fist down on the hood of my car. “Fuuuuuuuuck!” It’s a long, drawn out release of frustration, rattling out on all the air my lungs will hold. And when it’s purged it hangs heavily around me, as if I’m surrounded by hate so tangible I can touch it. Punch it. Strangle it with my bare hands.

Arguing with her is useless. The ache in my chest tells me she’s not lying and that my kids aren’t here.

The stubborn side of me tells me to wait it out, in case she’s lying, and see if they either come out of the house or return home.

I wait.