So Much More(52)

The orange jumpsuit-clad midsection of a body comes into view. He’s moving slowly, indicating physical ailment, stubbornness, or laziness; I guess when I meet his eyes they’ll tell me which. His wrists are cuffed, his fingers interlaced. His hands are rough, knuckles calloused, gnarled by years of mistreatment or hard use, and covered in poorly executed tattoos.

I don’t have the courage to look up at his face, but our eyes lock when he drops laboriously into the chair. And at once, all three become glaringly apparent: physical ailment, stubbornness, and laziness. He also looks like a first rate *.

He’s scowling at me with cold eyes. They’re dark like they died years ago. His head is shaved, and his skin is pale, except his cheeks. They’re ruddy but lined with broken capillaries that weave across each other like roads on a map.

We both pick up our phones.

He doesn’t talk.

I clear my throat.

“What do ya want?” His voice cuts like a file and makes me flinch.

I clear my throat again.

Claudette takes the receiver from me. “Mr. Groves, this is Meg Groves, the child you adopted twenty-two years ago. She’d like to ask you a few questions about her birth mother and her adoption.”

His eyes widen before they narrow back into their scowl. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you.” He glances at me before resting back on Claudette. “That little bitch put me in jail.”

Claudette squeezes my hand. It’s both reassurance for me and anger at his choice of words. “Mr. Groves, the circumstances behind your incarceration were no fault of a child. We don’t care to take up too much of your time. Do you remember any details regarding the adoption?”

He grunts, “Nope.”

“You don’t remember anything? Names? Places? Dates?” she presses.

“Nope.” He smiles at me when he says it. When he agreed to the visitation, he didn’t know who I was, but now that he does he’s enjoying denying me.

“What about your wife? Maybe her memory is better than yours?” Claudette asks. She’s trying to remain calm, but I hear impatience driving her questions.

“Doubtful. She ain’t real talkative these days,” he says.

“Why is that?” she asks.

“She’s dead. Died ten years ago,” he says it with no emotion like he’s talking about what he ate for dinner last night, instead of the death of his spouse.

The news is disturbing and quiets Claudette.

“We done here?” He’s done, that much is clear.

“Is there anyone else we can talk to who may have some information? Another family member, perhaps?” It’s Claudette’s last ditch effort to salvage this trip.

“Nope. The old lady did the deal. Ain’t nobody else involved but her and she took it to the grave.” He hangs up the receiver, stands, and lets the guard remove him from the room.

Just like that, I watch him walk away. With my secrets. Whether he remembers them or not, my secrets are there. People who aren’t capable of harboring our memories with integrity, shouldn’t be allowed them in the first place. I’ve never wanted to open up someone’s brain like a book and start reading—looking for answers in his memory bank—until now. I want to tear my pages out, run away with them like a thief, and greedily read them over and over until I memorize every word. Until every word becomes mine, instead of his. That’s what I want.

You don’t always get what you want.

Even if you want it more than anyone’s ever wanted anything.





The calendar is now sacred





present



I’ve contacted several lawyers. Most declined interest in representing me based on the current custody arrangement and accompanying incriminating documents calling it futile. Futile is a label I put on the passage of unproductive time and complacent existence. Futile is not my kids. Futile is not our situation. So, I kept searching until I found a lawyer who sees the potential in righting the wrongs and doing what’s best for my kids. Futile is not in his vocabulary. He’s building a case, putting together a solid fight, and hoping to initiate proceedings in mid-January, which is a month from now.

The calendar is now sacred. I mark off each day with newfound determination.





Fool me twice, f*ck you





present





I’m supposed to have my kids for a week during Christmas holiday according to the current custody arrangement—pick them up Christmas Eve and drop them off New Year’s Day.

After Miranda’s Thanksgiving stunt, I don’t trust her to not run off with them again.

Which is why it’s December twenty-first and I’ve just pulled up to the gate in front of her house.

Fool me once, shame on me.

Fool me twice, f*ck you, Miranda.

I smile as I think the thought and dial my phone.

The housekeeper answers on the third ring, out of breath like she’s run to the phone. “Buckingham residence.”

“May I please speak to Kai?”

“Hold,” she replies and sets the phone down on a hard surface.

Kai picks up the phone seconds later. “Dad?”

Everything inside me is smiling, because not only is his voice in my ear, but I know the rest of him is inside the house in front of me. “Hey, buddy. Can you do me a favor?”