Chapter 21 – Jael
"Thank you."
My mom and I follow her directions, navigating through the stuffy, dimly lit corridor that reeks of the smell of sweat and mold.
I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that this is the best lawyer my father could afford, frankly, I’m surprised he set up a will at all what with all the money I saw going out the door growing up.
The overworked air conditioner unit is making little impact on the oppressive heat that’s seeping through the outdated windows of the building, and I swear I see a layer of moisture dripping from the cold, stone walls.
“Mr. Gibson?” I knock on the third door to the right.
“Come on in!” his voice booms from behind the doorway as I push it open.
He’s a shorter man, standing behind his simple desk and wearing dark black glasses.
Looks like one of the guys I saw my dad hanging out with on Thursday nights at the local bar and something about the stench of alcohol that’s burning my nostrils tells me it was probably him.
“Hello. You must be Jael and Meredith Braddock here for Lawrence Braddock’s will reading.”
I nod as we step into the cramped office, the air thick is with the smell of stale coffee and whatever ancient dust the air conditioner is failing to filter out.
A single window is blocked by a rattling unit that looks like it’s on its last leg.
Two white folding chairs sit in front of a scratched-up desk, their stained surfaces a testament to God-knows-what.
With a sigh, I sink into one of the chairs, which groans under my weight like it might collapse at any moment. I just want to get this over with.
My mom lowers herself into the seat beside me, her knee bouncing nervously as she clicks a cheap ballpoint pen in rapid succession.
I don’t know why she even brought it, or the notepad she’s clutching like a lifeline.
It’s not like my father left behind anything worth writing down and the noise she’s making is grating on my nerves.
Clearing my throat, I decide to cut to the chase. “My father wasn’t exactly wealthy. Will this take long? I have somewhere I need to be.”
My mom shoots me a sharp glare, her lips thinning as she turns back to Mr. Gibson, the lawyer who looks as worn-down as the furniture around him.
“I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness,” she says, her voice clipped. “I can’t imagine what could possibly be so important that it’s worth rushing through her deceased father’s last wishes and words.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from firing back because I know there’s no use. Engaging in a battle of words with my mother always leaves me feeling frustrated and bad about myself because despite it never phasing her, I hate the person I become when I argue with her.
It’s always been the same. Excuses for my father. Deflections of the real pain and abuse that I suffered from both of them. Even now, she can’t let me feel what I feel without finding some way to paint him as the victim—or worse, the hero in our story.
Her words echo in my mind, years of them seeping into my memory like poison. ‘He was a good dad. At least he stayed. At least he didn’t leave us like Rhett’s father did.’
That had always been her refrain. Like staying was some great act of love, as if his drinking, the marks he left on my body, gambling and never showing up to anything important in my life didn’t happen.
He hadn’t left, sure, but he hadn’t really been there, either. And neither had she. And her excuses for him have always been worse than silence. If she’d just said nothing, it might’ve hurt me less.
I grip the arms of the chair to steady myself, my knuckles whitening as the weight of the moment presses down.
I’m not sure what’s the worst part about being here, the suffocating air in this office or the memories of the way I’d been mistreated as a child dragging to the surface like they didn’t happen.
“Yes, this will be quick. We went through the necessary processes and procedures for probate, which included finding the executor of his will. Lawrence had named his brother as executor, but unfortunately, he’s also passed away.
I was the backup executor, and after reviewing all his assets and debts, not much remains.
” He hands a small check to both my mother and me.
“Here’s what’s left. His wishes were that any remaining money to his name be split between the two of you.”
I look down at the check and can’t help the laugh that escapes from my mouth. Ten dollars. Ten fucking dollars.
Sure, I wasn’t expecting anything, but the fact that a man in his late fifties had a mere twenty dollars to his name upon his deathbed is both sad and unsurprising.
I don’t even hesitate before turning to my mother and handing her the check.
“You can have it. I don’t want anything from him.”
Even if it was a thousand dollars, I’d give it to her. I’m annoyed that he included me in his will. Annoyed that he thought this would somehow make up for all the pain he caused. My dad never gave me anything of value when he was alive, why should he start now?
Turning back to Mr. Gibson, I ask, “Is there anything else we need to do to settle his affairs?”
“Um, yes,” he says, nervously, taken aback by my reaction. He shuffles his paperwork to distract himself until he finds what he’s looking for. “He also left one of these for both of you.”
He pulls out two white envelopes, one addressed to my mother and the other to me in my father’s same, slanted, sloppy handwriting.
My mother eagerly grabs hers, tearing it open as she read the contents, her eyes welling up with tears.
When she finishes, she folds the letter and stuffs it back into the envelope before shifting to look at me with expecting eyes.
I take the letter off Mr. Gibson’s desk tentatively, contemplating whether to give it to my mother or toss it in the trash bin.
“Well?” she probes.
“I don’t care about what he had to say.”
“Jael, you owe him this.”
Do I, though? My father hadn’t been a father to me, and opening the letter feels like giving in to another one of his demands. I can picture him sitting smugly beyond the grave, pleased that he left me ten dollars and a letter, getting the last word.
When I left town, I felt like I’d stopped owing him in every way. I found myself and though I’ve struggled not having parents in my life even as an adult, I’m proud of what I’ve become apart from them, even if I’m still a little broken.
Sighing, I dig my nail into the edge and open it slowly to read his final words to me.
◆◆◆
Jael,
I know that I wasn’t always the most present father, and for that, I’m sorry.
I hope that you’ll always remember the good times we had and realize that everything I did was for you.
I always loved you in my own special way.
Your Dad
◆◆◆
Are you fucking kidding me? Everything he did was for me.
Was the abuse for me? Was the way that he spent all our money so that there was none left for my mom to buy groceries, leaving me hungry every night for me too?
I’m an adult now, and I understand that addiction is a disease, but even as a child I knew that if someone loved you, they wouldn’t lay their hands on you.
Even before my father started drinking, he wasn’t present.
Whether it was gambling, or working late, I don’t have any good memories to think on.
I drop the letter to my lap in shock at those being the words he chose to leave me from beyond.
My mom snatches the note from my hand to read it as Mr. Gibson's eyes shift nervously between us.
Clearing his throat, he says, “Um, well, that’s it. Everything else has been settled.”
“Great,” I snap, standing abruptly, ready to leave this office, this town, all this shit behind.
“Jael! Where are you going?” my mom shouts at my back as I yank the door open and storm out through the hallway, back into the thick July humidity.
When my feet hit the stones of the parking lot I bend in half, pressing my hands to my knee and heaving in a deep breath. But the heat is too much, my anger is too great, and it feels like I can’t get in any air.
“What are you doing?” she hisses from behind me like I’ve embarrassed her.
“I’m going back to my hotel,” I snap, turning to her slowly before backing away towards my car.
“Jael, he said he was sorry!” she says with a tone that almost borders on annoyance. As if I’m the one being unreasonable in this whole entire situation.
“Sorry for not being present!” I shout back, “Not sorry for the abuse. Not sorry for the way he was never present. Not sorry for being a shit father. What does sorry do for me in a letter? He’s dead.
He waited until he was dead to apologize to me.
And then when he apologized, he didn’t even say he was sorry for any of the things that he should have been sorry for!
” I pinch the tip of my nose, trying to stop the tears that he doesn’t deserve.
“You know what I just realized, not being a present dad was a blessing to me, not something to apologize for because when he was present, it was a nightmare! My own personal hell!”
“What did you want him to say?” my mom shouts back as she places her hands on her hips. “He knew the end was coming, he was very sick, his liver was failing him.”
“He could have started with, ‘Hey Jael, sorry for screwing up your life and the shitty perception of men that I gave you that you'll carry into adulthood rendering you incapable of leaning on anyone else for help and feeling like you always have to handle everything on your own. Sorry for abusing you and your mother for years. Sorry for not contributing in any meaningful way financially, mentally, emotionally, or physically to your life! I messed up, and I realize that I can’t take back those years, but sorry?’”
My mother rolls her eyes. “Don’t blame him for your horrible taste in men.”
My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.
“You could have had things a lot worse,” she snaps, her lips set in a thin smirk.
“A lot worse!?” I shout back. “Going to school with bruises on my body in the thick of summer and being forced to wear long sleeves and jeans to cover them was a lot worse. I don’t think it could get much worse!”
“You need to learn to get over your childhood,” my mother says, walking up to me and pressing the letter I left in the office into my chest with a hard shove.
“You’re an adult now, start acting like one.
I heard Rhett and Owen got into a fight at the construction site over you. You can’t play the victim for forever.”
I don’t touch the sheet of paper, acting as if it’s a dirty tissue that she’s handing me. I watch it drop from my chest and then slowly float towards the ground before resting in the gravel.
When I look at her again, this time I see nothing but a cold, heartless woman who I was right to cut out of my life years ago. And that’s when I realize that I’m much stronger than the girl that lived in that hellhole of a trailer, I just have to find a way to not let this ruin me.
“I don’t need to learn anything. You need to learn how to grow a backbone and admit, while you’re still alive, how you should have protected me, and you didn’t!” I shout after her as she throws her hands up in the air, waving goodbye pettily, before she slides into her car driving off.
I watch her taillights disappear as I stand there in utter shock and disbelief at the entire interaction I just had.
I draw in a shaky breath, in then out, reminding myself that none of that should have been surprising.
She’s never seen things the way I did and maybe it’s because she was the adult in the situation and I was the child.
Or maybe it’s because she’s just as emotionally immature as my therapist said she was.
I glance down at the letter now crumpled next to my foot on the asphalt. I know it’s a petty move, and my father and mother can’t see me, but I don’t care.
I press the heel of my wedged sandals into the paper, twisting it back and forth, the stones grinding beneath it until it tears slightly then tip my head up at the sky and shout.
“Fuck!”